Psychotic Love [AHS Character x Reader]

10. Strange Things Happen Down the Cape...

**A/N**
This is the last chapter (as of right now) until Evan comes back for future seasons, and I'm almost in tears. It's been a fucking RIDE, bro, and I've loved every minute of it. Just a reminder, there is no chapter nine because Evan wasn't in 1984 so I moved on to the first part of chapter ten, Red Tide. I thought he was confirmed as coming back for season twelve, but he isn't on the cast lists that I've found 😭 sad boi hours. But I love each and every one of you 93k readers, and I might get a wild hair and make side chapters with other characters because I'm not ready for this adventure to end just yet. Much much much love,
xX Kayla

The miles left ahead of you stretch on interminably, making every second spent on Route 6 more grueling than the last. You yawn widely and rub your eye with your fist; you've been driving for twelve hours straight with only one pit stop, and it was a shitty little truck stop, at that. The food was barely edible and the coffee had resembled the inky black tar that the highway you were driving upon had been paved with. Just a little bit longer, you tell yourself, turning up the volume on the radio to keep yourself awake.
          "That was Can't Buy Me Love by the Beatles. Such an oldie but always a goodie! You're listening to 92.1, WOMR; it is currently 10:42 PM and you've got a whole lot of classics coming up to soothe your stress and ease you into dreamland. Stay tuned, folks—the best is yet to come." You roll your eyes at the phony cheerfulness of the deejay's voice and flick the radio off with a huff of annoyance. It had been entirely too awful of a weekend already: first, your agent, Cecelia, talked you into renting a space in BumFuck, Massachusetts and taking a few weeks to sort through your writer's block (the dreaded Writer's Block that was apparently known to hit after managing to get your debut novel on the New York Times Best Seller list), but then she informs you that you have to drive because she can't find any last minute flights anywhere close to Provincetown.
          Steering the wheel with your left hand, you dig into the bag on your passenger seat with your right until you find your pack of cigarettes, adeptly balancing one between your lips before reaching into the center console, pulling out a small Bic, and lighting it quickly. You inhale deeply, holding it a moment longer than usual before exhaling slowly, the nicotine unfurling the tightly wound knots in your shoulder muscles. All you want is a long, hot shower, a stiff drink, and a big, warm bed to pass the hell out in. You're turning off your exit when the phone in your duffel rings.
          "Hello?" A crackle in the line makes you wince and you repeat yourself. "Hello??"
          "[Y/N]? Can you hear me? I don't know if you're in a dead zone right now but I cannot hear shit." A smirk creeps up onto your face as you tuck a stray hair behind your ear and flick your only half-gone cigarette out the window.
          "What's up, CeCe? I just turned off the exit. This house better be amazing."
          Cecelia sucks in a breath between her teeth, the noise setting your nerves on edge. "Yeeeeeah, that's what I was calling to talk to you about."
          Your heart drops to your stomach and you can't suppress the groan that's ebbing from your throat.
          "Nononono, tell me you didn't mess this up. Tell me you're kidding me right now."
          "Hey, I didn't mess anything up, okay? The house...apparently the fucking owner died and it's not gonna be available for at least another week while the whole 'death' situation is taken care of. The woman's sister called me and told me that you'll still be allowed to stay there, you just have to wait until she gets her ass here from God only knows where. Which, depending on whether they bury this chick or cremate her, could take up to a week."
          A string of profanities spew from your mouth like foamy spittle from a rabid dog's, and you force yourself to take a deep breath and try to stay calm. You're a planner, you don't do spontaneity. You always have a Plan A, B, C, and sometimes even D.
          "Cecelia," you start, slowly and calmly, "you're the one who told me to leave everything to you. You're the one who told me this would be a relaxing little getaway that would get my creative juices flowing again. So far none of this has been relaxing nor inspiring."
          She sighs, but you can practically hear the cogs in her mind turning. You picture her at her large oak desk, twirling a burgundy curl around her index finger, the very thing she does when lost in thought. After a long moment of silence, she says, "Listen. I couldn't have predicted that lady keeling over any better than you could've, but I have an idea. Why don't you go into town, see if there's a bar or a restaurant open, have some dinner, and by the time you're done I'll have you set up with an Airbnb and text you the details. Yes? Good, great, grand. Love you, byeeeee!" Click,
          "Fucking Cecelia," You lament, sliding the phone into the pocket of your jeans. "You better come through." After about ten or so more minutes of navigating winding roads, a cemetery comes up on your left, and you give a subconscious shiver, slowing down to get a better look. Macabre things have held a certain level of fascination for you since you were young; you follow the disturbing and the disgusting as though they were a flute being played by the Pied Piper himself, and tonight was no different.
          As you're about to take off, a flash of white catches your attention, a pale beacon in a shroud of uneasiness and fog, but it quickly disappears. You crane your neck, searching for it, but you see nothing but darkness. You briefly consider putting the car in park and getting out but you just as quickly decide against it. A woman, in the dead of night, in a cemetery, for Christ's sake, and in an unfamiliar town. No, thank you. You're a lot of things, but stupid has never been one of them.
          Grhwjskdjhgggh. You cringe as your stomach gurgles and cramps. Weirdness already forgotten, you zoom away in search of food and try to put everything else out of your mind. One problem at a time.
          Every building you pass, a Mikey's Market, a Lark's Tattoo Parlor, even the Cape itself, seems to be enveloped in a mysterious, unforgiving fog so thick it practically smothers you. You've never been claustrophobic, but the smoke seems to be closing in on you, causing panic to skyrocket up into your throat. Bright red neon lights somehow become visible and you veer the car toward them, hoping and praying to whatever deity's out there that it was somewhere you could get something to eat and calm your nerves.
          You park the car and hurry inside, the chill of the off-season weather settling into your bones and setting your teeth on edge. The first thing you notice is how dimly lit the mostly empty restaurant is. A stone fireplace is nestled along the farthest wall, and the many small wooden tables are all decorated with candles in little red glass bowls, creating a warm and intimate atmosphere. You can just make out a piano being played in the distance but you can't discern what song is being played. With a determined lift of your chin you stride over to the bar and take up residence on the stool farthest away from the others, letting others know you're in no mood for company. After ordering a glass of whiskey, you take out your phone and type a quick message to Cecelia.