Lost and Never Found

Damon Richly sat on the edge of his sagging twin mattress, his gaunt frame shaking with the familiar tremors of early sobriety. The room was dim, lit only by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling that buzzed like a trapped fly. He could feel the weight of the transitional house pressing down on him, every creak in the floorboards a reminder that he wasn't alone, not really, but more isolated than ever. His deep-set eyes, rimmed with dark circles, stared at the floor where flecks of dried blood dotted the scuffed wood. He picked at his cuticles again, the skin tearing easily under his calloused thumbs until fresh red welled up and trickled down his fingers.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, wiping the blood on his oversized hoodie. The silence in the house was heavy, judgmental, like the walls themselves were watching him, waiting for him to slip. He'd been clean for three months now, clawing his way out of the meth pit that had swallowed his life whole. But the void it left behind ached worse than any comedown. Austin's face flashed in his mind, that stupid grin from their last score, the one that ended with him blue-lipped and still on Damon's shitty couch. Guilt's a motherfucker, he thought. It gnawed at him every night, keeping sleep at bay.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, heavy and deliberate. Damon froze, his heart kicking up like it always did. Earl Butchins stomped past the door, his work boots thudding against the thin floor like thunderclaps. Damon held his breath, hiding his shaking hands under his thighs. Earl's voice boomed from down the hall, barking at someone about curfew or chores or whatever bullshit rule kept this place running like a prison. "No nonsense tonight, you hear? Lights out in ten." The man was a former drill sergeant, built like a brick shithouse with a beard that hid whatever emotions he had left. Damon knew the rules by heart: no drugs, no drama, and absolutely no paranormal crap. Earl had lost his daughter to some cult bullshit years back, and now he treated anything spooky like a relapse trigger.

The footsteps faded, and Damon exhaled slowly. He glanced at the closet, its door slightly ajar like it was daring him. Inside, hidden behind a pile of ratty clothes, was his secret. A worn Ouija board he'd fished out of a dumpster behind the corner store two weeks ago. It looked pristine, not a scratch on the wood, the letters sharp and black like they'd been painted yesterday. He didn't know why he'd kept it. Desperation, maybe. The house was full of junkies and strays like him, but no one talked real talk. No one got the hole Austin's death had punched through him. Sammy Jo, his cousin, was the closest thing he had to family here, but even she looked at him like a ticking bomb.

The loneliness hit him then, a physical punch to the gut. His wiry arms wrapped around his knees as he rocked slightly. "I can't do this shit alone anymore," he whispered to the empty room. He needed to talk, to hear a voice that didn't judge or mock. Drugs used to fill that void, turning the silence into a party in his head. Now it was just echoes of Austin's laugh, cut short by that fatal batch Damon had supplied. I killed him as sure as if I'd held him down, he thought, the guilt twisting like a knife.

He stood up, legs shaky, and crossed to the closet. His fingers trembled as he pushed aside the clothes, revealing the board. It sat there innocently, the planchette perched in the center like it was waiting. Damon grabbed it, the wood cool against his skin, and carried it to the mattress. He sat cross-legged, placing it on his lap. "This is stupid," he said aloud, but his voice cracked. He didn't believe in ghosts or demons, not really. This was just a game, a way to pretend he wasn't talking to himself. But fuck, he was desperate.

His fingers wrapped around the planchette, calluses rough against the smooth plastic. The air in the room felt thicker suddenly, but he shook it off as nerves. "Is anyone there?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. He paused, heart thudding. Nothing. "Austin? Man, it's me. Damon. You there?" The words hung in the air, heavy with years of unspoken regret. He pictured Austin's face, the way he'd slump after a binge, eyes glassy but always with that spark of brotherhood.

Then it happened. The air dropped ten degrees, a sharp chill that seeped into his bones, localized right there on the bed. Damon's breath fogged in front of him, and goosebumps raced up his arms. The planchette twitched under his fingertips, a tiny, involuntary jerk toward "YES." He yanked his hands back, staring wide-eyed. "What the fuck?" His pulse hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, wings battering the cage of his chest. The room felt wrong now, the shadows in the corners deeper, the bulb's buzz louder.

Voices in the hallway snapped him out of it. Sammy Jo's laugh, sarcastic and sharp, cut through the door. "Hey, Damon? You alive in there, or did the walls finally eat you?" She knocked twice, the sound jolting him like electricity.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good!" he called back, his voice too high. Panic surged as he scrambled to shove the board back into the closet, jamming it behind the clothes. His hands shook so bad he nearly dropped it, the planchette clattering against the wood. He slammed the door shut just as the knob rattled.

The door cracked open, and Sammy Jo poked her head in, her short athletic frame filling the space. Piercings glinted in her eyebrow and lip, tattoos peeking from under her flannel. She eyed him with that amused skepticism, like she could smell bullshit from a mile away. "You look like shit, cuz. Tremors acting up again? Or you sneaking tweak behind Earl's back?" Her voice was blunt, laced with that fast-talking sarcasm she wielded like a shield.

Damon forced a grin, wiping sweaty palms on his cargo pants. "Nah, man. Just... insomnia. You know how it is." He hid his bloody cuticles in his sleeves, avoiding her gaze. She didn't need to know about the board. She'd call him crazy, or worse, rat him out to Earl.

Sammy Jo snorted, leaning against the doorframe. "Insomnia my ass. You've got that wide-eyed junkie stare. Lay off the energy drinks, dude. Earl's on the warpath tonight after that idiot in 2B lit up in the bathroom." She paused, scanning the room like she sensed something off. "You sure you're good? House feels weird tonight."

"I'm fine," Damon snapped, sharper than he meant. The chill lingered in his bones, the memory of that twitch burning in his mind. Was it real? Or just my fucked-up brain playing tricks? Guilt over Austin swelled again, hot and choking. He'd been the one to buy that bag, the one who said "one more hit won't kill us." It had.

She raised an eyebrow but backed off. "Whatever, man. Don't make me drag your ass to a meeting tomorrow. Night." The door clicked shut, her footsteps fading down the hall.

Damon collapsed onto the mattress, heart still racing. He stared at the closet, the chill slowly fading from the room. The board was back in its spot, but that twitch... it felt too real. Loneliness crashed back over him, heavier now, mixed with a creeping dread. What if Austin really was out there, pissed and waiting? Or worse, what if something else answered?

He curled up under the thin blanket, tremors worsening as the house settled into silence. Earl's boots echoed one last time, a final warning. Damon closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. The void yawned wider, and for the first time in months, he wondered if the drugs had been the lesser evil. The weight of the wagon pressed down, threatening to crush him flat.

Hours ticked by in the dark. Damon lay there, picking at his cuticles again, blood staining the sheets. The house groaned like it was alive, and somewhere deep down, he knew he'd pull that board out again. He had to. The silence was too loud, the guilt too heavy. Austin's death wasn't just a memory anymore; it was clawing its way back.