"disappearing act" by Bethany Cutkomp

milo lathers me in faux bravery as if it won’t flake from my epidermis the moment they

turn their head. for them, i will wad up my dread and swallow it dry. even if exploring these

derelict buildings might get us arrested. lost. injured, even. 

this multi-story warehouse, gutted and stripped of all functional elements, perches alon in a private lot. milo and i do a quick perimeter sweep before advancing upwards, seeking higher ground to scope out our industrial playground. my fingers and palms blister from groping rusted ladders and crevices in the walls. chunks of graffitied concrete break loose and crumble in my grip—rotting teeth falling off the gums.

navigating feeble structures is challenging under white sheets, but milo insists we trade our identities for ghosts. because spirits get away with anything, milo reasons. because everyone’s in costumes this time of year. because you go along with anything i say, frankie, you ass-kisser.

when milo says that last part, i vanish a little. to sell the act, maybe.

our ascent brings us to an open floor overlooking the stories below. milo snaps film

photos of the view. of me—ghost-imposter plunged in sunset hues. of themself grinning under that white sheet of theirs.

tucking the camera away in its case, milo turns to face me.

race you to the other end, frankie, they propose. loser has to walk home.

i regard the boarded-up holes in the cement. although apprehension creeps up my throat, i accept milo’s challenge. anything to impress them. to prove myself worthy of their company.

milo counts down from five and bursts into a sprint, flat-soled sneakers slapping the

concrete. i take off after them, holding a hand to my head to keep my sheet in place. we dodge low-hanging wires and intruding foliage. weave around corners and beams. leap over gaping cavities unintended for parkour endeavors.

just as i make up the distance between us, a board of rotting wood caves in under my

weight and i fall through. out of reflex, my arms shoot out and catch me in time before crashing to the floor below. i kick open air, gasping, squirming for stability.

although my eyeholes aren’t aligned, i notice milo’s figure disappearing around the

corner. it takes scraped skin and all of my strength to pull myself out of there alone.

milo isn’t fazed by the spots of red seeping through my white fabric. once i limp to their improvised finish line, they declare me loser and present our next obstacle.

a flat slab of metal closes the gap between stable surfaces—a makeshift bridge. my pulse still thrashes through my temples. i shake my head, but milo trusts infrastructure over warning. they aren’t afraid of anything. maybe that’s why i hate them. why i adore them.

the material warps to their weight, creaking, creaking. i hold my breath until their shoe

touch solid concrete. then it’s my turn. fear reduces me to mere particles. more ghost than person. i swear i float across that stretch of risk.

once reunited, milo sweeps a fabric-draped arm across my chest. someone’s here.

cops? i mouth, which is essentially useless with covered lips.

we strain our ears for soles crunching gravel beyond our own strained breathing. the sheet ghost beside me is mannequin-rigid. those black-hole eyes fixate on overgrown vegetation below. i catch a flick of their hand: crouch. we duck behind a column and face one another, knees touching.

listen, frankie, milo whispers, barely audible above hard consonants. you stay here while i find another way out of here. whatever you do, don’t leave this spot. i’ll come back for you.

i trust you.

sinking to all fours, milo crawls across the bridge, creaking, creaking, and descends from my line of view. i wait. a draft seeps through shattered windows and curls around my ankles. light footsteps echo through the property, either milo’s or the stranger’s. then nothing but evening birdsong. crickets. absence.

the fabric around my lips dampens from open-mouth exhales. i blot at my wounds,

wincing at the post-adrenaline sting. curling onto my side accentuates my heartbeat thrumming against damp concrete. 

i’ll come back for you.

will you, milo?

shadows bleed around the corner. eventually, my scrapes lose their painful tingle. my legs fall asleep. then my arms. all somatic sensations wane to static, transcending to the spirit realm.

just as i pronounce myself forgotten, solid footsteps stir me back into relevance. i jolt

upright and reel from the black spots hijacking my vision.

someone’s crossing the bridge. fatigued metal moans under their weight, creaking,

creaking. i clench my jaw, waiting for some telltale sign to recognize. milo’s teasing chuckle. an officer’s radio signal. anything.

what i get instead is a crash—our trusted structure splitting. a shriek. a wet, crunching

thud below.

i leap to my feet and scream out to my visitor.

the nauseating silence that follows is a ghost in itself.

Bethany Cutkomp is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. She enjoys catching chaotic vibes and bees with her bare hands. Her work appears in or will appear in Alternative Milk Magazine, Hearth & Coffin, Wireworm Magazine, Exposed Bone, The Hooghly Review, Bullshit Lit, and more. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.