Queit Places: A Novella of Cosmic Folk Horror

I'm Richard Carter, a writer for a newspaper, magazine, and web novel. I write romance novels that you may come across everywhere – stories where a guy meets a girl in a really unexpected way and they fall in love in the end. However, what I'm about to share with you is not a novel. At least, if it were a novel, it wouldn't be about me; it's about my annoying roommate.

It all started four months ago when I was having a meeting with my editor at the publishing company. It was supposed to be just like any other regular meeting I had with him, discussing what to write next. While waiting for him, I found myself in the office lounge where employees were taking their coffee breaks. They offered me something to drink, but I politely declined. I decided to utilize the time to continue writing my ongoing web novel. It had garnered quite a good number of readers, and they were eagerly anticipating the next update later today. Just as I finished writing a chapter, my editor returned and invited me into his office room.

The moment I saw him, something began to bug me. My editor is usually an easygoing person, always greeting me enthusiastically whenever we meet. But today, he appeared rather dark, and it started to worry me. "Well, well, here's my long-time partner in crime, Richard," he greeted me. His name is Henry, and he has been working at this company for almost 25 years. He was the one who scouted me.

"Hey Henry how have you been?" I asked. "Been better, but that's not important. We have a more pressing matter to discuss, Richard," he said, his face serious. "Is everything okay?" I inquired. "Well, our rival company has an ongoing novel that's generating a lot of buzz. Everyone who reads it is talking about it, and it's boosting their reader numbers. I know you have your own style of writing, but isn't it time for you to challenge yourself in a different genre?" he asked, his eyes filled with expectation. I wasn't expecting this, so I needed some time to process it. "Maybe you're right. How much time can you give me? I may need a break for a month or two," I finally responded.

His eyes lit up, thinking I agreed to write a different type of novel. But what he couldn't see was the whirlwind of thoughts running through my head. Perhaps I had been in my comfort zone for too long.

He agreed to grant me a month-long break, and I left his office, knowing that my real battle was just beginning. While I had agreed to venture into something new, my mind was blank, and I knew a month wasn't a long time. I hurried back to my apartment, a small single-room space where everything I needed to survive was within arm's reach or just a step away.

Although I published my novels in newspapers and magazines, the pay wasn't substantial, and sometimes I had to take on part-time jobs to make ends meet and pay my rent on time. So, taking a break meant working extra shifts at my part-time job.

This was what I would call "total slump mode." I couldn't even continue writing my web novel. Several days had already passed since the promised update date, but every attempt to write felt futile and nonsensical. I needed to find a solution quickly, or else I would be a homeless writer, unable to express myself properly.

The weight of it all made me anxious, which is why, in an attempt to escape my circumstances even for a short while, I agreed to meet up with my friend whom I've known since high school.

His name is Cain Anderson and he has achieved great success in life, unlike my current situation. He holds the position of stand-in-CEO in one of the leading companies that encompasses various businesses. While he's not the actual CEO, he handles all the meetings and attends parties on behalf of the company.

He once jokingly told me that his boss must either be extremely unattractive, unable to show his face to the public, or too old to move a single muscle. Well, having known him for a long time, I find this job to be a perfect fit for his charismatic character. He is remarkably outgoing and has a remarkable way with words.

He can effortlessly transform the angriest person in the world into the calmest individual solely through his eloquence. I truly admire this aspect of his personality, which often inspires the qualities of my main male characters.

Occasionally, he invites me out for a drink, and each time I find some excuse to decline his invitation. However, today was different. I was desperate for a change of scenery, my head throbbing from incessant thinking.

We met at one of the finest bars in town. He stood there, waiting for me, dressed impeccably in a sharp suit, already commanding attention. It felt a bit awkward for me to enter that picture looking less than attractive, but appearances hardly mattered at this point. My mind was consumed by thoughts of my next novel and the complete lack of ideas.

Anyway, I greeted him with a simple "Hey, Cain." He stood up from his seat at the counter, briefly hugged me, and exclaimed, "Hey, man! It feels like forever since I last saw you. How have you been?" His energy was as high as ever, which was both a reason I cherished our friendship since high school and sometimes an excuse to decline his drinking invitations.

"You know, I'm working on a new novel, so I've been pretty busy," I replied. "But, man, you don't look quite okay. Are you alright? What's going on?" he asked. I despised how he always managed to read my mind like an open book.

"Well, you caught me red-handed. Let's grab a drink first." We headed to a VIP room, where it seemed my friend sensed the gravity of my situation. I was truly fortunate to have him as a friend. He poured us whiskey and looked at me, his face filled with curiosity.

"So, the long story short, I'm in a slump right now. My editor, Henry, informed me that our newspaper needs a new kind of novel. Apparently, our rival newspaper just published a captivating novel that's creating quite a buzz," I explained.

"Oh, man, that's tough. I know how much you love writing, and if it weren't for Henry, you would never even consider publishing your work and living as a writer. So, what do you need now?" he inquired.

"That's the one thing I really don't know, Cain. It's not like I can place an ad in the newspaper for lost inspiration," I joked.

"THAT'S IT!" he exclaimed. I was taken aback and asked, "What is it?" He was overflowing with excitement.

"You should place an ad in the newspaper, something like 'Please help me, I've lost my inspiration,' or whatever," he suggested. I burst into laughter, my stomach aching from the amusement. "That's ridiculous.

Who would contact me saying, 'Hey, I found your inspiration, is this yours?' It's not a lost pet, Cain." His ideas were always absurd, but thankfully, they made me laugh, something I hadn't been able to do in the past few days.

"Hey, what's there to lose? You post the ad, and who knows, it might actually help you," he persisted. I began to reconsider, but it wasn't an easy decision for me.

"It's easy for you to say, Cain. You have a stable job. But I need to work extra shifts at my part-time job just to cover my rent this month. I don't have that much money to place an ad," I explained.

His eyes lit up at my response—I recognized that mischievous look from our high school days. "Don't worry, friend. I'll take care of it. Now, let's just enjoy our drinks," he declared.

Seemingly, I had indulged in a bit too much alcohol the previous night. My hangover refused to let me rise from bed. Oh, the joys of hangovers! Every time I find myself in this sorry state, I make solemn promises to never touch alcohol again. Yet, here I lie, dehydrated like a zombie, plagued by the worst headache imaginable.

Just as I was feeling at my worst, my phone started ringing. “Of course, it had to choose the worst possible moment “. How did that little wonder end up there? I thought to myself and lazily drag myself to see who was calling.  It was my part-time job's manager.

"Damn, I had a shift today," I muttered, quickly trying to sound as sick as possible. I picked up the phone and coughed, “Hello”. "Richard, there must be a good reason for you not being at work right now," he said, his tone filled with suspicion. I coughed harder, "I'm sorry, Bill. I've come down with terrible flu, and it seems like I have a high fever," I lied, doing my best to act convincingly. After hearing my condition, Bill's voice softened, "Oh, in that case, take a few days off. See you next week. Take care."

Bill is a nice fella, and it’s a relief that I didn’t get fired, but losing that shift meant losing out on a lot of money. “Well, what else could happen in this situation, right? No job, no money, no idea, no inspiration. growl Great, at least I have my appetite. There is no way this could go down further," I chuckled.

Suddenly, someone slipped something into the opening for mail on the door. I opened it and to my dismay, it was an eviction notice. It stated that this house is soon to be demolished, and those who live there must move out of the apartment within one month.

Since then, almost three weeks had passed, and I tried my best to avoid thinking about everything that was happening to me. But it wouldn't simply disappear overnight; I knew I had been delaying the inevitable.

Then it happened, the day I received a phone call where my life changed drastically. It was just another ordinary day. I had finished my shift and was heading to the supermarket to pick up something to eat. Suddenly, my phone rang, displaying an unknown number. Curiosity got the better of me, and I answered the call.

A voice, not easily distinguishable whether it was a man or a woman, greeted me, "Hello, is this the writer who lost his inspiration?" I was taken aback, almost thinking it could be some sort of new phone prank.

However, at that moment, I remembered my conversation with Cain. He had mentioned something about taking care of things for me. Could it be that he had actually placed an ad in the newspaper, and someone had responded? How is that possible, right?

I smiled to myself. "Yes, you can say that," I replied cautiously.

"Oh, that's great. You can call me Haze. I saw your ad, and it caught my attention. I'm currently looking for a roommate. Do you have something to write? If so, I'll provide you with my address and the entrance passcode," Haze explained. “Sorry, I’m outside. Can you send me a message?” I asked. “Sure, I will send you a message then.” Haze nonchalantly replied.

I was dumbstruck. It seemed almost too good to be true. Whoever this Haze person was, I didn't have much to lose by giving it a try, right? As we concluded the call, Haze added, "By the way, it's Miss Haze."

"Thank you, Miss Haze. I'll see you soon then," I responded, ending the call. I stood in the same spot for a while, trying to process what had just happened.

"What just happened?" I muttered to myself in disbelief. My phone buzzed, notifying me of a new message. It was the address and passcode Ms. Haze had promised me. I couldn't believe it. Was I really going to give this a shot?

Perhaps, Miss Haze is a kind-hearted soul in need of some company, considering she had reached out to me after seeing the newspaper ad. I made a mental note to ask Cain about the details of the newspaper and when the ad had been published.

Without wasting any time, I dialed Cain's number. He answered after the first ring, but before I could say a word, he cut me off with a hurried "I'm in a meeting right now" and ended the call. Moments later, a message from him appeared on my screen: "Hey, what's up?"

"I can't believe you actually placed that ad in the newspaper, Cain," I replied to his message adding surprised emoji. "But never mind that for now. Can you tell me which newspaper it was and when the ad ran?"

"It was the newspaper where your novels are published, right below your latest one," he responded. I couldn't help but be amazed by Cain's ability to keep surprising me. I quickly headed to the local parlor to pick up yesterday's newspaper.

Back at home, I packed my essentials into a suitcase and a backpack, making sure to include my laptop and other important writing tools. With the deadline looming, I began boxing up the rest of my belongings. I knew I had to leave this apartment in just three days, regardless of how my meeting with Miss Haze went. Exhausted, I finally finished packing at 3 o’clock in the morning. It was time to get some rest before going to Miss Haze's place.

I’m having a hard time waking up, can’t keep my eyes open. Lately, the alarms seemed to have lost their magic touch, struggling to rouse me from my exhaustion. Today, I need to go to Miss Haze’s place at 10 am, and it’s 8 and a half now, I knew I had to get myself ready. Fortunately, I had already packed my essentials before, which makes it easy for me.

I needed to hop on the subway, which would take approximately 30 minutes. The silver lining was that Miss Haze's apartment was conveniently located, just a short 5-minute walk from the nearest subway station. Nestled close to the bustling city center, it seemed like the perfect place to call home.

Memories flashed through my mind as I recalled passing by that neighborhood once before, back when I had participated in a writing contest and claimed third place.

I checked the time once more and realized I needed to hurry to make it before the subway leaves so I arrived on time. Thankfully, the subway was relatively pleasant as the rush hour was coming to an end, resulting in fewer crowds. As I exited the station, I retrieved my phone to search for the exact address. With the newspaper and note in hand, I embarked on a short, five-minute walk to my destination.

Soon enough, I found myself standing before an impressive luxury 15-floor apartment building. I glanced around to confirm that I hadn't made a mistake. The sheer size of the building was awe-inspiring, matched only by the presence of the security staff stationed at the entrance.

With a mix of hesitation and anticipation, I approached them and shared the passcode provided by Miss Haze. Their stoic expressions softened as they entered the code into their computer, and they granted me entry into the apartment.

I made my way to the 15th floor and stood before one of the two doors indicated by the address, which was supposed to be Miss Haze's apartment. As I knocked, there was no immediate response. Nervousness started creeping in, and my mind became flooded with various negative thoughts. Was this all a prank? Did she forget I was coming today? Could this be the wrong address altogether? The uncertainty weighed heavily on me. I knocked once more, this time with a slightly longer, and decided to leave if there was no answer.

A few minutes passed as I anxiously waited, just as I was about to turn and leave, the door creaked open, revealing a disheveled woman who appeared to have just woken up based on her messy hair and pajamas. She appeared to be around my age, and I couldn't help but wonder why someone living in such an expensive apartment would need a roommate. However, I pushed that thought aside and tightened my grip on the newspaper and note I was holding before asking, "Is this the house of Miss Haze?"