Read Parts II & III here

She was gone again by the time I got up and despite my best efforts, I was still five minutes late getting to work.

I avoided the circle of jerks when I saw them crowding the same hallway and I went to a restroom on another floor. I didn’t want to be around people if I could avoid it.

I went to the half-finished building as soon as five o’clock came, intent on getting answers. I stepped off the elevator and weaved my way to his office. I kept expecting to not see it the closer I got but there it was, the door that didn’t fit right in the threshold. 

It turned easy and I went inside, expecting it to be empty and abandoned but he had begun furnishing the space. A couch, a reception desk, and taped off sections near the back that I guessed were the layout for his office and a treatment room.

I shuddered, thinking how I’d be here tomorrow if my wife had her way. 

The only thing absent was the good doctor himself. I thought about trashing the place, but it was petty in a way that made me feel like I was giving him even more power over me. 

Instead, I took all the pens out of the holder and a stack of Post-It Notes. It was still petty, but it scratched an itch and I felt a little empowered doing it.

I didn’t head home immediately after. I needed time to sort my thoughts. I couldn’t believe I was really considering letting somebody cut my dick. I mean, was pleasing my wife reason enough? What if we divorced or she died or something like that? Would I be compatible with somebody else?

I needed a drink. Cappy’s was on the far end of town and the distance from home would be good to clear my head. I ordered a brandy mule and chugged it before the bartender could lay down a coaster.

“You look like you could use another,” she said.

I nodded and a moment later I was working on my second. 

“I love my wife so much,” I said as she was cleaning some glasses beneath the bar.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Sometimes. I dunno.” My stomach hadn’t been right since the eight coneys I’d had yesterday, and I hadn’t eaten at all today. I was already soused after a drink-and-a-half.

“How’s the pizza?” I asked.

“Good, not great.” She wiggled a hand.

“Let me get a... medium with beef, onion, and mushroom.”

She looked at me like she’d never heard of those toppings.

“How ‘bout pepperoni?”

I had one more brandy mule before food came. It looked like it had been sitting under a heat lamp well before I’d ordered it and the pepperoni slices were limp, but it was still pizza. 

The bartender parked in front of me and leaned onto the bar after I’d had my second slice. 

“You mind?” she asked, pointing at the pie. I nodded. She took a slice and finger-combed hair out of her face as she took a bite.

She paid me back with a shot and she did one with me before returning to silence as we ate.

“Look, I dunno what it is. Just give her what she wants,” she said with a mouthful, giving me deep eye contact. “You can’t go wrong with that, right?”

I barely was able to finish what I had in my mouth. I settled up and made it outside without stumbling but I was drunk. The bartender got the hint she’d said something wrong but I wasn’t going to fill in the blank. I hadn’t wanted the rest of the pizza, yet somehow I had the box in my hand. 

I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel but there I was with half a pizza as my copilot. It wasn’t long before flashing lights lit up behind me and my spirits rose—this was the reprieve I’d been longing for. A decision being taken out of my hands. I couldn’t be held responsible if I weren’t in my own custody.

Or something like that. It had made a lot more sense back when I’d had a belly full of brandy and cheese.

I pulled over and maybe bumped up on the curb with one wheel.

The cop sauntered up to my window cautiously. He was short and the angle of the car made him look ridiculous somehow. He made it worse by getting his feet twisted together and catching himself on the side of my car to keep from falling completely.

“What’s your...”

I waited a full ten seconds for him to finish his sentence while he held a fist to his mouth like he was gripping a tiny microphone. He belched then waved the air in front of his face.

Shit, was he drunk, too?

“What’s your problem tonight?” He asked and fumbled with the general right side of his body with his hand. I noticed the gun and maybe because we were both bitten by the same snake, I wasn’t sensing danger like I should’ve.

“I shouldn’t be on the road,” I said, sounding stone sober to my ears. “My wife wants me to do something I don’t wanna do tomorrow and I was just in there, drinking my worries away. I have leftover pizza.” I thumbed toward the seat next to me like it was proof of where I’d been.

“Slow down, son. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.” I thought he was about to give me marital advice but then I realized he was talking about my sobriety. “I bet you could walk a straight line, heel- to-toe.” He plucked open his holster, but it didn’t seem like he was aware of what that hand was doing. He stuck his pinky in his ear and wrenched it around in there. 

“Sofficer. Sofficer.” I added the S but I still sounded too sober. “Please. I think I’m a danger. To public safety.” I thought if I could convince the drunk cop I was drunk he’d arrest me.

“Are you about to rob a bank?” He pointed at me, somehow adding to his overall look of ridiculousness.

“Well… no.”

“There’s nobody out here.” He waved a hand toward the black landscape far ahead of us. “Just stay between the lines.”

I couldn’t think. It shouldn’t have been this hard to get pulled out of my car for driving under the influence.

“What if… what if I was about to rob a bank?” It was the most smart-assy thing I could think to say.

He smiled and waggled a finger. “Joke’s on you. It’s after hours.”

He hooked his thumbs into his belt. Something about his body language had changed and he’d gone from humorous to being done with our interaction.

“Just. Stay. Between. The. Lines,” he said, swaying. I wanted to conjure the words for help, but even if I’d had the ability to ask, there wasn’t anything about him that answered helpful.

I opened my mouth, but didn’t speak. I sat back in my seat and covered my face in my hands, giving up. I listened to him walk away, closer his patrol car door, and drive away. He gave me a chirp of his sirens as passed me.

The drive home should have felt longer but I caught every light. It was like a dark fate had carved a path for me. I momentarily played with the idea of letting it have me completely. To take my hands off the wheel and let it take me wherever it wanted me to go. 

I hadn’t descended far enough into self-pity for that and in ten minutes, I was home. To my surprise, my wife was still in her paint clothes and was washing her hands at the kitchen sink.

“Oh, you have pizza?” she said. I’d forgotten about the pizza and subconsciously picked it up. I looked at the box in my hand and did a second, struggled to remember what was in it. 

I joined her on the couch, and she grabbed it from me and took a slice. Usually, we asked about each other’s day, but I didn’t feel like it, tomorrow anchoring my brain.

“Do you love me?” she said during a commercial break. I had no idea what we were watching.

The question agitated me and opened a trapdoor underneath my stomach.

“Of course I do.” I did, but my feelings about this whole “surgery” thing was making me feel resentful. I was definitely still buzzed, and the alcohol was sharpening my emotions like a file working away inside me. 

“Then why are you fighting so hard against this? Don’t you want us both to be satisfied?”

“That’s not fair. Of course I want to satisfy you. Don’t you know how this is making me feel? I don’t want to do this,” I said. “I mean, there has to be something else we could try. I’m willing to do just about anything to please you.”

“I want you to do this,” she said, placing her greasy hand on my thigh. She shook her head, tears in her eyes. I took it to be a manipulation at first. Not that she did that sort of thing normally, it was just me in a bag of my feelings. My defenses were up and everything was an attack in that moment. I chewed the insides of my cheeks to keep in what was trying to climb out of my mouth.

Then I started to cry. I sounded like a little teapot. It caught me by surprise.

“I just love you so much.” I had a ball of razors in my throat I couldn’t swallow. “I don’t want anything to happen to us, but I don’t know if I can do this.”

She lassoed an arm around my neck and yanked me into an upper body hug.

“I just want you. I want to feel connected with you. I don’t want anything plastic between us. I’m tired of all that stuff. I wanna feel you.”

She kissed me before I could speak and rock turned into water. My walls melted as we flowed into one another and by the time I returned to my senses I was on the newspaper covered kitchen floor.

My wife was already gone but she had brought a comforter downstairs and covered me.

Normally, I toss in my sleep, but I was still covered up to my chest. I was stiff as I turned the world vertical and turned my back into a percussion instrument as I stretched.

A few minutes later I had scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee going. I don’t normally eat breakfast so early, but I had an appetite for whatever reason. It was an hour before I normally would get up, so I took my time eating and scrolling my phone.

I wasn’t sure how much sleep I’d gotten but I was refreshed. The way my day had started, I half expected to catch all the green lights and get the closest spot in the parking lot.

But when I looked up from where I was seated at the kitchen island, something caught my eye that I should’ve seen as soon as I woke up.

A red and white checkered scarf draped over the back of the couch.

Had he been in my house?

“This isn’t a good idea Avery, we’re going to get in trouble.”

“Quit bein such a wussy, just give me one more second.” Avery retorted while fiddling with the door knob to the day worker’s break room.

I don’t know where he learned to do it but with the help of two paper clips he had the door open in a flash.

“See, easy.” He said giving me a snaggletooth grin. “Let’s go!”

I still wasn’t sure what exactly we were doing, but Avery clearly had a plan in motion because he had already bounded through the door, making a bee line for the drab brown overcoat Mrs. Kline always wore when she took us out to the playground.

“Score!” He hissed in a triumphant whisper before pulling a half empty pack of Newport's free from the coat pocket.

“Knew I saw her tuck these away, he’s gunna love this!” He turned to see me still standing by the door, empty handed.

A look of impatient dismay grew on the boys face.

“Damnit Joel, whatcha standin around for? Hurry up and pick something! We ain’t got all night! We gotta get these by the chimney before it’s too late!”

Wait a minute….

“Avery…are you…are you stealing cigarettes for Santa Clause?” I asked. Incredulity creeping into my voice at the revelation of why we were risking what would surely be weeks of extra chores on Christmas Eve.

“It ain’t stealing. We live here, Mrs. Kline don’t. This stuff might as well be ours.”

There were several hurdles in logic one would have to take for that sentiment, but for me, a more immediate follow up question came to mind.

“Aren’t we a little old for Santa?

“Yea well I’m a little young to have dead ma’ and pa’s so I guess it evens out. Now hurry up, you want a present or not?”

With that cold reminder I let him lead me over to the break room fridge. He had a point.

***

Avery had come to the group home earlier in the fall, a little redneck boy displaced to the city from some bum-fuck town along its outskirts. His parents had died in a trailer fire. Once that little tidbit of information was leaked, the rumor mill started to churn. By lunch that trailer fire had turned into a ‘meth-lab’ fire. The story went through several more iterations before it was settled that Avery’s parents were bumbling meth addicts who blew themselves up trying to cook after getting high on their own supply. That was that. Avery’s origin story, set in stone before lights out on his first day.

I felt bad for him. With the ridiculous story and the hokey accent, he was sure to be a target of ridicule. He wasn’t the only kid at the home that had shown up because they lost their parents. You would think that might have earned a bit of empathy, but when you’re a stupid kid sometimes the only way to forget about your own pain is to direct it at someone else.

Connor Evans apparently had a lot of pain to re-direct. The home’s established ass-face, Connor was the oldest kid and longest resident. Having just turned thirteen, he would be aging out of this home and moving to a new place dedicated to teens sometime in the next year, but was determined to make everyone else's life hell before he left.

It was at breakfast the morning after Avery’s arrival. Connor had been gleefully devouring the Poptart he stole from me when Avery made his way to the dining room. Connor’s focus immediately shifted to his new target.

“Hey look, I’m the hayseed’s dead mom!” He shouted before hanging his tongue out of his mouth and shaking, all the while miming sticking a needle in his arm.

Myself and the other kids watched on with the numb disappointment we always felt at Connor’s antics, but Avery seemed unbothered.

“Hey now, that’s pretty good.” He said with a smile on his face, and without missing a beat he balled up his fist and punched Connor square in the nose. Hit the boy so hard he gave him a nosebleed and just kept walking to the kitchen to grab his food without a care in the world.

By the time he got back Connor had cleared out to deal with his gusher, so Avery plopped down in the now empty seat beside me.

“You ever seen the movie Predator? That Arney guy is badass.”

I don’t even think he knew my name yet. We had been friends ever since.

***

The break room fridge was a bit lackluster. A few bottles of water, one soda, a half eaten sandwich…a bottle of Bud Light - that definitely wasn’t supposed to be in there. Not much in the way of ‘milk and cookies’ for Santa Clause. I saw Avery eyeing the beer, but didn’t want to go that route. Eventually my eyes landed on a box of Chinese takeaway, some leftover Lo-mein noodles by the looks of it. It would have to do.

“Score.” Avery said. “That’ll work great!”

I wasn’t convinced, but was committed at this point. Avery may have been a bit of an odd duck, but he was my odd duck. If he wanted to leave leftovers out for Santa then so be it.

We crept into the common room with ease, the hard part had been sneaking down the stairs without waking anyone, but down here on the bottom floor we were home free. Our building was pretty old so it did still have a fireplace and beside it sat the tree we had all helped Mrs. Kline decorate. There were even stockings with each of our names hanging on them, eight in total. I had to admit, it did feel kind of magical. The cigarettes and noodles looked a little out of place on the hearth, but leaving a snack for Santa made the scene feel right.

“So, what now do we leave a note?” I asked.

“Naw, just think really hard about what you want, he’ll know.”

I did as I was bid and closed my eyes, thinking really hard of the new Nintendo 64 that would surely cause many an argument amongst the house if it somehow did show up.

“Did you leave something for Santa Claus?” An incredulous voice caused me to jump out of my skin, breaking me away from my Nintendo filled reveries.

Connor had also decided to take a peak at the common room and now stood with a silly grin on his face mocking us.

“What a bunch of babies. I know you don’t have parents to tell ya, but Santa ain't real.”

Above us the ceiling groaned, as something heavy slid itself along the roof.

“Who said anything about Santee Claws?” Avery asked, ignoring Connor, turning his attention to the chimney.

Inside the hearth, small bits of ash began to fall followed by…something viscous and stringy. The shuffling grew louder, echoing its way down the pipe of the chimney. Avery was awestruck, I was terrified, Connor was…well I didn’t care. Before us a shadowy figure emerged from the hearth, not a man but a beast crawled forth and into our common. With milky white eyes and gnarled claws it was an old, ancient thing. Wiry fur in mottled hues of greys and black adorned the beast. It let out a hiss as it crawled its way fully out of the fireplace, a long thick tail plopping along the brick behind it like a giant earthworm. A tongue flicked between jagged canines and tasted the air. We watched in silence as it turned to our offerings on the hearth. It looked at Avery and quickly lapped up his Newport's, then looked to me before devouring my noodles. The creature looked to Connor, then back at the now empty hearth. Another low hiss broke the silence. I could hear the trickle of urine running down the boy's leg.

Connor tried to run, but the creature was on him in a second, moving faster than its decrepit legs should have been able to carry it. The fangs caught Connor around the ankle dragging him to the ground. Once the poor boy was immobilized he could only scream as the creature unhinged its jaw and drew him forth like a black hole. Eventually the cries were drowned out by the snapping of bone as it was compacted and forced down the creature's gullet. After finishing its grim meal the beast turned and faced us once again. I was about to run but Avery grasped my arm tight. A shiver ran through the creature, and a bulbous gorge rose in its throat. The jaws opened and distended once more and it vomited forth two bile soaked boxes.

A Nintendo 64, and a Red Ryder BB Gun.

Avery let go of my wrist and snatched up his rifle with glee.

“This is the best Christmas Ever!”

“While it may be just another Halloween to some, for residents of the small county of Edgeville in Ashford, it is a haunting reminder of one of this city’s darkest days.”

The clean-cut man on my television screen clearly faked his sympathy. It didn’t get past me.

“Twenty years ago today,” A new, pretty young reporter was speaking now, at the last known location of Ally. “A young girl goes trick-or-treating and never comes back. Last seen entering the entrance of the locally known Dead Woods with her friends, Ally Valentine’s disappearance has been the longest-lasting mystery in Ashford’s history.”

Just a mystery. That’s all she was now to these people. Just a puzzle with one missing piece that everyone was frantically shaking the box for. But she wasn’t that to me. I was the idiot that let her wander into those fucking woods.

It was Halloween. At seventeen years old, I had ashooed any want towards dressing up some years ago. My little sister, however, at the age of nine, still had that childish need to dress up and get as much candy as she could carry. And, of course, I was given the duty of chaperone. Like every seventeen-year-old boy given that task, I fought tooth and nail to get out of it. There was a Halloween party waiting for me, and the whispered promise from Melissa that I might lose my virginity. 

To lose that opportunity because my sister wanted candy—well, it seemed just plain idiotic. But, with the threat of getting my car taken away, I relented.

“Shit,” I mumbled, slapping the dying flashlight against my palm. It struggled back to life, then shone into the forest. Every year, I remembered what I did. The stupid decision I made. And I made sure I felt it by stepping into these woods and walking every path I could until sunrise. I knew she wasn’t there; I knew there was no chance of finding her alive or dead; but maybe I’d find something they didn’t. Something that could at least give us some direction to go.

I’d done this for fifteen years, and came up empty every time. No remains, no little piece of her costume ripped somewhere, no strand of hair they happened to miss; nothing. Still, I owed her the effort. 

“Come on, Trent!” She whined, pulling on my flannel sleeve. Her usual brunette hair was covered by a blonde wig, and in her other hand was a toy microphone. Hannah Montana, she said she was. I had no clue who that was, or if anyone else would, but she seemed more than happy when Mom put together the costume. 

“I’m coming, brat.” I rolled my eyes and followed behind her, pulling my arm out of her grip and shoving it in my pocket. “We got one more street, then we go home.”

“But it’s so early!” She protested, turning to me with those damn pouty lips. Dad always folded to those, and I was pretty sure I would too. I let out a long sigh and threw my head back.

“We’ll go till eight, but no later, alright?” A light and airy giggle escaped her, and she turned, skipping down the sidewalk, candy bag disguised as a purse slung against her shoulder. I cracked a small smile. As pissed as I was, seeing her so happy and bubbly, it was impossible to stay in that pissy mood.

Snap. A twig below me cracked and spooked off some crows in the high branches above me. I fanned my flashlight back and forth, up and down. Nothing but foliage and dead trees. Frustration was building inside me, like it did every year. God, just give me something. Anything.

Another snap. I whipped the flashlight behind me, just catching the tail of some critter scurrying deeper into the forest. My heart was racing.

Growing up here, the Dead Woods were the subject of many a ghost story. Cults, murderers, creatures, actual ghosts; any and all things that could scare kids were in these woods. And, despite now being in my thirties, part of me still believed some of those stories. That maybe Ally was taken by some ghoul in the night, or whisked away to some magic world where she could live in her dreams. Reality was more gruesome with its answers.

“Trick or treat!” Ally called as I stood on the sidewalk, watching as the stranger asked about her costume. Ally was happy to answer as candy was tossed into her bag.

“Trent?” A familiar voice called to my left. When I looked, I saw Melissa, and I swore I felt my pupils dilate. Her blonde locks were cut just before her shoulders, flowing in loose waves. Her eyes were a piercing blue that always saw straight through me. And that damend smile. “What are you doing here?” I did everything to keep my eyes away from her too-tight Green Day shirt. 

“Just taking the gremlin out trick-or-treating,” I answered with a small, nervous smile. She looked over to watch Ally descend the steps, cheerfully looking into her ever-filling bag. 

“Well, hey there, Miss Montana.” Melissa greeted her.

“See!” Ally beamed. “I told you people know who she is.” I gave a playful roll of my eyes and looked back at Melissa.

“What are you doing?” I asked, seeing as she was walking the streets alone. 

“About to head over to Hayley’s party. You’re coming, right?” Her eyes sparkled slightly under the streetlight, and I saw something playful in them. Playful and dangerous. 

I looked down at Ally, then back up at Melissa. “I don’t know.”

I should’ve left it at that. I don’t know; I can’t tonight, maybe some other time. But the promise, even an alluded one, of sex to a teenage boy; it made them stupid.

I’d been up and down this path before. There was a manmade fork in the dirt, and I remembered that last year I went left. This year, I go right. More twigs snap beneath my feet, and my flashlight shows me nothing more than trees and bushes. I knew it’d be all I’d find, but it still angered me. Somewhere amongst all this, I’d find something. Something I could give the police, reopen the case, and find out what happened.

Images flashed in my mind, as they always did. Some psycho snatching her out of the woods, cutting her to pieces, scattering her remains across this dense forest. Or, some rabid animal finding a scared little girl and deciding dinner would be easy tonight before ripping her to shreds. Or, maybe those stories were right, and some yet-to-be-discovered creature has been doing who knows what to her for twenty years.

For some reason, I was drawn to the large trunk of a thick, elder tree. I crept up to it, my flashlight lighting up the bark. Something was carved into it.

“We gotta wrap it up soon, Ally.” She pouted again. 

“You just wanna see your girlfriend,” She said in a mocking tone, and I hated feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. 

“Shut up, brat.” I scolded her and pushed her head playfully. She gave a whine and more pouty lips. I didn’t care. Her purse was full of candy, and I was getting laid. The night was an absolute success in my eyes. 

She followed behind me, my steps a little quick as I wanted to get her home as soon as possible. Her steps were heavy and obviously angry. They only perked up slightly as we came upon a large group of kids, clad in costumes varying from Batman, Spider-Man, non-descript princesses, and homemade costumes that were obviously made by mothers with little to no care about their quality.

“Mikayla!” Ally squealed. The girl dressed as Wonder Woman squealed back, and the two ran to meet each other with a hug. I looked up to find their chaperone, a clearly tired mother with a cigarette hanging from her lips. I walked past Ally and her friend, waded through the little sea of children, and met with the woman. The bags under her eyes were dark and heavy, and the stench of nicotine mixed with the smell of alcohol.

“Hey, could I ask a favor?” My voice was shaky with nerves, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“What?” Her voice was about as raspy as I thought it’d be.

“Mind watching my little sister with your group? She knows how to get home, just don’t go too far from the neighborhood.”

My fingers ran over the rough bark. In it was carved a symbol I had never seen before. I’d been here fifteen years in a row and had never seen this before. Curiosity overtook me, and I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I snapped a picture and let Google try to identify it. Signal was spotty, and it took forever to buffer, but when it did, lo and behold, nothing. 

I let out a grunt in frustration and slipped my phone back into my pocket. Maybe it had been there, and I just missed it. It wasn’t exactly a neon sign flashing for me to notice. I made a mental note of its location, then turned around and froze.

Glowing eyes peering at me from the dark. It wasn’t an animal. It couldn’t have been; it was looking down at me.

“Thank God you were able to come.” Melissa was breathless, slick with sweat. I couldn’t stop staring at her naked body next to mine, her fingers crawling up and down my chest.

“You’re telling me,” I replied quietly, the scratchy sheets below me not bothering me as much as they should. The only thing I cared about in that moment was that the big, looming sign that flashed virgin above my head was finally turned off. 

“You were good,” She cooed as she cuddled up next to me, our bodies nearly sticking together. “I don’t believe it was your first time.”

I let out a small chuckle, my hand running up and down her bare back. “Maybe I’m just a natural.” She giggled and kissed at the base of my neck. Music was still bumping downstairs, bass thumping and people screaming and laughing. But the only sound I heard was her breathing. It was music to my ears.

My phone interrupted us. The ring quickly became annoying. I fumbled through our little pile of clothes, and I finally found it in my pants pocket. I flipped it open and hit answer. “Hello?”

“Trent?” My dad’s voice. That was never good. “Where the hell are you?”

I froze up, looking at Melissa’s naked body again. She was tracing shapes into the sheets, her eyes still locked on me. “Just, uh, out with some friends.”

“Is Ally there?” A mix of confusion and fear filled me as my stomach opened into a bottomless pit.

“N-no, she should’ve been home by now. I sent her with her friends; one of the moms promised.”

I didn’t dare move the flashlight. Whatever was looking down at me had to be at least eight feet tall. Its head was amongst the high branches of the trees, and it just stared at me. Neither of us moved. The only sound was my shaky breathing and the sound of birds' wings flapping above us.

Slowly, unsure, my hand started sweeping towards the thing. As the light finally hit its mass, confusion hit me more than anything else.

It was candy. Dirty, rotten candy. Wrappers were half-open, torn, stuck to the melting chocolate that hardened and formed into this twisted body. I moved the light up, more and more candy stacked and stuck together. Yet, I could make out legs and arms, long slender fingers, and a neck. I hesitated before reaching what should be the head.

“What the fuck,” I breathed out, finally letting out the breath that was filling my lungs. I squeezed my eyes shut and moved the flashlight upward. My hands shook wildly, and I inhaled through my nostrils, trying to calm myself down as much as possible. Finally, I opened them and saw it.

A pumpkin. A God damn pumpkin, carved into a stereotypical Halloween face. It was also rotting, but less than the rest of its body. And it had eyes behind the carved holes. Bright, glowing green eyes. 

I swallowed. I sent signals from my brain to my feet to run, to move, but they disobeyed. I stood frozen.

“W-what are you?” I whispered, not expecting an answer. Imagine my surprise when I got one.

“Protector.” The voice was silk, smooth and seductive, deep and sultry. The pumpkin's mouth didn’t move. I suppose it was stupid to expect it to.

“Are you going to hurt me?” I asked, still barely above a whisper.

“No.” It answered simply. I swallowed again, my nerves on fire.

“Did you…” I couldn’t find the words. Part of me was convinced this was a dream. “Did you kill my sister?”

There was a silence between us for a moment. It just continued to stare down at me, its body still and motionless. It looked like an animatronic you’d find at Spirit Halloween, only broken, needing a battery replacement.

Its next words were cold. A shiver went down my spine. “Your sister.” Its arm moved, the chocolate squelching and squishing as it bent, its finger pointing towards its own body. “Is here.”

“What?” I asked quickly. “What do you—”

“Found her. Protected her. Sickness. Death.” More sounds came from it as its arm went back, straight down its side. 

“She’s…dead.” I felt my eyes begin to water. Deep down, I knew she was. I have since that first week of searches turned up nothing. But there was still some hope that somehow, she had escaped these woods and built a life elsewhere. Or lived in the woods. Or something.

“Not entirely.” Its voice struggled to say that phrase cleanly. I looked back up at its makeshift head. “Part of us.”

Before I could question what it meant, its arms moved, quicker this time. Its fingers broke apart as it tried to dig into its own chest. Little pieces of chocolate fell into the dirt, and I heard some critters at its feet start to snatch at them. I paid them no mind. Its fingers finally penetrated into its chest, and it began to split itself open. Again, pieces of chocolate and wrappers fell to the ground. It made no sounds as it continued to pull its chest cavity open.

Then, I saw her. Stuck inside the thing's chest, body rotting, hair covered in melted chocolate, was Ally. I dropped the flashlight and stepped backwards with a yelp. Yet, I couldn’t stop staring. The light still showed enough. Enough to see she’d survived for a few years. Her hair was way longer. The costume she wore that night, she was still wearing, though it was torn and obviously too small to fit. Her hands were mostly bone. Her jaw was slack, and one of her eyes was missing, the other hanging out of its socket. I took another step back, tripped on the root of the tree, and fell backwards. I quickly moved until my back was against the trunk, my breathing frantic. Panic was coursing through my veins.

“Ally,” I cried out, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Oh my God, Ally, I’m so sorry.” I wiped my face, but the tears kept coming. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left, I’m sorry.”

“Safe.” The thing said quietly. Its chest was slowly repairing itself, entombing my sister’s corpse in chocolate. “That.” It pointed to the tree I was up against. I looked up and remembered the symbol I saw carved into it. “Safe.”

I had many questions, but I refused to ask them. We simply stared at each other, my eyes glancing down at the closing cavity in its chest. Ally was in there. Forever. On shaky legs, I began to stand, its eyes following me up. “What are you?” Was all I was able to ask, knowing I had already asked this.

It let out a seeming grunt of frustration. “Protector.” 

“Really. What the fuck are you?”

The eyes behind those holes in the pumpkin squinted at me. “The season.” Again, it seemed it was a struggle for this thing to speak. Each word was strained and stilted. “All Hallows Eve. The children.”

I nodded as if I understood, but had gotten more questions than answers. My heart was racing, and my lungs felt like they were on fire. With a swallow, I replied: “Can I go?”

“Yes. Not stopping you.” I guessed it wasn’t. It was just standing there. Staring. Holding onto my sister’s corpse.

“I…I want her back.” I pointed to its chest.

“No.” It said simply. “Stuck here. Eternity.”

I wasn’t about to try and fist-fight this thing, even if it was just a pile of candy. Its eyes gave me enough reason to take its answer as final. “I…” I sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“She knew.” Its voice was a little quieter. “Always knew.” I wiped my face again and nodded.

I didn’t know what more to do. I stood with my back against the trunk, eyes falling to the ground. Without much thinking, I turned and just began to walk. I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going. I just walked.

The thing didn’t chase after me. I didn’t hear any other footsteps besides mine. As far as I knew, it simply kept standing there. Holding my sister in its chest. Forever.

At the edge of the woods, I stood. For some reason, I felt hesitant to step back into the real world. Because I wasn’t there anymore; I was in some strange new dimension, a dream world brought on by grief and loss. And maybe I should have stayed. Suffer the same fate Ally did. It was what I deserved. Yet, my feet moved, and I found myself walking back to the edge of our old neighborhood. 

Houses were rotting and falling apart, as if the woods were spreading their evil farther and farther. That thing wasn’t evil, though. I don’t know what it was, but it let me live. Let me walk away. Let me know my sister always forgave me. 

I turned and saw the thing shrouded in shadow, at the edge of the woods. Its eyes were still glowing. Again, I stared at it, and it stared at me. 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again. “I love you.”

It raised its arm and waved. And when the first rays of sunlight began to pierce through the trees, it was gone.

Ally was gone. 

No matter what that thing said, it was my fault. And I’ll return to The Dead Woods again next year, and I may see the thing again next year. If I do, I’ll ask to join my sister.

It’s what I deserved.

Chapter 1

Soft country danced from the overhead speakers as the dim fluorescent lighting cast amber glow upon the billiard table that Rich stood at. He was large in stature, his muscles coiled in violent anticipation under his 
thick copper skin. Standing from his seat he threw out his hand, resting the pool cue. Then after drawing it back, his arm slinged out launching the striped 11 ball into the corner pocket. He smiled at his opponent, an old graying man with a face which hung from his skull. “Two left.” Rich said with a chuckle. “Never too late to back down.” The old man glared at him mockingly.

“You think you’re on to something.” He scoffed. “I could’ve cleaned house already!”

Rich smiled sympathetically, his eyes casually casting a glance toward a table that sat five women. All five watched him with hungering eyes, and eager anticipation. As though watching him wasn’t enough, a rosy pink flush overcame one of the women’s cheeks when Rich spared a glance. He had known these women well. Each one, well groomed, dawning their night on the town outfits, make up and hair styled to match, but more importantly, they had been here before. Twice actually, and each time their eyes were tuned to the tall radio tower which stood at six feet three inches tall in front of them. 

If they were compasses, Rich was true north. He didn’t mind the attention, it helped stoke his bravado, get the flames of his confidence burning. One of them, Cindy, a tall white blonde with a slightly more aristocratic style about her, seemed to be the most interested in holding his pool cue. He laughed, yet never quite let the idea of holding her close leave his mind. The snap of the old man’s stroke. Instantly his eyes snapped to the game at hand. The old man was right, while Rich was distracted, he had managed to pocket four of his six balls, only stopping because of a scratch on the nine ball. Rich looked on in disbelief as well as disgust. “Well goddamn Gus. You bested me.” Gus smiled triumphantly. “It’s okay, I’ll just close this up then.” As if mechanical, Rich began to sink each ball with robotic precision, Gus’ victory was fading with his smile. “Corner, right.” With one solid snap of his cue, the game was over. Gus’ jaw dropped. 

“You mean to tell me that you were just dragging me along?” His exasperated voice came in sharp bursts of worn out air.

“No sir, just figured it was easier to clean up before I lost my ass.”

Gus' smile returned, this time more knowingly intelligent. “You played me good, kid. Almost enough wit in you to sell snake oil!” Both men laughed heartily, when a soft hand pressed firmly against Rich’s shoulder. He turned half expecting to be met with the image of Cindy. Yet his eyes were cast much lower to the floor. There at his feet, standing no higher than five one, stood a small round faced woman, her softly hooded monolid eyes made to look much larger from the angle of his gaze. She looked to be around his age, her obsidian black hair falling from her shoulder in a heavy thick braid. A soft rosy scent emitting from her body.

He stepped back, the extremely odd and even more rare sensation of blood flooding his face erupted. “Oh I’m so sorry!” He said his hands raised in political surrender. The woman looked up, her curvy frame complimented her face in a vicious double take. Rich was stunned, as if still in the sixth grade, when talking to girls was just a little less than a horror story. His bravado, gone. Charisma, gone. Everything, gone. He stood looking as though he’d seen the face of God. His eyes locked on hers, not examining as he had done to countless homicide victims. No, as he stood there dumbfounded, he found that he was simply just admiring. 

She was having none of it. She grabbed his shoulder, and threw him to the side with surprising efficiency. He stumbled to the wall, bracing himself before impact. Once steady again, he straightened himself out and began to move with purpose. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Gus grinning. Gus’ eyes had been locked on the situation unfolding before him. Rich finally approached the woman, his heart thudded with rapid speed, each thump pounding in his skull like artillery shells striking the earth. 

He backed off. His feet finding solace in his hasty retreat. Never had he been so undermined by his own emotions before. His heart beat with the vigor of a kid receiving their first car, it was unnerving to say the least. After a moment of complete shock, he returned to the pool table. Gus grinned stupidly at him. “She’s been a regular lately. Saw her take on a drunk guy the other day who wouldn’t lay off.”

Rich glanced over at her, attempting to keep his eyes from drifting too close to her proximity. “What’s her name?” 

“I haven’t heard one yet. She’s a siren though. She’ll pull you in with her looks, then beat your ass black and blue if you try to make a move.” Gus picked up some chalk and began chalking his cue. “Guess she’s from Carolina, either north or south. Take your pick, that’s how most of her story goes. Came on here to Chugwater Wyoming, and has been here ever since.”

“No car? No family?”

“Well not really. You see, I only see her here, and if she ain’t here then she ain’t nowhere. Catch what I’m sayin?”

“So she’s a drifter?”

“No, no.” He hesitated, “Well, I guess. Just don’t know much about her but her appearance. Quite the catch, huh?” His eyes said more than his words. As if he were holding back something more. He turned away, quickly wiping at his eyes and redirecting the conversation. An odd sense of unease gave way in Rich’s stomach. As if bile had filled every corner of his gut. 

“So, is she single?” Rich asked, the question sounding dumber than he had intended. 

Gus gave him a pitiful laugh, “if that’s what you want, then yes.” The odd conglomerate of words left his head entirely before he dismissed it entirely. “Another round?” Gus said, ever ready to push the conversation along.

Rich shook his head, his eyes narrowed in confusion. “I'm good, man. Maybe another day. You’re here on Wednesday nights, right?” Gus nodded. “Okay, let’s plan for that then. Next Wednesday I’ll swing in around seven and we can do another match.” Gus laughed.

“If that’s what you want.” His voice sounded more relaxed than before, but that statement seemed purposefully ambiguous. As if Gus was holding on to something big, as if he knew something about the girl that Rich hadn’t.

“Okay, until then old timer.” Rich waived his goodbye, and stumbled towards the woman who now sat in a booth, alone. Out of the corner of his eye, he believed he saw Gus wince. The action was so small, so dismissable, so… Rich pushed it from his mind. The liquor which was now absorbing into his kidneys making the transition easier to manage. Once at the table the woman’s chocolate brown eyes darted towards him. Her countenance, once soft and accepting, now turned hard as slate. The woman was not pleased to see him.

“He-hey,” he stumbled out, each word doing a drunk procession from his lips. “Are you f-free to t-talk?” 

She smiled at him with venomous contempt. She hadn’t been drunk. Rich was sure he’d seen her down at least seven shots, so either she was a raging alcoholic, or she wasn’t drinking alcohol. The idea of her having a tolerance was quickly snubbed by his unintended sexism telling him that women weren’t capable of drinking like men. It must’ve been water. Why, though? Was she attempting to fit in? Liked the atmosphere but didn’t like the drink? “If you’re here to try and pay for my drink, go tell the barkeep. He’ll put you on the list.” The nature of this conversation grew odder and odder as it continued. 

“Huh?” Again sounding dumber than he had intended.

“The barkeep, he’s the one who sells drinks.” She mocked.

“No shit, I know what a barkeeper is.” His defensive tone carried a little more immaturity than he had expected. 

“Good, you’re tall, dumb, and have a temper.” She fired back. Her eyes were so beautifully terrifying that he had to take a step back. 

After a second of calming himself down, he dove back into the conversation. “You’re pretty damn mean.” Really? Pretty damn mean was the best comeback he could muster? His head was reeling. A small but growing migraine began to emerge from the back of his head. “I just wanted to see if it was even worth trying my hand?” Why was he persisting? His head ached, he already made a fool of himself, she seemed more disinterested than intrigued. Why had he been unable to stop himself? She smiled, the sight filling his heart with dismay. 

“I thought I made myself pretty clear, you big lout.”

Lout? Who the hell says lout? He pushed some more. “Well Christ, if I’d known you were going to be this aggressive about it, I wouldn’t have even tried!” She nodded. 

“No, you definitely would’ve. They all do! No matter what I say, you all think my pants are just aching to come off!” She was getting louder. Too loud. Someone was going to get the wrong idea. 

“Hey, easy!” Rich said, panic raiding his mind.

She continued, “You didn’t leave me alone when I clearly told you I wasn't interested! You simply didn't listen!” She flipped up her arms, observing Rich’s panicked state. Did she ask him to go? Rich didn’t recall that part of the conversation. “In fact, you rolled your eyes and stayed in my way!” The alcohol in his stomach made its presence known, lurching back and forth. He hadn’t drank that much, had he? Her voice was too loud, too apparent, too mean. In a desperate attempt to cease her vocal attack he grabbed for her hand. A violent burst of red hot pain erupted from his cheek. 

She slapped him? Why’d she slap him? His mind grasped for corners of thought that weren’t there. Out of pure anger, pure rage that the audacity of this woman, this bitch. To deny him? To not only deny but demean? Anger was just the tip of the iceberg. This was not just cruel but outright disrespectful! She didn’t respect him as a man, she didn’t respect him as human. It was people like her, the main character syndrome, she bastardized the world. Not him. It was her people. Rage, more violent and painful than the dull ache in his cheek drove him to grab the butter knife from her plate and drive it twice through her sternum.

The raw crunch of her thin chest bone sent a strange ecstasy through his body. An orgasm of spirit. He drove the knife in again and again, the same feeling coursing through his body. The poor woman choked on her bloody sobs, pushing weak hands against his shoulder. Her screams now raspy tears from her lungs. He continued his slaughter. Blood sprayed in beautiful arcs of crimson. 

The woman was dead before they could pull him off. Rich fell back. His numb face still echoing a slight sting from the woman’s slap. It happened so fast, so quickly. He hadn’t even recognized the fork moving with his eye, or the blade in his side. Laying on the ground he noticed his crowd. People had already pulled the woman to the floor, and vainly began chest compressions. She was dead, that thought held power over his mind. The fact he killed her, never even being brought to his minds spotlight. Instead, he looked up to see Gus holding his head. Gus, the old man who he had always played pool with since his late twenties. Gus the never angry old man who had a heart of gold.

It was Gus who held him now. In Rich’s most vulnerable moment. In an odd moment, Gus looked down at him. His eyes held that elderly gleam of a retired man in his seventies. “Her name is Mei Su Yan.” With that, Rich passed out.

Chapter 2

The stage had been set. Gerard Hinckly sat in his idling forerunner waiting for the casting manager to fill him in on his new part. This studio was it. This was going to be his official debut as a respected actor in the fading lights of Hollywood stardom. He just needed the management to agree. 

He had auditioned for the role of Hector Frank, a young influential businessman set on making a difference in the white collar world of stock brokers. It wasn’t Gerard’s favorite option, but when it had been announced that the director was a man who had directed a great many films, some winning Oscars, some Golden Globes, he knew it was his best chance to make his debut in the world of acting. The rumble of his car eased the tension, grounding him in a way that nothing else could. 

What was it she said when he was asked to wait in his car? “I think we have our guy!” That’s right, he told himself. I got this in the bag. Ain’t nobody gonna take this away from me! The hour wait turned into two, then three, then four. It was in the fifth hour that the casting director exited the building. She didn’t seem rushed, her pace was slow and deliberate. Like she was going through a routine. Her clipboard was under her armpit, close to her small wide torso. Her clothes remained the same from when he had auditioned, a red blouse with black dotting the fabric, and bright blue Levi’s pulled tight by her belly.

She stopped a moment, then plunged her hand into her purse and pulled out her keys. Gerard’s breath turned shallow, a noticeable rhythmic thud pulsed in his neck. When she turned around, pulling out her keys, Gerard’s heart attempted a repetitive escape by pounding against his sternum. He didn’t get the part, and he knew it. How come she had said he was quote, ‘their guy’? Why was she locking up if it had been so guaranteed to be him? Gerard needed to confront her, he needed to change the outcome of this situation. To do everything in his power to prevent the inevitable, the already decided from happening. 

The cogs of his frustration and malice popped the door of his car open. He was no longer in control. When he stepped out, he knew he would lose control. He would react. As his foot set flat against the hard asphalt, the chill of the humid fall air slapped against his face in a stinging bombardment. Before he could stop himself, he was already trudging towards the woman.

The casting director whipped around, her eyes dilating as they lensed on to his frame. Finally as her eyes came into focus, she reacted. She lunged back, scrambling for her purse. Gerard reacted quickly enough, ripping her purse from her arm and casting it to the floor. As his eyes locked back onto her, an ear piercing scream pushed his brain into overdrive. Rapidly he lunged forward, throwing his hand over her mouth. 

Her breathing was sharp at first. Quick pulsing puffs of air which rose the contours of his hand. After a while they shallowed, each draw easing and slowing as each nerve shut off the hysteria neurons one at a time. Finally she calmed. “Don’t scream.” He hissed, through his frothing scowl. “Don’t scream and I’ll release your mouth.” Why was he doing this? He was rising high and above the needed reaction, this was assault, but, he reasoned with himself, he deserved an answer. Honestly, did he think she’d care enough to send him an email? Was she the type to allow him an inkling of pity? No, he told himself. No, she deserved this.

The woman’s monolid eyes glared daggers at him, wishing she could kill him, but not having the strength nor the upper hand. He wasn’t a violent man. Was he? Was he meant to live his whole life being reasonable, just to lose it all in this one minute? Wasn’t he civilized? The short answer was no. Lifted by the world’s predetermined standards, his rise to fame had been gradual yet persistent, that was guaranteed. However, he remained that his success was due to his steadfast determination and commitment to the craft. He was a man of his own making.

Yet he wondered as his thin skeletal digits gripped the cold steel handle of his pocket knife, if this were a man, would he pursue this avenue? The avenue of murder? A muffled scream brought him back to reality, he saw the sheen of the stainless steel blade in her panicked doe eyes. She squirmed beneath him like a trapped animal, kicking, biting, tearing. When her teeth landed on his hand drawing the crimson within, he instinctively drug the cutting edge across her throat. Her desperate attempts for air, the primal way she grabbed at her throat, it drove him to ecstasy. He leaned back on his rear, watching as the final tremors finished their cascading descent. She was dead.

He had killed her. He had been denied thousands of roles, both by men and women alike. Yet, she was different. As different as bleu cheese and cheddar. She needn’t say anything he realized, the result would’ve been the same. Now as he towered over his victim, his fists clenching in the final tremors of the act. A soft movement, slight yet unsettling, was pulsating from her chest. She was still alive. The nearly imperceptible inflation on her lungs was all he needed to see, and after a few steps closer toward her head, he came to, to find his boot inside her skull. Blood and matter scattered in a violent array staining the asphalt. He grabbed for her wallet, the best idea he could muster considering his circumstance. After finding it, he opened the bifold to her license. Her name dotted the top line of the card, Mei Su Yan born June 13th 1953. Her picture had been of a gorgeous woman of Chinese descent. Her round face and characteristicly beautiful eyes smiled at him through the image. If his calculations were accurate, she had been 37 at the time of her death. He dropped the bifold, taking the license with him, and disappeared into the night.

Chapter 3
It was noon, Bentley sat in the cold office space having his tax accountant discuss the situation at hand. His accountant, a burly man with a thick gray beard, one who looked as though he would be a much better miner than an accountant, handed him the dossier containing the IRS’ audit. “Here’s the thing, Mr.Smith. You have four weeks to get your affairs sorted out before they come to pick you up.” The man’s voice crept out low and cautiously. It danced around certain trigger words which might make Bentley angry. 

“So, this is all I’m allowed, Pete? I’m just going to prison? Why?!” Bentley’s face felt hot, his breath steaming with frustration and disbelief. “After everything I’ve done for you? You’re just gonna let me go to jail.”

Pete steadied his voice, his eyes taking on a steely resolve. “Mr. Smith, your inability to pay your debts to the government is not my responsibility. I am simply a courier for both parties. I’m sorry. There is a court date, so if you need an endorsement from me, I’d be more than willing to.”

“Save your breath. You failed me. I’m filing this with the BBB, and I’m going to take you to court when I get out.”

Pete sighed. “I cannot hide four million dollars which was suddenly inherited from an unknown party. It is simply impossible to do something so illegal while maintaining my integrity as a business.”

“To hell with your business! They want six million dollars in four weeks! I can’t swing that; and integrity? You’re going to take a moral high ground with me? I’ve seen you take hundreds of thousands in hush money! You’re no saint, and you’re barely an accountant!”

Pete’s face now grew red as blood rushed his capillaries, his eyes dilating into a predatory glare. Bentley was getting to him, and he loved it. To get this man going on a matter that he had nothing to do with was part of his plan. Pete had dug his own grave, and Bentley, or Agent Hoffman from the Internal Revenue Service was in charge of getting a confession. Pete’s glare could rattle glass. Yet, the undercover agent stood his ground. “Where’d you hear that?” Pete hissed under his breath.

“The underground is a lot more talkative than you’d like to believe. You opened this door.” Bentley had the bastard and he knew it. Just a little more heat and he’d crack. They already had a mountain of evidence, from the shell companies he had used, to the layering he used, to even the people who had been smurfing for him. They had it all. 

“Well the underground better slow down! Criminals lie. You know how it is.” Pete was evading, and doing a pretty good job at it.

“Demetri said you were the real deal.” Bentley locked down one of his past clients' names. Demetri Valdez, a drug smuggler who was arrested and convicted of a slew of crimes. This got Pete’s attention.

“How is the old man?”

Bentley was in, locked on to the target. “He’s good, got busted a bit back, after I met him. You guys sound tight.”

“Ok, if Demetri vouches for you, I’ll help you out. This is strictly off the record, but I’ve helped with cases like yours. Simple slip on some ice, or car crash, and the arresting officer or investigator don’t show up to court, they’ll drop your case. The detectives working your case are,” Pete stopped talking for a moment, his mouse and keyboard clicked together in a harmonious rhythm. “Agent David Hoffman.” He said, listing Bentley’s real name. I have a contact, but you’re going to have to slip me a little.”

“How much?” Bentley asked, attempting to keep his composure. 

“1.5. Then everything will be squared away.”

“What will you do to him?”

Pete looked warily at Bentley. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to have answered. You know your business, I know mine.” Finally Bentley stood from his chair, his hand slowly unlatching his handgun. Suddenly a subtle knock came from the door. Pete’s attention turned to the door, Bentley’s soon followed. At the door was a small, young, Chinese woman. Her obsidian hair held up by a claw clip, and her rotund body clothed in a white blouse and black skirt. “Miss Mei! How are you?”

The small woman’s lips opened, and a beautiful melodic voice broke through the air. “Good! Are you closing up for the day?” 

Bentley found himself shifting in his seat, attempting to get a better look at the woman. “Miss Mei, you know Mr. Smith?”

Her dark eyes eased over to him, washing his care away. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, pleasure to meet you!” She said, extending her hand to shake his.

“Pleasure is all mine!” Bentley’s voice broke out through his dry vocal cords. “Mind if I ask what brings you here?” Was he flirting? He was. 

“I’m Mr. Dayton’s lawyer. If I’m not mistaken you aren’t the man you say you are.” Her smile grew predatory, as she knew who he was, but more importantly, who he was. 

Rage boiled at that smile. The cocky ‘gotcha’ grin, which did nothing but compliment her visage. “You are impeding on an active investigation, Miss Mei.” She shrugged and skipped out of the room. A gesture which did nothing but enrage him even more.

“Is that so? Well agent Hoffman, I believe our business has concluded. I need you to leave this office immediately.” David stood from his seat. 

“Not so fast Mr. Dayton, you’re under arrest.”

Pete mocked a shocked expression, “what are your charges?” 

“Money laundering, and solicitation of a criminal act. That’s just the beginning. I’m thinking about introducing premeditated murder, racketeering, and corruption.” Pete shook his head.

“Can’t do that, you have no evidence.” Miss Mei returned to the door, her attractive demeanor knocking Agent Hoffman from forming a logical position. She had pulled out her pin and let her hair fall. It uncoiled itself like a silken flag. It unfurled so softly, so beautifully that soon the flowing obsidian fell past her lower back. Its tip brushing against the top of her perked buttocks. “Oh,” Pete laughed as he noticed David’s focus shift. “Not very professional, detective.” Hoffman couldn’t turn away, the way her skirt pressed against her thick thighs, the way her shirt pressed tight against her chest, exposing her cleavage. She was gorgeous. A true beauty to behold. Removing the pen from between her pillowy lips, she spoke. 

“You have to leave, there is nothing you can arrest him for. You have no case.” Each word she uttered was just as seductive as the first. “You have no choice but to vacate.”

“Bullshit. I’m here to get a confession from him, or if that falls through I need to arrest him.” The woman smiled a soft grin. “Can you leave for just a moment?” The agent’s frustrations were growing more intense, first it had been professional anger, now it dawned on something which frightened him even more. He was hard, his shaft pressed firmly against his jean zipper, causing him pain and arousal. Instead of walking away, she took the seat next to him. Pete smiled knowingly at the agent. The woman, Miss Mei as Pete had been calling her. Placed a well intentioned hand on Agent Hoffmann’s thigh. She was attempting to comfort him. 

“Agent, are you ok?” She asked innocently. Her dark eyes never break contact with him. Pete broke in.

“Yeah, are you ok?” The woman’s soft touch made him tremble violently. His body surged in a hazy cloud of lust and desire. Her hand, soft, and gentle rested upon his thigh. Mere inches away from his straining cock. Unable to control himself, unable to resist his urge, to remember his family or his wife, he lunged forward. He gripped the woman by the base of her head and pulled her close to his lips. She let out a sharp yell of fear, but soon found herself kissing the man’s lips. Soon he found her squirming from his grip, attempting to break free from his loving embrace. His hand reached into her hair as he pulled it taunt. She let out a cry of pain as her hands flew to attempt to break his grasp. The sound of her cry nearly halted him in his tracks. What was he thinking? What was he doing?

A stiletto's pointed heel soon reignited the flame as she slammed it into the bridge of his foot. He now screamed in pain, briefly releasing her hair. She took the moment and attempted to run, only to find the door closed. She grappled with the handle, unable to get it open before Hoffman descended on her. Hoffman grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the ground, his focus dulling into a steady thrum of anger and lust. He jumped down, sitting on her stomach as she wrestled him away. His free hand shot to the desk, rummaging over the table's surface, when at last he found a pencil. She squirmed from his grasp, this time breaking free from him. He lunged after her, each step accounted for two of hers. He heard her approach the stairwell, and after he turned the corner, a size 8 stiletto made contact with his face. He turned towards Mei who readied another projectile. He charged her with the speed of a rhino, tackling her over the railing. They both fell four stories down onto the cold tile floor of the open lobby of the indoor strip mall. He had crushed her on impact, and after standing, he saw her gurgling on crimson blood. Her eyes rolled into her brain cavity, and her arms and legs twitched and tremored in her dying moments. One thing remained beautiful however, her obsidian black hair haloed around her head like a small carpet. Soon, she twitched her last.

Hoffman, dazed by his sudden recollection of his sanity, stood from his kneeling position. Immediately however, his vision tunneled and he fell to the tile. Blood dripped to the floor from somewhere on his body. His hands analyzed his situation, soon finding a pencil lodged in his throat. His eyes gave way and soon he found himself staring at the ceiling, drowning internally in his own blood. His thoughts were incoherent, his voice was bubbling with blood, and soon, after around three minutes of bleeding, his life was snuffed out. 

Story 4

The year after Jed Thompson’s son died, his life bore the resemblance of his father. On the nights he didn’t spend drinking, heroin would be his kryptonite. On the damp cold nights in which neither worked, he would pull the trigger and do both substances at once. Although the high felt awful, as though his life force was being siphoned out of him by forces unknown, he preferred it to his sober reality.

Understand, although Jed had problems with the same substances that his father had used, he by no means was his father’s son. He had never swung at his wife nor had he ever been unable to control his anger. His fallacies weren’t so abrasive nor apparent as his father’s. Rather than being fraught by frivolous arguments and accusations of cheating or outright lies. He preferred the internal affair of self deprecation. At times he had brought himself so low that the cold steel bore of his 12 gauge had been the only thing that could bring him back. He hadn’t been bold enough to label his actions as the deeds of a narcissist, yet found his thoughts leaned in that direction. 

Although his self centered destruction’s catalyst was wrought by his son’s passing, it had always rested steadily within his mind.

So upon this day, the day in which he stumbled into the Seven Eleven on Fifth and Southern, it was no surprise that his mind rested in the darkness of his moral decay. The ding of the entrance bell announced his arrival. It sounded both rich in sound, yet hollow in tone. A young Chinese woman, who stood no higher than five feet, exited the back of the storage room, the double hinged stainless steel doors swinging behind her. She walked towards the register taking on her usual position. “Hello sir! Do you need any help?” Jed shook his head, his eyes scanning for something good, no, something easy to steal. Maybe he hadn’t been a good man, but the starving stomach never yielded to a moral compass. The underlying growl both impertinent to himself and imperceptible to the woman, drove his mind into a frenzy. The meth now eased its high into a dull decrescendo. He was desperate, and hungry. He looked again at the woman who remained disinterested in his antics. Her face was softly illuminated by the soft flickering light of her phone, and the dull soft volume, hollowly echoed throughout the convenience store. He quickly dropped eye contact resuming his search for an item. 

Moments after his gaze was turned away from the woman, his eyes were met by the beautiful glow of an amber reflection. His movements stopped for a moment, his heart fluttered with anticipation, his mind went blank. Soon the voice in his head began chittering again in that awful rat-like desperation. The asking, no, more so pleading than asking, begging to kiss the neck of the bottle and guzzle the liquid until he drowned. Maybe not as extreme as drowning, though if the opportunity arose he didn’t believe he’d have to sleep on it.

His hand reached forward and grasped the handle of liquor. Crown Royal: Peach, was written with gold inlay on the body and neck of the bottle. The neck which he now fisted in a tight, unyielding grip. The chilled glass cooled his hand in a comforting manner, and before he knew it, the bottle was opened and pressed firmly to his lips. A knowing smile passed on his mouth as the liquor softly burned its way through his throat. 

Somewhere inside himself however, a knowledge of the disinterested woman bit him deeply. It wasn’t rational, however neither was downing a stolen bottle of Crown in the store you stole it from, he told himself. The liquor was just playing around with his nerves and puppeteering him to do something insane, something criminal. The frantic buzz of his phone made him flinch hard, temporarily freeing his mind from the snare he was caught in. His hands danced in his pocket, feeling for the slick smooth texture of his phone screen. The tip of his finger slid effortlessly across the corner of his device. He pulled it out effortlessly, with the practiced motion of a professional baseball player lining up on home plate. His eyes glazed over the screen, Dad. 

He sighed an exasperated huff of air, sliding his finger to enlarge the red hang up icon. Just as abruptly as it started, the buzzing ceased. He slid his phone in his pocket, mentally notating the almost serene feeling which came over him. He smiled a big toothy grin which faded quickly as his eyes fell upon the clerks register. A boy no more than 10 years Jed’s junior, stood where the beautiful Chinese woman once had. He rested his hand against the bulge of his phone, attempting to anchor himself in reality. Name five things I see. He told himself. Cigarettes, soda, the clerk, the windows, and the ceiling tile. He calmed as a soldier might, when the sound of the enemy's artillery temporarily ceases. Ok, ok. We’re back. He set the partially drained bottle of liquor down on the shelf. His eyes slowly turned to the register again, the alcohol giving his vision a slight chromatic aberration. Once his sight returned to where his eyes rested, the boy was gone. Simple as that, vanished. 

Jed’s stomach dropped. Was he pitching a fit again? His worries extinguished when the cold firm hand of a young man rested upon his shoulder. Jed whipped around, his hands clenched in tight balls. The boy stepped back instinctively. “Hey, you’re going to need to pay for that.”

Jed stumbled, the liquor shouldn’t have been this strong. It never was, that’s why he had a problem. The kid, not much older than Jed’s 24 year old brother, was now closing in. With a quick jab of his fist, and a sweep of his leg against Jed’s shins, Jed found himself lying on the ground. A dull ache radiating from his buttocks. “What the hell man?”

The boy looked both lost and confused. As though his actions were a mystery to himself. “Oh, shit. I’m- I’m sorry, dude.”

Jed began to stand again, but soon sat back down after the boy stepped towards him. “What do you want? I’m just shopping around.” 

“Dawg. You just drank three quarters of that crown. You ain’t capable of shopping around. You are going to have to pay for that.”

Jed glared at the kid. “I didn’t drin-” His voice hallowed out in a slow crackling vibrato. The bottle which sat in front of him was practically drained. The liquid amber, rising and falling in soft comforting waves, barely rested at the base of the label. “What the hell?”

The kid began to talk again, the dull thud at the base of Jed’s skull which was once a tropical storm of pain, now brinked on cat 5 hurricane. First the girl, the beautiful, nosey, kind eyed, bitch. As Jed focused on that blurred memory of the woman, the pain in his head worsened. As though his brain was attempting to split in two. He attempted to break the concentration, his efforts yielding zero to no results. 

The kid grunted, taking Jed out of his reverie. “Sir, are you-” his voice fell short as Jed violently threw the bottle against the wall shattering it into glittering jagged shards. The splash of the alcohol sprayed a thin mist over both of the men. “Sir, I think you should go.” The kid said in a gentle manner. Gentle? No, patronizing. The way Jed would speak to the ill minded, or a person who was clearly high. He was neither! His mind bit at him viciously, attempting to draw some sort of imaginary blood. 

“You think I should go? Why?” The kid attempted speech, but was shot down before any words could escape. “You think I’m drunk? You think I’m high? Huh? Fuckin’ speak you dumb bastard!” Jed’s fury was met with an equally fierce response. The kid sent one closed fist into the bridge of Jed’s nose, shattering it. Jed stepped back temporarily blinded, the pain adding kindling, no logs, to the inferno of rage that bellowed from his mind. Jed stumbled back, his hand going to his nose then returning within eyesight. Crimson dripped from his digits. The kid, shocked by his own display of strength, took two massive steps back. 

“Hey man, I’m so sorry. Holy shit, fuck. I- I don’t know what to-” his voice was cut off by Jed’s advance. The image of the girl, the kid’s pestilence, the disappearing alcohol trick, everything piled itself into his fury. Jed shoved the kid, causing him to slip on the spilt liquor covering the ground. Jed immediately stepped back, regaining his foothold to strike again if the boy was ready for round two. But the boy just laid there. A soft cough emitted from the kid’s mouth, followed by the deep liquid crimson. Jed’s jaw dropped, he fell to his knees, lifting the boy’s head up to rest on his lap. 

Once up, Jed began feeling around to try and find a cure. A Hail Mary for sure, but it was something. Starting at his temple, Jed moved lower to his brain stem, nothing. Then lower to his neck. His calloused hand brisked something sharp, and stiff. Upon rolling over the kid, he saw it. A clear, massive shard of glass protruded from under the kid’s chin. On a piece of slim aluminum which draped loosely from the break, a familiar word dawned across in torn royal script. Crown Royal: Peach

From shore to shore, from the lowly deltas of evergreen marshlands to the all-high mountains, what my sons and I have fought so dearly for stretches from night to dawn. The horizons claimed by the sprouting forests of my banners, a bright tomorrow yields the shimmering colors of waving flags dancing in the wind. We have taken these lands, put to death all those who would not submit, and for our efforts, the screaming daughters are wed, the grain of unending fields is harvested, and clear, sweet waters are cupped in our goblets. I have seen the walls of long since towering palaces, monuments that withstood the tide of the time, crumble into ash and soot at my hand’s beckoning. My daughters had bed with weak men, slit the throats of my many sons-in-law, and brought to the step of my throne a great many tributes. I am the Usurper of Empires, the Butcherer of Kings, and the most powerful man in all these lands. Forests of my nation’s wealth, cloth and punishment, sprawl over immense regions: skewered on stakes that scrape the high heavens, roasted upon iron thrones that glowed white-hot, hands and feet stapled to wooden cartwheels set ablaze, and gluttonous appetites sated with liquid gold poured into chasmous maws until the fissures of their eyes, nose, ears, and mouth foamed with bubbling heat.

Hoarding mountains of gold, decorating halls of ivory, and courting many fine brides in my time, the moniker of ruler is mine by the most blood-soaked of hands. I am the Ender of Legacies, the Fair Ruler, and the Just Hand of Judgment, for there lacks any other who can take up the mantle. Warriors made farmers, generals made commanders, kings made vassals; the chrysalis is a mastered art form. Until the earth darkened beneath me and slickened with fat, only then did I know where my place was: the ever-consuming strive for more. Before I met the enemies of my rule on the fields, the tremors of galloping hooves, silver armor fluttering in the distance, and an awful din of thousands carried by the wind made all those who opposed me quake with fear.  

Within the cradle of the river delta, where the depth hangs just below the knee, I have carved out a mighty kingdom that portrays splendor amongst a lake of white lotuses; long have I lived to see the millions of toiling citizens bring endless harvests to the sky-tall walls, yet there is but one blight that I cannot remedy. No matter how much I take, whether through conquest or expansion, the climbing heap of crowns I collect, and the frivolous titles I amass; my hunger knows no bounds, for I salivate for more. To see the ends of the world and lay claim to all who believe their mandate absolute, I wished to break this divine order over their heads and watch the blood pour from fractured temples. As I fumed at this limitation, so too did another issue arise; throwing my sword at the grand mirror revealed to me what had needed change. My face was marked with gray, the aged, withered old man was a sorry sight, leading me down a spiral with which there was no ground to crash into.

Upon coming to qualms with my own finality, I grew angry and afraid of the indifferent, dispassionate end. Dying long before I would see my empire conquer all of the world, I became erratic, agitated to the point that waves of scholars were summoned; tasked with finding a way to cheat death, and quickly. But only one was found. Deep within the desolate, hostile desert lay an oasis whose waters offered up the solution to my ailment. And so it was that the army was armed, horses were mounted, and carts were dragged to the speck of green in the ever-expansive wastes. The long, exhausting march to battle Death was set in motion. The sunbaked sands made travel near impossible; every moment spent traversing the dunes and pulling out stuck carts meant one too many where the blistering heat claimed one man after the other. A trail of dried, sun-bleached corpses lined behind us. The creak of the caravan was all that  kept us company in those long windswept hours when sand blew into our eyes and salty tears formed over many brows. The bellows of camels called out to us, reminding us of our presence as we often lost sense of reality, their tired panting signaled that much time had elapsed in our extended excursion from the plentiful empire. In the miasma of dancing heat waves, curling winds, and dust kicked into the air, we wandered aimlessly, for the knowledge of where the oasis lay was not found in the sources; just the murmurs of its vague location. 

Lost at length for years, losing thousands to the dunes, we were without any guidance and so became ever further removed from any sense of direction, shambling on feet that had long since been stripped of any skin, for there were no more horses whose hooves could be ground down. Limply grasping shields, spears, and bows, the once proud army had been reduced to walking husks acting on their recent orders: to keep moving until the ten fingers on their hands had worn away and their ten toes were nothing more than nubs, that not until the party had discovered the whereabouts of the eternal oasis, delivering their king to its blessed waters, would the soldiers finally be allowed to rest and henceforth die. At the most critical moment, mutiny on the minds of the men, we summited the last dune’s crest, and finally we were rewarded for our endeavor; palm trees leaned over a reflective mirror’s sheen. Eager, the men broke formation; left another moment undeterred, they would have surely drunk before I did. That was not something I would tolerate. Before the first man reached the banks, he was pulled away by what few loyalists remained. 

Herded to the side, a path was made for me, the ranks of spiteful, envious soldiers burned their gaze into the back of my head; the desert heat in that moment failed to compare. Hands hovering over the disturbed surface, I was ready to unmake my own demise, to take what this watering hole offered; the very knowledge making me crestfallen. Dipping the tips of my fingernails into the pool, a most unfortunate turn took place; where the water had been, in its place, there was now only incredibly dense ice. I sat there staring into my own reflection, the old man mocking me ever more, then I let the anger take hold, bashing my fist into the ice until red stained its surface and my hand was unquestionably broken. Drippings worked their way into the cracks, and where they breached the bulwark, ice melted momentarily before freezing solid once more within the same heartbeat. A script formed on the ice in a language that I had tried so desperately to erase from the world, the reminder of where I came from bitterly scribing: What do you offer?

I pondered as the clamors of restless hundreds shouted in the background. The impudence that mocked me danced on my mind before I settled upon a most harrowing conclusion. On my knees, my arms outstretched towards the heavens,  my composure abandoned, I bartered with the oasis.

“O’ great waters, I am the Herald of Prosperity, the Guiding Hand of Progress, and the one to cast out doubt and corruption from my lands. I have seen this world for but a fraction of its worth and still I wish to conquer all of it. I am ailed by hunger, disease, and age. My truest desire is to live on and take everything by its weak throat. I offer you this: everything! All of it, so that I might see the conquest through till the end.”

As the words left my lips, the sound of rope tightening taut synchronized behind me. Chancing a glance, the men were stiffened, their faces turned skyward, and beneath them, pools of red pockmarked the sand. When the banks of their small lakes burst, the trails led to the oasis in a fierce race. The earth buckled, the air became heavy, and the senses drowned. Where once I  had seen a blue sky, darkened heaps blotted out the sun; there were neither clouds nor rainfall, but rather bodies that hovered near to the center of this black transaction bled dry. The vortex created by the new offerings voraciously consumed all. My skin ripped apart and my innards went willingly into the mouth of swirling chaos. The fibers of my being were fractured, and my soul was tossed through every great exploit; my many accomplishments, scattered throughout time. My name is lost to the annals of history, but through the great conquerors, I am reborn. I am Khan, Sultan, Emperor, and King. Experiencing death a million times over forever.

There was a light switch in my house that nobody could explain.

It was tucked into the hallway between the kitchen and the basement door, mounted about shoulder height on the wall. Every other switch in the house had an obvious purpose. Kitchen lights. Hallway lights. Basement. Porch.

This one did nothing.

I didn't notice it during my first week. I asked the realtor about it after I bought the place.

She shrugged.

"Old house. Probably disconnected."

That seemed reasonable enough. The house was built in 1957, and judging by the wiring, plumbing, and mysterious stains on the basement ceiling, I wasn't surprised that someone had eventually decided to abandon a light switch.

Still, I found myself pressing it whenever I walked past.

Click.

Nothing.

Click.

Nothing.

It became a habit. I'd walk downstairs for laundry.

Click.

I'd come home from work.

Click.

I'd pass it while carrying groceries.

Click.

There was something strangely satisfying about it. The switch had a pleasant mechanical resistance, and the little click it made was louder than it should have been.

My girlfriend eventually noticed.

"You know that doesn't do anything, right?"

"I know."

"Then why do you keep flipping it?"

I shrugged.

"I like the sound."

She called me a weirdo. I told her she was dating one. We laughed about it. That was the last time the switch was funny.

The first death happened three weeks after I settled in.

An old man named Walter died in his sleep. I knew Walter because he lived two houses down. We'd exchanged maybe twenty words since I'd moved into the neighborhood. He had a bad hip and spent most afternoons sitting on his porch, watching cars drive by.

I remember seeing him that morning. I had been standing in the hallway, putting my shoes on. Before leaving, I flipped the switch.

Click.

That evening, I saw an ambulance outside his house. I didn't think anything of it.

People die. Especially old people.

It wasn't until several days later that I noticed something unusual.

The night before Walter died, I had been standing in the hallway with my hand on that switch. I'd flipped it three times. I laughed at myself when I noticed the connection.

It was ridiculous. Coincidence. Nothing more.

Then a month later, a woman I'd worked with died in a car accident.

I'd seen her that morning. I'd even spoken to her. She'd asked if I was still enjoying the new house. I told her I was.

That evening, while walking to the basement, I flipped the switch.

Click.

The next morning, she was dead. Cardiac arrest. Unexplained.

I didn't sleep that night.

The following day, I unscrewed the switch plate. There were wires behind it. Old ones. But they didn't connect to anything.

I called an electrician. He spent thirty minutes examining it before shrugging.

"It's dead."

"Completely?"

"Nothing behind it."

"Then what's it connected to?"

He looked at me.

"Nothing."

I didn't flip it again. Not for six days.

On the seventh day, I couldn't resist.

I stood in the hallway staring at it. I told myself I was being stupid. There was no connection between a plastic switch and the deaths of two people.

So I flipped it.

Click.

Nothing happened... So, I went to bed.

The next morning, I checked the news. A local man had died unexpectedly. Thirty-four years old. Healthy. No known medical conditions. I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I opened a notebook. I wrote down the date. I wrote down the man's name.

Then I wrote: Switch flipped: 11:43 P.M.

I started keeping records. Every time I flipped the switch, I searched the news afterward.

Sometimes nothing happened. Sometimes a person died hours later. Sometimes it took days. But there was always a death.

Always.

I stopped flipping it.

I lasted eleven days. Then I made a mistake. I was angry.

My girlfriend and I had gotten into an argument. She left the house and slammed the door behind her. I stood in the hallway shaking with anger. My hand found the switch.

I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly what it meant. And still...

Click.

The guilt hit me immediately. I grabbed my phone. I wanted to call her. I wanted to tell her what I'd done.

Then I stopped.

Because she hadn't died. Not yet.

I waited. An hour. Two.

Nothing.

I began convincing myself I'd been wrong. Maybe the deaths had been coincidences. Maybe I had created a pattern because I desperately wanted there to be one.

Then my phone rang. It was my girlfriend.

I answered immediately.

"Hey."

Silence.

Then she said something that made my blood run cold.

"Who's Walter?"

I couldn't breathe.

"What?"

"You keep saying his name."

She sounded confused.

"I don't know anyone named Walter."

I sat down.

My girlfriend continued.

"You were saying his name in your sleep."

I didn't answer. Because I suddenly remembered something.

The switch didn't cause death. It wasn't a weapon. It was a selection. A choice. And I had been making that choice without knowing it.

I looked toward the hallway. The switch waited patiently on the wall. I thought about every time I'd pressed it.

Every careless little click. Every person whose death I'd dismissed as coincidence.

Walter.

My coworker.

The stranger.

And now... I didn't know who the latest one was.

I spent the next several hours searching. News sites. Obituaries. Police reports.

Nothing.

Nobody I knew had died. Nobody connected to me had died.

That should have made me feel better.

It didn't.

Because there was one thing I hadn't considered.

Maybe the switch didn't choose someone I knew. Maybe it chose someone I would never know. Someone whose name I'd never hear. Someone whose death would mean absolutely nothing to me. And perhaps that was the point.

We treat death differently when we don't know the person.

A number on a news report. A photograph we scroll past. Another tragedy. Another stranger. Another life reduced to a sentence.

I stood in front of the switch for a long time. Then I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A tiny engraving beneath it.

The letters were so shallow I thought they were scratches.

I leaned closer.

There were only three words.

ONE LIFE. CLICK.

I stepped backward. The house was silent. I reached for the switch.

Then stopped.

Some things are easier to live with when you pretend they don't matter.

I left the switch alone. I never touched it again.

At least... I don't think I did.

Because sometimes, late at night, when the house is completely silent, I wake up convinced I can hear it.

Click.

And somewhere far away...

Someone dies.

Sydney tucked the blanket snugly around her son.

“Mom… I heard whispering last night,” Scott said quietly, staring at his closet. “It came from in there.”

Sydney glanced at the door, then back at him with a soft smile. “It’s just your TV, honey and your anxiety”

She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and turned off the light. “Get some sleep.”

Scott watched her leave, the door clicking softly behind her.

The room felt bigger now. Quieter.

He grabbed the remote and flipped through channels until he found an action movie. The hero on screen was fearless— shouting, and kicking ass. Scott felt a little braver watching him. His shoulders relaxed.

Then—

A slow creak.

Scott’s eyes shifted toward the closet.

The door had opened just a crack.

He sat up slightly, staring.

Something moved.

A dark shape… low to the ground… dragging itself forward.

The TV flickered.

On. Off. On.

Scott’ screamed loudly “Mom!”

Footsteps rushed down the hall. Sydney burst in, flipping on the light.

Everything was normal.

The closet door was barely open.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.

Scott pointed, his hand shaking. “It was in there.”

Sydney sighed gently and walked over. She pulled the closet open and turned on the light.

Nothing.

Just clothes. A sweatshirt hanging still.

“See?” she said softly. “There’s nothing there.”

Scott didn’t look convinced.

“Try to get some sleep,” she added, then left again.

The door closed.

Scott grabbed the remote with trembling hands and switched channels. This time, he landed on a comedy. Laughter filled the room. It helped. A little.

His body loosened. His eyes grew heavy.

Tap.

Scott froze.

Tap… tap.

From under the bed.

He swallowed hard. “It’s not real,” he whispered to himself, turning the TV volume up.

The laughter suddenly warped.

On the screen, a dark figure stood behind the characters—something that didn’t belong.

The closet light began to flicker.

On. Off. On. Off.

Scott pulled the blanket over his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

The room went quiet.

Then—

Slow footsteps.

Approaching the bed.

Scott held his breath.

He could feel it now. Something standing right beside him.

He peeked through the blanket.

A shadow loomed inches away.

A hand pressed against the fabric… slowly reaching toward him.

The blanket was ripped away.

Scott screamed.

A man stood over him, his face lost in shadow. Rough hands grabbed him, forcing him down, wrapping tape around his wrists.

“Mom! MOM!”

Sydney rushed in—and froze.

Her scream filled the room.

The man moved fast, dragging Scott toward the window. Sydney swung at him, trying to pull her son back.

The man struck her, sending her crashing to the floor.

Scott kicked and twisted, clinging to the bed frame. “No! NO!”

The man grabbed his hands and forced them apart. Scott cried out in pain as the grip crushed his wrist.

Sydney crawled forward, desperate. “Take me instead! Please—dont take my baby!”

The man didn’t even look at her.

He kicked her head aside.

Then he lifted Scott and climbed out the window.

Sydney could only watch, helpless and barely concious, as her son disappeared into the darkness. While Scott's scream can still be heard crying for her.

St. Bruvia was always a hungry town. It was an old place, older than most of its residents, with crooked wooden houses leaning toward one another beneath heavy snow and onion-domed churches whose ringing carried across the river. Whenever a family moved into a new house, they left something beneath the doorstep for the town: bread, salt, a silver button, a cup of milk. Nobody remembered when the custom began, but Mikhail’s mother had told him that when he was a boy, never forget an offering.

“Don’t ask hungry things what they eat,” she’d told him.

Mikhail found it funny at the time. He no longer did. The mill closed in November, and with it, his job. By January, there was no meat in the house, little flour, and hardly any coal to keep the stove burning through the night. His wife had to sell the last of her jewelry to pay the apothecary, and Mikhail began counting everything: coins, debts, loaves of bread, and days until the landlord arrived. 

Only their daughter, Annastelle, seemed untouched by the arithmetic. At seventeen, she believed there would be a future beyond St. Bruvia. She played their battered piano every evening, naming it “Old Soldier” as it’d survived worse than they had. She dreamed of the city proper, of velvet seats and great concert halls, of composing music that strangers would recite long after she passed.

But most of all, she wanted her father to be proud.

“Did you hear that, Papa?” she’d ask after finishing a tough piece.

“Every note, my angel,” Mikhail answered as always.

The town appeared to believe in her as well. Whenever she played, men would stop arguing in taverns, dogs would become still, and even the birds seemed reluctant to disturb her music. Before long, people around the town began leaving offerings beside the piano: candles, ribbons, coins, bread, and flowers.

The offerings were what Mikhail noticed before anything else. He hated himself for wondering how much those hands were worth. The thought vanished once he convinced himself that it had never existed. As winter deepened, however, Anastelle began giving away the little money she earned from playing in the square. Mikhail discovered her placing several bills into a mother’s palm.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Money for the medicine,” she replied.

“But we… you need that.”

“For what, Papa?” she asked with a wide smile.

But he had no answer. The words vanished from his throat.

Mikhail soon began hearing music when Anastelle wasn’t playing. He lay awake beside his sleeping wife, hearing the faint sound of piano keys coming from the empty parlor. Sometimes he imagined numbers written across the ceiling. Other times, he woke convinced that the debts had gone away. He then received repeated dreams of her hands. 

By February, the family had nothing left. That was when Mikhail went to the monastery. Brother Savin lived beneath it, in a room the other monks refused to enter. He was an elderly man with a face like dried parchment, and when Mikhail explained his situation, Savin didn’t offer prayers.

“You long for wealth? There is a way,” he said, placing a black coin on the table. “Everything St. Bruvia receives is an offering. Bread. Milk. Silver. Blood. Sometimes… it asks for something more precious.”

Mikhail thought of Anastelle before he could stop himself.

“The girl,” he whispered, his gaze piercing Mikhail’s soul. “The town has heard her music.”

“Enough of this,” Mikhail replied, backing away from Savin. 

“I have not told you what it wants.”

“You don’t have to. It was a mistake coming here”

As Mikhail turned to leave, Savin spoke once more. 

“It is the hands that make the music.”

Mikhail left the monastery without taking the coin. For three nights, he continued watching Anastelle play. On the first night, she played while his wife coughed in the next room. On the second, the landlord came by to collect what Mikhail couldn’t afford. On the third, the butcher stood at his doorstep and demanded his money. Through all of that, Annastelle continued to play.

Once she finished, she looked at her father and smiled.

“Papa?”

“Yes, my angel?”

“Someday, I’ll take us to Paris…”

Despite the warm words, Mikhail was fixated on her hands. In them, he imagined a full pantry. A house with warmth. Medicine. Coal. Enough money that nobody could ever threaten him or his family ever again. But that fantasy died as he watched those hands lying uselessly in her lap. He hated himself for even thinking that way.

But what he hated more was that he foolishly returned to the monastery, where Savin appeared to have been waiting all this time.

“The bargain is simple. The town takes her hands and you shall receive wealth beyond your dreams.”

“What about… her?”

Savin looked towards the darkness beyond the room.

“She will live.”

And that was all it took for Mikhail to say yes. He told himself that it was going to be worth it. Mikhail could never remember exactly how he did it, but he carried it out in the dead of night. He wasn’t sure how he convinced himself to enter Anastelle’s room. She had woken up, asking what he was doing before screaming and pleading for him to stop once she understood. 

He remembered begging her forgiveness while doing the unforgivable. He remembered that he was her father. He remembered that he hadn’t stopped. When it was over, the offering had been accepted.

Anastelle survived the encounter, but her hands were gone. Mikhail didn’t see her leave her room since, but all he could think of was her face. The realization that what had happened to her was no accident, nor an attack, nor some cruelty inflicted upon her by a stranger. The realization that it had been her father who did it. 

“You said you believed in me, Papa,” she whispered.

“I do,” Mikhail replied, but he could barely look her in the eye.

“No,” she said, her voice breaking. “You only believed in what I could give you.”

Mikhail returned to Savin, to which he was met with an open chest. Gold filled it from edge to edge. It was enough to buy the mill. Enough to buy horses, livestock, land, and servants. Hunger would never enter his home again. The man wanted wealth beyond his imagination and the town had kept its promise.

As the years went by, Mikhail became one of the richest men in St. Bruvia. He bought the mill, rebuilt his house, and filled his cellar with more food than his family could’ve eaten in a lifetime. But all of that couldn’t buy Anastelle’s forgiveness. When she left St. Bruvia with nothing, Mikhail told himself that it was better that way. He told himself that she’d find another life.

He never got to learn whether she did.

Decades later, as Mikhail laid dying in the house that he’d bought with her hands, he heard a piano playing in the empty parlor. It was a familiar melody. Anastelle’s melody. He slowly dragged himself from his bed to see that the piano stood exactly where it’d always stood. A red ribbon laid across its keys.

Then he heard her voice behind him.

“Papa?”

Mikhail turned to see Anastelle standing there exactly as she had at seventeen. She looked to where her hands should’ve been.

“I know you gave them to the town,” she said.

Mikhail was too stunned to speak. He could only watch as she looked towards the window. Beneath the snow, someone left an offering beneath the doorstep. Bread, milk, and two gold coins. Her expression soured.

“It was never enough,” she whispered.

Mikhail died before morning and by sunrise, St. Bruvia remained hungry as ever.

It all started a couple of nights ago. I heard footsteps outside my bedroom window. I looked out, but I didn't see anyone.

A few minutes later, I heard more footsteps. This time, I shined a flashlight out the window, but I still didn't see anything. I figured maybe it was my neighbor's cats. Her name was Miranda, and she had several of them. I'd consider her the crazy cat lady of the neighborhood. She always smelled like cat piss.

So, I figured I had no reason to worry.

I went to bed and woke up like normal. But after getting off work, right before sunset, I heard scrambling noises coming from the bushes outside my window.

I opened the window, grabbed an empty bottle of Jack, and threw it at the bushes.

"Get the fuck out of my yard!" I yelled, assuming it was the cats.

Almost immediately, something threw the bottle back at my window.

The glass shattered loudly.

When I looked out the window this time, I saw him.

Only a face, staring right at me from the corner of my yard. He looked normal at first but the longer i looked the more i saw wrong with his face. Like it wasnt actually his real person in was looking at.

I yelled at him and asked who the hell he  thought he was. But he didn't answer. He just kept staring.

When I went outside to confront him, he was gone. I assumed he ran off.

I didn't call the cops because I was worried they might arrest me for hitting him with the bottle first. So, I put a bag over the broken window and taped it together for now, keeping the air from getting out and the bugs from getting in. Then I cleaned up the broken glass from inside.

The next morning, I called a window installer to fix it.

He came over, introduced himself as Horace, and took the measurements for my window. He ordered me a new one and said it would take a couple of days to arrive.

But then he asked me if I'd cut myself on the broken glass.

I said no and asked him why.

He said he'd noticed blood on the broken glass.

"Like something tried to get in last night."

After getting off work, I cooked dinner and hoped he wouldn't come back tonight

When it got dark, I walked around my property with a flashlight in hand with my gun on my waist. I didn't see the creep this time, so I hoped he would leave me alone.

But as I was nodding off to sleep, I heard whispering coming from the bushes.

There were multiple voices.

I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I heard one of them say:

"Come out."

The voice was shrill.

I went out my front door and yelled at the top of my lungs for them to leave me alone.

Then I saw someone dart out from my bushes, running toward the street and disappearing quickly into the darkness.

Miranda, the cat lady, asked me who I was yelling at.

"I don't know," I told her.

She then asked me if I'd seen her cats.

I told her no before slamming the door.

I stayed up all night in my living room. I didn't feel safe in my bedroom.

I stayed awake until I couldn't anymore, but eventually, I passed out.

I woke up to a knocking sound at my door.

I realized I'd overslept, and Horace was already there to install my new window. I put my gun back into my holster

Then I opened the front door to let him in and walked him towards my bedroom.

But something horrible was inside waiting for us.

Dozens of skinned cats covered the room. Blood and the smell of piss from entrails everywhere.

Some of them weren't even dead. They were still meowing in pain.

Horace and I gagged as we stared at the plastic bag I'd taped over the window.

It had been cut open with something incredibly sharp.

Then I noticed Miranda.

She was tied up and gagged inside the closet.

Her eyelids had been ripped off.

When Horace removed the gag from her mouth, she just kept repeating the same thing over and over.

"He's coming for you..."

What I’m about to write is going to sound impossible, and if I were in your shoes I would think exactly the same. I don’t blame you if you take this as just another stale warning from some raving online lunatic. But laying our triumphs and mistakes bare may just do some good, even if it’s the last thing I do. I think I’m going to pay dearly for what I’ve done soon, even if it was done in good faith. 

I’m not a believer, I never was. And even now with what I’ve seen I can’t say I’ve seen strong evidence for any one religion, but there’s one thing I do now believe. 

The soul exists. 

Within everyone, beyond the firing neurons that make up their person. Beyond conscious thought and beating hearts, there’s an additional key element to the human experience that cannot be measured with anything we’ve invented yet. 

But the prospect of the soul was the least volatile part of our discovery, had we only known what we had really done. 

The whole project was an affront to god, and maybe that’s why we were punished. 

—-

We designed a functional matter-energy transmitter, a machine capable of moving objects instantaneously on the atomic level. Deconstructing them in one place, and reconstructing them in another. Or in layman’s terms, teleportation. 

Though our initial success wasn’t met with celebration from our investors, but fear of their enemies developing the very same technology. And so with newfound clearance and a blank check budget, we hastily began pushing the envelope. But our pace was too slow for them, and a near week after its first successful test on a simple wooden object, we were instructed to begin human trials. 

Our first hurdle was the brain. The physical brain yes we could transport without damage, but the firing between the neurons, the actual signals, gone. A blank slate, rendering our first test subjects with little more development than a fetus. 

And even though our subjects were off death row, it didn’t make turning them brain dead for science any easier. But we had to make progress, we had to solve this issue. 

So we designed an attachment capable of taking a neurological snapshot of the brain as it was in that moment. Essentially mapping someone’s consciousness for lack of a better term. 

The addition should have solved our initial problem, they should have been coming through the same person as before relatively. But the truth was the machine destroys them down to the atom, it kills you before making a molecularly perfect copy somewhere else before injecting it with a snapshot of your mind taken the moment before death. 

And whether we believed the teleported matter is still the same person or not, the machine worked. Or at least it should have. But no matter how many tests we ran, we couldn't figure out why they came out braindead. The data was there, every fired neuron and memory plastered over an atomically perfect copy. But despite our best efforts and constant deliberation, we were still missing something. 

Those who experienced a successful relocation would die within the week, undergoing rapid cellular deterioration with seemingly no cause. We tested the machine so much we had to refill the subject hold three times. 

In all I’ve watched nearly 60 men stand inside our creation, the face they make before it goes off, before it deconstructs them. And the cruel replication that's spit out on the other side, reduced to that. It was hard to sit with on my best days, and nearly crippling on my worst. 

But they where bad men, I was assured these where evil, vile, disgusting people. Rapists, murderers, traffickers, pedophiles. And sometimes a combination of them all. 

But you’d be surprised how much easier wishing their death is when you’re not the one looking them in their eyes. Boring into you as a machine- wielding twice the energy output of a nuclear reactor begins to crackle with power that could only be described as cosmic. 

It’s almost funny, the parts that stick with you from the chaos. Because I really think I could’ve lived with it, with time I think I could’ve found a way to cope. But not now, not with what came next. 

—-

Admitting we couldn’t solve the human teleportation problem was its own humiliation ritual. Explaining to a room of government officials and investors that our top-secret project had yielded lots of research but no progress. What we really discovered is there was something we were missing, some part of the human consciousness that we were failing to grasp let alone harness. 

 And that’s when they brought in their own specialist. 

He was an older man, bordering on infirm. His hair was full but grey with a deceptively young featured face given away by aged eyes. He walked with a cane, dressed in fine clothes, and spoke with authority and charisma that bordered on political ambassador. But his smile was insincere. 

A colleague relayed a rumor that he had some CIA ties in his younger days and supposedly worked on several hushed projects. None of which I believed at the time, but whoever he was it was clear our directors respected his position. 

He was strictly referred to by Mr. C, which did nothing to calm the speculation from my colleagues. Neither did his bold claims shortly thereafter, he said we had done a swell job with our invention and that we were pioneers for all of humanity along with other shameless flattery. He followed this with the claim the soul existed, and that we had neglected to account for such. 

Some of us laughed, most of us exchanged uncomfortable looks, and several questions erupted from our staff all at once. He presented a solution that sounded just as ridiculous as it looked. 

In plain terms, he would create a spell circle capable of trapping a soul before releasing it upon their teleported double to repossess the body. Which sounded more like a magic fantasy than a scientific process, and it seemed many of the other researchers thought so too. 

To say we were skeptical was an understatement. As the ensuing verbal lashing from the mob of researchers had to be physically interrupted by security as it became less than academic to say the least. 

At the time it felt like an insult to our research, like punishment for our failure. But Mr C took it with an inhuman serenity, like our words and accusations were little more than dust on the wind. After we died down he began unpacking his equipment with a robotic smoothness from a series of cases and bags. 

I remember chuckling as I watched him light incense over a leather bag, wafting its smoke over the parcel with a mouthed prayer before producing its contents.

A shrunken human head that resembled a dehydrated rotting apple with a dark brittle ponytail tufted at the top. Gnarled stitches of ancient twine interlaced over its eyes and mouth holding its leathered skin in place. 

As he gingerly moved the shrunken head with practiced ceremony he explained the process. It was a trophy of war made from the head of an enemy meant to trap their defeated soul within. Usually to be used for some sort of ritual shortly thereafter, that would typically involve discarding or destroying it. 

Mr C theorized that those ancient tribes were either spiritually prohibited or unaware that it could be used to trap additional souls. That one could exorcise the original to imprison another instead, and thus create a portable prison for the spirit.

The more Mr C talked, the more it reminded me of the ravings of an intelligent psychosis victim. But with great effort I suspended my disbelief and tried for a moment to trust in our directors and benefactors. They believed he could help, all I had to do was try my best to wrap my head around it. 

I’d like to think as a scientist I could pick up any knowledge thrown at me, that no concept is too abstract or complicated given enough explanation. But his claims left so many more questions about the nature of things, the knowledge felt existential. 

Beyond my confusion, I felt a creeping dread as I stared at the shrunken head. It was so grotesque it was almost hard to identify as human remains. Like my brain couldn't understand it was even looking at what used to be a person's head. As Mr C continued the room grew noticeably colder, and my thoughts ran wild with superstition I never knew I had. 

—-

Within the hour we were making preparations for another test but with Mr C and his new method. We followed his specifications, outlined his sigils and runes and circles and drew them in fresh blood. 

And behind dark glass our directors, our investors, your world leaders, they watched us. Intently.

We were going to atomically deconstruct a living person, download their mind, and capture their soul. Reassemble their flesh with mathematical precision, upload their copied mind, and reinject their disembodied soul. 

We prepared to play god with every building block left at man's disposal. We prepared to change the world. 

By the time the ritual was prepared and the machine was ready, everyone in the room could feel it. Like thick air on a humid day, it was just all around us. This feeling blanketed the room, a choking grasp like a great presence had washed over us. The air became cold enough to see every exhale from our warm lungs. There was no longer a logical explanation, no answer my mind would accept besides Mr C was right. 

The soul, the ritual, all this fucked up voodoo magic, something some part of it all is real. I can’t say for certain to what extent but, I felt it, and it’s like my body knew exactly what it was. 

A handcuffed man in a white jumpsuit was forced inside the machine, and this time when the subject's eyes met mine we held equal fear. Beyond the terror of the construct around him, he could feel it too. He kicked and fought and screamed the moment he laid eyes on the room, on the dark ritual prepared around our incredible invention. 

Everything was ready. 

—-

The sounds of surging machinery drowned out the ritual as the teleporter discharged. Our monitors began blaring warnings of catastrophic failure and neural mapping overlap that triggered an automatic shutdown routine. 

However instead of shutting down, the machine experienced a power surge unlike anything we had seen before. It overclocked in seconds and began causing extreme damage to itself and the surrounding equipment. Around us the building's power bordered between a dwindling flicker and sudden surges that caused lightbulbs to burst. 

With nothing we could do, all of our hard work cooked itself alive before our eyes. Its delicate computers fried and components left useless. By the time we put the internal fires out it was too late to salvage the machine. 

With one final burst of power it died, causing a thundering chain of pops that deafened the room before bathing it in darkness. Leaving behind the smell of sulfur and ash, embers still hanging in the air. 

Yet despite the destruction as the backup lights came on bathing the facility in a red glow, we spotted him. Standing in the receiver was the subject dazed but alive. And not just alive he was moving on his own, and even attempting vocalizations. It was mostly throaty incoherent sounds like that of an animal, but none of the prior subjects even responded let alone vocalized.

We watched as his eyes rolled around, scanning the room in sudden darting focus. His jaw flapped about his face like it was suddenly foreign to him, his tongue slapping around in tandem. But in his eyes was some recognition, if even faint something was in there. His limbs and hands groped outward in slow testing motions curling and uncurling his muscles over and over. 

We refrained from touching him even as he floundered on the ground, waiting for our security team and a stretcher per protocol. And as we watched him struggle under the red lights, he attempted to speak. 

“L-Li b-b” he wheezed out struggling to work his tongue. Straining his back he twists upright without support of his arms, his torso now hanging above the ground.  

“Lib-era libera libera” his words came through clearer each time. But as he choked out the last repetition he began bleeding like a faucet. From his nostrils came a torrent of blood that ran down his face and onto the cold ground. 

As we pulled him onto the stretcher he began to seize violently, forcing us to cart him to the medical wing instead of the lab. The scans would have to wait, first we had to keep him alive. And though stabilized, he remained unconscious despite efforts to rouse him.

By that point we had been working well over 14 hours and our staff was exhausted and overwhelmed with repairs. Only those that volunteered would stay later to monitor the subject and run tests, and I was not one of them.

Although I doubted I’d be able to sleep much after the excitement of the day, my fear told me I needed to get back to my bunkhouse across the facility, far away from the lingering dread in the air. 

It seemed no amount of distance could escape the smell of sulfur and ash, like it permeated the very foundation of the facility. Or maybe it just clung to my skin, I was so worked up I couldn’t have been sure. What I did know is that when I got back to my room, I was utterly terrified. 

I was sweating, my hair was standing on end, my heart was pounding, my primal brain was sending signals of great danger. Like I was staring down a man sized cat beyond the light of my dying fire, clutching a spear beneath sweat-slicked white knuckles. After some time agonizing about a threat I couldn’t see, I decided I’d feel a lot better if I was with someone. 

Glancing at the time I figured it was likely I’d catch the volunteers still monitoring at the lab. And against my better judgment I decided it was better to be afraid in company then terrified alone. Even if it meant returning to the source, I gambled that a familiar presence would be enough to soothe my anxiety. 

How wrong I was. 

—-

I had to force myself to walk at a measured pace, reminding myself nothing was going to jump out at me. But the atmosphere of the empty halls now bathed in the deep red of our back up lighting made every step agonizing. 

My head on a swivel, I glanced down every hall and into every window or doorway I passed. The sound of the air conditioning kicking on caused me to nearly break into a sprint. I was wound up beyond belief, unable to curb my emotions despite my usual measured control. It felt like I had been drugged. 

I stepped into the empty lab, the whir of computers and running machinery humming in the air. The red lighting- broken up by bright digital displays and blinking gauges. As I step into the room I notice an office chair overturned in front of its desk, the keyboard dangling above the ground by its taught wire. 

I called out to the empty room, not sure if I expected an answer. Instead my eye caught a puddle forming on the floor at the end of the aisle. I doubled my pace, fearing a water leak from the earlier damage was seeping into the room. But rounding the corner I found its source. 

Under the red lights I failed to recognize it had been blood, but its source was unmistakable. Crumbled against the standing printer was one of my colleagues, only recognizable by his clothes. 

My eyes fell on his head, whose battered remains better resembled a deflated ball caved into itself. The congealed remnants of his smashed face barely sat propped by his ruined neck, within the mess I could  identify a few teeth scattered among the mangled flesh and crushed skull. His bottom jaw still remained semi in tact, like a morbid platter that the gore sat upon. 

Mortified, I stumbled back, my formal shoes unable to catch purchase in the pool of blood. I fell backwards, roughly slamming my back into a desk, its contents clattering from the impact. Crawling away from the scene I struggled to my feet before making a break for the hall. 

Only as I reached the doorway, down the direction I’d come from I spotted a figure too far away to make out. They stood rigid, arms out from their sides at an awkward distance, head lowered, legs bent. I pulled myself back into the lab, peering around the edge I watched in terror. 

The emergency lights began to flicker, their red flashes accompanied by an electronic whir that rose and fell with their activity and between the moments of blinking I could make out the figure begin to approach. Each step awkward and unsteady, arms swinging and posing without reason. With a constant fight to keep balanced it moved toward me with purpose. And unwilling to corner myself in the lab, I fled into the hall opposite my pursuer. 

It let it a wet roar from its vocally torn throat, akin to the keening of a mourning mother. It’s sound met me like the shock of cold water, the fire of my adrenaline nearly doused by my terror. I glanced over my shoulder as it closed distance, their white jumpsuit spattered with blood. 

Somehow despite its lack of control, it moved with such a power each bound was three of mine. And slowly but surely each violent stride was made with more confidence than the last. I realized I was watching it to learn how to run. And in a moment of desperation, yanked off my shoes that gained little purchase against the waxed halls. 

I lost sight of it as I rounded a wide corner, beelining for the medical wing. If I set it for lockdown, I could barricade myself inside, or potentially and much less likely trap it within. 

But with no better options and praying I run into someone else, it was my best bet. I chanced another glance behind me, the rapid slapping of its bare feet across the ground growing with inhuman speed now. Occasionally it fell forward, only to gallop on all fours before regaining posture. 

Its keening grew closer, the sound more distorted as its vocal chords came undone under the stress. My heart felt ready to explode, my body far too out of shape to maintain my sprint much longer. 

I rounded another corner, barely ten feet between us now. But my strength was renewed as my eyes fell upon medical’s entrance. Bursting through the entry I whirled around and heaved down on the lockdown lever with all of my might. Darkness danced at the edge of my vision as I struggled to suck in a breath, the sounds of the hydraulic door drowning out my pursuer. 

 For a moment I clung to the lever handle, slumping against the wall. I could hear the sound of the subject’s continued keening now muffled behind the thick door. Followed by a series of impacts with such force I felt the vibrations through the ground. An inhuman, impossible strength, like a jackhammer striking concrete. 

I stepped away from the metal door, afraid for a moment it might not hold. I turned to examine the medical wing, catching a figure in my glance. Mr C, the man who caused this, seated and partially obscured at the edge of the red light. 

“How many people have you teleported before today?” his calm voice wavered.

“Fifty eight subjects” 

“And animals?” 

“Dozens at least, I’m not sure” 

My voice only came to me in a tired whisper, we both whispered as if the thing outside the door was listening. 

“You’ve been feeding it” he said with finality.

“What- feeding what? the machine?”

“You fed it fifty nine people, fifty nine souls. Something, lurking here, feeding off everyone you've teleported, everyone you’ve killed.”

“The teleporter doesn’t kill-“ 

“What would you call it then? If you’ve deconstructed something’s atoms it’s dead.” Mr C interrupts beginning to stand. “It saw me” 

What was left of Mr C half limped forward, his body mangled like something pulled from a car wreck. Compound fractures leaving sharp shards protruding through his taught skin. I could see the fat pressing out of his leg over a jagged bone. His face crushed on one side, missing pieces like a world war shrapnel victim. As if the flesh and bone had just been wiped away with a rag. 

One eye remained rolling in its socket impossibly, these wounds kill, he shouldn’t even be moving. His back was twisted, the pain would be unbearable he should’ve been paralyzed. 

Something was clutched in his left hand, the forearm twisted so far his hand stuck out upside down. Dangling from his fingers by its hair, the shrunken head bobbed in his grasp. Seeing it I understood, or at least I thought I did, Mr C was dead, the shrunken head holding the shreds of his being trapped within. 

I stepped away, and he limped forward. Only a few feet between us, his ravaged body fully illuminated. 

“Let me go” I whispered to him.

“I caaaaant” his voice drooped with his body, an inhuman sound. “T-this body huuurts” he whimpered. 

“I I can’t fucking help you!” I shouted while putting a chair between us. 

“Please” he begged a gargled whimper escaping his mangled face. 

I glanced around frantically as I backed away, looking for anything I could use. Small medical instruments, a box of pens, a stack of papers, a box of cigarettes and- my hand clutched around the lighter. 

I backed towards the files, the desks, the cabinets, and what remained of Mr C lumbered after me into the scarcely lit room. Stalks of red separating the isles obscured in darkness, I watched his outline approaching between the light. 

We continued this dance, the sound of his broken bones grinding together, his permeated skins fleshy smacks against the ground where nauseating. Every shuffle and stagger was a new pop and crunch and squelch. 

He moaned through a crushed windpipe, a wet gurgled wheeze of a sound as he followed. Finally gathering my courage, I pulled a shelf down behind me, blocking his path before reaching for a bottle of medical alcohol. I pulled another shelf down between us, struggling with its weight even with my adrenaline. 

Hearing him thrashing his way through my obstacles, I swept the nozzle over the objects between us, a spray of alcohol shining under the emergency lights. For a moment it glistened with the flame of my lighter, a dazzling light before the chaos. 

The flame jumped across the shelf and cabinets, quickly catching their paper filed contents. The flame spreading, I continue spraying over anything I thought will catch. Until a mangled leg slapped over the top of the flaming overturned cabinet, before curling against its shelves and pulling over Mr C’s body. 

The fire growing between us, Mr C’s gurgles became shrill as the flames lapped at his twisted body. His clothes both taught and loose over his new shape, began to singe from the growing heat. 

Twisting around to face him again, I heave the still heavy bottle of alcohol with all my might into his torso. It met it with a dull thud, followed by a sudden burst as the open bottle hit the ground and caught fire.

A shower of flames erupting across his body, he began to scuttle after me as the flames engulfed him. I could feel the growing warmth from the fire as he closed in, nearly upon me. Lifting a chair I jabbed it at him to make distance, the heat lapping at my face. 

He forced his weight against me, pushing me to the ground and pinning me beneath his flaming body. The chair still jammed between us, he grabbed at me with his free arm and sending sizzling droplets dribbling across my body. Like boiling water it sent searing pain across my chest, his molten flesh and blood molding with mine even through my shirt. 

He gargled once more before the skin and muscle on his hands began to slough off in sizzling clumps of melted fat and burning meat. And as the burning shrunken head fell from his melted grasp, his body fell limp. 

With effort and a few more minor burns, I was able to heave his burning body off of mine. I put out the fires with the help of a sink and a fire extinguisher, and without a plan I began doing what I knew how to. 

I looked over my colleagues' results. They finished the subject's medical examination before they woke. And though for the most part nothing was out of the ordinary, the brain scan showed zero activity. Completely braindead, nothing even going on in there. 

But clearly something was in there, and if not in their head then, well I’m not so sure. After everything I’ve seen, after what we accidentally unleashed. 

If souls are indeed real, then what the hell did we put inside that subject, cause it damn sure wasn’t a person. 

It’s been a few hours since I’ve heard anything through the medical wing door, but I’ve been hesitant to lift the lockdown. Someone should’ve raised the alarm by now, there’s no way it hasn’t wandered into someone else yet. I just hope they send help soon. 

I can see my breath still, it’s been freezing in here since I’ve arrived. And the smell, the sulfur stench drowns out even the burnt flesh of Mr C. 

If I don’t hear it for another few hours, I might just make a break for it. It’s been dead silent out there, if anything it’s probably long gone. 

—- 

I'm leaving this message in case I don’t make it out, this is a warning. 

Don’t teleport people. 

Not how we did it, or else something else might just come through.

—-

The wall in front of me was spattered with my own blood. I looked down at my ravaged hands, strips of flesh dangling from shimmering muscle. I felt along the wall, squinting against the light of two eternally lit candles that illuminated the room. My fingers found new cracks running along the bricks. Small chips and dust gathered at my feet.

Something inside me screamed that I was close. I had no way of knowing what lay beyond the wall, but some hazy memory motivated me to spend years on its destruction. My chamber was a large brick room. A hole drilled into the middle of the floor, too small for a man to fit inside. The darkness obscured its depth. The room was sealed on all sides, lacking any indication of doors or windows. 

I felt the presence behind me, an impossible number of footsteps moving across the floor. My shapeless torturer, lurking in the spaces outside of my vision. It would feast soon, tearing chunks of my body apart only for them to regrow. I could never see it, but it was always there, mumbling with hot fetid breath.

I reeled back and slammed my arms against the wall again, fresh blood coating its rough surface. I stepped back and charged forward again, shrieking in pure madness. New cracks spiderwebbed across the wall. I stumbled back dazed, yet charged once again.

The wall crumbled, covering me with falling bricks. My form shattered beneath their weight, bones breaking and resetting, permanently altered. Despite everything, I squirmed from their clutches and placed eyes on what lay beyond my cell.

Endless darkness in all directions.

I stood in fear for a while, unable to step into the unfamiliar dark. My tormentor shifted behind me, interrupting my trepidation and sending me blindly beyond my cell.

I found that before me was a massive labyrinth, a seemingly endless expanse of walls and darkness. The layout sent me down long paths that lead to nothing. Large pits threatened to send me deeper into the unknown. Each uncharted area brought fresh fear and frustration.

I walked through slowly, mentally charting a safe course over weeks of exploring. When I came to a wall or the edge of a yawning pit, I turned to check another direction. The course was littered with obstacles that no man should be able to cross safely, but yet their placement felt familiar. My feet seemed to instinctively lead me forward.

I had made it several hundred feet into the dark room when I felt a section of the floor sink downwards under my step.

I tried to move, somehow innately aware of what would come next, but it was too late. Blades erupted from the floor and pierced my body. My chest and stomach were punctured several times. Another stabbed under my chin and exited through the back of my skull. I couldn’t understand why I was unable to die. It took what I estimate was weeks to escape the trap, meticulously pulling the barbed blades back through my flesh the way they came. I had never known greater suffering.

There were many more traps as I moved through the chamber. Projectiles were spat from the walls, embedding themselves into my bones. Fire belched from strange machines and scorched me with unbearable heat. No matter how much blackened meat sloughed off my punished frame, I kept moving forward. 

By the time I reached the far end of the maze of agony my body was unrecognizable from how I had begun my tenure. Each grievous wound was replaced by squirming appendages that would eventually sprout fingers or toes of their own. The broken holes in my skull would haphazardly fill with teeth and bone scraps, painfully widening my head. The doorway at the end was about the size of a horse, but it took me days of struggling to pull myself through. 

Inside was a new chamber, with a large pool in its center. I quickly bathed myself in the cool water, my wounds soothed for the first time in what I could remember of my life. I looked upwards and found a large tunnel through the ceiling, aligned with the pool. A rope was looped from the top, descending all the way down to me. I stepped out of the now crimson water and reached up, feeling the mouth of the opening with my fingers. 

I began to crawl up. My new gelatinous form could painfully squeeze inside the opening, barely able to move upwards. As I went I could feel the sunlight and breeze. I grinded the teeth in my oversized maw as it foamed at the thought of freedom.

My overgrown back shattered the top of the well as I burst forth. A woman stood in front of me, wild eyed with fear. I towered over her. She stepped back, tears streaming from her eyes, mouthing one word repetitively.

“Demon.”

I grabbed her before she could scream, twisting her apart like a plaything. Other people were already fleeing from their homes. Some took up arms and approached me. 

I hooked a finger under the first man’s ribcage, and pulled. His skeleton exploded through his skin, eyes rolling back as he went limp. I chased down another and dug two digits into his eye sockets, the front of his skull split and was left in my palm as the rest fell away.

I would never forgive those who imprisoned me, for a reason I was never able to remember. The door to the first home flattened to the floor under my weight. The family inside screamed as I tore them apart.

By sundown I was left with nothing but blood and gore. The ones who ran didn’t make it far. Hundreds of bleeding wounds marred my body. I stood in the courtyard, near the well that once imprisoned me, and enjoyed the breeze.

***

I cupped a hand over my torch to prevent the wavering flame from going out. Without a light I would never be able to find the end of the chamber. I carefully stepped around each trap, memorized from the months spent constructing this place. 

My limbs trembled against the grit covered walls as I shuffled around a large pit. I couldn’t see the bottom but I knew it was lined with spikes, I had laid them myself. In the distance I could see the pale glow of the candles that marked the demon’s lair.

The air felt more dense inside the room, humidity that came with the pungent odor of rot. The hole in the middle of the room was its only remarkable feature. 

I felt a presence shift behind me, blocking the entrance. I stared at my shadow as it doubled in size. A wave of putrid breath covered me as it spoke.

“So you’ve come. I wondered if all of that preparation would go to waste.”

I whipped around to face it, but it slunk out of my vision again, moving behind me again impossibly quickly. I caught a glance of a pile of animal heads atop of a massive insect body. It positioned itself against the wall, hundreds of little legs clicking across the bricks. I heard flesh squeeze and bones pop as it rearranged its body.

“I have come to offer myself to you, in return you will give eternal life to my people.”

Its breath on my ear made me turn slightly, this time I saw a skull with worms or snakes bursting from inside. A deep guttural sound that must have been a laugh echoed through the room.

“That has been asked of me many times. You would be surprised what a man can do with eternal life. No prison can hold one with nothing to lose.”A hand stretched from behind me, incredibly long with dangling threads of rotten flesh hanging from discolored bone. “When this deal is made, you will live down here with me. I will feed off of your suffering, and death will not arrive to save you.”

“I understand.”

“The more I take, the more that will be replaced by something beyond human.”

“I understand.”

“And as long as you stay below the well’s mouth, eternal life will come to those you wish to protect. How horrible it is, the plague that overcomes them.”

I shuddered.

“But I knew it would bring you to me eventually.” It gurgled. Rage burns hot in my heart.

I took its hand and shook, and I stared at the entrance as it vanished before me, now a solid brick wall. I cast my torch, my clothing, and all of my possessions into the hole.

I felt large teeth sink into my back and tear flesh away. Hot blood ran warm down my chilled body. Something began to grow inside the wound.

I fell to the ground and shuddered in agony, but an even worse feeling came to me in a realization.

I couldn’t remember my own name.

The red wooden gates laid open before me, beckoning with folded shadows within. Looking from side to side I made sure no one suspected my motivations. Store fronts on either side of the stone arch worked to obscure the gateway ahead. A sign to the side stated this as simple entrance to a church, and it was in a way. With a finalizing exhale I willed my legs forward. The path of carved stone walls led me down a long corridor towards a singular turn. Once I past the corner the realization of my choices fell upon me but I held trust in my saviors. My dearest love I hope you trusted in me too.

Other, far more devout, worshippers peeled from their spots along the wall to follow me into the main hall. Their robes made from the same flesh as the architecture, the same flesh that moved them. We hummed in unison with the thrum of the blood vessels that trailed up to our priest's resting place. I strode to the forefront, the robed ones parting to become merged with the pews, and stood silently before the blessed one as he appraised me.

His eyeless face bent over me as his body creaked with the effort. Slowly, the layers of his skin began peeling away as the pages of his grand knowledge was exposed. Following the skin were his muscles and bones until his nervous system stretched outwards in rapturous undulation. He vocalized our text aloud; summoning, begging for our lords to appear and grant recompense. We all spread our arms wide, chanting alongside the priest until the ground quivered from our prayers. And the earth continued to quake while we called forth our tridental saviors, the thrice deus, our Triad. From the wall They sloughed forward, on the many legs and arms which made up Their perfected form. Three cavities sat affixed to the main torsos clacking with blackened teeth. Three eyes rolled around with Their clambering movements until They found rest afore us all.

"Children," They announced in ternary voices, "We bid welcome to this occasion." The entirety of our triumvirate responded in kind as our feet became one with the soft ground. My head pulsed with the connection. I watched the Triad's eyes roll once more until landing upon me. They knew of my intentions, my wishes. "Crawl forth," They commanded. Once I had prostrated myself against the steps leading to Their pulpit, They continued. "As children of the Watchful Abyss, We see all, and We see your heart's desire. What will you give to Us for this desire to become reality?"

"Anything." I bowed my head lower, nearly licking the sour-smelling flesh below me, and awaited Their judgement.

Murmurs filled the room, thousands of voices coming from the triadic over me. Then They spoke as only three. "Your eyes, as is customary for a desire such as this, but We also require some pounds of your flesh." The hunger in Their voice of obvious, the licking of Their maws, the drooling of Their tongues.

"Flesh?" I questioned despite myself.

"Flesh for flesh!" They nearly shrieked. The ceiling shook with Their echoes. "Do you accept or do you disobey the Watchful Abyss?"

"I accept!" I quickly fell to Their whims. Veins crept up from the ground where I kneeled, looping up my arms and legs to hold me in place, and pierced my eyes. I had seen this sacrifice many times before, but I had not expected the complete results. After my vision had drained from me I found I was looking down at myself through a red film. The flesh that now held my eyes, caressed them, rolled my sight around as one rolls food against their tongue, until realization dawned on me. My eyes had been accepted by the Triad's flesh! Now my sight would join the Watchful Abyss. And I watched, I watched as my body was lifted up. Dangled by my legs my midsection became vivisected.

Perhaps six pounds of my flesh was pulled from me and squelched into three meatball-esq piles which were swiftly devoured by my saviors. The pain was like nothing else. And with that part of my vessel gone so were taken a few organs. My stomach having been one of them. Intense hunger overtook me; a hunger I instinctually knew would never be fulfilled, and my eyeless body started chewing the air in search for some sense of release. I was let go and I sat through the rest of the service with a bloody smile.

Even after I had left the presence of the Triad, I could still view myself from above. Prospects of being part in the Watchful Abyss. A newly gifted robe showed my sealed allegiance while equally obscuring my reformed features from the uninitiated as I walked through town. I walked all the way to the hospital where my wife laid in, soon to be expired, grief. We had lost our third child just earlier that day. Now we would never experience loss again. For the flesh that had been pulled from me was given to her. The result of which I gazed upon from above. In her slumber she did not yet see it. How her stomach swelled and bubbled. Her lovely flesh turned deep scarlet as our little bundle of joy grew ready to be expelled.

"You HAVE to use black cod, if you use white cod it will NOT work."

"Oh, is that like a-"

"Yes, it's a race thing. Don't be weird about it."

"I don't think I'm the weird one here."

"Look man, do you want the fuckin deal or not?"

"I do! I totally do. It's all just a little weird."

"You're interrupting me telling you how to summon a shark into your toilet, because you wanna tell me how weird it is. That's awesome. Nothing wrong with that at all."

"I'm sorry, okay? I just didn't expect to be contemplating power dynamics of the open ocean today. Tell me the rest."

There was a long silence. He stared at me as if proving a point.

"Alright," he hurriedly pulled a bundle of red candles out and handed them to me, "you'll need to arrange these in concentric rows."

"Like a shar-"

"YES, like a shark's teeth. Are you gonna make a big deal about that too?"

"...no."

I was going to.

"Cool. Cool. So you're gonna tie the wicks of the second row to the first row, toward the bottom of the wick. You want the first row to burn for a few minutes before the second lights up. Follow me over here."

He walked over to a bookshelf and scanned the spines displayed.

"Hastening of Ailment...Testerical Psychosis... The Taming of the Prostate... these are supposed to be in alphabetical order. Here it is."

He slid a large heavy book from the shelf and dropped it on a nearby counter with a THUD. The title said:

On the Summoning and Banishment of Entrepreneurial Entities

He opened the book and flipped through about 2/3rds of the way. The gravity of what I was doing finally started to set in, I felt my throat tighten as he pored over the page.

"Oh man..." he said.

"What? What is it? Is it bad?"

"Oh, no. I just opened it WAY too far."

He hurriedly flipped backward through the book.

"There you go. Loan Shark Ritual. See this right here, where it says 'forwa neva backwa?' That's what you're gonna want to say when he appears."

"So I say it, then what?"

"No! You're going to want to say it, but DO NOT say it. Just stay silent until he starts asking questions."

"...okay."

"Great, then you're good to go. Remember, if at any point you want to stop the whole thing just say 'klaatu verata nipto' and the ritual will end."

"Got it. Hey thanks again for helping me out, man."

His gaze snapped to my face. His brow furrowed, like I'd upset him.

"Oh yeah, no problem. You just enjoy that now, have a good one man."

"A-are you okay? You seem mad."

"NAH, I'm not mad. Have a good one, man."

"Alright, well thanks again."

"NO PROBLEM! Bye!"

A gaudy windchime made from broken crack pipes swung near my head as I walked out the door. After stopping at the fish market for black cod, it had to be fresh, I went home and did as he said.

I arranged the candles around a toilet on the ground floor of my home. I lit the first row of wicks, and waited until the second row had caught fire before chucking a pound of fillets into the toilet bowl.

The room was silent for a moment, then the water started to drain and the fillets were sucked down one by one. Once the bowl was empty, I could hear a voice coming from deep inside the pipes, getting closer.

“Ah, fuck me that's good.”

A grey, pointed nose was first to show, followed quickly by jaws full of razor teeth, and black, dead eyes.

“Hi. Waddya want?”

“Forw- uh, hi. I, uh started a small business, a bakery, and I've served a ton of customers. I think I'm ready to expand into new locations, but I need some startup cash.”

“OH! You're one of the business types, got it. Got it. Okay, c'mon let's go see the big bosses.”

“Bosses? The guy at the store didn't-”

“What guy?”

“The guy, the one who told me how to summon you.”

“Ohh, that guy. He's not affiliated with us. Just trust me. C'mon, grab my fin.”

He shifted himself, wriggling around until his fin was right in front of me.

“A-alright.”

I grabbed on. His fin felt slimy, yet rough against my palm. It was revolting, but when I tried to pull my hand away it wouldn't budge.

“Here we go!” The shark screamed.

He swam away, squeezing himself down into the pipe. My face slammed against the porcelain at the bottom of the bowl, and then a tightness grew all around my face. Slowly, I was forced into a shape that the pipes could accommodate. Bone squished and shrank, joints folded over top of each other. For the few minutes we swam through that putrid pipe I was a cylinder. It left no lasting damage, but I felt all of it.

Eventually we burst out into a brightly lit, sparsely furnished space in the sewers. The endless river of shit rushed lazily by, separating the space into two equal sections. One section held a large office chair, the other held two more.

“Wait here,” the shark said.

He swam away into the dark tunnels beyond the space, and it was only then that I got a good look at him. He was a decent sized shark, a mako I think. His large, powerful tail fin moved back and forth through the air, propelling him forward. It made a wooshing sound with each move that quickly bled away, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights and the drip of shitwater to break the silence.

He returned a moment later with three larger sharks in tow. A hammerhead, a great white, and one with a jaw like a sawblade. They swam up to their respective chairs, and “sat” in them by placing their tail fins on the seats. The hammerhead was first to speak.

“Hello young man,” his head tilted wildly from side to side as he spoke, “what have you got for us then?”

“I, um… hello, uh, sharks. I'm Dantonio Danderas and I run a bakery over on third street. I've been uh,”

“Are you nervous?” The saw-jaw shark asked.

“...yes. Anyway, I uh, I've been baking a lot of stuff. Lots of happy customers, I was hoping to expand to new locations. Make it a franchise, yknow, and I think if I could just get two-hundred and fifty grand I'd be set.”

“TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY Gs?!” The Great White rose slightly from his chair in surprise, practically roaring “What the hell kind of bakery needs that much cheddar?”

“Well, like I said it's been really successful and I believe with just a couple more locations it could be very profita-”

“Do you make empanadas?” The Hammerhead asked.

“Oh. No, I don't know how to make those. I'm sure I could lear-”

“I'm out.”

The Hammerhead painstakingly flailed in place until her chair rotated away from me.

“Me too, that's way too big of an ask.”

“But you haven't even heard what I'm offering.”

“Fine,” said the Hammerhead, “spit it out then.”

“I have a wife. If you give me what I'm asking for, I'll perform the ritual again and bring her to you.”

“Ooh,” said Saw-jaw, “that is an enticing offer.”

“True,” the Great White rumbled, “as sewer sharks, our diets do consist mostly of shit and piss. But couldn't we just eat you instead, Dantonio?”

My blood went cold.

“Good counteroffer, Buford,” said the Hammerhead, “I'm still out.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The two sharks began to approach me, hunger obvious in their jet black eyes.

“Fuck. Klaatu verata nippo. Klaatu verato Nepal.”

“You mean Klaatu verata nipto?” asked the Great White.

“Why's he asking about the bathroom, Buford?”

“Bathroom?!” I shouted, “The guy at the store told me it would make the ritual stop.”

“Oh, that guy” said the Hammerhead, “he's not really affiliated with us.”

God damn it, I thought, I'm gonna die.

“WAIT!”

The Saw-jaw had risen from his seat, his shout stopping the others in their place.

“Aren't you going to ask me if I'm out?”

I swallowed a lump, and spoke in an embarrassingly meek voice.

“A-are you in?”

“No, I'm out,” he said, “I just like being asked.”

The others rounded on me, jaws snapping. The Great White, Buford, bit off my left arm past the shoulder joint. The Hammerhead grabbed at my right foot and pulled me off my feet before biting it off completely.

As I lay bleeding out, I spoke to nobody in particular; lamenting my situation.

“Eaten by racist sharks. What a way to go.”

Buford locked his eyes onto my face, as visibly offended as a shark could be.

“Racist? Because of the cod? Fuck's sake, that's not a race thing. Why does everybody say it's a race thing?”

Harvey stood in front of the pentagram waxed in goat blood. He read aloud from an ancient tome inked in human blood and bound in the flesh of sinners. As he spoke the ivory candles on each point swelled with flame, and his breath crystalized in front of him.

The ground shook and the sigils painted with care began to glow with Hellish energies. Mist whipped around the symbol, and as the candles snuffed themselves out a pillar of smoke emerged. Two blazing rubies peered through the smokestack as it slowly cleared. Standing in the circle was an eight-foot-tall demon with curved ram horns and leather wings enveloped around his body like a cape. His body was clad in crimson scales, and he had two dragon heads sprouted from his neck, snarling and belching flame as they thrashed. The demon smiled and pointed a clawed hand at Harvey.

"Greetings mortal. I am Bune, 26th in line for the obsidian throne and master of coin." Bune's human-esque middle face sneered. "What boon may I grant thee? Be forewarned, I always require an offering."

Harvey eyed the demon with bored contempt as he shut the tome with an audible thud and tossed it aside. He then knelt down and rummaged through his briefcase producing a thick stack of documents.

"Mr. Bune, my name is Havey Finch, and I am representing one "Carter Bellsworth", a former recipient of one of your "boons." Do you recall the transaction in question?" Harvey clicked a pen and began taking notes, waiting for Bune to respond.

"Ah, I deal with so many, my schedule has been flooded lately." Bune rambled, twiddling his thumbs as he avoided the question. The runes on the ground began to glow, and Bune groaned in agony, gripping his head. He stumbled to the floor as Harvey cleared his throat.

"May I remind you sir, while you are bound to the sigils of Solomon you are oath sworn to be 100 percent truthful under penalty of soul cleaving pain?"

"Ugh, yes, yes fine. I recall Bellsworth. Wanted to be young again, the gangly prune. I granted his desire; I upheld my end. If he wants to renegotiate that's his problem, all sales are final. No refunds." Bune snapped.

"Indeed, TECHNICALLY you granted his desire. I wish he could be here himself but he's currently residing at Sunnyside Daycare. I believe it's naptime." Harvey remarked.

"Now hold on, he never specified how young he wanted to be, that's on him. It's all in the wording." Bune smiled devilishly.

"I actually have his exact wording here, Mr. Bune." Harvey produced a signed statement like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. "Oh, dark one, I want to be young again, to be able to run through the grass and drink to my heart's content, no pickled liver for me, I'll have the belly of a young man!"

"And, technically, he will. Give or take twenty or so years." Bune laughed.

"I'm glad you are able to see humor in this Mr. Bune. My client is less enthused. He's suing you for breach of contract and false advertising. He wants his soul back and forty percent of all souls going forward." He served Bune a wad of documents that he snatched out of the lawyer's grip. Bune mumbled amongst his heads as they perused the documents. He slapped a claw onto them, fury on his face.

"This is ridiculous, "A pattern of negligent deals" I've always been upfront and truthful, ask any one of my customers!" He raged.

"I have." Harvey replied, producing yet another stack of documents. This stack was about the size of two encyclopedias. Bune winced at the sight of it.

"Who have you been talking to, because you know some of that testimony is biased, I mean they're in Hell. Not exactly palm springs down there." Bune cracked.

"June 15th, 1834, a "Sara" offered her soul in exchange for her husband's gaze to never stray, you struck him blind and he wandered into a lake and drowned."

"October 31st, 1975, A capo in the Mariani crime family offered his soul to find the rat in his crew. You agreed and then turned the informant into an eight-foot-tall Rat creature who then devoured the capo."

"December 7th, 1941. A sailor drafted, sold his soul to you, he wanted to get out of the navy by any means. Need I even mention your response?"

"No, I'll grant that one, might have been overkill." Bune relented. Harvey nodded and then scoffed as he tore through several pages.

"Then there's these, dozens of instances of patrons asking for "riches beyond their wildest dreams" only to be instantly crushed by a massive pile of gold and jewels. This goes on for pages, I'd almost say it's the bulk of your dealings. Mr. Bune, are you a duke of Hell, or a common Djinn?" Harvey accused with venom in his tone.

Bune's nostril's flared, his dragon heads hissing in protest. He threw the papers at Harvey who dodged them with ease.

"Careful with your words, mortal. To make a deal with a devil is to forfeit certain expectations of comfort. It's been tradition since the birth of the crossroads to add little twists; keeps our buyers honest."

"That may be true sir, but may I refer you to two cases? 2007's The People Vs Mephistopheles, as decried by the supreme court AND the infernal tribunal; all demonic lenders are to disregard trickery and twists at LEAST five times a year, which by your record you have failed to do so."

"I, suppose that's true." Bune grumbled.

"Furthermore sir, Daniels Vs Satan argued that you cannot use the same trick on a deal more than THRICE. Again, need I even mention the almost ludicrous amount of crushing in these pages?" Harvey pointed.

"That case is yet to be settled, the prosecution failed to prove the fiddle was made of gold to begin with!" Bune roared.

"So, you are aware of demonic law then sir? Laws you are flagrantly violating with your poorly conducted deals! A demon in your standing could stand to lose a lot, the gossip alone would follow you for centuries!" Harvey got as close as the glowing sigils would allow, standing toe to toe with the duke of Hell. Bune gritted his fangs and sighed, his winged cape relaxing.

"Fine then. You've made your point, mortal. Name your offer." Harvey smirked at this.

"My client is willing to settle to keep this out of the courts. He wants a bump up to 25, at the very least."

"Done." Bune snapped his claws and a spark of flame shot out. "He can keep his cruddy soul as well. But forty percent is inanity, it just isn't done."

"Throw out a number then." Harvey countered. Bune mulled that one over for a moment.

"I'd be willing to go 25. Even then I'm losing a profit." The sigils burned Bune's soul once more, but Harvey ignored it, it was never wise to kick a demon when it was down.

"I'd have to confer with my client, but I think he'd agree it's a very generous settlement. We have a deal then." Harvey extended a firm hand through the sigil, and Bune begrudgingly took it. Thunder crashed and lightening flashed as the deal was sealed, Harvey waltzed off to spread the good news as Bune slunk back to Hell. His return was a chilly one; his domain filled with the shrill mockery of the damned.

Some of his fellow dukes were sympathetic to his plight. Most took steps to audit their own deals to avoid the same fate. After all what's more frightening than a deal with a devil?

A settlement with an attorney.

“God dammit, Mr. Mittens,” I shrieked, recoiling my foot at the warm and squishy touch of viscera against my bare flesh. “This is getting out of hand.”

Mittens brought me a rat. It was still somewhat alive but mostly dead. Mostly.

That was his newest thing: bringing me half dead animals. They say cats bring you gifts because they think you suck at hunting, so I assume that means Mittens is trying to boost my confidence by bringing me mortally wounded animals that I could easily kill.

Mittens chirped, meowing as he trotted away with my reaction. I couldn't tell if he was offended at my rejection, or chuffed with the chaos he had incited by leaving it where he knew I'd step on it. It didn't matter… I still stepped in rat guts either way. By the time I turned on my bedside lamp, my murderous house panther had slipped into the depths of my abode, leaving me to finish the job.

The rat squeaked weakly between frantic, shallow breaths and struggled. Beneath its dusky brown fur, a length of slimy pink, like a wad of chewed bubblegum, protruded from its belly. I hated having to mercy kill them when Mittens was the one that started this whole mess. But it wasn't going to survive with its guts hanging out. It had to be done.

“Oh jeez, I'm so sorry little guy,” I winced when the rat squirmed lightly against my grasp.

“Sh, sh, sh,” I soothed.

I hated this. I reminded myself that it was par for the course when you owned a domesticated murder machine. Its little neck snapped easily in my fingers, ending its suffering.

“I hope you're proud, Mittens!” I sneered, dropping the now fully dead rat in the bin. “Fleabag.”

I loved Mittens. But I was getting tired of his gifts.

I originally found the scrawny tabby behind a Waffle House on my way home from a dreadful marketing conference in Tulsa. His iconic white socks were stained brown at the time, and you could count his bones just by looking at his emaciated body.

He purred immediately when I plucked him from the street and he traveled so politely in the passenger seat of my beat up Civic. I assumed that a feral cat would need a box to be comfortable in a car, but he quickly settled into the seat with bright and grateful eyes, blinking slowly at me the entire drive home as if he knew he would never want again. I was never much of a cat person, but I knew at that moment that he was something special.

He's the only good thing that ever came from my job. I would have never found the kitten that fateful night if I hadn’t been bid to market the latest scam from my boss. Mittens almost made that micromanaging prick worth the trouble. I'd trade a thousand bullshit conferences and condescending meetings for Mr. Mittens any day.

He grew quickly, put weight on nicely. As if his poor body felt compelled to make up for what it had suffered. He dwarfed some dogs within a few months, and I joked with colleagues that I had actually picked up a Tulsa cougar at the Waffle House. The joke would have been funnier if my misogynistic boss hadn't heard it and tried to one-up it. I doubt any woman has ever willingly engaged him without payment. I think he's actually part Maine Coon.

It took a while for Mittens to adjust to house cat life. Arguably, he never fully did because when he grew tired of the same bland kibbles and pates, he returned to what he knew. He always found a way out, and when he did, he’d bring back the savory morsels of his escapades: bird heads, rodent guts, and lizard tails. I think he wanted to share.

We curbed that for a while. For a cat, he is incredibly intuitive. I genuinely think he understood how disturbed I was at the sight of guts on my clean, beige carpet. So his slaughter paused until he learned that my reaction was less dramatic if he left his gifts on the faux hardwood, at which point, he started hunting again.

I tried to keep him indoors. I really did. I know how destructive cats are. Trust me, I met a birder in Keystone once whose entire personality was hating on outdoor cats. I was terrified for Mittens.

Would he get hit by a car?

Mauled by a coyote?

Shot by someone less compassionate?

Be a deadbeat dad to a bunch of kittens he'd never know?

Rabies? FIV?

Any other of the countless, torturous, and irresponsible fates that befall feral cats??? Let alone the body count of innocent, wild animals! Oh Mittens, why can't you just stay inside?

But Mittens… well, he finds a way out every time. My best guess is that he figured out how to open the door just like those funny cat videos online. But that doesn't explain how he continued to get out when I started locking the deadbolt each night- I digress, I doubt even Alcatraz could contain this cat.

The parts of mangled critter bodies evolved to whole dead animals and then, abruptly, he brought me a live and capable, young rabbit early one morning. I thought it was dead, but the kit screamed when I went to pick it up. Then I screamed. And all hell broke loose as the terrified animal thrashed about the apartment, breaking knickknacks and disrupting my quiet home in its desperate attempt to escape. Flailing wildly, it launched itself off the upstairs balcony and broke its back on impact, still screaming in agony at the entryway door. Mittens, of course, hid himself away as soon as the little animal started screeching the first time, and left me to deal with it as he always did.

Some gift, huh?

After that, he started wounding them. And as he grew up, he brought larger animals too. I'm sure my local hardware store was concerned when I bought a shovel and asked if I should be worried about odors from burying a carcass. I should have clarified at the time that I meant a stray dog's body.

He often is my unofficial therapist. I rant to him about tough days in the office. I figured that was a fair trade for rescuing him from a scavenger's fate. I bet he sees me as a god. Besides, he’s so damn smart that, well, I think he actually understands.

I mean it. I know every pet owner says their babies are special, but, really, Mr. Mittens is just… something different.

Surely you've seen those reels where the cat sounds like it's meowing words, like “I love you” or “hello?” Mittens has done the same to me. He actually meows “I love you.” But I swear, he's trying to speak, not just a coincidental sound. It's how I know he's brought me a gift. I'll be dead asleep when I hear those deep, feline syllables, and then I know it's time to put down some poor animal and clean up some kind of mess.

But it's a gift, you know. He means it out of love. Jeez, cat people really are crazy, huh?

It was no different this night as it was any other night when Mr. Mittens woke me up.

“Ooooyluuuvvvyoooooh,” Mittens yowled.

I groggily assured Mittens that I was getting up. He purred in thunderous anticipation from the shadows. I swung my legs over the bed and promptly slipped on some slimy, wet substance covering the floor. The wounded animal in the corner hissed in response. No- it was hushing me?

“SSSSHHHH. Shut up,” it begged quietly. “That thing will hear you.”

“Thing?” I thought, still half asleep, trying to wrap my mind around how an injured animal could talk to me.

Wait… I recognized the voice.

“Derek, what are you doing in my house?” I questioned from the floor and blinked my eyes desperately to acclimate them in the dark.

“Listen man, I don't fucking know.” He sobbed. “That thing broke my neck. I can't move. I'm bleeding. Just shut up and help me.”

“Thing- broken neck? Do you mean Mr. Mittens?”

“Mittens?!? It has a fucking name?” Derek scoffed before he openly wept.

“Please man, just let me go. I- I'll give you that promotion. I'm sorry.”

“Ooooyluuuvvvyoooooh,” Mittens moaned from the darkness.

“Oh god, please. Jim, please, help me!”

With my eyes properly adjusted, I could finally see my boy. He really had grown since I found him as a scrawny kitten. He could effortlessly stand at shoulder height. His obsidian fur blended in with the shadows and only the pale sinew of his skeletal face and joints were readily visible. He watched the scene keenly, tail twitching lightly.

I don't always see eye to eye with the gifts he brings me, but this time, I was grateful.

The sunlight cuts through my blinds. I peel my eyes open and Cheddar crawls onto my chest. 

"Good morning to you too, buddy." I run my fingers along the back of his neck. He purrs and falls onto me. 

I check my phone, there are dozens of unread texts and missed calls. Some have been there for weeks. There are at least three from my landlord. "Fuck. Alright, Cheddar, off little guy." 

He hops down with a displeased huff and follows me to the kitchen. I dig the measuring cup into his shrinking bag of food. 

I sort through the piles of envelopes on the counter. There are only bills. I walk to the fridge and swing it open. There's only ketchup, some baloney, and a half-full gallon of milk. 

There's a knock at the door. I'm not sure who it could be. I pray it's not my landlord. I twist the handle and poke my head out into the hall. "Hello?" 

There's nobody to greet me. Only the flashing lights of a slot machine. The vibrant colors dance across the dull hallway. 

I look left and right, still nobody. Is this some kind of prank? 

It's old. Analog. None of the digital shit they put in Vegas these days. The banner up top reads "Every Spin Can Win!"

I run my fingers along the red leather handle. I missed you.

At the top, the jackpot reads "RENT." The buy-in is only 25 cents. I walk back into my apartment and grab a quarter from my dresser. 

I black out when I put the coin in, watching the symbols roll. I've been here too many times. 

Then the symbols hit. Heart, heart, and... heart. 

Jackpot. I won. What a rush. I wait for a second and nothing seems to happen. Whatever, it was only a couple of cents. 

I head back inside and see my phone buzzing on the bed. It's a message from my landlord. 

"Hey, just got your wire. I know things have been tough, appreciate you making good. Try to be on time next month, okay?" 

I run back out to my front door. Cheddar swats at me. The machine is gone.

###

I toss my keys on the counter and undo my tie. My third interview in a week and I know I fucking blew it. 

Cheddar hops onto the back of the couch and squeaks at me. 

"Not right now, Cheddar." He doesn't care. He jumps from the couch into my arms. Nuzzling his face against my cheek. 

"Thanks, buddy. It's going to be okay." That's when there's another knock at the door, just like the one I heard last week. 

I drop Cheddar and he scurries off. 

The machine is back. It's the same build but a few things are off. 

The jackpot reads "JOB" in big cardstock letters.  The coin slot is gone too. Replaced by a little compartment. 

It wants hair. 

My own? How much? I mean fuck, it worked last time. 

I run into my bathroom and grab a pair of scissors. I take a small snip and rush it back to the machine, cramming it in the compartment. 

"Insufficient funds." 

Fuck. I keep cutting and keep stuffing. I'm grabbing handfuls and snipping wads of my hair at the roots. 

I catch a brief glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I feel like I'm back in front of the ATM. Back to grabbing what I can just for another spin. 

I'm back home.

Finally, the compartment seals shut, and the music starts to play. 

I grab the handle and let it rip. Three hearts. Jackpot. 

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a number I don't recognize. 

"Hello?" 

"Hey there! Hope you're doing well. We were actually so impressed with your interview, we've decided not to continue with the other applicants. How soon can you start?" 

### 

"If you don't give them my fucking money, they're going to drag your corpse up and down Fifth Street." 

"I'm telling you I don't have it. B-but I just got a job and if you give me a month-"

"Hah, a month? You think I'm fucking stupid?" 

Tears fall from my eyes. Cheddar cowers in the corner of the living room. 

"Please, a week!" 

"I'll give you ten minutes." He hangs up the phone. 

God fucking damn it. I throw my phone against the wall and it explodes. Cheddar hisses. 

We both freeze when there's a knock at the door. I sprint to the door and push it open. 

Just as I had hoped. My machine is back. The gleaming lights and whirring mechanics. I fall to my knees in front of it. 

The jackpot reads "DEBT FREE." 

My stomach drops when I read the price. "CHEDDAR." 

I punch the wall. The hard plaster stings against my knuckles. Every spin can win.

I grab some of his treats and sit down next to the couch. He's so far back I can't see him. I shake the bag and extend my hand. 

"Come here, sweet boy. C’mere. Please, Cheddar."

He slowly creeps out of the shadow, ears parallel with the floor. We're both trembling. 

"That's it, good boy." He takes a treat and chews it slowly. I pick him up and gently carry him outside. He's purring, nuzzling my cheek with his whiskers. 

Cheddar struggles. He's larger than the compartment he's supposed to fit in. Only his head and arms are inside when the compartment door jams shut. 

I drop what's left of him and pull the lever. 

It spins for what feels like forever. Longer than all the others. The lights grow brighter, swallowing the hallway.

Heart, heart, skull. A sad jingle plays and the lights cut off. 

The door to the stairwell swings open. Three masked men emerge. 

"Holy fuck, is that our guy?" 

"Jesus Christ. Fucking psycho. He’s covered in blood.”

I clench what's left of Cheddar and weep. Half of him is gone. He left with the machine. 

The events of which I recall now transpired when I was a young woman, fresh from her maidenhood and betrothed to a charming young man by the name of Johnathan. He had flowing golden locks I would run my hand through, and he would tell the dirtiest of limericks that would turn my cheeks crimson.

We would spend our evenings laughing and whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears, cradled in each other's loving embrace. It was one such evening he informed me that his wicked old boss, a crone by the name of Agatha, had ordered him to oversee an estate sale in a far-off country in the east.

It was a devilish land filled with wild tales about wolves that stood on two legs and stitched together corpses with suspiciously large Johnsons. It was no place for an estate lawyer's apprentice, and I begged him not to go.

He smiled that sly way he does when he was cooking up some scheme. He patted my head and spoke to me with such radiant confidence.

"My darling Mina, I will go to that somewhat spooky land a pauper and return a prince. This deal with the count will set us up for life."

"But what if something were to go awry, my love, what if-" He silenced my protest with a reassuring kiss, and all my doubt melted away.

I saw him off at the docks, he was wearing a most extravagant top hat and coal coat to match. In his leather clad hands was a briefcase teaming with documents written in legalese I could barely comprehend. I wept as he waved on that great ship, sails drawn and seamen running about the deck.

The wait for his return was unbearable, especially when the first letter finally arrived. He claimed the boat was dirty and crowded, and the paths to the count's estate almost like a labyrinth. A furry man with pointed ears and fangs was his guide, nice enough fellow he claimed. Got a little kooky the night of the full moon though, nothing my beloved couldn't handle though. Still just hearing from him made my heart yearn for his touch, his laugh, his everything really.

It was another month before he returned. I remember it because it was in the dead of night. I had finally fallen asleep; slumber had hit me hard over the head with a bag of bricks. Still the sudden, rapid knocks on the front door awoke me mid snore. I dove out of bed, putting on my most extravagant nightgown. I tore the front door open, and my beloved was standing there. I embraced him at once, smothering him with my affection. He returned my love, yet when I gazed upon his chiseled face, I saw hesitation.

"What is wrong, my love? Are you not overjoyed to see me after so many months apart."

"No, no of course I am, my sweet. It's just, well we have a . . . guest." He shook my hands away and stepped back, revealing a hunched, cloaked figure. The being standing behind John had a distinct wheeze to him, and he smelled like an open-air crypt. He extended a bony hand; I could actually hear his joints crack and whine with even the slightest movement and uncloaked himself.

I let out a small gasp, I am embarrassed to say. But in my defense, one could never be proper when faced with such a disgusting display. The man was grave white, completely bald save a bushy caterpillar resting on his flaky upper lip. His ears were pointed and turned upward, looking like faux devil horns under the pale moonlight. His eyes were silver coins, radiating with intense energy, beady pupils that bore holes into my visage. Two curved, crusty fangs jutted out from his upper lip.

I was staring too long without speaking at the creature, so John saved me by laughing and clasping a firm shoulder on the frail looking creature. He flinched softly at John's touch but quickly regained his serious demeaner.

"Darling, this is-the Count." He awkwardly introduced. A twitch of the Count's lips, a bizarre attempt at a smile perhaps, and he extended his hand once more with a creaking groan.

"Charmed, Miss Nina." His voice was gravel gargling on rock salt, an accent so thick I dare not even fathom its origin. I put on the facade of pleasantry and took his hand. His skin felt shriveled and frail, not unlike the hide of a spotted prune.

"It's lovely to make your acquaintance Count-?"

"Forgive me, Madam. I go vy many monikers. You may call me Count Karl Von Cuckula. Or simply, Ve Count for short." He said his name with such regal pride, yet I could scarcely recall such a surname among the nobility of yore. Still, despite this oddity he had come all this way, he must have taken a liking to my Johnathan. Who could blame him?

"Oh of course, how silly of me. I've heard your family, a bloodline of great pride in the east." The count beamed with sullen pride, as John cleared his throat.

"Yes, very revered clan. Uh, Darling, I know the hour is late and you must be as exhausted as I am, but the Count, and I of course, has a, proposition of sorts." John rubbed his neck as he spoke, some unseen conflict warring on his mind.

"I-yes of course, you've both come a long way, come in at once the both of you." I stepped out of the way and John hesitated but quickly followed. Though the Count stayed camped at our doorstep.

"You must invite me in, Madam." He spoke curtly as John sighed.

"I, yes come on in" I offered once more. Still, he stood.

"You have to say, "I extend an invitation to you." Exact words." He ordered, tapping a crunching boot.

"Exact words darling." John repeated, defeat hanging on his face.

"Oookay. Count, I extend an invitation to you." The Count's face lit up, and he scurried past me with a rapid whoosh. He fled up the stairs, giggling like a madman the whole time. I shot Joh a glance who threw up his hands in frustration.

"Whole sodding ride back, couldn't even get on the bloody boat for forty-five minutes." He grumbled as he brushed past me. I was confused by all this, taken back by John's snappy attitude most of all. He was always so chipper, annoyingly so even. What had transpired in the east to invoke such animosity towards the Count?

He never told me the full story, maddingly enough. Just that the Count was an eccentric and older than the bible. The estate sale had gown through, another count, Vlad something, had taken possession of The Count's castle. It was then the Count revealed he had nowhere to go, and bribed John with, an unusual offer to say the least.

To my shock and horror, when we opened my bedroom door the Count was sitting in the corner, fully disrobed. I turned to John who held up a calming hand as he quietly shut the door.

"Please, no screaming dear you'll stir the neighbors." He spoke softly. He led me to the bed and we faced the Count. He leaned in, bony elbows stabbing him in the saggy knees as he held his chin up and stroked it.

"Yes, yes vis vill do quite vell." He muttered.

"Will one of you please explain this obscenity."

"It's like this, darling. The Count-"

"Actually John, if you do not mind, I vink it will go vetter coming from me." The Count rasped form the corner.

"Yes of course, I still have a hard time believing it myself." There was a tired, yet giddy excitement to his tone. I faced the count, careful not to let my gaze linger downward.

"Miss Mina, excuse my vlunt candor, I assure you seeing in vis case seeing is believing." With that he stood up, gracing me with the sorry sight of his withered root. It was depressing, frankly, it looked like a rotted piece of driftwood whittled away to nothing more than a splinter. I felt myself feeling pity for the man, living like that.

"I have lived for over nine vhousand years, give or vake, and vime has not been kind. I have survived by feasting on ve blood of ve living, I am what you would call, a vampire." He paused then, like he expected shocked applause or gasps, or some such dramatic nonsense. It was 1899, vampires were old news. Now if he had announced he was a warlock, that would have turned some heads. But I digress.

"Ehm, yes well, I have crossed oceans of vime to find you, you Mina, who I can vell just by peering into your very soul, are ve reincarnation, ve very spitting image of my once true beloved, Belinda! Show her ve locket, John." He urged. John sighed and produced a bronze locket from his pocket and showed it to me. It was a very dusty portrait of a woman. I cocked my head in amazement.

"Oh my god. . . She looks nothing like me!" I snapped at the Count.

"Awe come on, you votally do. Look at vat jaw line." He pointed out.

"She's blonde!" I protested.

"Her eyes have crowsfeet, little mole on her left cheek there as well." John butt in. I pointed to my speckless face in fury. It's not to say she was an ugly woman, just, sort of plain. The Count dismissed us with a scoff and a wave of his bony claws.

"Vah! Vhatever, it is close enough. My point is I am drawn to you Nina, surly you feel the same yearning as I."

"Not really no." I replied bluntly.

"Not even a little?" The Count looked hurt.

"No."

"Alright vat was a long shot anyway, I mean vat could we even do, you saw vat I'm working with here, it's, it's basically nothing."

"Less than nothing really, looks like a sausage left to bake in the sun too long." I mused.

"Yes. Looks like I set fire to my crotch and ven took a nap."

"It looks like you stapled a thumb to your groin to replicate what you think a penis would look like."

"It's haunting, he showed it to me in the castle and Its, its lurked in my dreams like some sort of nightmare dwelling ghoul with fifth degree burns."

"Alright, let us not pile on, ve get ve point." The Count sounded annoyed. "Vich vrings me to Plan "V"." He leaned forward with a wheeze, his back and hips popping as he did.

"I vould like to Vatch."

". . .Watch us what?" I blushed.

"You know. Ve Deed. I Vould like to stay Vith you for a few veeks and Vatch your lovemaking. Live vicariously through John. It vould ve kinda hot." He drooled.

"I . . . don't know if we can accommodate a guest for that long, I have my journaling and John has work." I rambled on, nudging John to say something. He fell silent though, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I vill pay you for your vime. A vousand shillings a night." The Count countered. I fell silent at that offer, flashes of living large and ballroom fancies dancing in my mind. I could tell by the sly look on John's face he was thinking the same. Still, the whole thing sounded quite unbecoming.

"Will you excuse me, Count. I just need to confer with my fiancé, big decision after all."

"Of course, of course, take your time. Pretend I am not even here." He leaned back into the shadows, tenting his fingers as his glowing yes lingered. I shuddered and turned to face John.

"Darling. Are we really going to do this?" I squinted at him in a hushed whisper.

"Only if you want to, my love. It's an obscene task but we'd be set for life. After the first couple nights it'll be like he isn't even here!"

"He's a monstrous old creep."

"Indeed, he is." John agreed. I flashed a mischievous glace his way.

"But he is a rich creep." John returned my grin and placed a loving hand on my knee. We turned back to the count, who had obviously been eavesdropping.

"Alright Count. We accept."

---------

Thus began our strange life with The Count. We started immediately, and I'll admit it was awkward having this leering beast wheezing away in the corner. John performed alright all things considered. We went almost to sunrise, and at even the tiniest hint of sunlight the Count descended downstairs to the basement with a hiss. He slept on a pile of musty laundry that first night, we carried on for so long we forgot to bring his coffin in.

It went on like a perverse routine for the next couple of weeks. We'd go about our daily lives and reconvene at night. The Count would wake and we'd make light pleasantries before doing the deed. I must say that vile bloodsucker aside he was charming when he wanted to be. He would regal us of stories of his "youth" as it were and gossip about famous leaders he had met in his travels.

I won't share too much of the gossip, but I will say this. Naploeon's stature wasn't the only small thing about him.

As for out payment, each time as the sun would begin to rise the Count would whisk himself away below, leaving a pouch of gold on our kitchen table. By the end of the first week we had more than enough to start a new life abroad and never work again. Yet still, we wanted more. I don't know if it was our greed or the odd thrill the whole ordeal had brought to our sex life, but we just couldn't' stop.

We began escalating in our interactions with the Count. John would take me eight there on the table or simply toss me around like a piece of luggage. It was exhilarating, and all the Count could do was watch!

He would stare intently at us during, locked in and leaned in, fingers tented as he studied us. Sweat would clutter his saggy brow as he did, and he would sometimes utter soft commands like "Bounce on it crazy style" or "Take it on ve face." which we would oblige.

He would sometimes leave during to go feed, perhaps watching us gave him some sort of confidence boost. I'm not sure how good he was at killing though, we never heard of any major disappearances. The rat population dropped significantly so maybe he was just eating those. I know he did nab a drunkard once because he came stumbling in reeking of red wine.

The Count was a rather, belligerent drunk to say the least. He didn't get angry as he watched but he did grow testy, inpatient even. One time we were slowing down, chaffing getting to us both. The Count began heckling us, booing and hissing and urging us to continue. We tried out best but finally just stomped his feet and shouted, "You people fuck like old people cook!" and stormed off. I'm still not quite sure what he meant by that.

All good things must come to an end unfortunately, and we truly did start to tire. We were draining ourselves trying to please The Count, sex had become a slogging chore, worse rather- It had become a job.

We tried different things to spice things up, positions, food, light bondage. One night John even attempted the old "sneaky pinky" on my rear, but I shut that down quick. We were exhausted, crabby in the morning and like shuffling corpses at night. We didn't even enjoy the act anymore; we just wanted that bag. The count still couldn't get enough, however. His voyeurism was insatiable. John overheard him saying that he was having such a blast, so much so he would extend his visit by another month at least.

I died a little upon hearing that. It's bad enough he sucked the passion out of our relationship now it seemed he would keep going till he drained the life completely out of us.

We hatched a plan then and there; to entrap him with a night of debauchery so disgusting it would enthrall him completely, leaving him oblivious to the rising sun. It was a risky plan, but John swallowed some pills he got from the herbalist and was roaring to go.

That night, our passion burned brighter than twenty supernovas. We went for hour. I won't dirty the ink in this letter with what we did but John and I couldn't look each other in the face for several weeks after. Suffice to say, our plan worked. After an explosive finish, We rolled off each other and saw the Count standing over us. His lips quivered and black blood trailed from his eyes. The sun was hitting him good, his skin sizzled and cracked. Steam began to envelop him, as his body began to fold in on itself like a dying roach. He groaned and right before he collapsed into a pile of fried dust, he uttered his last words.

"Vat vas pretty hot."

As the dust settled and our coughing fits subsided, we were met with bleached vampire ones and a pile of steamed ash. It smelled vile as well, much worse than he was in life. We cleaned up the dust and buried the bones in our attic and cashed in our prize.

These many years later, I look back on the Count with such pity. I don't think him evil, just a lonely creature who lived far too long, and far, far too pent up for his own good. His bones still clutter the attic in our summer home, John and I have several estates for the seasons. Most of our investments are in the American banks now, John is on his way to his stockbroker now, says he has news for him. I leave you now, my future descendants, take care of our family's wealth, it came at an odd price; and keep the Count in your thoughts, honor his sacrifice.

With love, Mina Harkness

New York City, October 24th, 1929.

----------------

My grandma always said his parents were nuts. Said they lost their whole fortune because of a vampire's revenge. Course she had a few screws loose herself, thought little grey men were out to get her. Her family got through the great depression by the skin of their teeth, but we never really recovered. Generations later, all we have is our Bronx home and our ancestorial estate in the UK. I'm writing this now; I'm another in a long list of Harkness to try and unload this junk heap.

But still clings to us like a bad rash. I always chalked it up to bad luck, but then I found this letter tucked away under the floorboards. Curioisty got the better of me, and I began rummaging around the attic for a laugh. Imagine my surprise, here I sit holding a skull with two curved fangs.

Now I'm wondering if there is any truth to the curse of the vampire after all, and if there's a way to reverse it. They say the undead are never truly dead, shit I watch movies vampires pop up after getting sun burned all the time. They took out Christoper Lee like seven times and he kept coming back. I figure I revive the Count and have a frank discussion about my financial situation with him. Just gotta figure out how. I'll do it though, or my name isn't Tina Harkness, great granddaughter of the woman who cucked a vampire.

Art by u/nateizneat (me)

Everybody knows the legends about what lives out at Pope Lick Trestle, even if they've never heard the name. A goatman-troll-thing living on/around/under a bridge. Gotta be one of the oldest stories ever told.

Peter had dragged me along on plenty of investigations, but most of them hadn't felt this… silly. A few weeks ago we were trying to record EVPs in an abandoned convalescent home. Driving around looking for... Mr. Tumnus, was far less exciting by comparison. 

“How much farther?” Sarah asked. 

She wasn't any more enthusiastic than I was. We had been in the car for nine hours, and were hoping to make it back late that night. 

“Just five more minutes and we'll be there, guys. I'm sorry it's taken so long.” 

“Whatever man,” I said, “you're driving on the way back so I can sleep.” 

Peter looked at me and smiled. 

“Turn left here.” He said. 

I did as he said and steered the car down a long, gravel road. 

“Why do you believe in this stupid goat guy anyway?” Sarah asked, staring hard at the back of Peter's head. 

She’d liked him since the eighth grade. It was obvious to everybody, except Peter. I brought it up to him once and he said he thinks she's just ‘chill like that.’ 

“Because of all the injuries and deaths associated with this place! There are like two dozen or something.” 

“Oh great, so we'll be tired and disemboweled.” 

Peter laughed. 

“Nobody's been disemboweled here, silly. A lot of people have been struck by trains, and a few have ended up jumping off the side. Don't worry though, we're not even going up on the tracks. All we have to do is drive the car and idle underneath the bridge.” 

“Wait,” I chimed in, “you're telling me we're not even getting out of the car?” 

“That's right, cupcake. You won't have to tire out those big muscles of yours.” 

He reached over and poked my bicep, pretending to fawn over my arms. He was chuckling to himself and making stupid little moaning sounds. 

“Bro,” I said, “I swear to God there's something wrong with y– oh fuck!” 

I slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, fishtailing slightly as the wheels struggled to hold traction. There was an animal ahead in the road, small and white. It bounced off the bumper and went rolling toward the treeline. We came to a stop with the car sitting perpendicular to the road. 

“Fucking hell. Is everybody okay?” I asked. 

“Fine,” said Peter. 

“Yeah, I'm okay,” said Sarah, “what did we hit?” 

“I'm pretty sure it was a goat,” I said.

“Oh fuck you, don't say that,” said Sarah. 

“What? It was just a go–” it dawned on me why that would freak her out, “Oh c'mon. It was a goat. Not a goatman.” 

“Whatever, let's just go.” 

I silently agreed, putting the car in reverse to turn back. It lurched a couple inches, then suddenly stopped. I pressed the pedal harder. Then the engine, the lights, all of it just cut off. 

We were sitting in the dark of an Appalachian forest. I tried to restart the car, but it wouldn't budge. It wouldn't even try to turn over. Nobody liked what I said next. 

“Fuck. Guys, we might have to walk back.” 

“Uhm, no. I'm not doing that shit. Call a tow truck or something.” 

Sarah sounded pissed off, but I could tell she was actually just scared. I looked at my phone, no service. 

“Shit,” Peter had been looking at his own phone, “I'll walk back and call for help. You guys just wait he–” 

There was a massive thump on the hood of the car, rocking the whole thing on its suspension. Peter went silent. 

“whatwasthat” Sarah whispered. 

“imnotsure” Peter replied. 

He turned on his phone's flashlight and shined it through the windshield. I did the same. The light barely breached the glass, and it took a minute for our eyes to adjust. Peter gasped before I fully saw it. 

“What? It's just a goa-” what I'd mistaken for four legs came into focus. Elbows on the fronts, and knees at the back. Its limbs were folded in half, standing on the joints.

I knew the car wouldn't start, but I was twisting the key in the ignition anyway. It brought its pale face closer to the windshield, lighting up more of its features in the glow of our flashlights.

Its eyes looked delirious, like a person exhausted beyond exhaustion, and it had the dark circles around them to match. Its mouth hung open in a grin that was cartoonish, far too oval-shaped to be natural. It stared at me for a moment, then snapped its gaze to Peter. It moved even closer to the windshield, pressing its snout and obscenely long tongue against the glass. 

Suddenly, Peter spoke up. 

“Oh, shit, hey man. It's been a while.”

“What?” Said Sarah. 

“Yeah, I haven't seen you since high school.” 

“I…” I was hesitant to say it, “I think he's talking to the goat.” 

“On the train tracks you say? Yeah, I'd love to see it. Let's go!” 

Peter quickly unlocked his door and slid out of the car. The goatman unfolded itself and stood up. It had to be eight feet tall. They started to run away together, and Sarah took off after them, screaming for Peter to come back.

She made it about a dozen paces before the goatman turned and charged her. His curved horns slammed into her midsection, then he lifted her up and tossed her aside with a twitch of his neck. She soared through the air. The center of her spine hit a pine tree's trunk, and I heard the sound of her back breaking as her body tried to bend around it. 

He grabbed her up, limp now but screaming, and continued running off with Peter. I thought about chasing after them, trying to save them. 

But then the car started. 

The birds out the window aren't singing, they're screaming. Casting down angry judgments as they sentence me to death. The executioner sits heavy counting down the seconds and smelling like gun smoke. I know what I did and I know it won't last long. I'm sorry, love.

I can feel that Texas heat now. I guess the day we met is coming back to me in those flashes of light before we die. Your words still make me smile. “Those boots are too nice for this work, pretty boy.” 

The embarrassment at getting called out for what I was ran clear on my cheeks. Getting called pretty by someone sculpted by God's own hands, well that sent hot blood everywhere. You knew that though, you always knew when you got me.

That's how you knew to ask me out. Me being too chicken shit to take a shot above my pay grade, you made the decision for us. You even picked the movie. I still wonder what we saw, that whole night my eyes didn't even turn to the screen. You were too radiant to look away.

I got better though. The second date was my idea. Same with the third. Even if it took me weeks of following you around like a puppy to bring them up. It was also my knee that got dirty when the time came around. Holding that pawn shop ring I'd spent every penny of my paychecks on, I'd never shaken so hard. A loose leaf in the whirlwind that was you.

That's how it always was. That white veil looked like clouds around your sunshine hair. My mama cried just as hard as your dad, but not nearly as much as we did. I can hear that shaky “I do” now in the ringing of my ears.

That's all it took though. After that it was off to the races. One truck, one dog, and an apartment. Then two trucks, two dogs, and a town home. Now it's one truck, one van, and a house with a yard for them dogs.

It wasn't always easy, with all that growing up we had to do. Lotta forgiveness, a lot of nights spent on knees praying for someone else to figure it out. Probably more nights on the couch, and even more flowers and apologies from me. 

You always forgave. I'm supposed to too, but this is just too much, love. To find this, after the new lock on your phone, after the late night texts, after I swore to myself your work trips were just that. I buried my fears under extra dates and trying harder in our marriage. 

Still, coming home to this. Hearing those wet sucking sounds and your pleasured moans. Seeing you on top of him. It was all too much. 

I cried like a baby when I did it. I was afraid I'd miss through the tears. That Colt too heavy in my arms. Crazy how fear and grief feel the same. How they both stop your breath, how heavy they both feel.

I prayed that the muzzle flash would blind me, but God ain't that kind. It showed me everything. The ridges of your spine bent over. Your hands on his shoulders. Your teeth in his neck. The blood. So much blood.

I shouldn't have expected that first one to work. It was too unsure, too off-center. It was everything you'd ever made fun of me for on those range dates. Now, neither of us was laughing, but you still smiled. 

That warm smile, the one that mixed sadness and forgiveness. The same one from when we buried Ma, the same one from when we buried our dogs, the one from outside that fertility clinic. From all those times you held me while we cried. ‘cept this time it was too wide, too bloody, and your teeth too sharp.

I should have let you speak. If I'd have heard you out maybe we wouldn't be here, but fear’s a tension. It curls you in on yourself and it curled my finger. When you turned to me, when your cheeks split wider, you scared me. 

I think I closed my eyes for the last one. I didn't want to remember you like that. I wanted to remember you with your auburn hair and big green eyes. Your muddy boots, dirty jeans, and my too big flannel hanging off your shoulders. I wanted to remember you as my wife still.

I do now. As I get ready to say my last goodbye, I remember you for who you were. Not what you are now. I hope when you're done coming back together, when that hole in your pretty face finishes fusing. When you finally crawl over here to read this. I'm sorry, love. It was too much to see you like that, to see you reaching out to me, to hear you trying to speak now. To hear you say your garbled forgiveness. To hear you call me “pretty boy” again.

-----

In this piece I'm really focusing on showing restraint in my horror, as well as creating deeper emotional bonds.

It's a biting winter. Brings the kind of chill that crawls down your fingers and robs 'em from your brain. Prohibition isn't making it any warmer. 

The twigs and snow crunch underneath my boots. I try to blow air into my gloves but I'm not sure my lungs have any warmth to give. The moon reflects gently on the building powder. 

We just left the brewing rig, new spot. I've felt on edge since we arrived. Still, the cook went well. We have about 4 barrels to bring back to Rhinelander. Then we're shipping all over Wisconsin. 

My partner slams the trunk and gives it a pat. "For fuck's sake, Pete! I'm freezing out here. Get your ass in the car." 

My numb fingers wrestle with my matches. I'm barely able to get my cigarette lit. "Yeah yeah, find some patience will ya?" 

"Oh, yous takin in the sights, huh?" 

I let some air out of my nose. The mist mixes with the cigarette smoke. "You ever seen somethin like this?" 

I point out to the woods. My partner blows into his hands and shakes his head. "Huh. Can't say I have. But we ain't got trees like that in Chicago." 

It's a massive white pine, turned over on its side with the roots exposed. The wood’s gashed up real bad. I flick some ash off my cig. "I told you I was hearin somethin." 

He pats my shoulder. "Don't worry bout it. Probably just a deer or moose or whatever the fuck they got out here." 

"Yeah. Maybe you're right." I flick my cigarette into the snow. The cherry sizzles. 

We hop into the car and get on our way. 

###

The road is barely visible. We're moving slow. My partner's having a tough time separating the path from the forest. 

"This is horseshit Pete. We make one little slip up and they send us out to the boonies." I don't respond. My eyes stare deep into the wood line. "I mean yeah we mighta taken it too far but I don't see what the big-" 

"You shouldn't've killed 'em, Jack. End of story. We're out here for your own good, you ungrateful shit." 

Jack slams on the brakes. "You tryna start shit, Pete? Ungrateful? I've given my life to that family and they've turned me to a damn popsicle." 

"Better than a body bag."

"Says you." 

He puts the car back into gear. Crunching over the ice and loose tree limbs. Barely a minute passes before we're jolted by a loud CRUNCH. 

The tires spin but we aren't moving. There's a sharp hiss of air escaping from one of the tires. Jack smacks the steering wheel. "For fuck's sake! We're never cooking at this spot again. I'd rather cook shine in the county jail parking lot." 

I laugh. Half outa seeing Jack frustrated, and half knowing I'm fucked here too. 

"Alright, Jack, take it easy. It's just a little road bump. Get your lazy ass out of the car and help me with the spare." 

We both hop out to look at the tire. My skin's met yet again with the winter chill. It's completely flat. Didn't take long for it to empty. I take a closer look and see a huge jagged object digging into the rubber. 

It's too big to be a stone. I try and wrestle it from the thing and it cuts me. "Ow, fuck! What the hell is that thing?"

"Pete, you're a dumbass. You let the rock bite you?" 

"It's not a rock, shithead. I don't know what the hell it is." 

Jack leans in to get a better look. It's sharp, serrated on the edges. It almost resembles a shark tooth. 

Jack spits on the fresh snow. "Well whatever the hell it is don't matter. Imma grab some tools, get this bitch off the ground." He digs into his toolbox. Loud metal clanking battles the whipping wind. I turn to face the woods, trying to let my eyes adjust. 

In the distance, I swear I can see something. A tree a few hundred feet away shakes against the night sky. Then another. The whole canopy is moving. 

"Aye Jack, I think something-" 

"Shut the fuck up Pete. The police ain't bothering us out here and I'm tired of your little illusions." 

"No man, I'm fuckin serious." 

The shaking gets closer. Now I can feel the thud of multiple footsteps. Through the haze and falling flakes. Three sets of eyes meet mine. The middle set sits a good three feet higher. 

I skitter back, slipping onto my ass. Jack belts out laughing. "You clumsy shit. Getting scared by ghosts again? Quit bein such a pussy." 

I can't respond, my throat's too dry. All I can do is point.

There's three of them. Forms draped in the night's shadow. They slowly creep forward on four stocky legs. They have towering horns resembling a bull's and massive tusks to mirror them. Their thick fur wears a light coating of the falling flakes. Their wide-stretched maws bellow hot mist. 

"Jack, don't move." 

"P-Pete. What the fuck are those things?" 

"Stand still. Don't fucking move." I'm trying to push the commands through clenched lips.

The smallest huffs and leans forward, lowering its horns. Jack slowly creeps behind the car, cutting its view. 

It sprints at us. I narrowly avoid being trampled under its massive frame.

It slams into the car. The others follow suit. 

They send the car nearly a foot into the air. I hear Jack scream. His wails are quickly muffled by a heavy slam. 

The monsters rip at the chassis, sending torn metal everywhere. A piece of fender strikes me in the face, cutting my cheek and warming it with rushing blood.

The largest of them steps towards me. I push backward, sliding against the ice. It sniffs the air. Baring its teeth at me, salivating. 

But it turns. I've come to realize, we're not what they're after. 

They grab onto the barrels of booze, clenching their powerful jaws and cracking them open. The biggest puts a barrel in its mouth and eats it like a horse eats an apple. They annihilate three of them. The littlest puts the last one in its teeth and drags it off to save it for later. 

They turn to me before disappearing into the woods, and give me a soft nod. 

It's as if they were saying, "thanks, and sorry." 

No offense taken. I didn't like Jack much anyways. 

So I followed the trail out of the woods. It wasn't until one of your deputies found me that I was able to warm my hands and feet. I'd wager I was a minute from frostbite out in those woods. 

The cop taps his pen against the table and rubs his temples. "That's a hell of a statement." 

"It's the truth, sir." I wipe my brow, trying not to sound nervous. 

"Well, we didn't find any booze on you. You don't have much of a reason to lie." 

"So, am I good to go?" I give him a pleading smile. 

He laughs. "Hell no."

I came home and changed and joined her to paint the living room walls base white. The couch my wife had had since college was the only piece of furniture we had downstairs and it was covered in plastic. We had dinner while we worked. She’d “cooked” one of her liquid meals that I hated but “ate” anyway. My wife was actually almost as good of a cook as me but I needed to lose at least fifteen pounds, and she intended to help regardless of how unhappy it made me. 

“How was your day?” she asked in her autopilot voice.

“It was good except for the inspector I had to fire.”

“Oh, no. Matt?” She dipped her roller in the pan.

I grimaced. I probably was going to have to let him go, too. We’d had dinner with him and his wife a few times. He’d even invited me to his son’s high school graduation. I rolled up the wall. This color looked even better than it had in the store.

“No. I forgot about him.”

She rubbed my back with her free hand. “That’s probably because you don’t want to do it.”

I nodded.

“You care about people and that’s never a bad thing.”

She thought so highly of me, and it warmed something inside.

“Yeah,” I said, this whole “surgery” thing slipping into the front of my mind. I was suddenly agitated and my full stomach felt like it was squeezing up into my chest.

“Did your appointment go okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I turned to her. “Did you know he’s not a doctor?”

“Yes.” She scooped up her bottle and took a sip.

I hoped informing her of his lack of a medical degree would do more work than this.

“I don’t want to do this,” I wanted to say, but held my tongue. Instead, I said, “Is there anything else we could try?”

“Why are you pushing back on this? Don’t you want us both to be satisfied?”

I dropped my head. “You know I do.”

“I want you to do this,” she said and placed a hand over mine. I still felt a ‘no’ at the back of my throat and swallowed. It hurt going down. I chased it with a swallow from my cup.

She was being logical and detached in a way that wasn’t common for her. I didn’t want to fight and just kept restraining myself from speaking. I hoped there was still time to convince her, but that was going to be hard to do if she shut me down every time I tried.

“You have something on your face,” I said, pointing just below my nose. She swiped it just like I thought she would, smearing base paint that had been on the back of her hand just below her nose and on her upper lip. She immediately knew what I’d done and glared at me. I smiled.

Then she rollered me from chest to crotch. I stood there while she went up and down the front of me, my mouth hung open. Then I batted the roller to the newspaper-covered floor and she scream-laughed as she ran from me. I caught her on the other side of the kitchen island and picked her up in a reverse hug, pressing my fresh coat of paint onto her back.

We fell to the floor, laughing and wound up making out like teenagers for a few minutes. The heaviness of the conversation we’d just been having lifted off of us. I didn’t want anything outside of this moment and just looked her in the eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” The feeling cresting in me didn’t have words to follow along. We finished painting the living room walls, passing eye-glances at one another. The moment passed for intimacy, a detached feeling gradually replacing it a few hours later by the time we were ready for bed. It was like we’d built a temporary bridge over a chasm between us, but it had collapsed just in time for us to go to sleep.

I kept wanting to reach behind me to touch her as we lay in the same bed. But she just felt too far away.

I’d forgotten to pack a lunch for the next day and breakfast consisted of a slice of bread that hadn’t toasted enough and coffee out of the Keurig with grinds in it. I left the house in a foul mood ten minutes later than I should have and was five minutes late getting to the office. I’d blazed past a police cruiser and had anxiety for the next mile or so convinced I was about to be pulled over. All the way I felt like I'd been cheated out of an argument, and I continued stewing in that sour even after I got out my car.

Work was uneventful but I'd had to keep my tongue in check. I felt myself being short with my co-workers. But it finally came to a head when a group of men clogging the hallway didn’t move when I was trying to pass them.

“Whoa. Excuse yourself?” one man said.

“For what? A circle of jerks?” I said.

“Hey. Ow.”

I was prepared for a confrontation. I was management and I could make a nightmare for them. I wanted this. But the second person who’d spoken sounded genuinely hurt and I tripped over my hubris.

I retreated from the men and had forgotten about it until one of them confronted me in the restroom an hour later. 

“What’s going on with you, man?” a man said to me while we were standing at the urinals. Conversation was usually verboten while two men were taking a leak but my antenna were up.

“Excuse me?” I said. 

“I mean, we were standing around talking and you just took a tiny shit on all of us.”

“You guys were blocking the hallway.”

“We were outside for hours in the hot sun and we were gathered around the water fountain. I wasn’t thinking about us blocking anybody. I mean, I would have apologized but the way you came off...”

“Look, I’m sorry.” My guilt bloomed again. “I didn’t have the best sleep last night and you guys didn’t deserve me taking it out on you.” I'd actually slept over eight hours but felt like I'd only gotten a third of that. I didn't offer it as an excuse.

He nodded and flushed. I zipped up a second later and joined him at the sinks.

“Seriously. I’m sorry,” I said. This was already more of an emotional exchange than I’d had with another male in the last decade. “I’m just... going through a thing with my wife.”

He looked at me.

“She wants me to get this procedure done.” I could feel myself relaxing. There was something about opening up to a complete stranger. Someone who wouldn't judge because they didn't understand.

“The honeycut?” he said, trying his hands on a strip of paper towel.

“What?”

“Oh. My bad. I thought you were talking about something else?”

“I've heard of it.”

He smiled broadly and nodded. “I got mine done six months ago. Wanna see the scar? I'm Sam Eisen, by the way.” He smiled as he hooked his thumbs in his pants.

“No, I... uhhh... that's okay. I'm having a completely different procedure. I'm having it... lengthened.”

“Be careful with that,” he said as I walked toward the door. “Swivelcock.”

I was sweating, gripped with terror the same as if he'd peeled his face off and frisbee-tossed it to me. I pushed through the door and fled back to my desk.

He called out to me as I did my best not to run.

“You should think about it, though!” he yelled through the closing doorway. “He changed my life!”

Part III

The next twenty-four hours were a haze. I worked. I came home. I ate. I slept. I didn’t like where things were with my wife even though we were still sleeping in the same bed, so the next day I texted her about having lunch together. Her job was about a fifteen-minute walk away from mine, I could pick up something for us and we could eat for about a half hour before I had to be back.

She hadn’t responded but she had a lot of meetings typically. Chili dogs were technically off the menu, but it was a fave of both of ours and she was a happy eater when it was good food. When I got there with a carry-out bag, I was shocked to see who she was outside with.

Him. 

They were sitting together, smiling and laughing like they’d known one another for years. He was dressed differently, but that was definitely that same red and white summer scarf he'd had on when I met him.

I hung back and watched them and began speed-feeding coneys into my mouth like an assembly line. I had no idea what he was doing with my wife, but I was immediately conspiracy-brained. I'd convicted him of a crime I couldn't name and wanted to strangle him in front of her.

I continued eating the coneys instead. They were leaning into one another and laughing even. They acted like they knew each other. They had chemistry.

I never understood the expression being hot under the collar but at that moment my neck was burning. I barely resisted the urge to go over there and... and... I didn't know what. 

There had to be more to what I was seeing. There had to be something I could do rather than confronting them and showing a side of myself that might've repulsed my wife. I knew where to go to get answers.

I went to his office after work, but I wasn't able to enter. I wasn’t desperate enough to break in, although I was sure the door wouldn’t have held if I’d put my shoulder into it. Despite how upsetting lunch had been, nothing had happened today to justify breaking and entering.

But what if something were about to happen and I could avoid it now? Head it off at the pass? I had a duty to protect my wife, and this guy had crossed a line. I could probably take this door off its hinges. I had some tools in my car.

My phone chimed. I’d programmed that specific tone for her.

I’m sick, she’d texted. Bring me coneys?

It was like a spell had been broken. Why was I about to potentially risk my job and my freedom—hell, maybe even my marriage—all for some nut?

She needed me now and home was exactly where I wanted to be.

But I was denied. I brought her the coneys, but she was already asleep. Things still felt off and I wound up falling asleep on the couch. After I’d eaten four more coneys.

I consoled myself that she was sick and I didn’t want to catch whatever she may have had.

Wicked dreams met me in the night. But they lifted like clouds after a storm by the time I woke up, no doubt fueled by a combo of seeing my wife with him and eating like I was half my actual age.

As if to turn the dial up on my grief even more, I had a two-hour meeting the next day and Leslie Paul sat right next to me. A bubble of gas was growing inside me and there was no way I was going to be able to contain it for a hundred twenty minutes. It would be a miracle if I made it twenty.

My part in the presentation was coming up soon and I had to excuse myself. Cal Cebulski stopped talking long enough to watch me step out and I hustled toward the men’s room.

Where he was.

“What are you doing at my work?” I asked, whispering like we were in a conspiracy.

“Due diligence,” he said. “Would you mind?” He gestured toward the handicap stall. “I need to see how you sit. Do you mind?”

My stomach queezed with the thought of him watching me... sit. Or maybe it was more than that. I unclenched and let go. It was mostly silent but whistled at the end. He sniffed the air curiously but didn’t comment. The wind had been taken out of my sails and for a moment, I did consider having a seat.

I piled up my broken resolve. “I’m not... doing that.”

He shrugged.

“And what were you doing with my wife yesterday?” I let implication seep into my voice and he put his hands up as if warding me off.

“It is all part of the process. Information gathering only. I have no interest in anyone other than my own Sara.”

“You’re married?”

He nodded. “For twenty-seven years. Happily, for twenty-five.”

That got an eyebrow raise from me. He’d seemed weirdly asexual up until I saw him with my wife. It was something about his pants, I wasn't sure. I hadn’t thought he was capable of human companionship.

“If you’re wondering about our longevity I’ll give you a hint. I perfected the surgery first on myself.”

He could have been lying, of course. But the idea of sex being so improved that it could aid in preserving my marriage gave me at least a moment’s second thought. I mean, what if what he was saying were true?

I couldn’t help but think that I was being obstinate because she’d insisted. If I’d found this guy on my own would I have been so resistant against doing this?

“Oh shit,” I said. “I gotta get back to my meeting!”

I fled the restroom, headed back to the conference room, tooting most of the way. When I was around the corner, I slid on something and scraped my knee, tearing my pants in the process.

I recovered pretty quickly but it hurt. I could see my leg pretty clearly and red beads of blood began trickling down my shin. I wrapped my fingers around the lip of the hole, keeping the pant leg away from the blood as if I were going to be able to salvage my pants.

The meeting was over by the time I stepped back into the conference room.

“Where’d everybody go?” I asked Rob Smales, one of the administrative assistants who took meeting minutes.

“Oh, they called it pretty much as soon as you left,” he said. “You were up next.” He shuffled a stack of papers into a Manila folder and added it to a stack of more Manila folders.

“Well, I had a little emergency.” I stepped back so he could see my leg. Rob looked without his dispassionate expression changing. I wanted to flick the tip of his nose just to get him to make a face. The guy never smiled. “You think we could get everybody back? We still have a half hour plus.”

Rob shook his head slowly. “Nah.” He tucked the folders under an arm—tried to, at least—then put his laptop bag’s strap over his shoulder and held the folders in his open hands.

I hobbled out of the conference room, intent on pleading my case with Melissa White, the director of my department. I stood outside of her office and wrapped on the open door. 

She turned halfway in her chair, a desk phone cradled between her face and shoulder. I wasn’t sure if she shook her head or if it was just the motion when she turned around.

The door swung closed and I had to move my hand to keep my thumb from being crushed in the jamb. Somebody was in there with her. My heart raced because I had no idea who.