the airport is always packed. there is barely enough room to extend your arms out all the way. everyone is on the phone. they are cackling loudly in a language you hardly understand. hundreds of voices overlap. their laughter echoes throughout the terminal. it is never quiet. their laughter echoes in your brain. it keeps you up at night. it is never quiet.
there are taxis everywhere you look. they are all the same shade of yellow. you open the door of one. a man greets you cheerfully through the rearview mirror. his eyes scream for help. you blink. he has no eyes. you blink. you cannot understand what he is saying. he will not let you leave the taxi. you blink. it is 10:28 pm. three hours pass. you blink. it is 10:29 pm. he will not let you leave the taxi.
your grandparents meet you at the door. their smiles are plastic. their eyes are hollow. you hug them warmly. you haven’t visited them in years. they step aside for you to go in. there is a red handprint on the wall directly opposite from you. the bathroom is locked. no one else lives in this house. grandmother says your great-uncle was playing with sriracha sauce. you do not have a great-uncle. you hear the front door lock. the entire house smells like copper. you ask no questions.
at night, the ambulances scream. they rip through your skull. they sound like crying children. you know that none of them will ever reach their destination. you’d be better off dead than calling for one. god knows what they do to the people who call for them.
it is exactly 12:30 am. you are hungry. there is a 7/11 a ways down the street. you hop into your car and start driving. you pass a 7/11. that is not the right one. there is another 7/11 across the street. that is not the right one. you check your side mirrors. you have driven past three more 7/11s. none of those are the right 7/11. their led lights beckon you eerily. they tempt you. you continue driving. there is a 7/11 at every stoplight. you have been driving for ten minutes. you check your dashboard clock. it is exactly 12:30 am. you are no longer hungry. you do not stop driving. the 7/11s call to you. you do not stop driving.
taipei 101 looms over the city. you can see it wherever you go. there is glass on every side of the tower. the tower sees all. the glass reflects the truth. you do not look at the glass. you do not want to know the truth.
you go to visit your child cousins. they are overjoyed to see you. you notice their hair glinting raven-black in the sun. they ask you how you are. you cannot understand their language. you cannot understand the words coming out of your mouth in response. they do not stop talking. their words become slurred as the heat melts off their lips. the girl’s tongue falls out of her mouth. the boy’s eyes begin to lighten. they do not stop talking. you notice their hair shimmers strawberry-blond in the sun. you cannot understand their language. you respond anyways.
this city is covered in cockroaches. they scuttle between people’s feet as they walk down the street. they live in the subway station. they party in the gutters. they buzz up in the air to dodge traffic. you do not step on any of them. you remember you stepped on one once, years ago. they have not stopped following you. they have not stopped judging you. you remember a story told to you about a distant cousin who stepped on too many cockroaches one day. his body was found in the road the night after. his entrails were scattered about him. the cockroaches got revenge. you see the empty husk of a cockroach lying in the corner of a store. you hear shrieking from the floorboards. you mind your own business.
the locals say that ximen station is haunted. they say that the spirits come out and roam after sunset. you are meeting a friend in ximen for dinner. you call them and lightheartedly joke about the haunted subway. they laugh with you. they tell you that they will not hurt you. just don’t look at them directly in the eye. don’t look at the little girl at the bottom of the rails. don’t be late or they will not let you leave. you say you feel ill. you ask if you can meet tomorrow in taipei. the line goes dead. you do not hear from them again.
“try our bubble tea!” vendors screech from the side of the road. their large sunhats keep their faces hidden. you stop at a booth and squint at the sign. you can only make out the words “milk tea” in messy, scrawled handwriting. you cannot read the other words on the sign. the vendor takes a step closer to you. in his hand is a cup of boba. the boba is not black like normal. the boba is the color of swamp moss. the vendor smiles underneath his enormous sunhat. you swear he has more teeth than normal. he thrusts the cup towards you. “only 70 dollars!” you take a step back. he takes a step forward. you manage to sneak a peek under his gigantic sunhat. you now know why the vendors wear such huge sunhats. the sun is not the reason. you no longer walk down that road. their screeches still follow you everywhere you go.
it is the night before the day you fly home. grandfather has scrubbed the handprint off the wall. grandmother has made pig intestine for dinner. flies buzz around the dish. you lean in and take a whiff. it smells like copper. you recoil. grandmother looks at you curiously. her plastic smile fades. “do you like it?“ you bite back your tongue. you do not show disgust at grandmother’s cooking. you nod your head enthusiastically. your heart is pumping wildly. grandmother’s plastic smile returns. she leans in to give you a hug. she praises you. you hope she cannot feel how rapid your heartbeat is. everyone in the family knows what happens when you criticize grandmother’s cooking. you realize the bathroom door is still locked. the house still smells like copper. everything smells like copper. you hope she doesn’t know.
grandmother knows all.
grandfather comes into your room. he is holding a butcher knife in his right hand. he sets it down right by the door. he tells you it’s for emergency purposes. you cannot fathom what kind of emergency would require a butcher knife. the stray dogs cry behind your house. grandmother laughs from the living room. why is she laughing? stray dogs are not funny. you turn back to grandfather. his face is pale. you tilt your head. he does not answer. he backs out of the room and closes the door. he locks it from the outside. odd. you didn’t know your door could lock from the outside. you pick up the butcher knife. you see a reflection in the blade. you do not look back down. you scan the walls for a clock. there is none. the stray dogs howl again. you swear you hear a scream from the living room. you do not get up. you do not let go of the knife. you cannot under any circumstances let go of the knife after you’ve picked it up. it will turn against you. whatever is on the other side of the door will not lose interest in you. grandmother is not who she seems.
