MAN, I USED to love love. Date nights, good morning texts, monogamy in matching pajamas. This was back when I still believed in shit like twin flames and somebody’s son choosing me even when I’m wrong. Even when I’m old and gray. Now I am old and graying, almost thirty-seven. And let me tell you what I’ve learned.

These niggas don’t want love. They want head. They want ass and dick. They want to be fed, fucked and left alone.

So every night I scroll. Tap. Tap. Tap. I’ve become a ghoulish torso and bulge haunting Grindr. Sniffies. Jack’d. Hinge and Tinder if I’m feeling delusional. Left swipe. Left swipe. Left swipe. At least my thumb is getting cardio.

Buzzz. User VISITING cruised you. 54. Stocky. White. Bottom. Into: BBC. 3,200 feet away.

I can’t delete the message fast enough before there’s another. Buzzz.

Block.

Buzzz. User MASC ONLY cruised you. 27. Muscular. Latino. Vers-bottom. 2.2 miles away. Before I can message him, he messages first.

Buzzz. Buzzz. Buzzz. He sends a flurry of nudes and another message. My teeth sink into my bottom lip.

I catch my reflection on the screen. I’ve never been this desperate. Or this disgusted. Why are all these fags on meth?

I toss the phone and lay on the bed in the dark. I think about touching myself, but I’m too lazy to. Plus it’s not the same.

Buzzz. My phone illuminates the room. Buzzz. Buzzz. I finally look at the notification.

User 😈 cruised you. I open it reluctantly. 29. Mixed. Muscular. 11 Miles Away. God threw me a bone tonight. He’s beautiful.

🎈

On the Uber ride over I send his face pic to the group chat.

One of my friends replies instantly, “Bitch, he’s your type.” I gnaw at my black painted fingernails. He is my type and that fact terrifies me. It’s always something with my type.

Another friend replies, “Aww babe, there’s nothing wrong with having a type, just don’t forget you’re a prize too.” They all agree. I want to believe them. I really do. But the familiar sting of rejection has convinced me otherwise.

The driver cuts his eyes at me through the rearview mirror. A rosary swings like a noose from it clicking softly. On the radio, a frantic caller talks about her “Missing brother: Last seen near West Hollywood, he has a silver cross nose ring. If anyone sees or hears anything…” she pleads on and on. I look away, out into the night as we pull in front of my date’s place.

🎈🎈

I stand alone outside an old, unkempt house, fingers tapping anxiously on my phone. Swoosh. I message him.

He’s typing… Then nothing. I look around nervously as the street lights flicker. I glance back at the Uber, which is far off into the distance now. Buzzz. I jump at the sound and check the notification on my phone.

When I look up again the front door is cracked slightly and a faint yellow light peaks from inside. My sweaty grip tightens on my phone and I make my way up the driveway and to the door.

Inside it’s pitch black except for a yellow light flickering like a dying star at the end of a long, narrow hallway. I move towards it slowly, each step echoing too loud to be in a stranger’s home. But I’m drawn to it the way smoke finds the only open window.

At the end of the hallway, I peer through the open bedroom door. There he is, lying on a mattress on the floor, his back to me, an open laptop in front of him flickering with muted porn.

Something in my gut twists, a sharp instinct whispering, “go!” I step back.

When I turn we’re face to face. He says nothing, he just leans in close, his nose brushes my neck, sniffing slow and deliberate, like a hound catching scent.

He smiles. His gold fang grillz glint in the hospice-yellow light. I smile back. I stammer out a “Hey.”

And I stay.

🎈🎈🎈

We fuck. But this isn’t frantic or impersonal like usual. It’s soft, studied, practiced like a routine we know by heart. A true boyfriend experience. The kind of sex with lingering eye contact and fingers that memorize skin.

As soon as we cum, he rolls over and is already unlocking his phone with one hand. The screen lights his face, erasing whatever softness was there just a second ago. No doubt he’s scrolling for the next “me. Another profile. Another body.

I pull on my underwear. “I’m… Tyler,” I offer, half-hopeful. He doesn’t look up. Just the tap, tap, tap of fingers against glass.

I glance at my phone still plugged into the charger on the wall. It’s later than I thought.

“I… I should get out of your hair,” I say. “Can I use your bathroom?”

Without a word, he points toward the hallway just beyond the cracked bedroom door.

The overhead light flickers when I switch it on. I judge myself in the dirty mirror. “What the fuck am I doing?” I whisper.

Then I hear it.

Voices. Faint at first. I pause and notice the window over the tub is cracked open. Through the blinds I see flashlights bobbing. A group of men, five, maybe six, led by an older woman. They’re speaking fast. Spanish? French? I can’t tell. The old woman points directly at the window. At me.

I step back like I’ve been shot.

Water still clings to my hands, I wipe them on my underwear and tiptoe back across the hallway.

Back in the bedroom, the light from the hallway spills in behind me. And he’s still there, spine hunched like a gargoyle, his eyes glued to his phone. Tap. Tap. Tap.

My clothes are scattered near a wooden folding screen that leans crookedly against the far wall. I crouch to pick them up. Before I can stand fully, he’s in front of me again. His lips meet mine, more aggressive now.

“I… I don’t know if I’m up for another round,” I manage.

He doesn’t respond. Just bites down hard on my nipple. I yelp and shove him off. Blood squirts from the wound and trickles down my stomach.

Light floods the room from the window.

I spin around. He hisses and hides behind the mattress. The group from outside is shining their flashlights in. Their silhouettes stretch across the wall like saints in stained glass.

I shield my eyes. “I thought you said you could host.”

And for the first time all night he speaks, “Hide.”

I crouch behind the folding screen, watching through the slats as he climbs back onto the mattress and resumes scrolling, like nothing’s happening.

Everything is happening.

The front door, just down the hall, bursts open with a deafening crack. They storm in and fan out like a tactical unit, crucifixes held like pistols. The leader, a broad man with a deep scar across his jaw, jams two fingers into my hookup’s mouth, searching. His face hardens. He nods to the others.

The old woman, clutching a worn prayer book to her chest, pleads with him. He turns and looks right at me. My heart pounds.

They raise their crucifixes toward him. He lets out an unholy howl. Before anyone can move, he lunges and rips one of their arms clean off.

Blood sprays across the laptop and the lamp. It coats the bulb until it’s red and casting everything in hell light. Blood runs down the walls and pools across the tiles. It reaches my bare feet and I lose consciousness.

🎈🎈🎈🎈

I come to with a jolt. The room is dead quiet now except for wet crunching that echoes off the walls.

One of the men lies near the window his hand still clinging to the crucifix. I see my phone beside it still plugged into the wall. Just past it, near the doorway: it’s him, crouched over the lifeless body of the old woman.

I edge toward the phone and crucifix with my heart hammering. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look…

A bloody hand grabs my wrist.

“Help… me…” the man whispers, then dies.

I scream. He whirls around revealing his true face. He’s no longer beautiful. He’s grotesque.

His eyes are two pits of searing amber. His mouth opens impossibly wide revealing rows of long, sharp teeth dripping with threads of muscle, blood and saliva and a wild forked dancing tongue.

I snatch the crucifix and phone and bolt into the hallway, into the bathroom, slipping on blood near the doorframe. I slam the door behind me and lock it with a trembling hand.

Wood buckles as something hits the door hard.

The creature lets out a deafening roar. I hear wings flapping like sails in a storm. I press my ear to the door. Confused. Listening.

CRACK!

A wet claw bursts through the door inches from my face. I scream and stumble back, tripping over the bath mat. I crash into the tub, yanking the shower curtain down with me. And land in something warm, wet and squishy.

I look around in horror at a mess of body parts. Hands. Legs. A torso with no face. One head still has a silver cross nose ring and glitter smeared on the cheek.

I scramble up gagging, covered in old blood and bile. I claw at the window, throw it open, and crawl through, tearing skin on the glass. I fall into the yard with a hard, wet thud. My shoulder pops.

I don’t care. I get up. I run. The road ahead is empty. And I sprint toward it, bare feet pounding at the pavement. Behind me I hear the sound of flapping again. Growing closer.

He lands there in front of me, his back turned, covered in blood like a newborn.

His spine shifts under the skin like something alive. Slowly, deliberately, wings unfurl. But these are not angelic. They’re bat-like and leathery with veins like roots clawing through flesh.

In one hand he has his glowing phone.

And in that moment I finally get it.

I’ve been giving myself away in bits and pieces just to feel held, and what’s left of me is gonna end up in someone’s bathroom drain. My hands tremble, crucifix clutched tight, but I don’t make the first move.

He does.

Buzzz.

___

Story written and narrated by Kendrick Daye

Intro animation by Ayomide Jayeoba

Produced & Edited by 8th Haus Studios

hi@histrangeness.world

www.histrangeness.world

My name is Kendrick Daye. I’m an artist, sure, but really I’m just someone who tells stories because not telling them feels like a slow kind of death.

I went to Morehouse College and studied English. Which sounds like the beginning of a writer’s origin story. It was and wasn’t. The truth is writing intimidated the hell out of me.

I loved stories but writing felt like something that happened to other people like love or a normal sleep schedule. Meanwhile I was carrying around fragments. Images. Scenes. Questions. Entire worlds with no doors leading into them.

Still, these stories refused to leave me alone.

They were always early. Knocking around in my head while I was trying to survive in a world that wasn’t built for someone like me. Back then I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling, just the feeling itself.

Hi Strangeness is what happened when I finally stopped pretending I could keep all of that inside. To quote one of my literary heroes, Octavia E. Butler: “You’ve got to make your own worlds. You’ve got to write yourself in.” This space is my attempt to do exactly that.

Here, I write toward the things that haunt me: existing as a Black queer person in a white, straight world. The quiet violences of everyday life. The dreaded realization that there is nothing wrong with the system. It’s working as intended, it’s just not working for you.

These are stories about the strange shapes reality takes when you live at the margins of it. Monsters and spectres appear, but they are rarely the largest problem. The problem is the world that produces them.

I plan to release weekly stories through this platform, often accompanied by audio versions.

Free subscribers get a story a week.

Paid subscribers get that and the messier stuff: the thinking, the doubts, the long works still bleeding on the page.

If you love sci-fi, horror, and speculative fiction that centers Black queer people, and you’ve got the means, We’d love to have you with us.

If you choose to join, you are appreciated.
If not, the signal remains open.