The Alien Inside Me

Chapter 1: New House

I sighed as I finished unpacking the last box of the day from my move, gripping my back and trying not to groan at the tightness I felt between my shoulders.

"I can't believe I have two more roomfuls of this. Maybe I should try out minimalism or Swedish death cleaning." I muttered under my breath as I appraised my bookshelves overflowing with figurines and books that I haven't read, but just had to buy since they were on sale at my local library's bookshop.

This had been a rough year for me, between my sudden realization that an English degree gets you absolutely no where in life and my realization that I needed money to pay off student loans and afford a place to live (not to mention food to eat). So, as soon as I was offered a decent paying job that was willing to help me relocate to this town in the middle of nowhere Oregon, I jumped on it immediately.

Since people weren't exactly chomping at the bit to move there, I managed to buy a small one bedroom house for a decent price. It was more of a cottage if I was honest, one bedroom, one bathroom and a pitiful square footage that even my college apartments could rival. But it was homey and I didn't exactly need a mansion.

The lights in the house flickered without warning, making me shiver. I hated the dark, I always had. Nyctophobia is generally associated with children. However, I had a healthy fear of the unknown (as most sane people do) and darkness can hide any number of atrocities. It only made sense to dislike the absence of light.

It was 9 pm and I decided with the gurgle of my stomach that it was time to give up on my mother's orders to cook for myself and just order a pizza. Tying my hair up, I sat on the couch with my laptop perched on the armrest. After sending in an order for a veggie pizza, I kicked back and found a channel on the TV showing old re-runs of thrillers, not really caring about what was showing.

I clicked through the paperwork for my new job, still not believing that I finally found a job that wasn't customer service. Heavens, I never should have followed my heart and become an English major. For some reason, a bachelor's degree in English on a resume translated in most employers' minds to "I would do great in any position that doesn't pay well and has nothing to do with English."

Yet here I was, offered a position to a job that would have me working as an editor for this town, Berksfields, newspaper, Berksfield Times. I laughed a little at the thought of how I had to move all the way to this tiny Oregon town just to get a job that was somewhat related to my degree. Even now I was shocked that the small paper had approached me, when I was all the way back in Washington, to move to their town and get a decently paid position.

I was actually a bit suspicious at first, but then I considered my options and figured that being initiated into a cult or something would be better than begging for money on the same street my parents raised me on. So, I left home and moved to this town in the middle of who-knows-where in order to pursue a real career.

My mother was furious at me for choosing to move out. She took helicopter parenting to a whole new level, she was more like a drone that followed me everywhere and nagged over every little thing I did. It was so bad that I think my father only cried when I left because he knew that he would have to take my place as the center of my mom's attention.

"D-d-d-d-di-ing!"

I was shocked out of my thoughts by the loud sound of the clearly broken doorbell. I tried not to sigh at the fact that the doorbell would now have to be added to the long list of things that would have to be fixed after I got my first paycheck.

Jumping off the couch and grabbing my wallet lead to me tripping over a rug and jamming my little toe on the ground. I squealed in pain, but tried to push my way through the pain to get my pizza.

"D-d-din-d-ding!"

"Coming," I called out towards the door, trying to pull myself up and together as quickly as possible.

I finally made it to the door, and yanked it open to see a college-aged girl holding a steamy pizza box in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

"Hi!" She grinned at me and held out the clipboard, "Just sign here and all this cheesy goodness is yours- the pizza, not me!"

I managed to paste on a smile and respond, "Okay!"

I signed the receipt and forked over the cost of the pizza plus a generous tip.

Then the delivery girl passed me the pizza and gave me a parting grin, "Welcome to Berksfield, Daisy!"

I frowned at the girl's back and closed the door, making sure to lock it. That was odd, I suppose the boxes on the curbside and the pizza at 9 pm could give away that the fact that I had just moved in and it was a small town (so she would have known I was a new face). However, she went to the trouble of reading my signature and deciphering my name from the illegible crap I called cursive.

Maybe she just had boundary issues or maybe people at the paper were already talking about me. The niggling idea that I was getting into a dangerous situation still sat at the back of my brain and forced me to check that I had the whole house locked up.Finally, when I was satisfied that I was as safe as I could be in my new home, I settled back onto the couch and grabbed a slice of pizza. I had a hard time sleeping that night, from the nerves about my first day at a new job and from the unsettling feeling the pizza girl's words gave me.