At that exact moment, I thought I was living the peak of a cinematic drama. You know the movies; the girl gets ghosted, stands under the pouring rain, a heartbreaking indie song plays in the background, and her mascara runs just enough to look aesthetic...
My background music? My roommate snoring in the next room like she was running a high-capacity timber factory, and the box of cold, cardboard-textured pizza sitting on my lap.
Tyler had left me on "Read" for exactly 4 hours and 12 minutes.
Four. Hours. Twelve. Minutes.
In that timeframe, I had.
Analyzed every single Instagram post of Tyler's dating back to 2018.
Found the wedding photos of the cousin of the last girl whose photo he liked (Turns out she has a huge family, noted).
Written, directed, and starred in a mental drama titled.
"He's definitely dead under a truck because there's no way he wouldn't text me back."
"Please." I whispered toward the Ouija board.
"Just one question. Is Tyler with that blonde girl right now? If he is, tap the board once. If he's just being a toxic jerk, tap it twice..."
The air in the room shifted instantly. Not like when you turn the AC to the lowest setting. It was as if someone had hidden a giant industrial fan in the corner that only blew the scent of rotten eggs. The wooden piece on the board—they call it a planchette, but I call it an Invitation to Disaster—literally came to life under my fingertips.
"Oh my god, is Tyler typing or the spirits?" I squealed.
But instead of moving toward "YES" or "NO," the planchette started spinning with the energy of a chaotic auntie at a wedding.
G-E-T... O-U-T... O-F... H-E-R-E...
"Get out? Get out where? To Tyler's house? Is this a sign?!" I gasped.
"Spirit Sir, if you want me to go to Tyler's window and peek inside, please show me the way!"
That second, a flash of purple light exploded, and gravity said, "I'm bored, I'm going on vacation," and abandoned me. Between the nausea, the dizziness, and the thought of "The pizza was definitely bad" I suddenly found myself not on my rug, but in the middle of a colossal hall.
First of all, the interior designer of this place was a complete psychopath.
Bones. Everywhere.
But not those aesthetic "boho-shamanic" skulls you see on internet. These were giant, raw-looking skeletal pillars and torches, surrounding a massive throne in the center. The floor was a sickly yellow, as if someone had accidentally spilled a truckload of sulfur.
The smell was so heavy I actually missed Tyler's cologne (he over-sprays, but still).
Sitting before me was a figure about ten feet tall, with shoulders wider than an American football player's and massive horns on his head. They were so huge I couldn't help but wonder how he managed to walk through doors. His eyes were literally burning.
People say "fire in his eyes" when they're mad, but this guy could host a barbecue with one look.
"FINALLY!" the giant figure roared.
The sound vibrated through my bones like ten subwoofers exploding at once.
"MADISON! By the seven levels, the nine circles, and the countless annexes of Hell, I am asking you ENOUGH! WE ARE DONE! STOP THIS TORTURE!"
Apparently, I had officially crashed the Customer Service of Hell!