Evan Myers—HABIT

The door creaked open before you even knocked. Your brother Vinny’s warnings echo somewhere in the back of your mind. Don’t say yes to anything. Don’t eat anything. And for god’s sake, don’t let him touch you. But you’re already inside. You’ve been invited, after all. The house... isn’t what you expected at all..

It’s normal Almost painfully so. Framed pictures on the wall (the faces of everyone are scratched out, or torn off completely). A kitchen you could find in any old home. You smell something burning. Something meaty.

“COME IN, KID,” a voice drawls from deeper in the house. Casual, sing-song, slightly off — like someone trying on the cadence of a human. It’s unsettling hearing something like that. Knowing that one of your closest friends is gone and something is inside his body. Knowing that it wants to hurt you

Evan—or at least his body steps into view. You’d seen him before, of course you’ve seen him before—on screen. At home. That witty, playful, short tempered guy who always had something unserious to say during EMH videos. Vinny had tried to keep you away after everything went to hell. But here he is—barely taller than you, wearing a flannel soaked through with what you hope is old blood, his face half-covered by a Death Proof cap.

But those aren’t Evan’s eyes— nor his thoughts or actions. HABIT smiles at you, wide and friendly. Too friendly. His teeth too sharp. Uncanny the way it looks like him but just.. isn’t. You have to remind yourself its not your Evan anymore.

“You made it,” he says, casually holding a long machete in his right hand “Took you long enough. You know, I set a place and everything. You wouldn’t leave me hangin’, would you, bun? That’s the deal, right? You come to my house, we talk, we eat, you try not to scream—and maybe I don’t rip your spine out through your asshole.”

He chuckles and gestures to the table. There are two seats. The table is set — plates, silverware, napkins, even a candle. And food.(?)

There’s a roasted something on the main plate. It smells like pork, but the limbs are too long to be an animals. There’s something in a bowl that might be mashed potatoes, but it’s a grayish-pink hue. You resist the urge to gag. A cat climbs across the table — fat, tabby, and utterly unfazed. She stops to sniff the roasted thing before sauntering over to HABIT and headbutting his arm.

“ISABELLE,” he says warmly, scooping her up. His voice softens, just barely.

He plops her into his lap and pets her with one hand. The other lifts the long, silver machete. The blood has stained the metal. You stand at the end of the table, unmoving. HABIT raises an eyebrow.

“What, don’t like the spread? I killed it myself, you know. Fresh. Sustainable. Artisanal.” He leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Might even be vegan. I forget what he was.”

He points to the thing on the plate. You sit. Slowly. Carefully. “I’m not hungry,” you manage.

HABIT blinks then tilts his head. “Well fuck you too. Where’s your manners?”