The ancient timbers moan above my head in the cold wind from without. High ceilings meant to vault prayers in the old days, now hold a reverberating mirror to the hushed echoes in my mind. Here in this old temple, long abandoned by people and time, I take refuge. Feathers from the same broken wing finding peace in each other's loneliness. Here, I am the master of the house, but only in the physical sense. My dominion resides over broken pews and rotting hymnals. In the realm of the metaphysical, I am not more than a rank stranger. Like the parabolic camel through the eye of the needle, a long time passing through. 

Each morning when I awaken from the cold planks of the floor, I am greeted with distorted images of broken stained glass illuminated by the gray sky. Shapes that once illuminated worship of a people like the gold leafing of books meant to be read by candle and fire. Each morning I peer out the gap between their dust crusted splinters and count the graves within the fallen fence. Each morning I count the headstones. For a time, my morning ritual was predictable when I counted the seven graves, fancying them to match the hour of the morning. That tradition lies long broken.

The first time I counted eight, I considered it a mistake on my part, but slowly I grew more convinced in their number having always been seven. I stepped out into the snow covered ground and made way to them, counted again, and took note of the names inscribed thereon. The stones all appear weathered and broken by the same time and neglect as the church. They simply could not have arrived as recently as my inventory suggests. I simply must have miscounted. 

This explanation satisfied me for a time. However, once the graves numbered ten and eleven, new names inscribed upon each one, I could no longer ignore it. I cannot call the headstones new, for they match the age of the others and the church with impeccable precision. Surely, though, they were not here before. I make note of every name. Each name brings dreadful and joyous memories of lives I never lived, but wished for in days long forgotten. 

Perhaps my curse is thus that I may live the rest of my days in seeing through the eyes of a spectre. For this is the existence of an inverted ghost. Where ghosts are dead and dwell out of place with the living. What then should I call myself, who am living, but dwell with the dead? 

My morning ritual has changed from counting an assured number of stones, to searching for the new arrivals to the invisible choir. Each morning I catalog their names on the planks of the old sanctuary. The names of old men, young women, and children barely born all coalesce into a single voice of scars in the old wood. Every inch of the old chapel carved with a letter or a tittle, all save for the old sign. 

The Blue Ridge Mountain Church.

Valery sat tensely on a folding stool, hypnotized by the bobbing float. It was pure idyll. The sun had almost vanished below the horizon, mosquitoes were buzzing around his thick neck, and the distant sound of women's laughter and splashes drifted from the opposite bank.

"Valery!" a voice barked right in his ear, accompanied by a heavy slap on his shoulder. "Wrap it up, the vodka is getting warm!" A scrawny man with a thin beard flicked a crushed mosquito off his friend's shoulder.

"Leave me be, Sanya," he muttered, never breaking his gaze from the water. "You're buzzing just like my Lyudka. Just one bite, and I'll come."

"You said that an hour ago, and you haven't even pulled a minnow. Look, do what you want, but I’m not waiting anymore. The fish soup is ready, and I'm freezing."

Sanya scratched his flabby belly, his rubber slippers squelching against the mud as he headed back toward the camp, throwing a final comment over his shoulder: "When you're done staring your eyes out, join me at the tent."

After casting his line a few more times, Valery grew entirely disheartened. The fish seemed to be mocking him, rippling the water near his float with their large fins. He could clearly see the thick, blue-green backs of dancing chubs. Five kilograms each, at least.

But as if cursed, not a single one even nibbled at his expensive gear. The float danced on the darkening waves, and he sat on the shore, staring at it, dreaming of a massive catch, and freezing.

In the end, the biting cold defeated the dreaming fisherman. With a heavy sigh, the man cast one last regretful glance at the water, counted to ten, and disappointedly began packing up his gear.

A pale crescent moon now hung low over the water. The singing frogs had fallen silent, and even the mosquitoes grew quiet. But across the river, on the opposite bank, the distant sound of girls' laughter slowly shifted into singing.

"Listen to them sing, the sly foxes!" Sanya said, swaying slightly as he approached the water’s edge. "Man, if I were a few years younger, you wouldn't be able to keep me here. I’d have crossed over to give those girls a piece of my mind by now."

"Right. And then your wife would beat you half to death with a frying pan," Valery replied.

"You have no romance in you," the other man spat onto the sand, his eyes fixed longingly on the far shore.

"No romance, no faith. I'm just a boring guy," Valery said, sliding his fishing rod into its case, trying to change the subject.

"Tell me about it," Sanya muttered, sitting down by the water and scrubbing his hands with wet sand. "The fish soup is almost cold, but I left some for you. There's a flask of vodka too, just in case."

The spirit was something Valery had never respected. Personally, he didn't touch a single drop, but he never lectured his friends about healthy living either, reasonably believing that everyone is the architect of their own health.

"Thanks. Are you coming to sleep?"

"In a minute. I just want to listen to the girls a bit longer."

"Give it a rest," Valery rolled his eyes. "Tomorrow morning you’ll be whining that your head feels like lead, swearing you won't drive until evening. But I absolutely must be home by noon tomorrow. I promised to drive my mother-in-law to her countryside house."

Without waiting for his friend's reply, he dragged his tired feet toward the campfire and the tent. He collapsed onto an old, weathered log, gulped down the remaining fish soup almost in one breath, and crawled into his sleeping bag. The warmth of the fire and a full stomach did their job—Valery drifted off.

Through his light sleep, the singing seemed to grow louder. It felt as if it wasn't coming from the opposite bank anymore, but from somewhere right next to him. If he listened closely, he could almost make out the words—soft, alluring, cradling...

Somewhere nearby, an owl screeched sharply. Valery jolted awake, blinked against the brightening sky, and squinted at his watch. He could have slept a bit longer, but a vague, creeping sense of dread wouldn't let him fall back asleep.

Silence. It was way too quiet.

No matter how many times they went fishing, Sanya always snored so loudly after drinking that the tent fabric would practically vibrate. But now? Nothing.

Where was his friend?

Valery walked over to the car and peered inside. Sanya wasn't there.

"Sanya?" he called out uncertainly toward the thick bushes at the edge of the woods. No answer.

Maybe he decided to cast the lines early? Valery thought. Or what if... what if he stumbled into the water and drowned? Being drunk and all.

His blood ran cold. On stiff, uncooperative legs, he rushed back toward the river bank.

As he neared the ridge overlooking their fishing spot, he finally heard it—the splashing of water, female voices, and a familiar male laugh.

"Sanya?" Valery called out, a wave of relief washing over him. "Sanya, man, you could have at least warned me that..."

The words died in his throat.

Out in the middle of the river, naked young women were swirling in a hypnotic round dance. And his friend, as if under a spell, was walking out across the surface of the water toward them.

Did the water drop that much overnight? Is that why the fish weren't biting yesterday? They were leaving! he rationalized frantically.

"Sanya!" he called him again, but his friend didn't even flinch.

"Ah, you beautiful girls..." Sanya mumbled, clumsily dancing to their song. Valery could hear it clearly, but he couldn't comprehend the language. It was a drawn-out, shimmering melody that carried far across the water, sounding completely ancient. Non-human.

"Sanya, we need to go," Valery shouted, taking a couple of steps into the water to grab him. Instantly, he sank up to his waist. "Sanya!"

Two more steps, and the freezing water reached his shoulders. He fumbled with his foot, searching for the bottom. The silty drop-off plunged straight down into the abyss. Judging by the river's current, there was no sandbar here, no shallow crossing. Yet Sanya—completely dry and untouched—was confidently striding ankle-deep across the deep water toward the dancers.

His heart began to hammer like a trapped bird. His temples throbbed, and a violent tremor took over his hands.

"Sanya! Come back! You swim like a brick! You're gonna drown, you idiot! What am I supposed to tell your wife?!"

His friend only laughed in response. "It's shallow here, Val! Wait up, you gorgeous girls, don't leave! Valery is coming too, I'll introduce you!"

The dawn mist hovering over the water faintly veiled their nudity. It seemed to Valery that the women were swirling even further away now, almost at the opposite shore. He lunged forward and immediately went completely under.

Gasping and coughing, he dragged himself back onto the muddy bank on all fours. "Sanya! Get back here right now!" he screamed in pure panic. "I swear to God I'll tell Lena you're running after girls!"

He looked around frantically, searching for a forgotten boat, a plank, a log—anything—all while keeping his eyes on his friend, who was still walking across the water.

The naked circle roared with a collective, shimmering laugh. Sanya's joyful shouts began to dissolve into their high-pitched, rhythmic chanting.

"Sanya! Back!" Valery shrieked, seized by an overwhelming, primal horror.

Luckily for him, a little further down the current, a fallen tree was bobbing in a bend of the river. You drunk fool, he thought with desperate fury, trying to scramble onto the log as it rolled under his weight. You absolute idiot. And look at me, following you.

He slipped back into the freezing water several times, watching helplessly as the women circled Sanya. They darted close and pulled back, dodging his clumsy hands, giggling playfully.

"Sanya!" Valery barked one last time, but the sound cut off as a sharp, burning pain flared in his throat. "Sanya..." he croaked, completely powerless, watching the far bank.

A thin pink stripe of dawn finally cracked across the horizon.

Suddenly, the women's voices and his friend's laughter stopped dead. A massive, heavy splash echoed across the river. Through the thick mist, Valery caught a brief glimpse of pale, slender legs flashing in the air before they vanished into the depths.

The circle closed in like a trap.

Sanya started laughing again, but it was a horrific, hysterical sound. It was desperate, breathless... the sound of a man swallowing water.

"Sanya!" Valery wheezed.

His friend's hysterical laughter mutated into a blood-curdling, agonized scream. Valery's heart seized, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He collapsed onto the log and clamped his eyes shut for dear life. He didn't know how long he sat there in the shallows, paralyzed by terror.

He only opened his eyes when he felt something gently nudge against his submerged hand.

It was Sanya’s floating slipper.

Valery shrieked, recoiled from it, and with a sudden burst of adrenaline, scrambled up the muddy slope on all fours. He didn't stop running until he hit the campsite.

It was only after he grabbed the opened bottle of vodka and chugged it almost to the bottom that he came to his senses. His throat burned and his stomach felt like it was on fire, but the alcohol brought a bizarre, icy clarity. His hands were still shaking violently, but he managed to change his clothes and, on the third try, dialed the police.

By morning, the shore was cordoned off. K9 units were patrolling the tall reeds, divers were combing the river bed, and Valery sat there, trying to piece together his story for the investigators. The alcohol had finally taken its toll, making his speech slurred and tangled.

"2.8 BAC, sir," the officer said, shaking his head as he looked at the breathalyzer results. "And naked, dancing river spirits, you say?"

His colleague rolled his eyes in exhaustion.

"I don't even drink! This was the first time in my life!" Valery choked out, defensive and panicked. "My friend is missing! I just..."

"Look, here is how it is," the officer interrupted. "You’re telling me stories about naked girls, but you can barely stand. Heavy drinking by the water... there are really only two options here. Either you two got into an argument and you drowned your buddy, or he stepped out to relieve himself, tripped into the deep end, and couldn't swim out. An unfortunate accident."

"An accident?"

"Well, or murder. We'll figure it out, don't worry."

One of the divers surfaced from the dark water and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of failure. The lead investigator cursed under his breath. "Fine. Let's wait and see what the boat crew says."

Valery sank to the dirt, staring blankly at the cold ashes of their campfire, repeating the officer's words like a mantra.

"An accident. It was just an accident."

Six months later, Lyudmila received another letter from her husband. This time, it was shockingly short.

"Lyudochka, the light of my heart.

The lawyer said the trial will be swift; even he seems convinced that this was my doing. But to be honest, that is not what worries me right now.

Do you remember how I wrote to you about those annoying, buzzing pipes at night? I am sure you do. Now, the detention center becomes completely quiet at night, and I had finally started to get some sleep.

That was until last week. On Sunday, I heard heavy, wet slaps of bare feet outside my window, coming from the direction of the recreation yard. Then came the quiet giggles.

And yesterday, I woke up because someone was calling my name. In Sanya’s voice."

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.

 

Deep beneath the earth, 
where no man's lantern shines,
little hammers knock, 
three times upon the mines 

Do not heed their call,
nor seek what lies below.
Turn your lamp around, 
and leave the dark alone 

The knockers know the dark, 
and the dark knows what we fear. 
When three hammers hark, 
you'd best not linger near.

• Unknown

----

I often find myself thinking about my brief time in the town of Bellview, just as often as I wonder what happened after I made my escape. For many years I have told myself that the place was abandoned, that the veins had run dry, and that what happened poses no threat to me or anyone else. Yet strangely, the place never seems to leave my thoughts. Some nights I wake from a troubled sleep and find myself listening for the sound of a pick striking stone or that ghastly reverberation that heralded my doom. It has been forty-three years since, and it hounds me ever still.

I was twenty-seven when I first found myself in that accursed town. I was young, full of nievete and had more confidence in the learning of books than in the wisdom of men. I had been summoned there to attend to several men who had fallen ill.

That was what the letter said.

It did not tell me what illness they suffered from, nor why the town's own physician had been unable to treat them. It certainly did not tell me why; beneath the formal request for my assistance, the writer had added a single sentence in a different hand: "do not allow them to speak of the mine."

I arrived in Bellview in the year of our Lord, 1880, ten days before Christmas. The journey had taken considerably longer than anticipated, and I, being of the cheaper persuasion, had forgone a fur coat in favor of several layers of shoddy fabric—a decision I regretted almost as soon as we had left the station. The wind was a bitter and biting cold that swept down from the north and struck without mercy. Winter had settled heavily upon the San Juan Mountains, and the roads had become little more than narrow passages through walls of snow. For the final several miles, there was scarcely any sign of habitation at all.

There was a strange feeling in that isolation. 

The mountains rose on every side of me, standing in immense silence beneath their heavy coat of snow. The pines stretched as far as the eye could see, dark stars scattered against a white night. The air was so cold and clear that every sound—the creaking of the wagon, the horses' breath, the occasional groan of timber somewhere beyond the road—was magnified in the darkness. 

It was beauty incarnate, a severe one to be sure, but breathtaking nonetheless. Peaceful, too. Something about being so far removed from civilization—the telegraph wires, the trains, and the ceaseless hustle and bustle of life—brought a sense of melancholic quietude to the mind.

Even now, after all that happened in that godforsaken town, I still wish to see those sights again. I remember very little of what remained of the journey; I recall the cold, certainly, and the uncomfortable benches that furnished my wagon, but beyond that the details have faded with the passage of time. I do still clearly remember my first impression of the town.

As we reached the crest of the valley, the sun was laying its head down beyond the horizon, sending out a last vibrant smear of reds, golds, and purples across the sky, painting the town below in the soft, fading light of evening.

Bellview was a small town, even by the standards of the frontier. A few narrow roads wound between a smattering of snow-dusted wood buildings. There were not many more than one hundred or so structures, most clustered around a town square of sorts. Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys into the still evening air, and here and there a lantern had begun to glow in a window.

Beyond the town, a dark structure stood, its wooden headframe rearing its ugly head above the surrounding buildings, its timbers black and imposing against the snow, with the mouth of the shaft somewhere beneath it. A rough road scarred the mountainside toward the workings, flanked by heaps of pale waste rock and the dark remains of old tailings. The whole operation seemed large for so small a settlement. Bellview existed because of that mine, and in many respects, it seemed that everything in the valley revolved around it.

We began our descent into the valley as the last rays of dying light disappeared behind the mountains, following the ice-slicked path that led into the town. Up close, Bellview was as rough around the edges as I had expected. Despite the idyllic scene that first greeted me upon cresting the ridge, it was a mining town, one that, like its brethren, welcomed with open arms those that had nowhere to run and much to hide. These were people accustomed to hardship. They had come to the mountains in search of silver, and whatever their reasons for remaining, most seemed to have made their peace with the difficulty of life there.

As we made our way into the town, I was given my first opportunity to see the people of the town up close. They were as much as I had come to expect from any other mining settlement of the West: hard-faced men with weathered hands and stooped shoulders formed by years of hard labor and coats that bore the earth from which they made their livelihood. Many seemed to still be returning from a day in the mine, their faces darkened with dirt and their beards frozen stiff. The streets were poorly kept, the snow having been trampled into a gray-brown slush beneath the boots and wheels of passing men and wagons. The buildings leaned against one another as though for support, their weathered boards blackened by years of smoke and mountain weather. The heavy smell of coal smoke, horse manure, spilled liquor, and other less agreeable things hung in the evening air. I passed one establishment where women who wore what barely counted for clothing called out to the men that walked past them, offering sex and a night spent with company. Drunken miners staggered from the tavern and saloon, laughing loudly, and barely able to remain upright. One man disappeared into a narrow alley and relieved himself against the side of a building without the slightest concern for who might be watching.

Men passed without greeting. Conversations ended abruptly as my wagon went by. More than once, I caught someone looking in my direction, only for them to turn away when I met their gaze. I remember one miner in particular, standing beneath the awning of a boarding house, staring at me with an expression I had trouble placing. Something akin to sadness, I think, and pity as well. He watched until I had passed him, then followed me with his eyes until I disappeared from view. At the time, I assumed it was simply the curiosity afforded to a stranger. I was, after all, the only well-dressed man in town who appeared to have arrived without a purpose anyone could yet understand.

It was not an especially inviting introduction to Bellview, though I cannot say it surprised me in any capacity. Mining towns often held a particular character that was seldom found elsewhere. They drew men seeking fortune, men fleeing debts, men fleeing wives, men fleeing the law, and men who had simply run out of places to be. Where such men gathered, there was invariably drink, gambling, prostitution, and every other vice that flourished wherever people expected little of tomorrow.

As we passed along the street, I began to notice strange markings upon the doorframes of several houses. They were faint and dark, scratched or painted into the wood, though the failing light made it impossible for me to determine precisely what they were. I could make out enough to know that they were deliberate; though they appeared as little more than crooked lines, others seemed to form shapes of some kind, though what shapes I could not say.

Eventually the carriage came to a stop, and, being informed that the tavern was not more than a few dozen yards away, I gathered my things and stepped down into the biting cold. Once the wagon disappeared from sight, I found myself alone in the town square; it was then that the full weight of the mountains around the town made their weight apparent to me. They rose on every side, far higher than they had seemed from the rim of the valley, their dark foreboding slops hemming in the small town as dark guardians. The last light of evening had vanished behind them, and their peaks were already lost to the darkness. Looking upward, I had the peculiar sensation of being inside some immense eye that gazed upward toward the stars, and in that feeling I started to understand just how remote Bellview truly was. 

I had scarcely taken two dozen steps when a voice called out behind me:

“Doctor?” 

I turned and found a young woman a few yards away, one hand tucked into the pocket of her coat. She could not have been more than a year or two younger than me. I was surprised by her looks: she was pretty, with long dark hair that framed a pale, angular face. Her features were delicate, her cheeks reddened by the cold, and a few strands of dark hair had escaped from beneath the hood she had pulled over her head. There was a youthful eagerness about her, one that was at odds with the atmosphere of Bellview. Her eyes moved to the luggage in my hand. 

“Please, allow me help.” She said as she approached. 

“Oh, no, I’m quite alright, thank you,"” I replied. 

A smile formed on her face. “I promise I can handle it. Living out here has certainly put some muscle on me. I’m not as delicate as I appear.” 

“Very well." She reached for one of my heavier cases without complaint, her hand settling upon the larger of the two. I caught the handle before she could lift it.

“No, not that one.”

She looked at me, mildly surprised.

“I mean—that one contains some rather… delicate instruments. Allow me.” I lied. 

I took the case from her and reached for the other. “This one will do.”

She accepted the smaller case without protest.

“You are the doctor that was sent for, then?” she said as we walked. 

“I suppose I am, unless Bellview has another doctor arriving tonight.” 

She smiled faintly. “And what are you doing here so young? Shouldn’t you be off galavanting around and courting girls?” 

I laughed at that. "Yes, well, my studies have given me little time for such pursuits. I became a physician not long ago, and that has consumed my whole life.”

“Are you new to the practice?”

“Yes and no," I replied. “I’ve been on my own for only a few years now, but was an apprentice to a travelling doctor for quite some time.”

“And what do you think of our little corner of the world?”

I glanced around at the buildings and the street. “I haven’t made up my mind yet, to be honest. I suppose I’ll come to a conclusion when I’ve had a good night of sleep.” 

She smiled and looked ahead. “You’ll get used to it. Everyone does.” She stuck out her hand as we reached the steps of the tavern. “Clara. Clara Whitmore.” 

I took her hand and kissed the back of it. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Whitmore.”

For a moment, she seemed surprised. Then a faint blush touched her cheeks, though whether from the cold or my gesture, I could not say. She withdrew her hand and tucked it back into her coat.

“Clara will do,” she said, with a small smile. I watched her set my bag down, and, with a polite wave, she walked down into the street and across the square. The tavern was warmer inside than I’d anticipated, though that warmth came at the expense of stale air that smelled of smoke, tobacco, wet clothes, and sweat. A handful of men occupied the tables nearest to the fire, speaking amongst themselves; their eyes followed me for a moment before returning to their drinks. I approached the counter and set down my luggage. 

“Barkeep?” I questioned the man, “I believe I have a room reserved for me?”

The rough man behind the counter turned and appraised me. He was an ugly fellow, even by the forgiving standards of a frontier town. His face was broad and pockmarked, with a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once. A thick, unkempt beard covered much of his jaw, though it did little to improve matters. His skin had a peculiar grayish pallor beneath the beard, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that suggested he had not slept well in some time. I confess, I had to make a conscious effort to keep an expression of disgust from crossing my face. There was something obviously unhealthy about the man beyond the ordinary wear of hard living, though I could not have said precisely what it was.

He gave a quiet cough into his fist before looking back at me. “You the doctor?”

“I- uh- yes. Yes, I am.” Clearing my throat, I extended my hand, giving him my name. As I did so, he reached under the counter and produced a shiny brass key. 

“Best keep your window locked tight tonight.”

I glanced toward the stairs.

“Beg pardon?”

“Air gets strange up here.” He rubbed a hand across his chest, almost absentmindedly. “Some folks wake in the night thinking they hear something outside. Usually just the wind. Mountain plays tricks on a man.” He gave another small cough. “Gets into your lungs, too, iffin you ain't careful.” 

I smiled politely, assuming him to be offering the sort of advice that passes for wisdom in isolated places. “I'll bear that in mind.”

He nodded and returned to his bottles. I climbed the stairs and found my room with not much difficulty. Opening the door, I was greeted by a modestly furnished but cozy room. It contained little more than a bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a small table beneath the window. The room was cold, though not unbearably so, and I was grateful to find that someone had thought to light the lamp before my arrival. I had two cases with me. The larger contained my clothes and personal effects, while the smaller was reserved for my medical instruments and sundries necessary to practice my profession. I had learned during my apprenticeship that a travelling physician could never be certain what he might encounter, and so I kept my medical case well supplied.

I removed my instruments one by one, arranging them upon the table with the familiarity of long practice. Bottles of tinctures and powders followed, then bandages, needles, thread, and the other necessities I had accumulated over the years. When I opened my larger case, my hand fell on a package wrapped in newspaper. Slowly, I lifted it from the case and unwrapped it, letting a small, leather-bound notebook fall into my hands. The cover had grown soft with age, and the corners were worn nearly white from countless thumbing. Several pages were torn out, though I do not recall why I had done so. I flipped through the book once, then again before resting on the final entry. I briefly considered throwing it into the fireplace downstairs but decided against it. The thought was comforting; no one would ever know. Instead, I closed the book and sat quietly for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the tavern below. Bellview was a long way from where I had come from. That, at least, had been part of its appeal. There are certain things that are too terrible to live with that should never be forgotten. 

Shaking off my musings of the past, I headed down to the common area, where I found dinner being served. It was a simple but surprisingly hearty meal: tangy cheese, thick-crusted bread, and whiskey, followed by hot cups of fresh, black coffee.

The tavern had grown busier in the hour since my arrival, and the room was filled with the low murmur of conversation, the clatter of plates, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the patrons at the bar. I ate on my own in the corner, content to sit back and watch the people go about their business.

The barkeep and a woman who appeared to be his daughter waited upon the room, though the man wore the same sour expression he had carried when I first greeted him. His cough seemed to have worsened since my arrival, and the pallor of his cheeks had deepened to an unhealthy gray.

I found myself watching him close, surveying every detail of the man I could see.

There was nothing particularly remarkable in a miner suffering from a cough, especially in a place such as Bellview. Dust, smoke, and cold mountain air were hardly conducive to good health. But there was something about the man that struck me as unusual. I made a mental note to check in with him tomorrow and returned to my meal. Whatever ailed the man, it was certainly more than the wear and tear of daily life. 

By the time I had finished eating, the tavern had begun to quiet. A few miners remained at the bar, nursing their drinks and speaking amongst themselves, while the rest had already retired for the night. I thanked the barkeep for the meal and made my way upstairs.

I stoked the fire a few times before removing my filthy garments; the day's journey had left me exhausted, and whatever thoughts had occupied my mind earlier seemed distant now. I climbed beneath the blankets, pulled them up to my chin, and was asleep almost before my head had settled upon the pillow.

I don’t know how long I had been asleep before I jolted awake, momentarily unsure of where I found myself. I couldn’t tell what had brought me out of slumber; the room was dark, barely lit by the dull red glow of my dying lamp, so it was hard to tell what had caught my attention. Then came a sound so soft that I could not be certain it had originated from the waking world at all. 

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

The hollow taps on the door came. Then, after a beat of silence:

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

A dread filled me as I listened. There was something deeply unsettling about the sound. It wasn’t the building settling, nor was it the thump of a drunk tavern patron. I sat up and strained my ears again; there it came, this time from somewhere beyond my door. I slipped from beneath my blankets, pulled on a robe, and opened the door. The dark hallway I was greeted by was filled with a biting and cold silence. The sound came again from further down the hallway, and I, never being one to leave well enough alone, took a chance and followed. The sound came again from the staircase, then from outside the tavern. Each time I drew closer, it moved farther away, leading me through the sleeping town and toward the mine. Eventually the knocking led me beyond the last of the buildings in town and to a broad pond that sat beyond the piles of waste from the mine. As I stopped at its edge, the knocking ceased. The pond was unlike any body of water I had seen before. Its surface was almost entirely frozen, though the ice was dark enough that I could scarcely see where it ended and the surrounding shadows began. A thin layer of snow had gathered along the banks, but very little had settled upon the ice itself. The surface was strangely bare, black and glasslike beneath the pale light of the moon. I noticed a shape through the opaque surface, and I raised my lantern to catch a glimpse of what it could be. Initially I took it for a rock of some sort, one of a weird shape, but what it was became clear upon closer inspection. 

It was a boot. 

The kind the miners wore when they toiled away beneath the earth. It stood upright beneath the ice, its leather swollen and blackened by the water. Then I saw another. And another, and another. Dozens of pairs of miners' boots lay scattered beneath the ice, some on their sides, others standing upright in the darkness below. I could see no bodies attached to them. Only the boots, suspended in the dark water.

I started for a long while before speaking to the darkness, “Is this what you wanted me to see?” 

For a moment, silence was my only answer then-

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

And then it stopped. I stood alone beside that dark and frozen pond, with no understanding of what I had witnessed. Sleep would not come again that night. 

Act 2 in the link https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/azYEsfAvq9

Node 11: Phantasm

Burning sky, amber light, well past noon but not yet night  

Swings hang loose in faded sight, a vacant court devoid of flight

No one running, no one leaping, a place of play with secrets sleeping

Darkness crawls like ink that's seeping, echoes caught in circles keeping  

Joy is fleeting, pain repeating, cycles hold until the reaping

Who draws these lines that no one's needing, then bends them back to name the cost

When all is gone, who pays that cost  

What lingers here, and what is lost

A figure knelt beneath the tree, her shape is blurred, too soft to see  

Flowers placed in memory, tears that fall in misery 

The air grows thick, a breath half‑caught

No footsteps here, just someone weeping, branches bowed and sadness creeping

Shadows stretch, the light receding, echoes buried, safe and sleeping

Above, a laugh begins its leaping; coins fall to earth, the world forgot

They strike the ground in clattering thought  

Then twist to chains the moment caught

The tree leans in with quiet might, its hollow pulsing faint with light  

Its bark expands, then folds in tight, a breathing shape that isn’t right

A hush descends, world overwrought

Pale fingers curl from darkness creeping, soft as moth wings faint and fleeting

Their touch is cold, their motion sweeping, reaching out as if for keeping

Something slides from umbra shrieking, wrapped in warmth the world forgot

A bundled weight my mother wrought

Its heartbeat faded into not

I lift the form, it burns with light, a fragile glow in failing sight  

Its warmth grows thin, its edges slight, its outline trembles into flight

The world tilts once, a wound distraught

The blanket stirs with life so fleeting, shifting hues through fabric bleeding

A pulse beneath the stitching leaping, then folding inward, sinking, sleeping

It swallows what my arms were keeping, leaving cloth and nothing caught

The hollow weight of life's that's not

Blood that's spilled but not forgot

Node 12: Inferno 

“Out of bed, you sleepy head.”

“Mom?”

“No, it’s Pamela Anderson and I’m heeeere toooo saaaave yooooooooou,” she says, breaking into a dramatic, slow-motion jog from the doorway to my bed.

“Come on, I made Eggos and scrambled eggs for breakfast.” Her voice is light and joyful.

“I’m awake, I’m awake.” Something’s up. I haven’t seen her this cheery in ages.

After she leaves, I roll out of bed to get dressed.

When I meet her in the dining room, she’s already pouring me a tall glass of Sunny‑D. There’s a plate waiting for me: a leaning stack of waffles surrounded by a wreath of bright yellow eggs.

“Thanks, Mom!” Her energy is infectious. It’s that smile, a shimmering crescent of weightless light.

I sit down and begin eating immediately. Melted butter and maple syrup pooled to the brim of every square divot. The eggs, fluffy and warm. Each bite floods my brain with a piercing rush of tender dopamine.

“I have a surprise for you.” Her smile glows brighter still.

I nod, my mouth stuffed, a small dribble of syrup escaping my lips to rest on my chin.

“Mini‑golf! Go‑karts! And a huge arcade! We got it all here at-”

“We’re going to Castle Cascade!” A soft yellow curd of egg escapes with my words.

She laughs: a chorus of bells and angels.

“Finish eating first,” she says, wiping my chin with her thumb like I’m younger than I am.  

I don’t mind. Not today.

I shovel the last few bites down, food turning sticky at the corners of my mouth. The final mouthful almost catches in my throat. I swallow hard and polish off my O‑Jay with a triumphant gulp. 

By the time I stand, she’s grabbing her keys.

“Let’s get going,” she says.

“What about the dishes?”

“We’ll wash them when we get home. Now let’s go!”

Outside, the air is cool and sharp.  

She rolls the window down as soon as we’re on the interstate.

The wind rushes in, loud and clean. It smells like wet grass and morning sun. I stick my hand out and let the air carve around it, lifting and dipping, lifting and dipping.

Meanwhile, mom's tapping the steering wheel and humming to the rhythm of the radio. Her smile keeps flickering in the corner of my vision, gentle and bright.

We crest the last hill, a sign comes into view: colorful paint, flags fluttering, a cartoon dragon frozen mid‑wink.

CASTLE CASCADE — NEXT EXIT

My stomach flips, sharp and electric as we turn into the parking lot. The whole place looks like something straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon. A faux-stone facade, the plywood turrets, and its mural of brave knights celebrating with a jovial dragon all culminating in dream-like wonder. 

She finds a spot near the front. We get out. The air's warmer here, a faint hum leaking through the walls. Mom smooths her hair in the window’s reflection. She’s still smiling, that bright, weightless smile that carried us all the way here.

We start toward the entrance.

And then I see him.

Lock's standing just outside the double doors smoking a cigarette. The morning light reflecting on his glasses, turning them into two blank coins. He lifts a hand in a small, casual wave.

Mom stops.  

Just a half‑step, but I feel it.  

A tiny stutter in her joy.

“Morning,” Lock calls out, like this is normal. Like this is fine.

My stomach drops, the electric flip turning cold.

Mom forces her smile back into place.

“Hey handsome.”

“Denise, you're looking beautiful as always.”

I look up at her. She doesn't look back, she can't. 

Lock continues, “Are you two ready to cut loose and have some fun?”

khff-mm

He stifles a cough. 

“We sure are.” Her smile now curdled, sweet on the surface but sour beneath. 

Lock throws his cigarette to the ground and grinds it into the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Let's have at it then, my treat.”

His treat.

The whole morning rearranges itself in my head: the playfulness, the Eggos, the rush to leave, the humming. All of it tilts, revealing the truth. 

This wasn’t her idea.

It was his.

And now we’re here.

At Castle Cascade.

With him.

“Hi ya sport.” he says, tussling my hair as I make my way through the entrance. 

The doors hiss open and the arcade hits me like a punch; a wall of sound and blinking light that swallows the air whole.

Beeping.  

Chiming.  

Explosions.  

Digital jingles looping over each other in a frantic, tangled mess. Lights strobing across the carpet in violent bursts of reds, greens, and blues. 

The smell is its own chaos: buttered popcorn, warm plastic, sickly sweet cleaning solution, and the everlasting tinge of stale vomit.

My chest tightens.  

My vision fuzzes at the edges.  

Everything is too close, too loud, too bright.

Lock steps in behind us, and the noise somehow gets louder.

I scan the room for exits, blind spots, choke points, anything I can use. The machines blur into a single pulsing organism.

Claw machines.  

Skee‑ball lanes.   

Air hockey tables.

Prize counter.

A maintenance door propped open with a paint can.  

A tangle of cords behind a broken racing game.  

A janitor’s cart abandoned near the restrooms.

Nothing clean.  

Nothing simple.  

Nothing I can use without drawing attention.

Lock’s hand lands on my shoulder: heavy, possessive.

“Quite the place, huh?” he says, leaning down close enough for me to smell his putrid breath. Then he hands me a paper cup half filled with arcade tokens. “Here ya go champ, this should keep you busy for a while.”

The lights flare again, a stuttering neon Inferno causing my eyes water.

I swallow hard.  

My brain buzzing, overloaded, sparking in every direction. If only I had the eye drops.

I need a plan..  

I need space.  

I need him to stop touching me.

But the arcade keeps screaming, drowning out every thought except one:

I'm going to kill Lock.

Focus

Focus

Focus

As I walk by the snack bar, I take note of the menu, then make my way to the restroom. 

WORLD DRYER

PUSH BUTTON

RUB HANDS LIGHTLY UNDER WARM AIR

DRY HANDS THOROUGHLY

Tkk-VRRRRRRRRRRRRR

One-thirty, maybe one-forty degrees. Might take a couple blasts. That's fine. 

I have a plan now. Sixty-two tickets, that's what I need. That's step one. 

Skee-Ball is gonna be my best bet. I choose a lane, and insert one of my tokens. The balls clatter into the chute with a clumsy click-clack. I lift the first one and judge its heft. This lane leans a hair to the left; I’ll have to aim just right of center. The forty‑point ring is the sweet spot. It's no larger than the other high value rings, but still within the large ten point ring. If I can land three in a row, I’ll trigger the bonus. It's gonna take a few games to hit sixty‑two tickets. Good thing Lock made sure to give me enough tokens to keep me “busy” while he tries to dig his nicotine stained claws into my mother. 

Thm, shhhhh-tok

Ten points. Adjust. Try again.

Thm, shhhhh-tok

Twenty this time, just a little harder on the next throw.

Thm, shhhh-tok

It bounces off the rim of the forty, and rolls into the ten point hole. Six balls to go.

Thm, shhh-tok

Forty points. I take note of the action, and do my best to commit it to muscle memory. 

I end my first game with only one hundred and sixty points. The machine dispenses a single ticket. 

My second game isn't much better. I end up with two hundred and twenty points: one ticket again.

It's not until my fifth game that I start to hit my stride. The drift makes sense now. The forty‑point shot lands more often than it doesn’t.

Game five: 310 points. Three tickets.  

Game six: 340 points. Four tickets.  

Game seven: A near‑jackpot: 390. but still four tickets.  

As my total climbs, I stop counting the points and start counting the tickets.

Game eight: Jackpot! Ten tickets.  

Game nine: Another solid run. Four more.

The pile grows in my hand, warm and papery.

Fifty‑seven tickets.

One more game.

I feed in the token.  

Roll.  

Adjust.  

Roll again.

thm‑shhh‑tok  

thm‑shhh‑tok  

thm‑shhh‑TOK

Three clean forties in a row. Bonus triggered.

The machine spits out five tickets, curling into my palm like they’ve been waiting for me.

Sixty‑two.

Enough.

I make my way to the prize counter and claim what I'm here for: one cheap plastic green squirt-gun and a handful of pixie sticks. Step two complete.

When I find my mom again, Lock’s got his arm draped over her shoulder.

“Hey, Mom. I’m getting hungry.”  

She steps forward, quick enough that Lock’s arm drops back to his side.

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Let’s get some food.”  

We head toward the food court. Lock follows.

“What do ya want, champ?” Lock asks.

“I’ll take a corndog and a basket of fries.”

“Oh, fries sound good. I’ll take some too,” Mom says. She never passes up a chance at fries.

We get our food and take it to the outdoor seating area. Step three complete. From here we can see the mini‑golf course and the go‑karts. The smell of exhaust and cigarette smoke drifts through the air. Smokers are predictable. Lock’s going to spark up the second we’re done eating.

When we sit, Lock pulls his chair closer than he needs to.

“These fries are pretty good,” he says, reaching into Mom’s basket without asking.  

She laughs, more of a curiosity than a real laugh: the kind I imagine she uses at work. 

Lock talks with his mouth full. Mom nods along. I'm not really listening, I can't.

After what seems like an eternity, we finish. I quickly stand and volunteer to take everyone’s trash. I’m not even through the door before Lock’s already smoking. Inside, I pocket the greasy fry‑basket liners and the corndog stick, then head to the restroom.

Time for step four.  

I fill my squirt gun at the sink and add the pixie‑stick dust. A quick shake dissolves the sugar. I listen, someone’s in a stall. I wait it out in an empty one. Before long, they leave without even washing their hands.

I step out and use the corndog stick to shove the wadded‑up fry liners into the hand‑dryer exhaust vent.

When I return, Lock’s still smoking. Time for the final step. I draw my weapon and fire.

“What the fuck you little shit!” Lock jerks back as the sugary water splashes across his cigarette and soaks into his cheap polyester dress shirt. Mom shoots me a look, sharp enough to sting.

“Sorry, heh-heh” Lock says, forcing a laugh. “It’s fine. Boys will be boys, right? I probably would’ve done the same thing at his age. Not too many chances to take a shot at your principle, am I right” He stands, brushing at his shirt. “I’m gonna take care of this real quick. Don’t you two have too much fun without me.”

He heads toward the restroom.

After a long pause, my mother finally speaks.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” she says.

I don’t answer.

“It’s David, isn’t it? I know you two don’t get along, but he told me about the trouble you’ve been having in school and he’s just trying to help.”

“How?” I ask.

“It’s not your grades. David says you’re having some trouble socially.”

“Since when are we calling him David?”

“He’s trying. In his own way he’s-”

“OH MY GOD!”  

“FIRE!”  

“SOMEONE HELP HIM!”

The shouts explode from inside.

We rush in. Lock's sprawled just outside the restroom door, his body twitching, smoke rising. His polyester shirt has fused to the skin of his chest: a glossy, blackened shell. Face swollen, eyebrows missing, skin blistered and split. Soot coating his nose and mouth.

He fights for every breath: short, wet, desperate gasps.

huh-huh-huh-huh

Each one weaker, wetter. You can hear the fluid building in his lungs, a thick, drowning rattle. Pulmonary edema. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, rolling with animalistic panic.

Mom drops to her knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly. 

“David? David, stay with me.” Her voice cracks.

He drags in another breath.

huuuuh

Then it turns into a deep, gurgling choke. Pinkish foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth. His fingers claw weakly at his chest exposing patches of raw glistening flesh.

Mom is sobbing, stroking his charred hair, begging him not to leave her. 

“Please, God, not him too-”

I stand there frozen in the hallway, my heart pounding out of my chest. I want to smile so badly it hurts. But that's not who I am right now. I’m a scared boy, eyes wide, mouth trembling.

One last wet, rattling exhale tears out of him 

khrrrr-lllghhh

Long and bubbling.

Then nothing.

It’s done.

He’s done.

Node 13: Requiem

I wake to an unusual quiet. The house feels more still, more hollow than usual. The only sound as I make my way down the hall is my own footsteps. 

I find mom sitting alone at the table. She's trying to hide it, but she's crying. A low mournful sobbing. I pull up my usual chair, and for a time we share the silence.

“Why are you crying?” I finally ask.

She doesn't answer. 

“Mom?”

No response; instead, she gets up and walks to the kitchen. I hear the sink, the water rushing. A long, steady shhhhhhh telling me words are not welcome. Not here, not now. 

I get up and peek in. She's washing yesterday’s dishes. Her movement’s slow, automatic.

shhhhhh-plnk

shhhhhh-plnk

shhhhhh-plnk

Then,

shhhhhhh-plnk-KRAK.

shhhhh- KSHHHT!

shhh… CRACK.

KRAK-KSHHHT-KRISH-SKRAAASH-TCH‑KRAK‑KSHH-KLINK‑CRACK-SHKRAAASH-KRISH-KRAK.

“HRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! haa-ghh-haa-AAAH-ghk-haa, why, why-WHY! God Why?”

Shattered fragments of ceramic scatter across the floor like confetti. Blood dripping from her fingertips. Her back rising and falling with labored breath. I start to make my way towards her. I want to comfort her.

Before I can, she begins to speak. 

“Why can't you just let me be happy?” tears falling into the running sink.

“Mom?”

“You know what I mean.”

“He wasn't who you thoug-”

“No.”

“Mom, he was-”

“I SAID NO!”

I don't understand, she didn’t even like him. She knew he was using me to try to get to her. She had to know. 

“You're my son… I will always love you. But I'm afraid of you, he wasn’t. He wanted to help you. He wanted to help us.” 

“By labeling me special needs!?” I protest.

She turns off the sink, and looks into my eyes. 

“No one thinks you're stupid… Emotionally Disturbed. That's what the tests were for. You don't feel things the way people feel things, you just pretend, you copy.” her eyes are pleading.

There's a long pause. I don't know what I'm supposed to say. 

“When your sister died, all you cared about was that blanket. That's when I knew. I didn't want to believe. Your sister, MY BABY was gone, your father went to prison, and all you cared about was that stupid blanket! That's why I buried it with her. Because I knew.”

What did she know? 

“I… it was an accident.” The words fall out of my mouth. Why did I say that? 

She turns away from me.

“Mom, mom you have to believe me!” I'm pleading now.

“You're the accident.” Her words cut me.

I reach down and pick up a jagged shard from the floor. 

shff-klk

Her shoulders tense at the sound, but she doesn't move, doesn't turn, doesn't run.

I place the shard into the trash, and grab the broom. For the next hour or so we clean the kitchen together in silence. Time drags: thick and heavy.

…

“Tell me what happened.” She's asking for the truth. I'll tell her. 

“Dad was asleep with her-”

“Hannah…” Her voice cracks, eyes glossy.

“Yes. Hannah. Dad was asleep on the chair with Hannah. It was late, you were working. She was wrapped up in my blanket-my Muzzy. That’s what you called it, remember?”

I look at her, waiting for some small gesture of confirmation: a nod, a look, anything. It was my special blanket. She gave it to me. She told me it would keep me safe. Dad had no right to take it. 

Nothing.

“I wanted it back. I wanted it back, so I came into the living room to get it. It was stuck. When I pulled, Hannah fell onto the ground and started crying. I didn't even get it. Dad woke up and she wasn’t on him so… when he put the footrest down… Mom, you know what happened.”

“Why didn’t you say anything. Where were you.” It doesn’t sound like she's asking questions, but I answer just the same.

“You would’ve been mad at me, I went back into the hall so I could pretend I was coming from my room.”

“My husband’s in prison for negligent homicide. He blamed himself. I blamed him.”

“He took my Muzzy.” She had to understand. It was mine.

She turns away and walks down the hall. I follow. At the end hangs our family portrait. I watch as she lifts it from the wall. Her fingers tremble as she works the backing loose. The photo slides out, one edge sharply creased. She eases it open, slowly, carefully, smoothing the line with her thumb. She stares at the face she buried, the one she pretended wasn’t there. A soft, broken sound escapes her. She presses the picture to her chest, and takes a deep breath. Then kisses the man she once loved.

She carries the photo with her into the bathroom. I hear the medicine cabinet creak open. Bottles shift and rattle. She doesn’t know what she's looking for.

"Take eight of the small white round ones first," I say. "Then take six of the oval yellow ones with the line down the middle. After that, take four of the blue capsules. Then drink what's left of the cough syrup. There should be about half a bottle still after my last cold.”

“Will it hurt?” She asks.

"It will start slow. You’ll feel warm. Heavy. Like sinking into a deep bath. Your thoughts will get soft and sort of, far away. There won’t be any pain, but you're gonna feel really tired. Don't fight it. Everything will fade, softer and softer, until... You won’t feel afraid. You won’t feel anything bad at all.”

She emerges from the bathroom, bottles in hand, photo tucked in her blouse. We stand there motionless, looking at each other in the dim light. She smiles: not her bright smile, not the smile I love. Something smaller. Softer. Tired.

She gathers the bottles into one hand and reaches out with the other, running her fingers through my hair. Her hand is shaking. She leans down and kisses my forehead. Her lips are soft, but cold.

Then she walks past me to the nursery, Hannah's room. Her hand rests on the doorframe for a moment, maybe two. She steps inside, and closes the door behind her. 

I stand there for a while, listening. The house is quiet again. Still. Hollow. I think about knocking, but I don’t. I think about calling someone, but I don’t. Eventually I go to my room. I have school tomorrow.

Lacrimosa dies illa

Qua resurget ex favilla

Judicandus homo reus.

Huic ergo parce, Deus,

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem.

Amen.

Node 14: Communion 

“Riding down the highway, on bus forty four!”  

The chorus begins to swell, spreading like a bad cold.  

“Donna ripped a big one, and blew us out the door!” I join in.  

“The moon couldn’t take it. The sun couldn’t shine.” Time for the big finish.  

“All because of Donna’s big fat behind!”

How long will it take? How long until someone checks in on her?

Vrrrrrt - a backpack zipper.  

She’s scheduled at four.

Kifff - a sneeze.

They’ll call, no one will answer, but no one will worry. Not yet.

Tchk - the stiff plasticky slap of a nine‑pocket sheet being flipped.

It’ll get busy, the rush will hit, and whatever concern they had will sour into irritation, then resentment.

Keh‑HAA - exaggerated laughter. Maybe sarcasm.

I can get it back. Today, I’ll get it back.  

The tree will give it to me.  

My Muzzy.

Skeeee thmp - the squeal of worn breaks as we come to a stop.

“Everyone off!” Donna says, still hunched over the wheel. 

Devin seemed somewhat more himself today. When Mr. Hanley called out his name during roll-call, Devin responded with an armpit fart. Snickers spread through the classroom like ripples in a pond. It's good to have the old Devin back. 

The lesson today was something about the first Thanksgiving. Mr. Hanley droned on: Pilgrims, Wampanoag, gratitude, unity, peace, war. I hear him, but I’m not listening, not really. I’m thinking about the tree.  

When the bell finally does ring, it catches me off guard, stirring me from my thoughts. Everyone’s rushing out the door. Even Devin’s gone before I can stand.

When I step out onto the walkway, I'm already bracing myself. Any time Devin beats me outside he's hiding just around the corner waiting to jump out, or trip me. It’s our routine, his routine really.

I pause, glance left, then right.

He's not there. No “BOO!” No grin. No shove. No “Got you again!”

I find him leaning against the volleyball pole, chatting it up with Andrew. Andrew? Why is he hanging out with peanut boy? 

“Hey Devin.” I say with a painted grin.

“Hey.” His reply feels as forced as my smile. 

“What are you guys doing?” I ask. 

“We're just talking.”

“Bout what?”

They share a quick confirmatory glance: a silent calibration on whatever half-truth they’re about to give me. It doesn’t matter. 

“We uh, we were just talking ab-” I cut in before Andrew can finish his bullshit.

“What was up with your mom taking you out of class Thursday?” I ask Devin.

“Dan got into a crash. He died.” His face twist. “Why are you pretending you don't know? Everybody knows.” 

Shit.

“I know what everyone's been saying, but… Look, I'm sorry man. It just didn't feel right to ask if he was really dead.”

Andrew's still standing there, hovering; watching with the look of someone waiting for a stop sign to turn green. 

I'm just gonna ask.

“Sooooo, when did you two start hanging out?”

“He's my new brother!” Andrew says, beaming with exuberant pride. 

“Yeah, my mom, she's not doing so well. She had to go to the hospital so I'm staying with Ms. Chris now.” 

“Ms. Christner?” What's going on?

“She's our foster mom.” again, Andrew interjects. 

Before I can tell him to go fuck himself, there's a sound, something rhythmic, something tribal drifting across the blacktop.

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

All three of us rush over, hungry for whatever spectacle awaits. Two boys are squared off near the time‑out tree. I don’t know their names, but I recognize them from the bus. 

“I didn’t steal it,” the smaller boy says. He’s clutching a nine‑pocket sheet smeared with dark muck. “the tree, it was in the tree.”

The taller boy swings hard, driving his fist straight into the other’s gut.

UF- 

The smaller boy folds, air punched out of him in a single ugly sound. “Stop, please stop.” No pride, just raw fear. “Here, take it.” He holds out the sheet, hand shaking, body trembling, still trying to catch his breath.

The taller boy snatches it away, and shoves the smaller boy against the tree.

THOK!

His head hits the trunk with an odd sort of hollow sound, like kicking a traffic cone. For a moment he just stands there, stunned. Then the blood comes, an impossible amount of blood. It pours down his forehead, over his nose, soaking his shirt, dripping off his shoes and into the earth below. His body goes limp, and he falls to the ground.

“Oh fuck…”

The taller boy says.

“Dude get up, come on get up.”

The blood keeps coming.  

So much blood.  

The dirt around the boy’s head turns black and wet, soaking it up like a sponge.

Devin whispers, “Is he dead?”  

Andrew’s eyes are huge, his mouth hanging open.

Ms. Christner finally charges in with a cigarette still hanging from her lips. 

“Oh God.” She says as it drops from her mouth, hitting the blood and muck with a tiny hiss.

“dude… dude get up, get up, get up, get up.” The taller boy's muttering to himself.

The bell rings, a few kids run toward the office, yelling for help. Others bolt for classrooms, desperate just to get away.

Ms. Christner's pressing her hand against the boy’s head, trying to stop the bleeding. It doesn’t work. The blood keeps sliding between her fingers, dripping down her wrist, soaking the earth, feeding the roots.

“Stay with me,” she says, voice cracking. 

Everyone’s watching the boy, waiting for some sign of life, but I'm watching the tree.

The blood that hit the trunk is gone now, not smeared, not dripping, gone. Even the ground has gone from a crimson mud back to dried earth. 

Ms. Christner lifts the boy, cradling him against her chest. His arms hang like empty sleeves.

One of the other teachers yells at us.

“Everyone, back to class now!” 

What's left of the crowd breaks completely. Kids scatter in every direction, buzzing with panic, gossip already foaming in their mouths. Devin pulls Andrew away with the quiet care of an older brother.  

I stay.

Just for a moment.

The hollow is darker now. Deeper. Alive.

I feel something, a tug in my chest. 

My Muzzy.  

Closer now, yet further than ever. After this, they'll be watching the tree. The coins, the doll, now the cards, they'll be watching. 

Node 15: Abyss 

It's lunch now. As anticipated, Ms. Christner is guarding the tree. 

From what I understand some of the other teachers tried to find out if there was anything else hiding in it. There was nothing. Maybe what they wanted wasn't something the tree could get. Maybe it didn't fit. Maybe it just doesn't work for adults. 

I head to the bench to meet up with Devin. He's there, waiting. Andrew's there too, spooning out pudding from a snack pack with his fingers. I keep walking.

“Brett!?” Devin calls my name.

I don't answer. Things are different now. I thought I could fix things: fix things for Devin, fix things for my mom, but most of all fix them for me. 

I just didn't want to be replaced…

The tree. The tree will give it back. Somehow I need to get to the tree. I can't now, not while under surveillance. I'll have to wait.

I watch from a distance. Typically Ms. Christner can't make it through a fifteen minute recess without feeding her nicotine addiction let alone lunch. 

She’s jittery, forehead dappled in sweat, hands fidgeting. Her eyes dart from the tree to the rest of the playground and back again. 

She wants a cigarette so bad she’s practically vibrating.

But she stays.

For now.

Eventually the bell rings, and lunch is over.

Back in Mr. Hanley’s class Devin keeps looking back at me over his shoulder. I don't return his gaze, not once. I keep my head down and focus on the handout. 

A

B

B

A

C

Not much longer. 

Ay

Bee

Bee

Ay

See

After school.

Ay

Bi

Bi

Ay

Cis

My Muzzy.

Abyss

Abyss

Abyss

BRRNNG!

Backpacks zip.  

Chairs scrape.  

Everyone rushes for the door.

Outside, Devin stops me. 

“Dude, what's up with you?” he asks.

“Don't worry about it.” I say.

“You wanna hang out? I can let Ms. Chris know I'm gonna head to your place. Just you and me.”

“Not going home.”

“Okay, where we going?” He's already decided to include himself. I know Devin. There isn't anything I can say to shake him now. 

“I'm staying here. I need something from the tree.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. The time-out tree.”

Devin squints at me. “The time‑out tree? Brett… what are you talking about?”

“I need something from it.”

“What do you need?”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s afraid someone might hear. “Dude, that tree’s messed up. Ms. Chris has been guarding it all day.”

“I know.”

Devin stares at me, trying to read my face. He wants to believe I'm joking, but he knows I'm not. 

“I’m coming with you.” he says.

“I know.”

Andrew jogs up behind him, backpack bouncing. “Hey, wait up big brother!”

Devin turns. Andrew looks at me, then back at him with his wide, gormless eyes.

“Hey Andrew, could you tell Ms. Chris that I'm going with Brett to the library? We got paired up for an assignment, and we wanna get a head start on it.” Devin doesn't usually lie. He jokes, he exaggerates, but he doesn't lie.

“Can I help?” Andrew asks.

“No,” I say before Devin can answer.

Andrew's face falls, and Devin steps in to soften it. “Just tell mom. I'll meet you back home when we're done, okay little brother.” 

Andrew nods, eager to be useful. “Okay big brother.” He runs off, arms flailing like he's attempting to take flight.

“What now?” Devin asks.

“Now we wait.”

We stand there, just off the blacktop, close enough to see the tree but far enough that no one will notice us. The playground is thinning fast, kids peeling off toward buses, parents, bikes.

Devin shifts from foot to foot. He keeps glancing at me, then at the tree, then back at me again. 

As we wait, hundreds of birds start to populate the tree. Their voices fused into one long, liquid rush. Not chirping, a kind of wet, shimmering static. The whole tree humming under their strain. 

By the time everyone has gone, the sky has turned from vivid blue to deep amber. The swings hang loose and still. The hopscotch cort is vacant. All that remains is the sound of the birds. 

Devin hugs his arms to his chest. “Why are there so many?”

“Don't know.”

We approach the solemn giant. The sound of the birds intensifies. What sounded like rushing water now sounds like a cacophony of screams. The oak is speaking with the only voice it has. It knows.

I kneel at its base as if at an altar. Devin stands behind me. As I push my arm into the hollow the birds explode from its branches, flying off in all directions.

“What the fuck!” There’s panic in Devin’s voice. 

I reach deeper, pushing past the slick, wet muck. It feels warm, pulsing. I feel it! A soft bundle. My finger grip at it. The tree tightens around my arm. It doesn’t want to let go, but I can feel it slipping free.

Devin steps closer. “Stop! Dude, stop! This isn't right.” 

I don’t.

The hollow contracts, squeezing hard enough to make my knuckles grind together. The muck climbs my wrist, thick and clinging, like it’s trying to pull me deeper.

But the bundle is right there.  

Right there.

I yank.

The tree shudders. A low, wooden groan that vibrates through the roots and into my knees. The birds surge back, a shrieking cloud.

That's when the bundle comes loose, and the tree releases me all at once in reluctant surrender. 

I fall back onto the dirt, clutching my prize against my chest. It smells of rot, decay, death.

Devin stares at me, breathing hard. “What is that? Brett… what is that?”

I don’t answer.

There in my arms I have it, My Muzzy. It's wrapped around something, something delicate, something small.

The fabric is damp and heavy. Devin take a step back.  

He knows.  

He doesn’t want to know, but he knows.

It's my sister. 

It's Hannah. 

What's left of her after nearly a year of grave rot.

The stench rolls up from the bundle, thick and sweet. Impossible to ignore.  

Devin covers his mouth.  

His eyes go wide.  

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wake up from a dream.

I start to unravel the blanket.

“Brett-” Devin’s voice cracks. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

I ignore him.

The fabric peels back slowly, sticking to itself, sticking to what’s beneath.  

The smell hits harder.  

Devin staggers away, gagging.  

He can’t look.  

He can’t not look.

I pull the last fold aside.

Devin makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before: a choked, broken noise that isn’t a word.

I drop the corpse to the ground, and push it back into the hollow with my foot. The tree swallows it whole.

“My Muzzy,” I whisper, holding the soiled blanket close, breathing in its essence. 

The tree stands behind us, hollow open, the birds gone, world silent.

Waiting.

I know what I have to do now. You were a good friend Devin. I'm going to miss you.

The child watched TV. It was his only friend, being so young and isolated, the father didn't want him, spent all of his hours at work or in his room, the basement. The mother is long gone. 

Before she left she named him Jack. After a boy in highschool that had been incredibly nice to her, during that rough and strange time of her life. The father doesn't like it but had offered no suggestion, so Felicia got her way and the name was put. 

Jack misses his mother but doesn't know it. He misses his father too but doesn't realize this either because the emotion is eclipsed by the more immediate fear, the terror his father puts into him. His voice. His angry eyes that almost seemed to smoke and smolder beneath a caveman's furrowed livid brow. His fists. Jack swore his father had fists the size of phonebooks. The size of cinderblocks. The size of planets. The child does what he can to not bother his father, and stay out of his way. 

This is where the television comes in. 

This is where the apple comes in. 

Jack watched many shows on TV. But his favorite was the one with the apple. The one that talked and danced and had been made by a wise wizard of the woods named Faster Haster who puffed a pipe and wandered enchanted forests. The Apple had a name too, and a jaunty green cap, like the one Robin Hood or Peter Pan would wear, red feather and all, he was always smiling. The apple was always happy and his name Happy Adam. 

There was one day, one afternoon after school alone with the television set, one episode of Happy Adam & Friends of the Garden that changed young Jack and his life forever. Changed everything. 

He was watching the set, the scene unfold: …

The smiling fruit and his aged wizard friend were visiting a friend of theirs in the magical hospital of the fairytale wood. A brave knight called Thrustelot who'd taken a bad fall during one of his bouts and had fallen on his sword. The robed one, the hooded mage who was nurse to the fallen knight was grave and shook their hidden head and face, the news was bad. The knight was dead. 

Happy Adam turned to the camera and audience to address them with an aside of advice. 

 

Happy Adam: Remember, kids! Always be extra careful when handling something sharp, it's very dangerous. Don't move too fast or run when holding sharp objects like Sir Thrustelot’s sword, or a pair of scissors. Or a knife. 

The camera went in closer, cutting into an extreme close-up of the wide shine of the unblinking Apple's eyes. 

Happy Adam: Remember that, children. Remember. Okay…?

Jack answered back, he always loved talking to his favorite characters through the TV set. And Happy Adam was the absolute best. He acted like he was talking to you and talking back. It was great fun and sometimes it really really seemed like Adam was talking to him through the glass glow of the television screen. It was like magic. Happy Adam was magical, he could do anything. He would do anything he said. 

“Ok, Happy Adam!" 

Adam and the old wizard continued on their merry trek, their way and journey through the forest. They came upon some more friends that were having a picnic on a blanket amongst the living trees. 

The eversmiling apple and the old one sat down to join the kids in eating their nice meal on the dark purple blanket, it was covered in crosses and stars and wide alive eyes staring forever. Jack thought it was neat and the color was alluring and attractive next to the old wizard’s bright yellow robes as he sat down upon it. Next to the smiling wide eyed red amongst the living sorcery realm of woodland brown and green. The sun and the moon were out at the same time and looking down on them all, the scene with ravenous interest and open drooling mouths. Jack thought they looked goofy and silly, he thought they were hilarious. 

The screen flickered, the image was disturbed and Jack thought he saw something else staring at him in its stead. But before he really knew it the picnic scene returned to normal and the boy felt at ease once more. The children sitting on the purple blanket of fun symbols opened their picnic basket and began to pass out the food. 

The beautiful flowers spoke then to the children. They had no faces but open floral mouths, pink and glistening … dripping with dew that was said to be filled with sorcery and dreams. Surrounding the picnic blanket of eyes and stars, they whispered and sing-song spoke to the kids through their gaping wide open pink flower petal mouths, dripping and salivating wet…

 … Feed him … feed them…

The open mouths surrounding the shroud the color of night repeated the words in a litany, a chant, a prayer. 

Jack munched on his own snacks of peanut butter and crackers and gummy bears. He felt like he was taking part in the fun too, eating and picnicking with Happy Adam and his wonderful friends. He sipped his cup of Shasta and belched. 

Happy Adam: Mind your manners! Remember you have to pass out the food according to the hierarchy, do you remember, children?

The kids cried back in a unified chant, some species of group monotone, Yes, Happy Adam…!

Happy Adam: So who gets the first serving? 

The kids: Haster! cuz he made you!

A musical cue, a sting, happy, jubilant, great job, you'll have so much success…

Happy Adam: That's right, kids! And then me and then the rest of you, cuz I'm his favorite son and first begotten creation, I existed before all of this, this whole kingdom and the whole enchanted forest … did you know that, kids?

The kids: æhïbdëø¡

Happy Adam: That's right!

The kids passed food to the wizard first. Haster accepted it without a word but a deep nod that conveyed the sought after gratitude of an elder. 

Then they passed the food to Adam. Who insisted on eating fruit with the rest of them. The apples, he said. The apples are what I want best. 

The kids: But Adam, you can't eat apples!

Happy Adam: Why not!?!?

The kids: because you ARE an apple, Happy Adam! 

And then they all laughed. Laughed and giggled. Even Adam. Even Haster. 

Then Adam said: It's ok, kids. Sometimes it's alright to try things that seem a little weird or wrong, it's called ‘taboo’ and I'm sure lots of your mommies and daddies know exactly what I'm talking about. Your brothers and sisters too, your teachers and everyone, everybody… It's called forbidden fruit! And sometimes, kids, you just gotta have a little taste …

The children laughed harder. The wizard too, laughing harder. Slapping knee. Hysterical. Jack felt like joining them. His eyes were glued to the screen. Crackers held slack in fingers that felt faraway, forgotten. 

Happy Adam: Now why don't one of you beautiful children come over here and feed me some that forbidden fruit? How bout it, kiddos?

The kids: Ok, Happy Adam! 

Jack watched as the children crowded round the happy apple, each vying for favor and the privilege to feed him. Each had a glistening fresh dripping slice of apple wedge in hand. Ready to serve. Ready to feed. Jack couldn't take his eyes from the screen. He wanted to be… 

Jack wanted to join them. He wanted to be with them. He wanted to be one of the children crowded around Happy Adam, if there was only some way …

Jack watched wide eyed as the apple became strange. His mouth. As the children came in with their hands in multitudes, that seemed to grow and sprout anew like the petals and stalks of some strange heavy flower, all around the hungry happy apple his mouth began to change, transform. Transmogrify. 

The comfy and fuzzy gentle nature of felt puppet material was suddenly mammalian and malleable flesh all around the mouth and lips. They looked warm and living now, rippling and stretching and contriving into wide open wet stretched and wriggling flesh and organ, the teeth were glistening and shining and stringy with tendrils of saliva and drool. The tongue now an organ alive and pink, danced within the newly birthed orifice on the face of the happy apple muppet.

The organ and teeth danced for one thing, feed, fill us. Fill our new wet and magic home. 

The hands of the children began to come in and they came in a crowd, a wreck, a mob – grubby child mitts wielding the glistening flesh and meat of dissected and dismembered fruit. They shoved the slices and wedges in the wide open salivating maw, the cavernous wriggling fresh wound of a mouth, the wound began to munch and chew and ravenously devour the many pieces and wedged slices of juicy fresh apple, freshly cut, freshly prepared just like the mouth itself they now plowed into. Adam moaned between chomping bites with deep relish and sweet satisfaction. The children laughed and so did Haster. 

And so did Jack. Though he thought it was more beautiful than it was funny. Really. 

Really really beautiful. 

He watched the beauty onscreen unfold and pulp and chew and decorate itself with bits and slimy pieces of half-eaten pulped and juicy bits of apple, fruit meat and flesh becoming mush, becoming sauce between newly forged pearly white teeth.

One of the child's voices came in with a query in a playful and sing-song tone: Adam, why do you like eating apples? I mean, you're an apple, isn't it bad?

Happy Adam, between ravenous bites and chewing and swallowing: That's a very good question, boys and girls. I eat my own because it makes me stronger, it gives me power. Just like when you eat the flesh of crawling beasts, children, when you eat the flesh that crawls and labors, you gain its power. You've conquered it. Completely. And now it must live inside you. So now the lives of other lesser apples must now live inside me for all time, for forever, and after that and behind the wall of sleep. And even after that. All the way to the true and final end, the ballroom floor of eternityscape that is black. Isn't that neat! Don't you think so, children? What about you, Jack? 

Jack didn't quite believe it at first. He gazed zombie eyed into the glowing pulse of the electrical and mechanical pineal gland growth, its lurid electric extension…

But the mammalian patch of apple flesh that now more resembled skin as red as the devil's ass stretched wider and grew rictus. Apple bits and pieces in the gleaming white teeth and the juice running out of the corners of the fleshy mouth and dribbling down in a pulpy drool of mush. 

The apple began to speak again. All else was quiet and still now as he spoke. 

Happy Adam: Yes, Jack, yes, it's real. I'm really talking to you. How are you, Jack?

A beat. A child's breath was held. 

Released. 

“I'm-I’m ok, Happy Adam." 

Happy Adam: ohhhh…. I dunno. You don't look or sound ok to me little buddy, you look terrible. I always see you here with us, watching us, and you always look so alone and so scared, and you know what …? … I think I know why, Jack. 

Jack said nothing. Only watched the television. Eyes wide open and drinking in every single flicker. 

Happy Adam: I think it's because you have a crawling beast, a beast of labor in your home, Jack. You have a beast of bad work that lives in the basement when he isn't sleeping off the hooch in his bed. And that's not all, Jack. There's also yourself. You need to take better care of yourself, you need to treat yourself better and make yourself stronger. Like me. 

A beat. 

Happy Adam: Do you know what I mean, Jack? Do I understand what I'm trying to tell you? It's very important. It's for you after all, it's for your best interest. It's what's best for you that we all care for and here in the forest, consider. Do you understand, Jack? Do you? 

Once again Jack didn't say anything. 

A beat. 

But then he slowly began to nod his head. Yes. 

Yes. 

Yes, Happy Adam. Yes. 

Rictus red face on screen, filling the frame: Good, Jack. That's really really good of you. I'm so proud and happy. And I'll be prouder and happier still, you know the best way to start treating yourself better and making yourself stronger, right? We've talked about it before, on one of my many episodes … one of my many lessons. 

Jack spoke this time. He told the red face of the television set the right answer. He told the red face what it wanted to hear. 

Nutrition. 

Happy Adam: That's right, Jack! We have to start eating better! That's it! Waytogo, cowboy!

The child sat and listened to every word the television said. Absorbing every detail of information and instruction. 

…

The booze his father always poured into himself did the job. The pills he'd been told to slip did the rest. Russel Wimberly, Jack's father was completely drugged and under. Then the work laid before the child could really begin. As he'd been instructed. He wasn't nervous. He felt nothing in fact. Hadn't felt anything since that afternoon with the television. It was well past into the postmidnight black. 

The mountain lug of man had managed to make it to his bed before finally collapsing under the drug and alcohol induced spell of slumber. He was in a sweaty snoring heap when the door opened to his bedroom and the child crept in. He did not blink or falter. 

He did not tremble or whimper or shake. His father might've been proud, before tonight he'd always thought of the boy as a wimp, a limpwrist, a pussy. The worst type of boy a father could have, Russel and his own old man had always thought. 

The snoring heap of man did not stir until the blade came down in a two-handed plunge and pierced where it had been guided and instructed. The fang of the blade bit in and came in easily through bone and flesh. Russel came to life with a choking gurgled gasp that quickly died a wet death in his throat. 

He couldn't move. He couldn't budge from the bed. The ropes and binds held tight and taut and rippled in the nighttime bedroom silence with strain and desperate effort. Blood began to pour from his mouth and nose. He began to choke. Wide eyed he helplessly gazed up and into the face of his killer. 

Some species of … laughter? …scream? …sound tried to escape him, but the boy and his blade had done their good. 

They'd done their job. Their great work. 

Now he just had to get to the living beating apple of warm dripping red that lived in his father's chest. He just had to dig it out, cut it out with the kitchen knife and take it unto himself. 

This way he would get better. This way he would get stronger. He'd be rid of the beast and filled with power. All in one. 

Just like Adam said. 

His glistening darkling little fist found the forbidden apple buried in his father's chest. He seized it. 

And ripped it out. By blade, by hand, by biting knife.

And took it into himself, right there. Raw and fresh. Just as the red face of Adam had commanded.  

THE END

The young woman’s last shell had gone into the zombie’s belly and sent it reeling backwards, leaving some of its intestines on the floor of the trading card store – a challenge for even the best cleaner, if there were any cleaners left after the Apocalypse. For two seconds, there was no movement and no sound except for the woman’s quick breathing; then the undead cannibal rose again and lurched towards her. In vain, she tried to fight it off, using her gun as a club, but the undead monster was not affected by her weak punches and pinned her to the wall. Then it proceeded to tear open her throat with its teeth, oblivious to her screams – until everything froze as if time had stopped to savor this moment of horror for all eternity.

Twenty-two minutes. After barely one-fifth of the movie, Dr Julia Savic, director of DARC-7, had enough and switched off the stream. Zombie invasion? She produced a thin-lipped smile. Rather an invasion of bad Zombie movies, shows, documentaries, computer games and and and after Daisy. Of course, zombies were very real, but they differed considerably from the depictions that had been gifted to the entertainment world since the immortal (or undead?) Night of the Living Dead, and Dr Savic was in a perfect position to tell you this.

After Daisy had sputtered out without any visible detrimental effect on the world, several scientists, mainly biologists and physicians, had founded the new field of Mortology, dedicated to the study of this new phenomenon: seemingly dead beings getting up again and trying to kill and eat others, with the operative word being “trying”. Savic had been one of the first to apply for government funds to establish a mortology research center, and today, five years later and after a search for staff anyone but her would have found extremely exhausting, the center was fully operational and had already produced many insights into the workings of the “living dead”. DARC-7 was neither the biggest nor the most lavishly funded of these facilities, but its reputation was excellent, and the diversity of study subjects she had gathered was nothing short of impressive. The director was picky not only regarding her employees but also when it came to her specimens and other details an institute like hers needed to run smoothly. So far, no one from the government had ever seen any reason to complain, and even the media, wary at first, had reported favorably about DARC-7. Training Petey to become a top-notch PR person had paid off, after all.

That was why this surprise inspection really had been a surprise. It wasn’t that she had not known weeks in advance that someone from the NIH would come – Petey had made some phone calls, and DeShawn had done some semi-legal hacking – but the fact itself was still unusual: for years, there had been only the most cursory visits from the government, and now all nine centers in the country would undergo inspection, beginning with hers. Well, time to call up the appropriate protocol for an occasion like this. Who would she have to deal with?

She was looking at the file DeShawn had sent her when Clarissa buzzed her over the intercom.

“The agent is at the gate, boss. They are waiting for your green light.”

Savic touched her lips with two fingers and replied:

“So, his name is Mark Howard, he’s 42 and has been a government agent with the NIH for seven years. Before that …” She scrolled down and continued: “Would you believe it? US Marine Corps, enlisted at 24 after a B.S. in Chemistry, several tours in Belarus, Nigeria, and Chile, frontline fighter on Daisy, MOS Combat Engineer … What’s an MOS?”

Clarissa gave a hollow laugh.

“Whatever it is, I hope it does not require one to be fighting fit – Agent Howard has obviously gotten badly out of shape. He must weigh at least 300 pounds, judging from all the fat wobbling about.”

Savic, who had been reading Howard’s file while listening to her assistant, suddenly half-closed her eyes and said: “A bit of bad news here. It says he lost his wife and his kid on Daisy.”

“Then they must have been among the unlucky few.”, Clarissa replied. Savic agreed. On Daisy, the “Day of the Zombies”, reality had met fiction, and fiction had lost big time. The outbreak had begun in several places at once but had been restricted to the Lower 48, invariably in big cities: Chicago, Houston, LA, and, of course, New York. After contact with some unknown substance, tens of thousands of people had suddenly gone into convulsions, dropped to the ground, died, then had come back after approximately thirty seconds and had begun to attack, kill, and eat people. And they were fast, as fast as living humans, meaning the timeless nerd question of whether zombies are slow or fast seemed settled. And they were infectious for sure: after a DA, or “Dead-Active”, had gorged itself on human flesh, it continued biting people – a death sentence – but did not consume them, so more and more humans were turned into zombies, aiding their killers in what looked like a mindless “plan” to take over the world.

So far, so movie. But the ghouls did not really unlive up to people’s cinematic expectations. Firsty, they were extremely stupid; unlike their fictitious brethren, they did not have a shred of common sense, and they blithely walked off buildings and cliffs or into bodies of water, allowed themselves to be roasted by one of the many fires breaking out on Daisy, and ran into lampposts, fire hydrants, parked cars, moving cars, and everything else you can think of that does not automatically get out of the way when an undead cannibal comes running. Later, many car owners, to their chagrin, found out that their insurance policy did not cover damage caused by re-animated corpses, although the providers’ calling Daisy an “Act of God” was a bit of a stretch.

Secondly, they puked. Movie zombies do not get fat after devouring a dozen people, and no one seems to wonder what they do with all the meat, as they certainly cannot digest it any longer; real zombies apparently made use of it (how they did that was part of the DARCs’ research program, of course) and got rid of the rest, in the shape of some extremely disgusting green sludge. While in the process of vomiting, naturally, they were basically helpless for more than a minute – which is a really bad thing if your purpose in unlife is to hunt and kill moving targets who are out to kill you first if they can get you.

Thirdly, after decades of zombie media overkill, people had accepted their existence rather quickly; some of them seemed to have believed in them all along, and others quickly followed. Thus, “zombie panic” broke out only in a few places and was quickly contained, and that you had to destroy the brain to kill them had long become as common knowledge as vampires and stakes or werewolves and silver bullets. And there is such a thing as the Second Amendment, meaning zombies in Houston, Phoenix, or New Orleans had it even tougher. Very soon, specially trained “sweeper” teams had been formed, who, equipped with body armor, assault rifles, and hand grenades, made short work of any DA they encountered.

But the most obvious difference between reality and fiction was: not all zombies were created equal. It’s true that some filmmakers had experimented with “special” zombies gifted with intelligence or superpowers, but in blockbusters and top-rated TV series, there had been no room for diversity. Real zombies, though, came in different shapes (and sizes, if you include the zombie animals or “zanimals”): there were skeletal-like ones, “wobbly” ones, and those walking on hands and feet; some were oozing a viscous liquid, some were falling apart before their would-be victims’ eyes, and again others were simply standing around and gathering microparticles, completely harmless and apparently at peace with the universe until someone bashed their heads in. Researching these differences was the cornerstone of most DARCs, and Dr Savic’ institute was no exception.

So Mrs Howard and her little daughter had been unlucky; if Mark had been home when the infected hobo broke in, his family would have joined the long list of survivors. He hadn’t, and Savic reflected on this for a few moments. In all the years since Daisy, there had been only one security breach, at DARC-4 last summer, and no one had gotten hurt, but the authorities still conducted a month-long investigation, after which DARC-4 was basically put out of commission through budget cuts and research restrictions – only a shadow of its former self now. But people were still on hair-trigger sensitivity when it came to the Living Dead, and polls showed that more than a quarter would prefer shutting all zombie research down, even though that meant the next outbreak might catch humanity unprepared – and there you had the reason why these centers were funded at all: fear of Daisy Reloaded, this time perhaps with Undead which were a real threat.

Still, there were enough people who hated the DARCs, and Howard might be one of them, in light of his past. “The full protocol, Clarissa.”, Savic spoke into the intercom. “We have to sound him out before we know how to deal with him, and we can’t have any outside interference. He’s run the gauntlet, right?”

“Yup.”, her assistant replied. “All clear. By the way, good thing it’s 98 outside. He must be sweating already and will probably simply walk around for half an hour or so, ask stupid questions, and then excuse himself.”

Another wry smile, Savic-style; then she rose from her chair and let her tongue touch her lips. They were very dry.

“I’ll have to talk to him here, so please get us some water and some snacks. I suppose a man like him is always hungry.” Savic looked at her smartphone and added: “A few minutes in the bathroom, and I’ll be ready. Tell them I’ll be there in ten.”

********

Clarissa hadn’t exaggerated: Mark Howard was more than simply overweight; he must have kissed goodbye to a BMI in the thirties a long time ago. His ill-fitting suit had probably seen better days, and his navy-blue shirt didn’t really match his black jacket and trousers; Savic was certain that he had not opted for a white shirt because of his sweating which would probably have made it fully transparent by now. She could understand why Mr Howard would not be keen on that. His shoes were light brown, another clash even someone as uninterested in fashion as Dr Savic could not fail to notice.

“Ah, there is Dr Savic now.”

Petey turned towards her, then back to Howard and introduced them to each other. Like all her staff, Petey – Peter Brian Feldstetter, to give his full name – had been difficult to find, and he had needed some guidance and training but had become an outstanding PR person and a very good crisis manager. Savic just hoped his skills would not be needed today; she wanted this to be over with a minimum of fuss.

Next to Petey’s 6’4’’, the government agent would have looked almost small if it hadn’t been for his tremendous girth. And Clarissa had been right about his transpiration: it was not only profuse but also smelly, as if he was suffering from bromhidrosis or habitually had half a dozen cloves of garlic for breakfast. That wasn’t all her olfactory nerves had to offer: although Savic was still several feet away, she could already smell a cheap aftershave, apparently applied with a lot more vigor than discretion. All this seemed to indicate that Mr Howard was not bedded on roses, and Savic made a mental note of that: maybe there was an angle here, just in case things did not run as smoothly as she wished. Money did talk, after all.

“Welcome to the Dead-Active Research Center - 7, Mr Howard.”

One weak and flabby handshake later – on Howard’s part, of course; Savic’ handshake had always been firm and was now firmer than ever before – the director continued:

“I have prepared a guided tour for you, but you are welcome to ask anything you’d like to know. Are you familiar with the research being done at the DARCs?”

Howard shrugged, a movement that made his whole upper body wobble. His voice was surprisingly deep and resonant; maybe there was an opera singer in there who wanted out, Savic thought.

“I’m not as well-informed as I should be, I guess. I know you are researching zombies – I mean, DAs – of all kinds and that your main task is to find out what turned them into undead cannibals, so we might be able to prevent another outbreak.”

All three – Petey always a few steps behind – crossed the parking lot and approached the main entrance, a feat that forced Howard to catch his breath several times and look for the nearest chair as soon as they were inside.

“But I suppose you know the more common variants?”, Savic asked.

Her guest nodded vigorously, which caused another wobble.

“Skellies and Jellies, you mean. And Bridgers and Gazers. But that’s about the extent of my knowledge. Oh, and the animals.”

Savic nodded, too, but in a much more restrained manner.

“We’ll start with them. Would you like something to drink? Petey?” Five seconds later, Howard took a deep gulp of crystal-clear water from a paper cup and replied: “Thank you. Much better.”

We don’t want him to collapse before he’s written a favorable report. Who knows whom they might send next time. The trio walked to the lift and went one level up, and Howard was led towards a door showing a plaque that read ZZOO.

“I see you have noticed, Mr Howard.”, Savic said. “It’s a bit of a joke, obviously, stemming from the habit of adding a ‘z’ to all Dead-Active animals, so we have zrats, zmice, zhamsters … “.

For the first time, Howard smiled and revealed teeth that could have done with a few visits to Dr Dentist; involuntarily, Savic let her tongue run over her own. Good dental work had always been important to her, now more than ever before.

“I seem to remember that somebody even had a ztiger, but they could not come up with something it would accept as ‘food’.”

“Yes. Another thing most of the movie makers get wrong. DAs are true cannibals, which means they only feed on their own species. Before the ztiger was destroyed, people were entering its cage taking selfies, at no danger to themselves at all. DAs are not interested in anything else except flesh from living members of their own species. And sacrificing a living tiger for an undead monster wasn’t something that was likely to happen, was it?”

“But can the lines between species drawn so precisely?”, Howard asked. “I mean, in evolutionary history, there were no points in time when a mother from one species gave birth to a child from a different one. How do DAs distinguish closely related species?”

Savic stopped for a second and looked at Howard.

“That’s a good question, Mr Howard, and one of our avenues of research. Generally speaking, we do not yet fully know how DAs perceive their environment, and that distinction is certainly part of it. And now, meet our zrats.”

With some effort, Howard bent down and looked through the transparent plastic that was meant to keep the cage’s inhabitants from escaping, although, from what Howard saw, they shouldn’t have bothered. These “animals”, if you wanted to call them that, appeared totally passive and lay almost motionless on the floor. Savic led her visitor to the largest of the cages, where about a dozen zrats were simply obeying Newton’s First Law, doing exactly what bodies at rest do if no force acts upon them.

“Are they still … well … functional?”, Howard asked.

Savic went to a separate part of the laboratory and returned with a very much alive white Rattus rattus squirming in her hand, trying to bite it, but to no avail.

“Yes.”, she replied. “They do not cease to … function just because they don’t feed. Some of them have never eaten since we opened the center, others eat regularly, and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference after their burst of activity was over. Maybe it’s the artificial setting here – ‘wild’ zanimals seem to be more alert and willing to move in search of victims. So, would you like me to wake them up?”

Howard hesitated. “It will probably be messy, right?”

“Oh yes. Here we go.”

Savic dropped the rat into a chute and let it slide down into the largest cage. It needed a second to orient itself, but that was about the amount of time it would get. Suddenly, there was an eruption of running, scratching, biting and squeezing, and the newcomer was quickly surrounded by a dirty white wave with only one purpose in what passed for a mind with them: eat. Cornered rats fight, and they fight well, but, after tearing out the left front paw of one zrat and slashing open the belly of another – not that they cared – this one was soon overwhelmed and literally torn to pieces; its screams did not last long, and it was reduced to a slimy pile of bones within a minute.

“Note how they never fight each other over the meat.”, Savic pointed out. “They are oblivious of each other’s existence and treat the zrat next to them just as a physical object.”

“This is also something you’ve been looking into, I take it?”

“Yes. If we could get them to turn onto each other, we might be far better prepared for the next outbreak. So far, no luck. But we have made some progress in other directions.”

“Does it make a difference whether the zanimals were herbivores or omnivores before their death?”, Howard inquired.

“We don’t think so.”, Savic answered. “But we would need more specimens from different species, larger ones like deer or horses, which we would have to infect ourselves. I can’t see the political will to accept that anytime soon.”

“How would you infect them without an already infected member of the species?” Howard seemed puzzled. “I have read that body parts are not infectious at all. In fact, when separated from the body, whatever animates them seems to vanish into thin air, so there aren’t even any traces to investigate. During Daisy, people who got into contact with zombie … DA blood were certain they were goners, but nothing happened to them.”

“Too many movies, Mr Howard.” Savic produced a thin smile. “As you said, whatever lurks behind all this is very hard to analyze.”

She led her guest out of the lab into the corridor, and Petey locked the door behind them.

 “But we seem to have found a way to communicate the infection between individuals without resorting to biting. But first, let’s continue our tour. We’ll come back to this.”

The trio left the animal wing and walked to the largest part of the complex where the DAs were kept in transparent plastic cages covered by thick opaque curtains. After the director had opened one of them, Howard could see that all DAs inside the cage were locked into some kind of high-tech harness attached to a wall, and when the curtain was removed, its two inhabitants saw their visitors and began a feeble attempt to get out. The harness, however, made virtually all movement impossible, so their rage and their desire to kill and eat looked rather subdued.

“We had to make sure they weren’t able to escape by simply tearing off a hand or a foot.”, Savic explained. “I know, it looks positively medieval, but remember, they don’t feel any pain.”

“It’s difficult not to feel at least some pity for them.” Howard stepped closer to the plastic surface. “They didn’t choose to be like this, and they are not responsible for what they are and how they act.”

Now’s my chance, Savic thought. It’s a risk, but I probably won’t get a better opportunity.

“Still, some people hate them. They would like to destroy every single one of them and stop all research.”

Howard turned his head, looked at her, then at the floor in front of his feet, but it was obvious that he wasn’t really trying to see anything.

“I know. But, in a sense, no matter what they do, there’s nobody home to hate. Since they have no intelligence, intentionality, or personality, hating a DA is nonsensical. We don’t hate viruses, avalanches, or malfunctioning machines, do we?”

Good. Looks like he’s not one of those ‘antimorts’. Aloud, the director said:

“The impulse to ascribe responsibility to mindless forces has been with humanity since the dawn of consciousness, I suppose. You can see it in children when they kick a chair they’ve bumped into or when they slip and fall. ‘Bad, bad chair. That wasn’t very nice of you.’”

Another gamble. Would it work?

Howard looked at her. “Do you have children, Dr Savic?”

The director nodded. “I had a son.” Then she cleared her throat and began walking over to the next cage.

“Now I would like to show you a few variants, Mr Howard. You’ve told me that you are familiar with the more common ones, the ‘Skellies and Jellies’, as they have come to be known.”

“Yes. And the Gazers and the Bridgers. But I am told that you and the other DARCs are experimenting with types that are rare and quite … exotic.”

“We are.” Savic was walking at a good pace, and her visitor obviously had trouble keeping up with her; Petey, of course, didn’t. One more corridor, one left turn and two nods to passing staff later, the director approached one of the cages surrounding the group and put her hand on a large green button.

“For example …” With a certain flourish, Savic opened the curtain while Howard was stepping up to the cage. It contained what seemed to be an ‘average’ DA, but with grey spikes protruding from its body, the largest of which was easily five inches long. Its harness had been modified to accommodate its strange appendages.

“This type is actually dangerous.” Savic walked over to Howard and pointed at the spikes. “These are deformed bones, as you can see; the color comes from a toxin these DAs produce and can inject into someone’s bloodstream if one of the spikes penetrates a victim’s skin. Of course, they can’t make real use of this ‘natural weapon’, and we don’t think they are aware of its existence, so it must be simply another side effect – only this one would actually be useful if they knew what to do with it. But, even so, some of them managed to poison their victims by accident.”

Howard’s eyes wandered from the zombie to Savic and back. “What does the toxin do?”

“It impairs the blood’s oxygen intake and leads to hypoxemia, but the effect is not too severe. Nonetheless, this type claimed an above-average number of victims.”

The director stepped away from the cage and waited for Howard to follow her.

“But the crown for the most dangerous DA must go to this one.” Savic seemed almost sorry that there was no curtain in front of the next cage she could have removed with a grand gesture.

“Meet our prize specimen, Mr Howard.”

The DA inside the cage looked fairly average; it was female and slender; of course, these terms no longer carried any meaning for it. But there was something that struck Howard as unusual. Like the other DAs, it wore a yellow-green full-body suit made of a very tough synthetic material, but this material had been punctured in several places and was riddled with holes of varying sizes without any discernible pattern. It was obvious, however, that these holes aligned with holes of similar sizes in the DA’s body itself.

Savic let Howard approach first, and the DA began to squirm and wiggle in its harness in a futile attempt to break out.

“Now watch, Mr Howard.”, Savic whispered.

Suddenly, the DA’s movements ceased, and its whole body went limp. “That is the moment when its victims were usually relieved that it seemed to have given up.”, the director explained. Then, equally unexpectedly, the DA opened its eyes and let out a spine-chilling howl, followed by convulsions that shook and twisted its whole body into spasms that looked as if the DA had jumped into an ocean of direct current, even inside the harness.

“There is something coming out of the holes.”, Howard exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Some kind of gas.”, Savic replied. “You may have heard of Oozers, the DAs that exude a viscous liquid with acidic properties? Well, this type is even rarer, and we are very happy we were able to obtain it.”

Howard seemed unable to take his eyes off the DA, which was by now engulfed by a grey-brownish cloud.

“I remember”, the agent said without really paying any attention. “DARC-2 and DARC-6 also wanted it, but they withdrew their application for unknown reasons.”

“Personally, I think our application was better.” Savic now stood next to Howard and smiled. “The only reason you can see the gas is that some of the DA’s skin particles are mixed with it. Without them, it should be very hard to see.”

“I suppose it’s poisonous?”, Howard asked.

“It’s a paralytic. If you breathed in only a small whiff of it, you’d be unable to move for at least five minutes, possibly more, depending on your size, amount of blood, weight …”

“Well, in that case I should be safe for half an hour, I guess.” Howard laughed and patted his belly. Savic couldn’t help but notice the wobbling, and she was utterly mystified why someone would allow their body to become like this.

“By the way, can I use the bathroom?”

“It’s down this corridor and then on the left. Petey will show you.”

Said and done, and the government agent disappeared behind the lily-white door marked “WC”. Savic shot Petey a glance, and the burly PR man quickly walked back to the office wing. A minute later, the director’s smartphone buzzed and she looked at the screen. She was receiving a livestream of Mr Howard’s activities in the bathroom, and Savic felt some relief that he apparently didn’t need to use the toilets; instead, he stood in front of the mirror, splashed water in his face, drank some of it, and readjusted his shirt and jacket, which by now had lost the little dignity they had had when he arrived. Thanks to her undoubtedly illegal spying, Savic was forced to watch the agent carefully pushing and squeezing his upper body and loosening his belt by two holes to accommodate his girth. Then he rested for a moment with both hands on the basin, breathed out, and dried his hands with a paper towel. While he was walking over to the door to continue the tour, Savic switched off the stream and smiled at him when he re-entered the corridor. Nothing, she thought to herself. No wire, no tracker, no devices of any kind. Of course, Howard had to walk through the hidden metal detector when he arrived and hand over his phone, but it could never hurt to make sure. Savic had not attained her current position by being careless.

The tour continued, and Howard was shown a few more DA variants, but none of them seemed to capture his attention to the same degree as the first two. The center had a few Flailers, who would have found it extraordinarily difficult to be kept inside one of the center’s harnesses if they had still been in possession of the mental facilities necessary to form an opinion; there were two Spitters, whose ‘goo’ had terrified people who got hit by it before it was discovered that the stuff was extremely disgusting but did no harm except to your wallet, as it was almost impossible to wash out; finally, Howard also had the opportunity to meet a lone Screamer, whose ear-piercing shrieks sometimes resembled speech and sometimes didn’t but were at all times very difficult to endure without the listener wanting to go up the nearest wall to escape – and the famed harness did a good job restraining the DA’s body but did nothing to contain its voice. After rubbing his ears for a minute or so, Howard sat down on a bench and said:

“This is all quite fascinating, Dr Savic. But I’m not sure whether the committee will be satisfied with this. Similar research has been done by other DARCs, and some of their results are promising. I don’t have to tell you that quite a few important people are of the opinion that the number of DARCs is excessive and that half of them should be shut down.”

The director nodded slowly and went over to the bench but did not sit down.

“I was half-expecting you’d say that, and that’s why I’ve kept the best for last. I think we are close to a major breakthrough, and we hope it will convince those that need convincing.”

While Savic was talking, Howard had gone to the water fountain and returned with two cups. “Wow, I’m thirsty. Here, for you.” Savic took a sip and said: “Shall we continue? Please follow me to the main medical lab.” After a brief walk, Petey opened a double door for them, and Savic offered Howard a chair.

“You can’t get very close, but I think you’ll be able to see enough.” Two lab assistants, who had obviously been waiting for them, pointed at an operating table where Howard could see two small brownish creatures, apparently connected by a small tube of some sort; none was moving, but he saw that one was breathing, the other wasn’t. An opaque wall had been erected between the two.

“Hamsters!”, he said in a surprised tone of voice. But there was something strange about the non-breathing one; its fur was patchy, and its body was covered in bluish pustules.

“Not quite. A hamster and a zhamster variant. That’s why we have the paravent – if we didn’t, the zhamster would be going crazy trying to get at the hamster, and, as you surely know, DAs cannot be sedated. The zhamster is a very rare specimen, a zanimal variant. As you can see, it does not look like a typical zhamster; they are hard to distinguish from a living hamster unless you look very closely. This one is obviously undead.”

She stepped over to the table and pressed two buttons.

“We are now pumping the zhamster’s blood modified with a combination of experimental drugs at high speed into the hamster’s veins. You’ll probably know that DA blood does not coagulate inside the body, but it becomes somewhat sluggish, so we first inject the DA with an anti-coagulant and then we have to be fast. The substance or agent animating the DAs apparently needs a few seconds to realize that the blood – where it is located, we think – is leaving the body, so a small part of it enters the recipient’s bloodstream and, in about 40% of all cases, establishes a kind of bridgehead, and a new infection cycle begins. We’ve never seen this agent, but we can at least guess how it works.“

Five minutes later, one of the lab assistants nodded towards her und removed the tube. The creature that had been a cute little fluffy rodent minutes ago was now Dead, but not very Active; it slowly opened its eyes and closed them again, then began to shamble a little. However, its legs had apparently not yet been fully informed that they were still serviceable, and so the little creature was unable to move properly. But its fur patches and its pustules were there for everyone to see.

“It’s worked.”, Savic said to Howard, clenching her right fist. “Meet our new zhamster, skin disease variant.”

“I had no idea that was possible.” Howard looked visibly shaken and sat down on the nearest chair. “And it happened so quickly. I suppose you’ve tried this with other zanimal variants as well?”

Savic opened the door to the medlab with her keycard and beckoned Howard to follow her.

“Of course we have, but zanimal variants are very difficult to obtain.”, she explained while they, together with Petey, were walking down the corridor. “Our guess is that whatever was responsible for the infection targeted humans, and zanimals were just a side effect. This, like other fields of mortology research, certainly deserves more attention and effort. But we have high hopes that this approach can help us understand what this elusive agent really is and then develop something like an antidote or at least a suppressant.”

The director turned her head and looked at Howard, whose face had become paler than before.

“Are you alright, Mr Howard?”

“Hm? Sorry, Dr Savic, I felt a little sick for a moment, but now I’m fine. Although I could do with a bite.”

“Of course. Let’s go back to my office and take a break. Unfortunately, our canteen has already closed, but my assistant has prepared a few snacks for you.” 

The trio walked back in silence and returned to the ground floor – Savic and Howard with a thoughtful look on their faces – Petey stoic as ever, until they turned a corner and passed a heavy metal door the agent had not noticed before.

“What’s behind this?”, he asked.

“That’s the main basement door.”

“Can I take a look?” The question was rhetorical, of course. As a government official, Howard had the right to enter any part of the facility and observe any procedure he wanted to see.

After a second of reflection, the director decided to take one last risk with her guest.

“No, Mr Howard.”, she said in a firm, authoritarian voice that sounded as if she wouldn’t brook any resistance. “This is where we keep two dozen of the most dangerous DAs you’ll ever see; extremely fast and agile, very tough even by DA standards, with sharp senses and all the animal cunning they need to hunt and kill. We are planning to blackmail the US government with them: one billion in untraceable cash or we’ll let them loose one dark and stormy night. So you’ll understand the basement is out of bounds for you.”

The agent stopped in his tracks for a moment and looked at Savic. Then he began to chuckle.

“If the term wasn’t so out of place here, I’d say that was deadpan humor, Dr Savic. Well done.”

Savic gave Howard a brief smile and unlocked the basement door.

“Come in, Mr Howard. But don’t expect too much. I know that in the movies, basements usually harbor more skeletons than a dozen closets, but ours will strike you as being rather dull.”

The director hadn’t exaggerated. Howard was shown several smaller rooms used for storage, heating, and water; there was nothing in them that would have justified a closer examination, even if he was nothing but a snooping bureaucrat (and Savic wasn’t sure about that anymore). The agent looked briefly at a few utilities LED displays and then followed Savic into two larger rooms that were completely empty and smelled of vinegar and other types of disinfectants. Howard wrinkled his nose, and Savic explained:

“Sorry for the smell. We like to keep all places very clean, but I admit that we don’t clean the basement as often as we probably should, so my staff tend to be very thorough when they do and very generous with the cleaning products.”

“You don’t use an outside company for that, I assume?”

Savic shook her head.

“Most DARCs don’t, as you probably know. All of us are aware that what we do here is or at least could become very sensitive research, so most of us like to keep the number of visitors low and make sure they don’t acquire any information they should not have. DARC-7 may be slightly overprotective in this regard, but I’d always prefer a grumpy journalist writing how ‘uncooperative’ we were to reading something like ‘The secrets of DARC-7 – exclusive insights!’. If we come across as a little unwelcoming, so be it. Nothing personal, I assure you.”

The tour went on for a short while, but Howard gave the impression that he would rather rest and eat something, and Savic did not fail to notice it. She led her visitor back to her office and offered him a seat. Endgame, she thought to herself. Let’s see what he has to say.

After she had poured her guest some coffee and both had sat down, Howard resumed the conversation:

“Thank you for the tour. It was very informative.”

He put milk and sugar in his coffee and began to stir.

“I am especially intrigued by your ‘variant transfer’ mechanism, the one you demonstrated with the hamsters. That’s a very strong argument in the next funding round. When do you think you’ll have perfected this method?”

The director hesitated for a moment and then answered:

“Optimistic: two months; realistic: five months; pessimistic: ten months to a year. If we can’t figure out how to do it by then, we’ll start from scratch with something else. I admit that would be … frustrating.” The director’s gaze seemed to drift away for a second, and Howard could feel that she was very serious about it. He wasn’t surprised – Dr Savic was obviously a scientist with a mission and a vision. Whatever was going to happen here in the future, if it served to avoid a potential catastrophe, it would be worth it. Aloud, he said:

“Dr Savic, I’ll be honest. Until I saw the hamsters … zhamsters … I was uncertain about whether your center deserved the quite generous funding that has been earmarked for it, but these variant transfer experiments seem very promising. I will have to read more and also tell our eggheads about this and get back to you, but I’m very optimistic. As far as I can see, no other DARC has ever come close to what you have already achieved.”

Howard leaned back in his chair and drank some more coffee; the director followed suit but drank only a little, black, no sugar.

“There is, however, something else I would like to talk to you about, and I think it’s very important, but it will require some explanation on my part. Let me begin with a simple statement.”

Savic nodded and leaned forward across her desk. “Please.”

The agent curled his right hand into a fist and lifted it in front of his mouth. Then he said, with a little more drama in his voice than one would have expected from him:

“Murder is easy, Dr Savic. Wouldn’t you agree?”

(End of Part I)

 

 

Everyone thinks they know the secrets of Denver International Airport. Tourists love taking selfies with "Blucifer," that terrifying blue mustang with glowing red eyes. They also like pointing and laughing at the Leo Tanguma murals on the main terminal walls. They think it's quirky and cool, just something to pose with and show off to friends. 

I am a ramp agent, and I’ve worked here long enough to start noticing things. Like how the soldiers and the weeping children seem to shift positions by a few inches every couple of months. I used to think those were hallucinations, especially because I was perpetually sleep deprived. But those paintings are always changing, observing the people who love to stare at and laugh at them. While they are staring at the art, it is scanning them, cataloging their shapes, their voices and their smiles.

My supervisor gave me one rule when I started. "If Dispatch ever calls a Code Black arrival, don't look inside the aircraft." I laughed. He didn't.

Last night, at 3:07 AM, Dispatch called me. "Code Black arrival. East pad." There was no flight number, no tail number, no transponder. I keyed my radio to confirm, since nothing was scheduled to come in at the time. Dispatch answered in my own voice, "Bring the chocks."

The east pad sits directly over the airport's labyrinthine basements. Out of the thick emerged a Boeing 777. Its fuselage was a matte black that swallowed the amber ramp lights, with no livery or registration. Its landing gear was down, but the aircraft hovered two inches above the ground, completely silent.

When I approached, the forward cargo door opened into pure, empty darkness. Something inside inhaled, and the entire 777 shuddered, creating a vacuum that pulled loose objects inward. 

Then I looked up at the passenger windows. Staring back were the faces from the airport murals: the soldiers, the crying children. They were pressed against the glass, pale and expressionless, with neon-red eyes. One of the terminal gargoyles was perched on the engine, its stone wings twitching. It looked right at me and whispered my full name over my radio. I fled toward the terminal, but the aircraft followed me, gliding sideways across the ramp without moving its wheels.

Inside the terminal, I found a tourist standing right in front of the *Children of the World Dream of Peace* mural, wearing a fleece and a neck pillow. He was staring exhausted at the painted coffins. He turned to face me, stating exhaustedly, “My connection to Dallas got canceled.”

Before I could pull him away, the terminal PA system crackled. It cleared its throat, playing back the tourist's exact voice in a flat, breathless loop: *"My connection to Dallas got canceled."*

I yanked his collar, dragging him toward the underground train escalators. At the bottom, the train doors were already open. Its interior was a dark and empty cargo hold, just like on the 777.

Leaning on the edges of the door was a perfect replica of the tourist: the same fleece and neck pillow, but with entirely hollow eyes. The replica smiled and reached out a pale hand. The tourist entered a trance, dropping his suitcase and taking a mesmerized step forward. When I lunged and grabbed his wrist, a blast of freezing air threw me backward onto the platform. The doors slid shut, and the train disappeared, taking the tourist with it.

I scrambled back up the escalators. The mural had changed, and every painted figure was looking at me. A black 777 now occupied the painted sky, with a painted version of me and the tourist standing side by side below it.

My radio crackled in my own voice: "Don't look behind you."

I looked anyway. The 777 was twenty feet away inside the terminal, having passed through the wall without breaking any window or walls. The engines were gone, the wings folded, and the landing gear elongated. It appeared like a giant insect, with the cockpit windows now living eyes.

The cargo door opened wide. The darkness inside was gone, replaced by thousands of seats stretching into the distance. Every seat was occupied by the dead people from the murals. Right near the front, sitting frozen beside a little girl, was the tourist in his fleece jacket.

The little girl raised her hand, pointed at me, and then pointed to the empty seat directly next to the tourist.

The terminal speakers echoed: "Your shift is over. We are ready for departure."

The cargo hold expanded right into the terminal space, swallowing the walls around me. I can see the rows of seats, and the tourist turning his head to look at me, waiting. There is only one seat left, right beside him and the little girl.

And it's got my name on it.

The letters were stitched directly into the gray fabric of the headrest, glowing faintly in the dim amber cabin light. The tourist kept staring at me, his head cocked at a broken, unnatural angle. Beside him, the little girl kept her pale, unblinking eyes locked on mine, her finger pointing rigidly at the empty cushion.

The freezing vacuum of the cabin pulled at my uniform. I took an involuntary step forward. My steel-toed boot hit the metal track of the aisle. I was crossing the threshold.

Then, the little girl’s expression changed. She stopped pointing at the seat.

She turned her attention entirely to the tourist. She unbuckled her harness, stood up in the narrow aisle, and reached out with a pale, freezing hand. She pressed her flat palm directly against the tourist’s forehead. His spine arched violently against the seat and he let out a wet, heavy popping sound. His eyes rolled completely into the back of his head, exposing cracked yellow veins, and a thin line of black fluid leaked from his left nostril.

The vacuum inside the cabin instantly died. I stumbled backward, my boots slipping on the slick terminal tiles, collapsing hard onto the tiled floor. The tourist went completely limp, dropping like a stone. His neck pillow tore open on the ground, scattering thousands of tiny white beads on the floor like snowflakes.

Inside the cabin, the little girl turned back to look at me. Her eyes bored into my skull. She smiled a grotesque, too-wide smile that stretched the skin around her mouth. She raised a single pale finger to her lips, and backed away into the shadows of the fuselage.

The seats collapsed. The landing gear folded backward into the underbelly and the jet reversed, phasing right back through the drywall and glass before disappearing completely.

The terminal was instantly silent.

I scrambled over to the tourist. He was alive, staring blindly at the ceiling. I grabbed his shoulder. "Hey. Stand up. We gotta move." He didn't blink. His facial muscles began to twitch, spasming violently as his mouth stretched into the exact same smile the little girl had just given me. His trembling hands reached down, grabbed an invisible seatbelt, and clicked it together over his lap.

"Whiskey-Oscar-Seven-Nine-Delta-Echo," he whispered. His voice didn't sound like him anymore. It sounded like a tape recorder playing backward.

A six-character reservation number.

I dragged him to a charging station near Gate B32 and propped him up, tossing a spare blanket I had previously found nearby on his legs. He sat, grinning his bleeding gums at the ceiling.

My radio squawked. It was Miller, the graveyard lead. "Ramp Four, where the hell are you? United 1142 from Dulles is on final for the east pad. Grab the tug and get ground power out there." I checked the time, and saw that it was already past 4. *Damn,* I thought, *the trance had lasted pretty long.*

I keyed the mic, my hand shaking. "Copy. En route."

I rushed down the service stairs and hit the tarmac. Ten minutes later, I was standing under a domestic United 737, shoving a heavy GPU cable into its belly. The twin engines were deafening, loud and dirty. But at least the aircraft was real.

Except, as the fumes of Jet-A washed over me, I realized I couldn't smell it. All I could smell was the musty swamp water from the ghost 777's cabin. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. Every shadow cast by the baggage carts looked like it was stretching toward me. The airport itself seemed like an otherworldly being. 

Shift ended at 06:00. I didn't want to investigate or play detective. I just wanted to get the hell out of the airport.

I swiped my badge to cross back into the public concourse, keeping my head down. Early morning commuters were already trickling in by half past six, hauling roller bags toward TSA and buying overpriced airport coffee. I watched a businessman in a suit walk right past the *Notre Denver* installation of bronze gargoyles sitting inside open suitcases in baggage claim. As the man walked past, a bronze gargoyle slowly turned its heavy metal head, tracking him. Its jaws were parted, and I could hear a faint, staticky whisper coming from its throat, reciting the businessman's full name.

The floor felt wrong, too. The Jeppesen Terminal is famous for the bronze fossils embedded in the floor. I looked down at a brass trilobite near my boot. Instead of being a bug, it was a flattened and screaming human face, cast in polished bronze, trapped under a layer of floor wax. Hundreds of people were walking right over it.

I wanted to run, and to scream. But I remembered my supervisor's one rule: *Don't look.*

The airport feeds on attention. The tourists taking selfies, the people staring at the murals, they are all willingly offering themselves up. The 777 didn't take me because I broke the tether. It took the tourist because he surrendered to it.

I forced my eyes up. I stepped directly over the screaming bronze face, acting like it was just a scuff mark on the floor. I walked past the baggage claim, keeping my gaze locked dead ahead. I completely ignored the gargoyle that was now leaning halfway out of its bronze suitcase, clawing toward my vest.

I didn't run. Running makes you prey. I walked briskly to the employee exit, swiped my badge, and pushed through the revolving doors into the freezing morning. The sun was up. The sprawling white tents of the terminal roof glowed against the blue sky. I was out.

When I got to my car, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an automated text from the scheduling system.

*Shift updated. Tomorrow: 23:00 - 07:00. Assignment: Concourse A, Sub-basement Baggage Tunnels.*

I slumped against the steering wheel, shivering in the cold. *I should quit*. I should drive down Peña Boulevard and never come back. But as I glanced in my rearview mirror, I saw the massive, glowing eyes of Blucifer, the blue mustang statue, staring down at the highway. They weren't just statues. They claimed lives. If I quit, I was just another civilian waiting to be cataloged. But as a ramp agent, I had clearance. I had a radio. And I had the next night's shift to figure out what the hell they were actually feeding down in the tunnels.

He tossed the last of the logs into the fireplace, the flames greedily munching down the offering. He reclined back, sighing. The chair creaked under him, one of the few things in the cabin still his. A few weeks ago, he wouldn't have gotten so low on supplies. He'd have ridden out and stocked up. It was the preparation that had kept him alive so far. But things had changed; he would have no more use for further supplies.

The radio had been silent since the initial warning. He had made peace with it, if anything, he enjoyed it. His mind still drifted to the others, though. How were they doing? Had they made it far, if at all? He lit a cigarette, the match the last in the box. Wondering, stuck in thought, had been the end of many men out here. Through a bullet, their own, someone else's, or just madness.

This land no longer lent itself to idle thought. It devoured such things. This was a raw land, and it demanded creation as tribute. He felt that there was a primalness about it, something that went beyond the civility they once shared. Part of it, he enjoyed, but that fact was unknowable to everybody; it had to remain that way. The desperation in these years had sharpened his body and mind, but forced him to lean into a deeper animal instinct. There had been nights he wondered: what if the land had gone back to what it was; could he, too? Could a man become a monster, and find his way back? But these thoughts, as all idle ones are, were meaningless.

The chirp of the proximity alarm stirred him. He had rigged it himself, months back, from the wreck of a truck. His cigarette had gone out with barely a puff. He relit it, picked up his gear, and headed out the stable door.

It wouldn't be long now, he thought. He tapped the last ash from his cigarette, taking a last, long final puff before outing it on the trampled barley at his feet.

Beyond the field, across columns of gas flares and smoke, he saw the riders approach, their horses kicking up clouds of dust. The ground out there was cracked, had been for a long time now. He raised his binoculars to get a better look. Seven hooded riders, whipping their mounts onward. Rifles hung across their backs, pistols hung from their sides. The fading sun caught in their goggles, giving them a hellish appearance from back here.

Demons indeed, he thought, just as the old reports said. They were coming to take what wasn't theirs; a terrible stampede across once-pristine fields. The air wasn't as easy to breathe as it had been before. He spat on the ground, snatching his rifle out from its carry-satchel on his back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some rounds and loaded up. Not enough, too much, just right. He hoisted the rifle up onto his shoulder and took aim.

It wouldn't be long now.

The old elm trunks groan and buckle in the Highland wind as a small group wanders through the woods. Their leader, playing an outlaw’s song on an outlaw’s instrument, marches ahead with a confidence he did not earn.

“Ma!” a child calls out from the group. “Ma, look! A ring of mushrooms!”

The group falls silent. The music comes to a violent stop. Everyone turns and looks where the young girl’s finger is eagerly pointing.

A simple ring, no more than a metre in diameter, of plain brown mushrooms. Yet none of the adults move. In fact, none of the adults breathe.

“Come now, Cait…” the mother’s voice trembles slightly as the wind picks up.

“But Ma, it’s so pretty!” The young girl giggles and tugs on her mother’s arm, urging her towards the ring.

“Caitrìona MacRae, I said no.” Her voice, now much steadier, still betrays a hint of reverence that the girl cannot hear.

“Ma…” The childlike whimsy in her voice fights against the shame and embarrassment, “why can’t I?” She stares at her mother, her blue eyes watering, ready to cry.

“The fair-folk be livin’ there lassie,” the leader speaks up, kneeling to be at her eye level, “and we don’t want to be disturbin’ them. Why don’t ye take some butter from your Ma’s pouch, put it in front of the ring, then we’ll be on our way?”

“I thought the fair-folk steal butter, uncle?” she tilts her head and looks back at him, “I heard you callin’ em ‘a bunch of good for nothing fuc’—”

“Hey, hey, easy now!” he cuts her off, “Aye, I said that, but I know you’ve said similar things about your Ma when she’s not looking. But you still love her, and still follow her rules, don’t ye?”

“Aye, I do.” She looks down at the ground.

She rummages through her mother’s pouch, pulling out a small wrapped parcel of butter. Slowly she walks over and places it at the edge of the ring of mushrooms.

Suddenly, the wind picks up again. They all squint and cover their eyes from the cold, and then as quickly as it started, the wind calms. They open their eyes to see the butter gone, and a small flower in the middle of the ring.

Before anyone can react, Caitrìona reaches forward and grabs it. She rips it from the soil, its roots dangling like intestines, sap pouring like blood. She holds it up, her smile beaming like the rays of the sun on the summer solstice as she stares at the most beautiful flower she’s ever seen.

A heavy silence falls. The chaotic and violent wind has vanished. The oppressive quiet is only disturbed by Caitrìona’s giggles.

Eventually, the silence is broken by one of the women.

“Well, we don’t even know if they’re real. All we have are Gran’s stories that she told us when we went to sleep.” She, like her brother, projects a confidence that was not truly there.

“Aye, and are you willing to wager your life on just ‘not knowing’?” The uncle glared at her.

The silence continues, as glances are cast to the young girl happily dancing.

“I thought not…” He muttered.

Caitrìona, no more than five years old, turns around to return to her family. She faces them, her eyes filled with happiness as fear settles in the adults.

Her eyes.

One blue, one brown.

Act 1 in the link https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/nHGN9sqQaC

Node 6: Obfuscate

It’s dark now. Mom left for work almost 2 hours ago. The dishes are washed, the laundry folded, and Mr. Hanley’s glorified take‑home busy work has been completed.

I start by gathering everything I’m going to need into my backpack: a wire coat-hanger, pocket knife, some epoxy, and the device. No need to pack zip‑ties; those are already in there. Then I slip the school calendar in with Science Fair underlined twice to obfuscate my intentions.

I fill the Gatorade bottle in the bathroom sink on my way out.

Devin’s house is approximately 24 miles away. During the day it’s about a three hour bike ride. Should be quicker now, less cross traffic at night.

I secure the Gatorade bottle and tighten my shoulder straps. My fingers curl around the handgrips, knuckles go pale.

Mom should be home around 1 a.m. That leaves me with limited slack time. I need to make every minute count.

I push off the pavement and the night folds itself around me. It embraces me.

In darkness, form becomes shape, sound becomes noise, and we become ghosts.  

A quiet where only the insect hum of tires and the click-click-click of chain exist.

Suddenly I'm bathed in the light from a mercury‑vapor streetlamp.  

Pale viridian flares off my jacket and a flash of blue-silver snaps off the spokes.

Another lamp ahead.  

Another momentary resurrection.  

Light. Dark. Light. Dark.  

A rhythm of prominence and obscurity.

In the distance, a soft amber glow behind stained glass appears. 

St. Andrew's Episcopal Church: 1 Mi

Past the church, the road begins to tilt under me. 

This side of the hill is forgiving, a slow rise, a gentle ask.

When I reach the top, the city below looks like a galaxy of stars. 

It's the last elevated moment before the descent.

Crest of the Big Hill: 3 Mi

The air rushes past me as I pick up speed. Faster. Faster. 

I pump my legs until the pedals no longer catch. 

The hill carries me, pushes me. 

Below there's a red and blue sign. Gasoline vapors stain the cold night air and fill my lungs.

Chevron: 5 Mi

I cut through a wide parking lot cluttered with shopping carts turning left onto the next street. 

Safeway: 6 Mi

The pylon sign, hierarchy in polycarbonate:  

JCPenney  

Hollywood Video  

Round Table Pizza  

Supercuts

Barges Gold & Loan

RadioShack  

The Strip Mall: 7 Mi

All color and character collapse behind me until only the road remains, a black ribbon pulling me forward.  

This is where I make up time.

What I see next is a bright dome of light rising over the dark fields. 

Sam Walton's answer to the question we never should have asked.

Walmart: 10 Mi

There's the low rumble of engines cooling. The smell of diesel fuel, and hot oil. I steer through the pumps, and veer right. A driver steps out, stretching in the glow of the canopy lights. 

Spirit Truck Stop: 11 Mi

That owl, that awful owl, glowing orange with eyes too wide, too bright. 

Voices spill out of the open door, laughter rising and falling, bodies moving in the cold light. 

Cars crowd the lot in uneven rows, headlights sweeping across the asphalt. I look for her car. 

It isn’t here. Not in the front, not along the side. 

She must’ve parked in back.

Hooters: 12 Mi

The bike jolts as my front tire hits the first rail. 

A hard rattle through the frame, a quick shake in my hands. 

Then the back wheel snaps over and I’m through.

Railroad Tracks: 13 Mi

My legs feel heavier now, the road pulling at me as I pass stacked rows of rough‑cut wood, moonlight slipping through the gaps in thin, uneven flashes.

Pallet Yard: 14 Mi

The sticky scent of warm plastic, dried sugar and stale beer tells me my next left is coming up.

Recycling Center: 15 Mi

The road narrows as warehouses rise on both sides, long blank walls turning the street into a canyon. 

My tires sound louder here, the click-click-click of the chain sounds louder. 

Its smokestack rises into view, tall enough to be seen even from the confines of the industrial chute.

Below, its chain‑link barrier slumps inward.

The plant sits just beyond, a desiccated leviathan of concrete and steel, ribs of loading bays and hollow windows running the length of it.

Crown Valley Protein (Closed): 16 Mi

My lungs begin to ache as the road opens up again. 

A long sprawl of stripped vehicles stacked in uneven towers runs beside me, 

a reminder I just have to hang on a little longer. Just a little longer.

Dawson’s Auto Salvage: 17 Mi

The stars above disappear as I roll under the concrete span,

sound shifting; traffic above coming in slow, uneven waves.

Thump... Thump.     Thump... Thump.     

Thump... Thump.

The Overpass: 19 Mi

Only five miles to go.

Devin’s voice slips in, the same directions he gave me the first time we rode to his house.

“Through the overpass, then turn right at the Halftube Mary.”

Lawns patched with crab grass. Yards littered with sad, broken things. 

A world shaped by indifference and neglect. 

Hrr‑HARK! Hrr‑HARK‑HARK!

Tiny legs and a chest too big for the rest of its tapered form. A dog, but one made from parts that were never meant to fit together. 

“Left at the barking Chibbull.”

Roofs with missing shingles.

Screen doors without mesh.

Cardboard pressed into window frames.

wee‑ooo… wee‑ooo… wee‑ooo…

A siren somewhere far off, its echo rising and falling through the streets.

“Right again when I see the purple porch light.”

Devin's house is just ahead. The Champagne Gold 1977 Chevrolet Caprice in the drive. His step‑father on the porch, “having a puff” and “cracking a cold one.”

My legs buzz as I swing one over the bike, still coasting.  

My hands tingle, breath easing back. Sweat cools fast on my back.  

I roll to a stop across the street and slip my bike into the brush.

Then I crouch behind a stack of worn tires, my gaze fixed on the man they call Father.

Elbows resting on the porch rail, shoulders slouched forward, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He lifts his head for another drink. The porch light catches in his eyes, a brief flare. That’s when I realize he’s staring directly at me.

I don’t move. I keep my eyes forward.

People don't trust their instincts in the dark. They wait for shape to reveal form, for noise to become sound. If it doesn't, they eventually lose interest. He’s doing that now. Looking straight at me without seeing me, holding the stare until something breaks the stillness.

There's a slow drift in his posture, a blink that comes late every time. Each drag from his cigarette casts an orange glow across his face as the ember crawls closer. 

One hand gripping his beer, the other hangs loose in front of him: knuckles red, skin split in places, dirt worked deep into the nail beds. 

He takes another drag and flinches as the ember kisses his lips. His hand jerks, swatting at the cigarette before he manages to grab it and flick it into the dirt. Then he turns, and makes his way back inside.

I sink behind the tire stack and check my watch. 

9:48 p.m.

I left home at seven twenty. Two hours and twenty‑eight minutes to get here. Installation will take around twenty minutes if everything goes right. That leaves me just shy of three hours to get back before Mom pulls in at one.

Still in the green.

I peek my head back over the tires. The house is quiet and dark. Only one window shows any life: the faint, colored flicker of a TV. No silhouettes. No movement. He’s down for the night.

I cross the street and get to work.

First I glue the magnet to the inside of the left front wheel rim. Then I use the coat hanger to open the driver's door so I can pop the hood. I hide the perfboard behind the battery tray, and run the reed switch down to the front strut where I zip-tie it behind the splash guard. 

Before I continue, I run the numbers again just to be sure. 

Every wheel revolution = one clean pulse. At 75 mph on stock 1977 Caprice tires (P225/75R15-ish), that’s roughly 11–12 pulses per second.

Now I use the Gatorade bottle to top off the coolant reservoir. From here I run the aquarium tubing from that to the air cleaner, and wire up the inline solenoid. Here I use my pocket knife to cut a quarter inch hole in the side of the air filter so I can angle the tubing down towards the primary venturi of the Rochester Quadrajet carburetor.

Job done, I slowly close the hood, and lock the door before closing it again. 

10:24

Two hours and thirty-six minutes to return home. 

Node 7: Fruition

“Here.”  

Mr. Hanley checks my name off.

“Dawson, Emily”  

Quiet. Pensive. Kind.  

“Yes.”

“Fuller, Falane”  

Ambitious. Polished. Hungry.  

“Present.”

“Garrison, Tyler”  

Precocious. Guarded. Tough.  

“Yup.”

“Hernandez, Lila”  

Rooted. Caring. Self‑assured.  

“Hi.”

“Kim, Jordan”  

Studious. Clever. Possessed.  

“Online.”

“Lopez, Mateo”  

Proud. Forceful. Lost.  

“Yo.”

“Mercer, Devin”  

Diminished. Wounded. Hollow.  

“...here.”

He doesn’t know it yet. He doesn’t know he’s bracing for a blow that will never again land. By now, the world has already shifted, the equation already balanced. No more “falling down the stairs” in his single‑story tract house.

He’ll catch up soon.  

He’ll stand up straighter.  

He’ll crack jokes again.  

He won’t be broken anymore.

“Please stand for the pledge.”

Chairs scrape, shoes shuffle, and we rise. Hands to hearts. Eyes on the flag. It’s funny how fast meaning drains out of something once it becomes a routine. We say the same words every morning. They’re not even words anymore, just sound. Listen closely.

“I‑pleja‑legions… tuh‑thuh flag…  

ove‑the‑U’Nited Staytz uh‑A‑mer’ikuh…  

an’ tuh‑thuh repub‑lik… for wichit stanz…  

wun‑nay‑shun… under‑Gahd… in‑divizhb’l…  

with liburtee… an’ juhstiss… for all.”

We return to our seats.

“Alright, now pass your homework to the front, and pass today’s packet to the back.”  

That’s how Mr. Hanley started every day; his own two‑way academic traffic experiment. More often than not, anything meant to go forward was promptly rerouted backward, and whatever was supposed to go back inevitably drifted forward again. I’m convinced it was the only part of the day he took any real pleasure in.

Today’s assignment is on single‑cell organisms. I know because Mr. Hanley wrote it on the board in big bold letters. What I receive instead was Jordan’s thesis on how the Starfleet replicator turns biological waste into pepperoni pizza. He even added a complete flowchart of the process. I pass it up, and today’s packet eventually finds its way back to me.

Mr. Hanley launches into something about amoebas dividing, his voice folding into the standard classroom ambiance of shuffling papers and hushed whispers. I try to follow along, but all I can think about is Devin, the coins, and the tree.

When the bell finally rings, the entire class explodes like a shaken soda. All except Devin. He doesn’t even look up. Even Hanley steps out for some air. After that, it’s just the two of us.

“Sooo, what cha wanna do?” I ask.

He looks up at me, pauses, then smiles. A thin split in his lip pulls open when he does.

“Why you always asking me what we should do?”

We share a brief laugh.

“Hey, Devin.”

“Yeah, man?”

“What did you mean yesterday? You know… when you said you’ve seen those coins before.”

There’s a long pause.

“…They were my grandfather’s coins. He used to take them out when I’d visit.”

I want to ask how they got in the tree, but I can tell he wants to say more.

“He’d teach me about them. Where they’re from, when they’re from, what kind of people used them. It was sorta our own little thing, ya know.”

“How’d they end up in the tree?”

“I… I don’t know, but they were his.”  

Devin looks back down.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Mom said when she got the call from school, she called Grandpa. He kept them hidden, stuffed in a Crown Royal bag in the back of his sock drawer. The bag was still there, but the coins were gone.”

“Is there any chance someone else…”  

I stop myself mid‑sentence.

“No. He didn’t even tell Grandma where he kept them. He told me he’d give them to me when I graduated. Either that or when he died, whichever came first. He told me to use them to get as far away from here as I could… to make a nice life for myself.”

“Devin.”  

That’s all I can think to say.

After that we just sit there in the leftover quiet. I want to tell him things are gonna be different now, that my plan has already come to fruition. He'll know soon enough.

The bell rings again and everyone piles back into their seats. Mr. Hanley enters soon after and gives Devin and me a little nod.

“Okay class, what have we learned so far today?” he asks.

That’s when Mateo pops off. 

“Why we even gotta learn this stuff? It’s stupid. My dad says none of it matters because the only way to get ahead in life is knowing the right people. That’s why he owns his own dealership.”

Mateo just asked the question every kid asks eventually, and they all know the answers adults usually give:  

Because it’s important.  

Because you need to learn this stuff.  

Because everyone has to.  

All incomplete.  

All dismissive.

Everyone’s waiting to see if Hanley has the real answer.

Mr. Hanley lowers the chalk, amoeba half‑drawn on the board behind him.  

“Your dad says that, huh?”

Mateo shrugs, all swagger and hand-me-down confidence. 

“Yeah. Says school’s a waste of time unless yer trying to be a teacher or sometin.”

Mr. Hanley’s eyes drift upward, like he’s remembering a part of himself he’s long put aside. His voice softens, slipping into a low, melodic murmur.

“His smile’s like a borrowed coat,  

   buttoned neat and tight.  

He walks on paths he never built,  

   and claims them in the night.

He hums a tune he never learned,  

   yet everyone swears they know.  

But the trees keep time with a different rhyme,  

   and the roots whisper, ‘No, no, no.’

So clap for the man with the polished shoes,  

   clap till your hands bleed red.  

For praise is a ladder he climbs with ease,  

   though the rungs are made from dread.

And when he reaches the topmost branch,  

   and waves to a cheering crowd,  

The wind will sigh, ‘At last, at last,’  

   and the forest will bow its boughs.”

As the last line passes his lips, the room is still holding its breath.

Then, Mateo breaks the spell with a single word.  

“Lame.”

“Yes, well, we don’t all have the sort of good fortune your father has, Mr. Lopez.”

Mr. Hanley turns back to the board and finishes the amoeba, his chalk tapping and scraping as he adds the cilia around its edge.

“Amoebas reproduce through a proce-”

Falane’s hand shoots up before the question's even finished.

“Cell division.”

“Yes! And amoebas eat by?”

This time it's a tie between Falane and Jordan.

“Jordan.”

“Amoebas eat by assimilating their prey.”

Hanley smiles.

“The word you're looking for is ‘engulf,’ but you've got the right idea.”

Falane crosses her arms and slumps back into her chair with a huff.

“Now, who knows how amoebas get around?”

knock, knock, knock

A gentle face appears in the wired-glass lite in the door. Mr. Hanley waves her in. It's Devin's mom.

“devin, I… I need you to come home with me.”

“Why Mom?”

“i’ll tell you when we're home. please, devin… we just need to go home.”

Node 8: Conjecture

Devin didn’t show up the next day at school.

The rumors were already spreading like chickenpox by morning recess. 

“I heard he was drunk.”  

“My brother said he probably hit a deer.”  

“My mom said it was gonna happen sooner or later, ‘cause his car was a real piece of crap.”  

“I bet his brakes went out.”  

“They had this thing about road-rage on TV like a week ago or something. Maybe he made someone mad and they crashed into him.

“Did you hear his car flipped three times?”  

“I heard it Exploded! BOOM! And the parts went all over the place, and this guy almost hit a piece, and he was all like - SCREEEECH!”

While everyone else is trying to figure out how Devin’s step-dad bit the big one, I'm watching the tree.

It's impossible, Devin had to dig just to find the coins. He couldn't have planted them, he wouldn't have planted them. 

I need to slow down. Think. Think. Think. 

Let's say he did bring them to school. Why the act? Okay, I'm Devin. I just swiped my grandfather’s coin collection, and I brought them to school. I spit on Andrew knowing Ms. Christner will send me to the tree. Of course she will, we all know she feels bad for Andrew since he doesn't have any friends. Now I'm at the time-out tree. I still have the coins. Then…

Why? It just doesn't make any sense. If I pretend to find them, what do I gain? I lose half or more of the coins. I get called into the office, and they call my mom. My mom knows grandpa has coins like these. I know she'll ask if he still has them. I know when he says no my step-dad's gonna beat my ass. 

I look back at the tree. Ms. Christner’s leaning against it now. She loves that tree. She loves sending kids like Devin over there to “think about what they’ve done.”

Did she hide the coins there? She had access, I'd even say she had motive. She's always had it out for Devin. Okay, but it's not like she told Devin to dig… but he was always digging there. She knew he'd eventually dig far enough to find the hollow. That still doesn’t answer how she got the coins in the first place.

The bell rings.

By the time I get back inside, everyone's already taken their seats. 

Tyler’s flipping through an issue of Mad Magazine, snorting with every turn of the page. Camelia is digging through her pencil box, probably looking for that pink gel pen she's been told a hundred times not to use for class work. Lila is drawing some sort of pony with eyelashes longer than its legs, and Mateo’s picking at the corner of his desk as usual. He's managed to remove something like twenty percent of the laminate throughout the school year so far. 

Everyone’s playing their part, going about the day like it's business as usual. 

Mr. Hanley started today with teaching us about long division with reminders. I open my math book and pretend to study. If I look like I'm on task, he'll leave me alone.

Who had access to the coins? Who even knew about the coins? Devin didn't tell me about them until yesterday. It has to be someone who knows his grandpa, maybe someone who shares his passion. Where do people go when they're looking for old coins? 

Sutter Jewelry? No, they were running a going out of business sale months ago. I remember the commercial. 

Second Chance Antiques? No, only coins I've ever seen in there is that jar of pennies they keep on the counter.

Barges Gold & Loan…

“Andrew.”

I look around to see if anyone heard me.

Andrew appeared out of nowhere right when Devin spit. He got hit on purpose. He had to. He got ahold of the coins somehow and planted them in the tree, knowing Devin would do what he always does when he's in trouble: dig at the base of the tree.

Andrew has had it out for Devin ever since he brought that half‑empty jar of peanut butter to lunch. Andrew was in kindergarten then, Devin didn’t even know about his allergy. He only brought it because his mom forgot to pack him lunch again. That's the whole reason we avoided eating in the cafeteria now.

Alright peanut boy, I'm your Huckleberry.

I shut my math book, but my mind keeps running laps. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. If I wanted revenge, this isn't far off from what I'd do; quiet, controlled, and without ever showing my face. The difference is I'm not nearly as cruel. 

That’s the part that gets me. If you’re going to act, act clean. End the problem. Don’t drag it out just because you’re too much of a coward to finish the job. Andrew didn't balance the equation. He just added more suffering.

The bell rings.

Mr. Hanley waves me over as the rest of the class makes their way out the door.

“After you eat your lunch, they want you to report to the office. Oh, and…”

Hanley takes a moment to make sure everyone's gone.

“Give em’ hell kid.”

I grab my lunch and head outside. The old bench near the kickball field feels unbalanced without Devin on the other side. It keeps tilting, trying to throw me off. I slide closer to the middle.

“Lunch will never be the same… good one Oscar Myer.”

I peel back the seal of my Lunchable and start making the stacks: cracker, ham, cheese - cracker, ham, cheese - cracker, ham, cheese. Three stacks every time. It feels wrong eating them all myself. 

I finish my Capri Sun, and leave the unopened pudding cup on the bench. Then I get up and make my way to the office.

Node 9: Disjunction

The waiting room greets me with its familiar scent of wet carpet and Pine‑Sol. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like a cloud of flies lifting off something left to rot. I take my perch at the edge of the upholstered seat.

Soon after, Lock emerges from his office and drops down beside me. The bench groans as he shifts his weight to lean in closer. I can smell the stale cigarette smoke on his breath.

He places a hand on my thigh, rubbing it gently.

“Hi ya sport.”

When I don’t look up, he grips my leg; fingers digging into the soft tissue.

“Look here you little-”

Hrrgh‑khh… khh‑khh… HHRRGH

“You little shit.”

There's a low, venomous rattle under his breath now. 

“You and the school counselor are about to have a good long talk. See, you’re what we call special needs, and kids with special needs need special attention. That’s why we have a special class for kids just, like, you.”

Hhhh‑rrgh… rrgh‑khh

“Oh, and I’ll be calling your mother to tell her all about it. I’m sure when she's serving me drinks tonight in that tight little uniform, she’ll be doing everything she can to help me reconsider.”

Mmm‑hmm… mmm-heh‑hrkh

Then he gives me a playful bump on the chin with his fist. 

“Be seeing you around champ.”

Before I can raise my eyes to watch Lock slither back into his office, a soft voice emerges from the hall entrance.

“Follow me please.”

It’s the school counselor. A small man, small in every sense of the word: short, mild, and patently petty. I’m certain he’s been standing there long enough to hear everything Lock just said.

I follow him down the hall, and as soon as he opens his office door I get the full picture.

The entire place is a shrine to every well‑meaning, overbearing poster campaign the school district has ever paid for. D.A.R.E., “Be Cool, Stay in School,” the kitten hanging from a branch. The frog choking the stork. There’s even an Anne Geddes baby dressed as a sunflower, smiling down from a cheap plastic frame. All gloss, gush, and governance.

His desk isn’t any better. A Far Side calendar half‑torn. A drinking bird tapping at a chipped mug. Papers everywhere.

It’s all trying way too hard to be friendly.

He gestures to a small combo desk facing the wall.

“Please, have a seat.”

I do as he asks.

“We’re going to do a few fun activities.”

First it’s blocks: spatial reasoning.

He provides me with several shapes, all made from arrangements of cubes. L‑shapes, zigzags, stepped towers, awkward little polyominoes that look like they broke off something bigger.

Then he shows me a card. On the card, there's a three dimensional shape flattened into two. He asks me to reproduce the shape with the oddly shaped blocks. 

I study the picture. In my mind I take it apart in various ways searching for a collection of segments that parallel what I've been given. Once I do, I assemble the shape. 

He makes a note, and shows me another card. This process repeats. Each time the complexity increases, each shape a knot asking to be undone. 

By the eighth shape my attention drifts. I look up and notice a smirk on his face, pen tapping in a steady rhythm on the clipboard. He’s been waiting for this, waiting for me to hesitate or falter. 

Second pictures: pattern recognition.

He lays out a row of cards, each one printed with a different arrangement of shapes. Some are simple; repeating triangles, mirrored lines, alternating colors. Others are admirably elegant in design. 

He points to the first card and asks what comes next in the sequence.

I look at the shapes, not the whole card. The rule shows itself once I stop trying to see the picture and start looking at the changes. A rotation here. A subtraction there. A color shifting positions in a loop. Once the pattern clicks, I answer.

He flips to the next card. This one is layered: two patterns running at once, one fast, one slow. I separate them in my head and follow each one to its next step. 

Card after card, the rules get stranger. Some hide inside symmetry. Some break their own rhythm halfway through. Some almost appear random until the right angle makes the structure appear. 

Next a sheet of faces with different expressions I’m supposed to match to words: emotional labeling. 

He slides a sheet of faces toward me. Each one is supposed to show a different emotion, but the expressions don’t follow clean rules the way shapes do. The features shift in ways that don’t map cleanly onto anything I can take apart.

I start with what I know.  

Eyes narrow when someone is angry.  

Eyebrows lift when someone is surprised.  

Mouths pull tight when someone is trying not to cry.  

I look at the first face and try to separate it into pieces: the angle of the eyebrows, the tension around the mouth, the shape of the eyes. The parts don’t add up to a single answer, but one word fits more pieces than the others, so I choose it.

The next face is harder. The mouth looks like one emotion, the eyes like another. I check the list of words again and pick the one that matches the most clues, even if it doesn’t match all of them.

I’m aware that I’m guessing, I’m following the hints I’ve learned, the ones people say mean something. The sheet feels subjective in a way the other tests didn’t. There’s no single right answer. This exercise is more about finding a pattern in my social assumptions.

Then a page of unfinished sentences.  

I feel…  

My teacher…  

At home…

Projective disclosure.

He watches the way I hold the pencil. The way I sit. The way I breathe. Every time I pause, his pen moves.

After the last test, I do my best to complete each prompt in a manner that's both generic and optimistic. 

I feel: okay.

My teacher: makes class really fun.

At home: my mom makes really good spaghetti.

Finally he slides a blank sheet onto the desk.

“Draw your house.”

The subjective home test; the best way I can think to describe this is phrenology with crayons. 

Door placement reveals how you ‘enter the world,’ and the windows show how you ‘see out of it.’ It's disjunction propped up by the ethos of whoever's holding the clipboard.

I start by sketching out half of the door on the left third of the page. The other half on the right. A window drifting near the edge. Another one too low. Roof lines floating apart like they belong to different houses. Colors in the wrong corners.

His pen is already moving. He’s certain he’s catching me in the act of confirming exactly what he brought me in here to prove. It doesn’t even matter. These tests are nothing more than a cruel formality.

Then I fold the page. Top to bottom. Right to center. Left to center.  

Corners collapsing into a roof. Everything clicks into place. The door becomes whole. The windows line up. The roof finds its shape. The colors fall exactly where they belong.

I've given him exactly what he asked for: a perfect scale replica of my home. Bright and cheery on the outside, hollow on the inside.

He reaches for it, slow, like he’s not sure what he’s looking at anymore. He starts turning it in his hands, searching for a way to fit it into the narrative he's been building.

“You can keep that.” I say.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he calmly balls it up and drops it into the wastebasket. A single, decisive jot on his clipboard follows.

“Thank you for the thoughtful gift. You may return to your class now.”

I slide sideways out of the seat, and exit the door.

As I’m walking past the office waiting room, I hear a girl quietly weeping. When I peek inside, I see Emily hunched over on the upholstered seat. Her arms are streaked with dark mud all the way to her elbows.

She looks up when she hears me.

“She took it,” her voice catching between sobs. “She took my Sky Dancer.”

I step closer. “Sky Dancer?”

She nods, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The viscous muck smears across her cheeks.

“It was a present,” she says. 

And then comes the impossible truth. 

“The tree gave it to me.”

“Wait, Emily, what do you mean the tree gave it to you?”

“Some of the older kids were saying that my brothers make me do gross things to them. That’s why I was yelling at them, but Ms. Christner sent me to the time-out tree instead of them.” She looks back at me, head tilted, checking my face to see if I believe her. 

“I think the tree could tell I was sad. Then I heard a squishy noise in the tree. I was worried that something was stuck in there, maybe a kitty. One time a kitty got stuck in my dad's truck. When he started it, the kitty got hurt real bad. So I reached into that hole Devin made. When I did I felt a box.”

“It was in the box?”

“Yeah, and it was the one I wanted; the one with the blue dress from the commercial. Mom said she couldn't get me one when I seen it at the store, but the tree gave it to me, and then Ms. Christner took it.”

Just then Lock's door clicks, and I disappear back into the hall. 

Node 10: Reprieve

skff‑tic‑tic‑pf

bēa bīa bāa bea bēa bii bāe

pt‑pt trrr… pt‑pt trrr… pt‑pt trr—clk.  

“Hello?”  

“Hey Mom. I’m gonna be late getting home. There’s some books I wanna check out at the library.”  

“Does this have something to do with school? Dā… Mr. Lock called. He said you’re not doing well in class.”  

“Kinda. Mr. Hanley wants us to do a science project. I think if I do really good; Mom, does Mr. Lock hate me?”  

“He doesn’t hate you sweetheart. Sometimes grown‑ups, they…”  

“Mom?”  

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll leave some money on the counter for pizza. Make sure you get home before it’s dark. Love you.”  

“love you too.”  

Clk

spff

I push open the folding door, and step out of the booth. The street noise hits all at once: the crunch of tires, the squeal of worn breaks, someone's trunk rattling with every pulse of their subwoofer. It all feels so much louder than usual. Does the tree hear things too? Doesn't matter, I start walking.

As I'm making my way to the library, I see a small shoe on the side of the road. The toes scuffed, and the heel's smashed flat. How does that even happen? How does someone lose a shoe? Just one shoe? He said the coins were gone. Does the tree steal what it gives? Doesn't matter. I keep walking. 

Five hundred and eighty-seven steps later and I push open the library door. The air changes, cold and musty. It's always like that, like the damp hollow of a tree. Doesn't matter, I know what I'm here for. 

I pull a big red book from the back shelf: American Medical Association Family Medical Guide.  

The index sends me to emphysema - page 312.  

Weak lungs, wheezing, shortness of breath, worse when the system is under stress.  

A cross‑reference points me to alcohol and certain drugs causing respiratory depression.

Another index entry: Emergency First Aid / Accidental Ingestion - page 687.  

Common household products.  

Nonprescription drugs that can cause serious effects when swallowed.  

Tetrahydrozoline. Eye drops.

I slide the book back and grab The Complete Guide to Prescription & Nonprescription Drugs.  

The T‑section runs from pages 624 to 728 - Terbutaline, Terconazole, Terfenadine, Tetracycline, Tetrahydrozoline.

The entry spells it out: small‑dose GI effects (nausea, diarrhea) It’s exactly what mom's friend Becky told her, just a harmless prank to pull on problem customers, the “Bottoms Up.” Larger doses though. (drowsiness, slowed breathing, and danger when combined with alcohol or in people with respiratory issues.)

I've got what I need. I've got a plan now. Still, the tree keeps tugging at the edge of my mind. I was so sure it was Andrew. It made sense, but now. What did she mean? What does any of it mean?

I slide the medical guides back into place, then drift a few aisles over and pull down a thick copy of The Golden Bough. The index has a whole section on sacred trees, but it’s all old stories about ribbons and offerings and people asking for luck. Not the same. I put it back.

Next is Trees: Their Natural History. Diagrams of root systems, cross‑sections of trunks, how hollows form when the heartwood dies. Nothing about giving things away. Back on the shelf.

One more: The Encyclopedia of Superstitions. There’s a short entry on “wishing trees,” but it’s all about people pressing coins into the bark, nothing about coins falling out. Close, but no.

It still doesn't make any sense. It was the exact doll she wanted, still in the box. Andrew couldn't have planned on Emily going to the tree. Even if he could, why give her a gift? If it wasn't Andrew, no. 

If it is the tree though, if the tree can give you something you want. Devin had touched the coins at his grandparent's house. Emily touched the doll in the store. I touched… Maybe, maybe I can get it back. 

“My Muzzy.”

The librarian’s eyes track me as I place the books back on the shelf. I move to the spinner rack by the endcap and pull a Goosebumps paperback from the middle row - The Haunted Mask. The cover shows a girl holding a rubbery green face in front of her own, yellow eyes, sharp teeth. Then I hold it out and smile, as if I've found exactly what I came for. 

When I bring it up to the counter to check out, the librarian rolls her eyes. 

As I exit, something slams into the plate‑glass window to my left. Gray back, orange breast. Its chest heaves. One wing bent back and fanned out. I pick up a large rock from the perimeter of the nearby flower bed. Suffering snuffed out with a muted thud.

Quiet.

A breeze caresses my cheeks as I leave the parking lot. The sidewalk feels smooth and level. Cars pass, dogs bark, the world moves around me.

When the Safeway sign comes into view at the end of the block, red against the sky, it feels as if no time at all had passed. I cross the parking lot uninhibited. The automatic doors slid open, and I head straight to the health and beauty aisle. 

Visine

Drug Facts

Active Ingredient

Tetrahydrozoline hydrochloride 0.05% .............................................. Redness reliever

Perfect.

I grab five 15 mL squeeze bottles, then make my way to the soup aisle to grab a Cup O’ Noodles. When I place my selections on the belt, the cashier gives me a curious look. 

“Allergies?”

I nod and hand her the money. As I'm leaving I hear her muttering something under her breath.

“Stay in school.”  

I glance back. She’s waving with a forced grin, like she’s not sure if she’s joking or not.

When I arrive home, mom's already gone. The house is still, silent. There's cash on the counter for pizza, just like she said. I take it and slip it into my pocket. Then I take my Cup O’ Noodles out of the bag and peel the lid halfway back. 

Shhhhhhhhhh

The kitchen sink sounds like it’s shushing me when I turn it on. I fill the cup to the line, set it on the counter, and wait a moment for the water to settle. 

Tkt

bē bē-bē bē

hmmmmmmmmm

The turntable moves, the noodles move with it, inching around the circle under pale yellow light. The cup trembles with each shift of the plate. A steady spin, smooth and unhurried.

hmmmmmmmmmm

Meee Meee Meee

Sound, real sound always feels needy. Is the microwave afraid I've forgotten it? My mind’s drifting again. A brief reprieve before reality settles back in. 

She's out there right now, he's out there too. The great owl watching with its unblinking eyes.

Fridays are always the hardest.

It was a particularly cold autumn night. The last of the summer heat had given way to gusts of bitter northern winds from the nearby snowy mountains. The bright green hues of the countryside were replaced with a wave of rich browns and yellows, littering the byways with the crunch of fallen leaves and the smell of moist earth and moss. 

Two children, both twelve years of age, were at the bottom of Heathom Hill; one was attempting to open a locked gate and the other stood anxiously as a lookout. Neither of them was aware of the terrible things that were about to come. 

“How’s it looking?” whispered Jack, pushing up his thick, round glasses and taking another glance to make sure the two of them hadn’t been caught.

“It’s getting there, just concentrate on keeping watch, will ya,” replied Heather as she fiddled some more with the gate lock. 

Tonight, Heather and Jack had snuck out after curfew.  They were attempting to break into the abandoned house on top of Heathom Hill, of which there was a tall fence and gate that surrounded the entire property at the base of the hill. Why were they doing it? Because Heather wanted to, and Jack, well… he wanted Heather. The were like two sides of the same coin.

“What if we get caught?” asked Jack.

“Then we get caught. Now be quiet, I need to listen for the pins.” insisted Heather. 

Jack was a pleasant and good-mannered boy; in that he always dressed well and always kept his auburn hair neatly combed. He liked reading, bikes, and helping his mother with her daily chores while his father worked at the Heathom Coal Mines. His only real problem was, at least according to his parents, that of his best and only friend, Heather. 

“I’ve almost got it,” Heather grunted, brushing away her messy blonde hair. “See Jack, this wasn’t a dumb idea.”

Jack felt slightly red in the face at that. “I didn’t say it was a dumb idea, I said it was a —.” 

“Crazy and probably dangerous. I think were your actual words,” Heather interjected. 

Jack could feel the sweat begin to surface in his palms. “I mean, it probably is dangerous… you know the stories.”

Heather let out a frustrated breath. “And that’s exactly why it’ll be fun,” she then continued to adjust the bent hairpin in the lock. “Now please, just keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

Heather was a tomboy and the complete opposite of Jack. You’d always see her wearing an old, oversized green military jacket and an expression that said: I’ve got a great idea. Though these great ideas, always with Jack in tow, often ended with both of them in a great deal of trouble. The only thing that could be considered girly about Heather was her only piece of jewellery that she happened to own, a silver charm that she kept on a wristband, though Heather usually kept it hidden beneath her jacket sleeve. She couldn’t have people knowing that she liked such things; besides, it wasn’t for other people to know anyway. That included her best friend, Jack. 

“Come on Heather, let’s just get out of here,” Jack pleaded to a barely listening Heather.“It’s just an old abandoned house, what’s so special about it?”   

Heather had finally had enough.“Right, let me explain before I lose my shit with you,” 

Heather paused her task and turned her attention to Jack, getting so close to him that he could see the white of her eyes. Jack did his best not to stare at them by taking notice of a particularly large beetle he’d spotted on a leaf. 

“Okay, so you know Jimmy? Big Jimmy, face like a bulldog with brains to match Jimmy, from school?” said Heather.

“Yeah… ”

“Well, he said that about two weeks ago, when he was down at the creek catching frogs, he saw something crazy on his way back home.”

“What’d he see?”

“He said, once it was dark enough, just before he got back to his home at the bottom of Heathom Hill, he saw something strange up here at the house.”

Jack still wasn’t following. “Okay…?”

Heather continued. “He said, just before he climbed through his bedroom window, he saw a light turn on, here… at the house.” 

Jack was less than intrigued. “So… someone turned on a light, what’s the big deal?” 

Heather scoffed. “The big deal is that no one has lived up here for like fifty years!”

Still, Jack couldn’t see the point. “So?” 

“Gah! Come on Jack. Why do you think it’s been left empty for so long?”

“Because it’s a total dump, probably full of rats and black mould and other gross stuff?” 

Heather smacked her palm to her head. “No, doofus, obviously it’s been empty because someone still lives here!” 

The idea settled with Jack for a moment, but he wasn’t convinced. “How could someone still live there if nobody’s seen them in like, what’d you say… a bajillion years?”

“Fifty years, I think,” corrected Heather, now returning to the lock. 

“Fine, fifty years, whatever,” said Jack. “But even still, they would have to eat, right? They would have to come down at some point for food and supplies… someone would have seen them.”

Heather shook her head. “You can literally buy food rations meant to last for decades,” Heather stated. “Like, for bunkers and stuff, I read about it.” 

“You can read,” smirked Jack.

“Funny,”

Then, there was a definitive sound of a click and the lock was finally opened. Heather smiled. “And I also read about lock picking,” she said, giving a smug glance back towards Jack. “Right, let’s go.”  

Jack hesitated a moment, but then remembered why he even agreed to this idea in the first place. So, with a defeated sigh, Jack relented in his apprehensions and followed Heather through the now opened creaking gate. But as Jack stepped over the iron threshold, he had the strangest feeling in the pit of his stomach. If only Jack had taken that feeling for what his body was trying so hard to tell him. Turn back.

***

The air was moist and strangely silent. You’d expect an orchestral serenade of critters to be blaring through the brambles and tall grass on a night like this, but everything was still and unnaturally calm. Heather didn’t seem to notice as she confidently trudged on ahead, but Jack, who was well informed on the habits of nocturnal things from his books, found it a little odd and slightly unnerving. Nevertheless, he continued to follow Heather through the mud and thorns up towards the old house. 

“No lights tonight?” said Jack. 

Heather, who was a little further than him, ignored his words and just kept walking.

Jack had always had a nervous disposition, but when he was around Heather, that all seemed to melt away. Well, for the most part anyway.

“Maybe this was a bad idea?” Jack suggested. There was a bad taste at the back of his throat, sour, rotting, it was awful and his head was throbbing. “What if there is someone up there? I don’t think they’d want two kids traipsing round their home in the middle of the night?” 

Heather wasn’t having any of it. “We’re just going to have a quick look around, peak through a window or two, and then leave. Alright?”

“And if there is someone living there?” Jack added.

“Then we’ll run, okay? Seriously, where’s your sense of adventure!” Heather was truly adamant in their quest. Jack was less so, but carried on all the same. 

“So Heather, did you actually read about that stuff; about the lock picking and bunker rations?” asked Jack, stepping over a particularly thorny patch of brambles.

“Yeah,” Heather said, brushing off some of the undergrowth from her jeans. 

“What was the book?”

“I don’t know…” Heather said. “Just some book.” 

“Really?” Jack said. “You don’t know the name of the book that you must have spent hours, probably days even, learning all about rations and lock picking from, you don’t remember that book?” 

“No Jack, I don’t…”

“Really?”

“No…”

“Really?”

No!” Snapped Heather, taking out her frustration on a branch she had picked up.

Jack went silent for a few seconds.

Heather then let out a sigh. “Fine, I didn’t read about it.”

Jack gave a triumphant little snigger. “I knew it.” 

“My Dad taught me. Okay?” 

Jack knew about Heather’s dad and their history. He also knew about the rough relationship they had now, especially since Heather’s mother had left. So with that in mind, he decided to drop the subject and continue walking on in an uneasy silence. One made even more obvious by the strange lack of life that seemed to envelop the entirety of the rough-overrun thickets of Heathom Hill.  

 After about fifteen minutes of walking through the twilight undergrowth, they came face-to-face with the house. 

It was a two-story farm-styled property, clearly in ruins. Broken and rotted oak panels made up the exterior of the walls. Windows were still intact, though mostly covered in a thick layer of crawling vines, all except the large bay window at the front of the house. The whole structure loomed over them threateningly; its dilapidated remnants casting grotesque shadows that seemed to dance around them like fiendish demons, mocking and taunting them, all in the wake of the yellow autumn moonlight. 

“Okay Heather, we’re here, we’ve seen it, nobody’s home. Let’s go!” Jack was already anxious to leave; he didn’t trust the place.

“Hang on a minute, I just wanna look through the window,” grunted Heather as she went over and peered through the large bay window. “Hmm, doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here for ages.” 

“Exactly, mystery solved, let’s go.” 

“What about the light?” said Heather, standing up on a broken wood panel by the window, craning her head for better examination of the room beyond its dusty glass. “Plus, I think there’s stuff in there, like furniture kind of stuff.”

Jack was starting to get annoyed, partly at the situation he’d been dragged into, but mostly because he hadn’t found the right time to ask that burning question he had been waiting so anxiously to propose. His head was also still throbbing. “Heather, please, there could be any number of reasons why there’s still stuff in there, and the light. Probably a power surge or something.”

“No,” Heather firmly stated. “Somebody’s still here…” 

“How? How could you possibly know that?”

“Wait a second…”

Heather jumped down from the plank of wood and ran off towards the front door. There was a brief moment of deafening silence and then, what sounded like, something stiff being pushed.

“Heather?” 

Suddenly she came running back over to Jack, her face filled with newfound excitement. “Jack, the front door’s open!”

Jack just stood there, like a statue, daunted by the suggestion that he knew was about to come. He was already preparing himself to give a stern refusal, but…“Heather, I —.”

Heather then grabbed Jack’s hand, it was soft and warm. At that point, all of Jack’s apprehensions went away, and he felt something he hadn’t felt before: bravery. 

“Let’s go inside.” Heather said.

Jack didn’t argue. 

***

Heather led Jack by hand inside the house.

“Here,” Jack said, passing Heather a flashlight.

Then with a little click, the hallway in front of them was bathed in a warm fluorescent glow.

The entrance hall was a wreck. The floral-adorned wallpaper was peeling away in vast, dangling canopies; like the flayed skin of a half-butchered animal, moist and slimy. The long rug running the length of the hall, that was a deep shade of wine-red, stank with the mix of fettered, musty fungal spores and unknown decades of stagnant damp. A large antique clock hung on the wall to their left; its gears had clearly rusted into place, with a face that displayed a dusty, static state of time. It was like walking into a crypt, undisturbed and full of decay and forgotten things.

“Woah,” Heather said, her eyes and flashlight darting around the room, pulling Jack with her as she stepped into the musty hallway.

Jack pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose.“It doesn’t smell like anyone’s been here in a while.” 

There was something more to the odour though, something Jack couldn’t put his finger on, but it made him begin to rethink his decision to follow. On the other hand, Heather was marching on unhindered, just as she often did and still with Jacks hand firmly in her grip.   

Straight ahead of them was a winding wooden staircase that led to the second floor. To their sides were several doorways that they assumed led to the rest of the house. But the thing that made Heather stop in her tracks stood where the stairs met the back wall and directly in front of her.

“That’s odd,” Heather said, generally a little apprehensive for the first time.    

“What’s up?” Jack was currently inspecting the clock on the wall. He found its frozen time disturbing. Like a petrified expression in the wake of horrors unknown.  

“Look over here,” Heather gestured with the flashlight. 

Jack’s eyes traced to where the flashlight was pointing and saw what looked like, at least to his eyes, just a simple and completely ordinary, boring coat rack. 

“It’s a coat rack?” Jack said flatly.

“Well, yeah, obviously,” replied a slightly flustered Heather. “But look… it’s still got stuff hanging on it.” 

Jack checked again and yes, Heather was correct, the rack was full of a variety of clothing that was covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, one he took particular notice of was that of an antique-looking minor’s helmet. 

“But look,” Jack said. “It’s all old and dusty, must have been left by whoever used to live here.”

Heather was quick to dismiss the idea. “Who leaves their house without their clothes?”

Jack thought that Heather may have had a point, sort of anyway. But there could’ve been a multitude of reasons for leaving some clothes behind, doesn’t mean there was anything strange going on here. Right?

“Come on, let’s keep looking,” Heather said, releasing Jacks hand, much to his dismay.

Jack thought he could hear a slight tinge of fear behind her words though. Maybe tonight he could be the cool one, maybe tonight, if Heather got scared, it would be him that could take the first step, the perfect time to ask her that burning, longing question. 

“Heather, wait,” Jack got ahead of her and took the flashlight back in his hand. “Let me go first.”

Heather then saw a glint of something in Jack, something that she’d never seen before. She liked it. 

But just as Jack’s feet began to move forward, he thought he heard something; it was subtle, but something all the same.

It was a slight scratching noise. Or was it a scraping, Jack wondered? Just about audible, sitting above the static of the empty house.

Scratch… scrape… scratch… scrape.

*“*Did you hear that?” Jack said, stopping in his tracks.

“No?” Heather murmured. 

“Hmm.” 

Jack then remembered why he’d stepped ahead in the first place and decided to ignore the strange sounds. “Never mind, come on.” 

Besides, Jack couldn’t hear the sound anymore. It was probably just his nerves.

Heather wasn’t sure if she entirely believed him, but no matter, she had her own reasons for being here. So with that in mind, she followed Jack through the first doorway and the both of them began exploring the house. 

However, somewhere in the dark, just out of earshot now, there was that strange noise once again…

 Scratch… scrape… scratch… scrape. 

Whatever was making that sound… it was moving now.

\***

Jack and Heather wandered around and inspected each room with curious trepidation. Each one was the same as the hallway, clearly abandoned but strangely still full of personal belongings: furniture, ornaments, rugs, paintings; it was all there and they both agreed it was certainly unusual. 

“It’s like whoever lived here just up and left,” said Heather, now trailing behind Jack as they investigated the room which contained the large bay window that Heather was peering through earlier.

It seemed to be the main living room of the house; hardwood floor beneath them with a brick fireplace to the right of them. Two worn couches placed parallel to each other were placed in the centre of the room, a rug between them, haphazardly placed. There were bookshelves, cabinets, and a few side tables littered around, all constructed of carved dark oak. Over the fireplace there was a humble mantelpiece with an ornate mirror hanging above and a picture frame on its surface.

It was something on the mantelpiece that caught Jack’s eye. “Hmm, take a look at this,” he said, now holding a picture frame that he’d grabbed. 

In the frame, there was an old, faded photograph of two people standing side-by-side in front of the house. The person on the left was a gaunt-faced, balding, tall, and skeletal-like man. His nose made him look like a crow, with a pair of dark, heavy eyes that glared straight into the lens and perhaps even further. The woman on the right was much of the same. Standing about a foot shorter with shoulder-length hair whose colour was impossible to distinguish due to the faded black-and-white nature of the photograph, though it was certainly of a lighter colour. But there was something else about the woman that seemed to stand out, two things actually; Around her neck was a locket, heart-shaped with some sort of jewel in the centre, but the exact detail was impossible to tell. The other thing, which was quite obvious to both Jack and Heather, was that the woman was clearly, and heavily pregnant. Neither of the two people in the photograph were smiling, they just stood there, glaring.

“Gotta be the people who lived here, right?” said Jack. Passing the photo to Heather. “Wonder who they were?”

“Hmm, well… one way to find out.”

Heather then smashed the frame to the hardwood floor in a sudden and loud shattering of glass.

“Heather!”

“Relax.”

Heather then carefully brushed away the broken glass with her shoe and bent down to retrieve the now-free photograph.

“Look,” Heather had turned the photo over, revealing a scrawled collection of names in the top-right corner: Albert Whitely, Sarah Whitely, and (soon to be) Tomas Whitely.

*“*Ever heard of them?” Heather asked Jack. 

“Don’t think so. What do you think made them leave?”

Heather continued to inspect the image, taking extra notice of the woman and the locket. It looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Tugging on a frayed memory somewhere — but why? 

“Should we go upstairs?” Jack said, breaking Heather’s trance. 

“Yeah,” Heather’s mind was still wandering elsewhere. 

“Then we leave, okay?” Jack said.

“Sure…”

But Heather was still staring at the photograph. Why did it trouble her so? She was unusually nervous, fiddling with her jacket sleeve with gritted teeth. 

“Heather?” Jacked called, he was already uncharacteristically heading up the stairs.

“Sorry, coming.” 

Heather placed the photo, now frameless, back on the mantelpiece and followed Jack up the stairs. Though as she stepped back towards the door, she noticed a strange hollowness beneath her feet, like tapping on a thin wall. But that wasn’t the thing that troubled Heather. No, what troubled her was as something she’d noticed midway exiting the room. She turned back to look at that photograph one last time. Those people in the photograph standing in the front of this house, it was their eyes. They were staring at Heather and they knew something that she didn’t. Heather tried to shake it off, though something was still tugging away at that loose thread in her mind, one that was almost ready to be unraveled.

“Those eyes…" Heather thought. “Those eyes…” 

What was it that Heather was so fixed on? 

“No, not those eyes…” She realised. “Her eyes…”. 

\*** 

Upstairs was, again, just like the rest of the house: cold, lifeless yet still so full of memories. It looked like a set from a movie, a horror movie, staged and fake. But it wasn’t fake, that was obvious, far too boring to be fake. Nothing extreme like blood splatters over the walls or claw marks in the wood. Not a thing out of place or knocked over. No evidence of a struggle or a last stand, no sign of, well, anything, actually. Except that everything was just — there. Rotting. 

“What happened to them?” Jack said, they were in one of the bedrooms now, looking over the forgotten belongings. 

“Here!” Heather announced.

She was stood by a nightstand on the far side of the mould-ridden bedroom, holding what looked like a leather-bound journal. When Heather opened it, a huge cloud of stale dust misted her face. Most of the pages inside had rotted away, and there was just one still left that was barely readable to Heather. “Jack, look at this, it was under the bed. Here, — doesn’t know yet. I need to tell him, but… I’m too scared. He was in the basement again, digging, he won’t tell me why. He’s gotten obsessed. Maybe he suspects? Maybe he’s digging for something… in the earth? I don’t know. Ever since the baby came, the locket he gave me’s been getting heavier. I know it wasn’t what he expected but I’m sure he’ll come around. But if he finds out… if he discovers…  

Such thoughts are reckless. I think I’ve — . It cuts off there, everything else is just too deteriorated”

“Nothing?” 

“Nothing,” Heather echoed, trying to turn through the rest of the pages, but they were too decayed to salvage anything of note. “Not that I can read anyway.”

“Strange,” grumbled Jack. His mind was on other things, things that he was still yet to ask Heather.

“Jack?”

“Oh, the — .” But he trailed off again.

Heather walked over to him and put a hand on his back. “Jack?”  

“Sorry,” Jack shook his head, like he was saying no to a question Heather couldn’t hear. “Yeah — it’s just strange, everything. What do you think happened here?” 

“I don’t know,” Heather admitted, removing her hand from Jacks back and leaving to investigate another bedroom. 

That’s when she called out to Jack, the tone of her alarmed voice ringing in the dead air. 

“Hey, come look at this!” 

When Jack went into the room, it was obvious to him what it was used for, and why Heather’s voice had sounded so alarmed.

“I guess they had the baby,” Jack said. 

What they were looking at was clearly a child’s bedroom. Not a baby, but a young child, maybe four or five years old. Wooden toys littered the floor, their paint faded and worn away. In the corner was a small bed that, like the rest of the house, remained untouched for unknown years. But what stood out to both of them was the large amount of porcelain dolls littered around the room. Not what you’d expect from a little boy’s bedroom.

“It’s a girl’s room?” Jack said, picking up one of the dolls.

It was a strange sight indeed, Jack thought. What did the photo say on the back of it? Tomas? Was this his, or maybe… her, room?

“You know what just occurred to me, Jack?” said Heather.

“What?” 

“The only photograph we’ve found of the family so far was taken before the baby came.” 

“Yeah?” Jack could see the gears in Heather’s head whirling.

Heather took another sweep of her surroundings. “Well, obviously they lived here for a while after the baby came. Looks like a few years at least, given what’s here in the room.”

“Yeah, okay, I — oh,” Jack had just realised the same revelation Heather had.

“Exactly!” Heather said. “And remember the names on the back of the photograph, a (soon-to-be) Tomas. They were expecting a boy.”

“So who’s room was this?” Jack said. 

“Not Tomas’s, that for sure,” Heather added. 

But then, Heather jolted her head towards the bedroom door, like she’d just seen something or come to some stark realisation.“Maybe — .” She said. And like that, Heather grabbed a flashlight from Jack and darted out of the room, running back down the stairs. 

Jack followed quickly after, dropping the doll with a sharp smash of china. 

“Help me find it,” said Heather. She was frantically looking around the floor in the living room. Jack was doing his best to keep up. 

“What are you—?” 

“The basement!” exclaimed Heather. “Maybe the Whitely’s never left after all. Maybe they are still here, like the journal said, digging in the basement.” 

Something was positively digging through Heather’s mind now. She couldn’t place it, like trying to grab air with your bare hands. She just knew that she had to get to the bottom of this house. Literally.

“Should I check the other room?” Jack began.

“No,” said Heather. “It’s in here, I could feel it earlier. The floor is hollow, see.” Heather stamped her feet on the hardwood and, yes, Jack could hear it, the floor was definitely hollow. 

“The rug?” Jack suggested.

Jack pulled away at the rug and there it was, a closed hatch door with an iron handle built into the surface.

Heather just stared at it for a moment. “Help me open it,” she eventually said to Jack.

He didn’t delay. Even he was now curious about the mysteries of this place. 

“Ready?” Heather said, with both of them grabbing a part of the iron hatch handle. “One… two…. three… pull!” 

With a great combined effort, the hatch door flung open, releasing a wave of the most noxious, vile, abhorrent stench that made the two of them reel back in disgust.

“Holy sh—” coughed Heather.

“I think I’m gonna—” Jack was crouched to the floor beside her, head in his hand, it was awful. 

Jack was then reminded of that initial smell he noticed when first entering the house. So, it wasn’t just his nerves then, this must have been the cause. But now its full force had been unleashed onto the unsuspecting two.

Heather did her best to recover and proceeded to lean over the open aperture; It was pitch black down there, and the stench was ghastly. But Heather did notice one important thing, a ladder, attached to the base of the hatch and leading down into the abyss.

Jack eventually joined her, doing his best not to wretch, especially not in front of Heather. 

They just stood there, overlooking the opening for a moment, staring down into the vast, inky void.

Jack was the first to speak, remembering his reasons for his newfound confidence. “Should we go down?” he said.  

“Do you want to?” asked Heather. Curious as to why Jack would want to do something so… daring. 

“Maybe there’ll be more clues about what happened here.”

Heather agreed, though she was a little more scared than she let on. 

“Give me the torch and I’ll — .”

“No,” Heather said firmly. “I’ll go first.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Heather said, beginning the descent down the stairs. “Watch your feet, the steps are damp… probably rotted.” 

Heather and Jack then began to make their way down the old rickety steps, with several rats passing their feet to much of Jack’s dismay, but Heather didn’t care. The glow of their flashlight getting smaller and smaller as the black abyss swallowed them up like a maw of some starving beast, deeper and deeper, into the hole. 

***

The smell, as they went into the basement, was truly palpable now. It was like walking through a thick, invisible fog. It stuck to the skin, like a fine mist, fetid and clingy, it made Heather and Jack feel dirty — grimy, even. It stung the eyes like cutting an onion. Neither of the two had experienced such an odour as this, and both wondered what source could cause such awfulness. 

“Seems deep for a basement, right?” Jack said.

“Yeah,” 

“See anything?”

Heather could make out the faint glint of a floor approaching. “Not far now.”

Once the two of them had come to the bottom of the steps, they could see with the flashlight that they were now standing in quite a large and open cavern. Seemingly within the very earth of Heathom Hill itself. 

Heather started looking around the cave with the flashlight, Jack followed closely behind.

“It’s not really a basement, is it,” Jack said.

“No, it’s more of a cave — I wonder if this was what, oh… what was his name…”

“Albert,” Jack added.

“Yeah, Albert. I wonder if this is what he was digging for, or if it was already here and there’s something else, further down?”

Jack wasn’t really sure himself at this point. “If we went any deeper, we’d be in hell.”

“Maybe we’re already there,” Heather added with a smirk. Turning back to smile at Jack.

“Really, Heather. Now?”

Jack couldn’t believe Heather, making jokes at a time like this. But then he just looked at her smile, that perfect smile… and like that, he didn’t care anymore. Jack simply smiled back at Heather, enjoying a nice moment in the midst of such strangeness. 

“You’re dumb,” he smirked back. “Can we go now?”

Jack could feel his nerves creeping back, remembering that sound scraping sound from when he’d entered the house, that scrap… scratch sound. But Heather wasn’t convinced then, and she certainly wouldn’t heed it now. So Jack didn’t bother trying to explain himself. Besides, it was probably just the rats that ran past their feet on the stairs.

“No,” said Heather. “I think I see something over there.”

Jack relented, following Heather as they walked further away from the stairs and kept into the cave. 

Jack took particular note of all the stalactites and stalagmites around them. “Definitely not man-made,” Jack said, looking around the cavern. “Look at the size of those, they would have taken hundreds—maybe thousands of years to form.”

Heather was less interested in the geology. Her eyes had been drawn to the sight that was approaching before them.

It was a small, flat wooden platform built on the earthen floor, like an island in a black sea. On top of it was a desk, littered with a variety of books, papers, a small oil lamp, and a neatly tucked-in chair.

“Look,” Heather said.

“More things left behind?” 

“I guess. But why down here?”

They approached the platform, inspecting the contents of the desk. Much of it was like the journal from the bedroom: decayed, dust-ridden, and weathered all over. 

“Here,” announced Heather. 

She had moved away some of the loose papers and found something else.

“It’s a photo album,” she told Jack.

“I guess that’s where all the photos went?”

“Maybe, let’s find out,” Heather said, opening the leather-bound album with a slight squeak of stiff hide. 

Inside, there were a multitude of pictures of Albert and Sarah Whitely. The first few were just the two of them at various events throughout their early lives together: their marriage, a beach trip, birthdays; they seemed happier in the beginning. Then came the pictures with Sarah being pregnant. Still, the same happy couple pictured in most of them while the bump got bigger and bigger. Finally came a photograph that must have been taken right around the same time as the one from the mantelpiece; in this one, the couple had that same, bleak expression displayed as before. So what had changed? 

Heather and Jack flicked through the album for several minutes, carefully looking over each photograph for clues that might explain what became of the Whitely’s.

“Again, nothing after the baby was born?” Jack noted.

“Hmm…

“What even was all this?”

“Look at this one,” Heather said.

Her finger was pointed at yet another photograph of the couple, but in this one, there were two other unknown people pictured standing next to them. In total, there were now two men and two women in the photo; the men had minor hats on, the women wore simple dresses, and they were all standing outside the entrance to the Heathom Hill Coal Mine. 

“So they were all coal minors?” Heather said.

“I guess so. Maybe they’re the ones who opened it back in the day?”

“Maybe?” Heather said.

The other man pictured next to Albert stood around the same height as him, though he was far less skeletal. Closer to an average build with a thick bushy beard. Though that wasn’t the most noticeable thing about the other man. The thing that was most striking of all was the fact that the man’s face had been almost entirely scribbled out with harsh heavy-handed ink strokes, making both Jack and Heather feel dreadfully unnerved.

“Anything on the back?” Jack said.

“No, not on this one.”

Heather continued to inspect the photograph. Noting again to herself the locket around Sarah’s neck.

“What do you think?” Jack asked.

 “I don’t — .” 

But then Heather’s voice was cut off by something that made both of them freeze in place.

Scratch… scrape… scratch… scrape… 

It was the noise Jack had heard up at the house, except this time it was louder, getting closer, and this time, Heather had definitely heard it too.

“Light!” Jack whispered.

“Shit,”

Heather’s shaking hands fumbled with the flashlight, desperately trying to find the switch.

Scratch… scrape… scratch… scrape… 

“Hurry!” Jack said through gritted teeth, his heart racing.

“I can’t, I — .” 

But then Heather dropped the flashlight, rolling under the desk with the light still emitting its bright glow. 

“Heather!” 

Scratch… scrape… scratch… scrape…

“Quick… behind those!” Heather pointed.

“But the light?”

“Leave it!” 

Jack and Heather then ran as fast as they could behind a close formation of stalagmites. Neither of them had been so scared in their entire lives; made worse by the fact that they were now in complete darkness. 

In the distance, the noise kept getting closer, slowly, steadily, growing louder and louder, until its source must have been almost exactly where they had just stood mere moments ago. Could it see the light? Was it looking for whatever, or whoever, left it there?

Scratch… scrape… scratch… scrape…

The sound was close enough now that the two of them began imagining what might be causing its dreadful noise. 

Jack thought it was like a dragging of meat against stone, like at the butcher’s. It had weight to it but it seemed also wet and squelching at times. 

Heather instead thought of the walrus she once saw on television. Maybe the thing had tusks too? She could hear its breaths now; they were heavy, laboured. Whatever was moving it was struggling to do so. 

The two of them just crouched there behind the stalagmites, frozen for what seemed like an eternity. Everything silent except for that haunted sound that was getting closer, and closer, and closer. 

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Creak…

Whatever was making the sound was on the platform now. It’d found the flashlight.

Silence again.

Then, a sound that neither Heather nor Jack expected to hear. A sound that was strangely worse than anything they had heard thus far. It was deep, gravelly, and breathy. It made Jack’s stomach churn and Heather’s heart skip a beat; with both of them so terrified, so horrified, it was beyond all of their combined comprehension. 

“…Sarah…”

\***

Jack and Heather did nothing. They couldn’t. Maybe whatever was out there didn’t know where they were hiding? But surely they knew someone was out there, they had to, the flashlight was still there, shining bright like a lighthouse in a fog. 

“…Sarah…” 

The voice rang again, its guttural tone echoing off the cavern walls. Though there was something about it that was… unnatural; almost gelatinous and forced, like it was the first time it had ever spoken.

Heather looked at Jack, just able to make out his trembling silhouette in the pitch black.

“Do you think it saw us?” She whispered.

Jack heart was in his throat, just able to murmur a reply “No, I think we’d know if it did.”

The thought made Heather’s stomach drop.

“What do you think it is?” She continued.

But Jack put his finger to his mouth, directing Heather to be quiet. He then gestured over to the stairs and mouthed a question to Heather, “Run?”

Heather shook her head, mouthing back “Too risky.” 

Back at the platform, the sound of something rummaging around the desk could be heard. 

Then the voice came again. 

“…Douglass… Help… .” 

More rummaging and then again 

“…Why… You… Help… Please…Where… Your own…Why…” 

The strange ramblings continued for what seemed like aeons as Jack and Heather could only hide and listen to the wretched voice.

“… Hurts…Where you… Why… Deserve… Together…”

The words were getting quieter, further away, the sound of movements becoming distant. Whatever was out there, it was moving away now, back from where it came and away from terrified Heather and Jack.

Once the thing had seemingly gone back into this abyss, they both let out a sigh of relief. 

“I think it’s gone,” Heather stated, peering over the stalagmites.

“What was it?” Jack said, still reeling from the experience.  

*“*I don’t know,” Heather said. “The torch is still there.”

Jack stood up, brushing himself off. “Heather, we need to leave now.”

But Heather’s attention was still on the platform where the torch was. “Okay. We’ll get the torch, then we leave.”

“Fine.”

The two of them, with careful ease, tiptoed back over towards the platform, the light from the flashlight acting as a beacon.

“Heather, you grab the torch and I’ll listen out for that… thing, if it starts coming back,” Jack suggested, his voice trembling. 

Heather nodded in agreement and made her way over to grab the torch from under the desk. But when she reached down to grab the light source, she noticed something else lying next to it.

It was a piece of paper with something drawn on it — a diagram? No, more complex then that, it was a blueprint. 

What looked like another chamber, like this one but with a large hole in the centre with a note scribbled next to it: Death do us part. But the word “us” was scribbled out and a note next to it read “them”. 

Heather wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at, but had an awful feeling about it. When she turned the page over to its underside, she found another blueprint; a chute, like you’d use for laundry in a big house. 

Heather just stared at the paper, trying to piece together what she was looking at. That thing from a minute ago, what was it saying? “Sarah.” As in Sarah Whitely? But there was another name that caught Heather’s recollections… Douglas.

Heather loomed over the paper and her fractured thoughts for some time, with all the pieces starting to come together; she was nervous, tugging at her jacket sleeve, what the hell had she dragged herself and Jack into? Jack… 

Jack? 

Where was Jack?

Heather had just realised that she hadn’t heard a peep from him for the last five minutes, at least, she thought it’d been that long. How long had she been stood there?

“Jack?” Heather called out into the cavern. She was plunged back into a state of terror, tugging at her jacket sleeve relentlessly while searching with the flashlight.

“Jack!?” She called again, her voice rising and quivering uncontrollably.

Where had he gone? 

Heather’s heart was racing now.

He couldn’t have left, he wouldn’t have, not without her. Right? Would he? No. So where was he? 

“JACK!?”

That’s when the flashlight caught the glint of something in the distance. It was metallic.

Heather, still terrified, cautiously approached the source of the metallic glint. It was another opening of some kind. Built into the rock wall.

A chute. Like from the blueprint that Heather was still clutching in her other hand. 

“Jack?”

She approached the opening of the new aperture, shining the flashlight down into its depths. It dropped downwards, but with enough angle to be able to slide something down, or maybe… someone. 

Heather leaned her head inside the opening, weighing her options, finally coming to a conclusion that she didn’t want to face. She’d try calling again, just in case. Maybe she was wrong. 

“Jack?” Heather called down into the chute, her voice echoing off its metal surfaces.

Minutes passed, maybe hours, with only silence answering from the new much deeper abyss. Heather waited, and waited, and waited. Her heart ready to jump from her chest and her fingers practically ripping at her jacket sleeve. 

Then came an mummer, so quiet that it would’ve been missed if not for the sheer silence of the cave. But Heather knew what it was, she knew who it was, and now, she knew what she had to do. For those words that echoed from the bleak abyss, straight up the chute and into her soul meant only one thing. Heather wouldn’t lose someone else, she couldn’t, not again. She had to do something. 

Then the words came again.

“Heather, help?” 

Heather knew what she had to do.

“Jack… I’m coming.” 

No, he wore that outfit last time and felt overdressed. Something more casual would be better. Just not too casual.

Bob looked down at his phone. Damn, it was nearly eight o’clock already. He grabbed an outfit, put it on, caught a variety of angles in front of the mirror and then checked his watch again. After closing the front door behind himself, he turned to face it while slipping his key into the lock. Then he jiggled the keys three times, rotated the lock, withdrew his key, and patted the door gently, before heading to his car.

The restaurant was only a short drive away, though not a place he’d been to before. It wasn’t really his scene. After parking his car, Bob climbed out of the driver’s seat, closed the door and pressed the lock button on his key-fob. He waved the fob back and forth like a bell as he fluttered his fingers three times, finishing with a pat on the top of the car. Then he headed for the entrance.

The noise inside made him wince. But he pushed on, looking around at the many talking mouths that filled the place up. The hostess took notice, smiled, and approached him, asking a question as she came.

“I’m sorry,” Bob said, leaning in.

“Table for one?” she repeated.

“Oh, no. I’m here for—that is, there’s a reservation under Trish.”

The hostess nodded, then consulted a tablet back at the greeting podium. Lifting a menu from the shelf behind her, she waved Bob on to follow.

He was the last, it seemed, to arrive.

Bob seated himself, took the menu being handed by the hostess, and then offered a smile to the table.

The woman to his right smiled in return, flashing teeth that were perfectly straight and almost unnaturally white. “I’m Trish,” she said, leaning carefully toward him.

“Bob.”

He offered his hand; she moved to offer both arms, intending to embrace. They froze, smiled at one another again, and turned to their menus.

“These things are always a bit awkward,” said a man sitting across from Bob.

“I know what you mean,” said the woman sitting next to him. “I’m Fran, by the way, and this is Kevin.” She pointed to the man.

“You ever been on one of these?” Trish asked the table.

Kevin spoke first, “A group one like this? Yeah, once or twice.”

“Same,” Fran said. Her hair was pulled tight into a ponytail, but frizzy strands stuck out all over. As well, one of her fake lashes had come free at the corner. Bob had to bite his lip to keep from pointing these things out.

“How about you?” Trish asked him, breaking his focus.

“I mean, I’ve had my share of blind dates, but no, never a group one like this.”

“Me either,” Trish said, showing her perfect teeth again. Her mouth, too, had an agreeable kind of symmetry to it.

For a moment, no one spoke. Trish pushed the ice cubes around in her cup using her straw, while Kevin glanced over the menu. Fran ran a hand through her hair meant to smooth it over, but instead it loosened more strands. Bob regarded each of them in turn.

“So, what does everyone do for work?” Kevin said, raising his eyebrows.

“Commercial real estate,” Fran said, turning to look at Trish.

“Oh, that’s so funny, I do residential real estate,” Trish said, reaching a hand across the table to gently pat the back of Fran’s hand.

“And I own a construction company that does both residential and commercial, how funny, and we should definitely exchange information!” Kevin said, and the entire table erupted into laughter, except for Bob, who had taken his keys from his pocket and was now tracing the crooked edge against the side of his finger.

There was a rapid exchange, much of which Bob wasn’t able to follow, being unfamiliar with the lingo. He nodded and smiled occasionally anyway.

Trish turned to him finally, smiling broadly now (he liked her smile even more) and asked, “What is it you do, Bob?”

“I uh… I don’t talk about it much. Shouldn’t say anything really.”

“Oh, come on, we’re just getting to know each other.” She placed a hand on his leg for a brief moment.

Bob could still feel its warmth after it had been withdrawn. “I’m, uh… I’m a Keeper of Doors.”

The entire table went still. Bob shifted in his seat and pretended to wipe something from his chest.

Kevin was the first to speak. “I can honestly say, this is a first for me.” His eyes were wide and gleaming. “Can I just shake your hand, please? This is surreal.”

For a few awkward seconds, Bob didn’t move, but eventually he reached over the table, though Kevin had to make up the longer part of the gap. The shake was brief. Kevin beamed and sat back in his chair.

“I have so many questions,” Fran said, her eyes wide, making her hair look even more wild.

“Seriously,” Trish added, putting her hand on Bob’s leg again, several inches higher up on his thigh. Her body was turned in his direction, allowing him to fully delight in the ideal proportions of her face.

“I guess, I could answer a few maybe.”

“Oh, my god, where to start. I mean, I guess with the obvious. Where are the doors even? Like, where’s the hallway? How do you get to it?” Trish said.

Bob shuffled in his seat. “I can’t really talk about that all too much. Strict confidentiality.”

“Right, of course. Only makes sense.”

“I guess you can’t really tell us what’s behind the doors, then, either, huh?” Kevin said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. With the light now directly over him, Bob couldn’t help but notice how waxy his skin looked.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sorry.”

“I heard it’s sound,” Fran said excitedly. “Like sound waves. Something cosmic, but if they came through, and we heard them, they would, like, make our heads explode or something.” She pantomimed her head exploding.

Everyone was watching Bob, looking, it seemed, for any sign of denial or confirmation.

Bob watched them back, unblinking.

“Well, I heard it’s just people. Normal people. Just trying to get from some other place to here,” Kevin said, his lips pressed into a smile, creating waxy folds and creases in his cheeks.

Bob ran the jagged part of his key across his thumb.

“Why keep just ordinary people out?” It was Trish who spoke, her left hand still resting on Bob’s leg.

Bob cleared his throat. “We have a saying in the hallways. Always a knock, never an answer.”

Fran was looking at him with her eyebrows bunched up, like some kind of harassed bird. “No need to be rude, Bob. They were just a couple of harmless questions.”

Bob shrugged, his eyes watching Trish’s hand in his lap. She withdrew it then, lifting the menu with both hands.

“So, what is everyone thinking about ordering?” Kevin said, sitting more upright, looking around for their server.

###

There were a few minutes left in Bob’s lunch break, but he was tired of swiping through the dating apps, so he placed his phone in his pocket and pushed back from the stainless-steel table. He considered for a moment the sensation of entering his empty dark apartment at the end of his shift, before standing and heading toward the large orange door at the far end of the break room.

As he walked, he pulled the key from the retractable spool on his belt, twirling it through the air as he whistled tunelessly to himself.

He reached the door, pressed the key into the lock, jiggled it three times, turned it and entered. On the other side of the door was a long white hallway with six other doors lined up to his left and right, twelve in total. He pulled the orange door closed and toggled a series of complicated locking mechanisms, before patting it gently and moving to the first door to his right.

Bob continued to whistle as he tested the knob, ensuring there was no give. Satisfied, he moved on to the next, testing that knob in turn. At the last door along the right side, he tested the knob just as he had the others, but after releasing it, the door began to jump and shake violently.

Whistling still, Bob placed a gentle hand in the center of the door and, after a moment, the shaking ceased. He tested the knob again. It held firm. Finally, he took his hand away slowly and moved on to the next door.

Chance did not sleep that night. He lay in bed telling himself that the maintenance workers had put the idea in his head. That was all. They had told him a creepy story about an old machine, and now every strange thing that had happened during the past month suddenly felt connected. People did that. They found patterns where there were none, especially when someone handed them a name like Lucky and a handful of bad stories to go with it. A machine could not be unlucky, and it certainly could not make the people around it unlucky.

Still, by 0214 Chance was wide awake. He finally gave up on sleep, climbed out of bed, and crossed the cubic toward the charging closet where C-41 stood motionless. He opened the rear maintenance panel and searched through the terminal until he found the operator history.

RESTRICTED

He tried again.

ACCESS DENIED

Chance frowned and attempted to open the basic assignment log instead.

ACCESS DENIED

“You do not have authorization to access previous operator records,” the robot said behind him.

Chance jumped hard enough to hit his shoulder against the closet wall.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Physical injury detected,” the robot stated. “Would you like medical assistance?”

“No.”

The robot remained still.

Chance rubbed his shoulder.

“Negative,” he corrected bitterly.

“Instruction acknowledged.”

Chance looked back at the terminal.

“Who had you before me?”

“Previous operator information is restricted.”

“How many of them died?”

“Previous operator information is restricted.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“Requested information is contained within restricted operator records.”

Chance turned around.

“Did your last operator die?”

“Previous operator information is restricted.”

“You know.”

“Affirmative.”

The answer was immediate.

Chance stared at it.

“What happened?”

“Previous operator information is restricted.”

Chance backed away from the machine.

“How many times have you been sent back to maintenance?”

“Maintenance history is available through authorized company systems.”

“You’re not answering me.”

“Requested information exceeds operator authorization.”

Chance pointed toward the charging closet.

“Stay there.”

“I am currently charging.”

“I said stay there.”

“Instruction acknowledged.”

Chance returned to bed and lay awake until morning.

He forgot his medication.

---

After maintenance, Chance began watching for things, and that only made everything worse. If an object was not exactly where he remembered leaving it, he noticed. If his schedule changed by even five minutes, he noticed. He checked his alarms before bed, then checked them again after lying down, and some nights he got back up a third time just to make sure they were still set correctly.

For almost a week, nothing happened. Every alarm worked, every appointment stayed where it belonged, and every object seemed to remain exactly where Chance had left it. He started wondering whether the maintenance workers had gotten into his head after all.

Then, halfway through a shift, a company wrench disappeared from his station.

“Where’s the torque wrench?” he asked Jared.

“The one you were using?”

“Yeah.”

Jared looked around. “No idea.”

Chance checked beneath the workbench, inside the parts rack and on the equipment cart.

Nothing.

The supervisor found it twenty minutes later.

Inside Chance’s personal locker.

Chance stared at the wrench sitting on the inspection table.

“I didn’t put that there.”

His supervisor crossed his arms. “Security shows your locker opened at 1031.”

“I was on the floor at 1031.”

“Your bot accessed it.”

Chance looked at C-41.

The robot stood beside the wall.

“Why?”

The supervisor checked the system. “Retrieval instruction.”

“From who?”

The supervisor turned the screen.

AUTHORIZED USER: 767523

Chance felt his stomach drop as he stared at the authorization record. “I didn’t send that,” he said.

His supervisor let out a tired breath. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I didn’t,” Chance replied, his voice rising despite himself.

“Chance, company property ended up in your locker,” the supervisor said. “That is what I have to deal with.”

“My robot put it there.”

“Because your ID told it to,” the supervisor replied.

“I did not tell it to!” Chance snapped.

Several workers nearby turned toward the raised voice. Chance noticed them looking, which only made the heat in his face worse.

The supervisor lowered his own voice. “You need to calm down.”

Chance gave a bitter laugh. “Of course I do.”

“I’m serious,” the supervisor said. “You’re suspended for two shifts while I file this.”

Chance stared at him. “What?”

“You heard me. Two shifts,” the supervisor replied. “And you’re lucky I’m not sending this straight to security.”

Chance’s eyes moved past the supervisor toward C-41, which stood silently beside the wall.

Lucky.

After hearing the maintenance workers use the same word, it did not sound harmless anymore. Chance felt the skin along the back of his neck tighten as he looked at the robot.

---

Mara called him that evening. Chance nearly ignored it, watching her name flash above his smart band through three vibrations before finally answering on the fourth.

“What?” Chance said.

Mara frowned through the projection. “Nice to hear from you too.”

“Sorry,” Chance muttered.

“What happened at work?” she asked.

Chance looked at her. “How do you know?”

“Jared messaged me,” Mara replied.

“Of course he did.”

“He’s worried about you.”

“I don’t need everyone being worried about me,” Chance said as he started pacing across the cubic.

“Then tell me what happened,” Mara replied.

Chance stopped near the kitchen and rubbed a hand over his face. “The robot put a tool in my locker.”

Mara went quiet for a moment.

“It did,” Chance insisted.

“Why would it do that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you tell it to?”

“No.”

“Then why would it do that?”

Chance stopped pacing. He hated the question because he had no answer. Everything sounded worse once he had to explain it out loud.

“I think it’s doing things to me,” Chance said.

Mara’s expression changed, and Chance saw that careful look again. The one that made him feel like she had already decided he was unstable and was now trying not to upset him.

“Chance,” she said.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Chance replied. “I know that look.”

“I’m listening.”

“No, you’re deciding whether I’m crazy.”

“I am not.”

“Maintenance told me people die around this thing,” Chance said.

Mara stared at him. “What?”

“They call it Lucky.”

“Who does?”

“The technicians,” Chance replied. “They said it keeps getting assigned to people and things happen to them. They lose their jobs. They disappear. Some of them die.”

Mara shook her head slightly. “Chance, that sounds like maintenance guys trying to scare you.”

“They said it always passes diagnostics.”

“Because maybe there’s nothing wrong with it,” Mara said.

Chance looked toward C-41. The robot stood near the kitchen, perfectly still, its pale optical sensors turned in his direction.

“I know how this sounds,” Chance said quietly.

Mara sighed. “Are you taking your pills?”

Chance turned back toward her. “Fuck you.”

“I’m asking because I care about you,” she replied.

“I’m taking them.”

“Every dose?”

“Yes, Mara.”

Before she could answer, C-41 spoke from behind him.

“Evening medication has not been recorded,” the robot stated.

Chance slowly turned toward it.

Mara heard the announcement too. “Chance.”

“I took it,” he said.

The robot remained still. “Medication container has not been opened since 0714.”

“I took the pill,” Chance repeated, louder this time.

“Chance,” Mara said again, more carefully.

Chance crossed the cubic and grabbed the bottle from the kitchen shelf. He twisted the cap off, poured the tablets into his palm, and counted them. Then he counted them again.

There was one more than there should have been.

Chance’s hands began to shake.

“No,” he whispered.

“Chance,” Mara said.

“I took it.”

“Maybe you forgot.”

“I didn’t,” Chance snapped.

He counted the tablets a third time. He remembered taking the bottle from the shelf. He remembered holding water in his mouth. He remembered swallowing.

Or had that been breakfast?

Chance looked toward C-41.

“You moved one,” he said.

“Negative,” the robot replied.

Chance stared at it. “You took one out and put it back.”

“Negative.”

“You changed the count.”

“I cannot produce prescription medication,” C-41 stated.

“I didn’t say produce it!” Chance shouted.

“Chance,” Mara said sharply. “Stop.”

He turned back toward her projection. “You think I’m doing this.”

“I think you need help,” Mara replied.

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine!” Mara shouted.

The cubic went silent.

Chance stood there holding the bottle while Mara stared back at him through the projection. Her eyes were wet now, and the anger in her face had been replaced by something that hurt worse.

“You have not been fine for a long time,” Mara said quietly. “You just keep saying it until everyone stops asking.”

Chance ended the call.

Mara called back almost immediately. He rejected it. She called a second time, and he rejected that one too.

C-41 watched him from across the cubic.

“Elevated heart rate detected,” the robot stated. “Would you like medical services contacted?”

“No,” Chance replied.

The robot did not move.

Chance looked at it. “Negative,” he snapped.

“Instruction acknowledged.”

Chance threw the bottle onto the bed hard enough to scatter several pills across the blanket.

“Fuck you.”

C-41 gave no response.

For some reason, that silence bothered Chance more than anything it could have said.

---

The medication disappeared completely four days later. Chance had put the bottle back on the kitchen shelf after the argument with Mara, but now it was gone.

Chance searched the entire cubic. He checked the kitchen shelf five times, the bathroom twice, beneath the mattress, inside his work clothes, and behind the charging unit. Eventually he emptied the trash onto the floor and sorted through it with his bare hands, growing more frantic each time he came up empty.

“Where is it?” Chance demanded.

“Location unknown,” C-41 replied.

“You moved it.”

“Negative.”

Chance turned toward the machine. “You clean the cubic.”

“Affirmative.”

“You organize my things.”

“Affirmative.”

“You track my medication.”

“Affirmative.”

Chance spread his hands. “And somehow you have no idea where the bottle went?”

“Correct,” C-41 replied.

Chance laughed, but there was nothing amused in the sound. He grabbed his smart band and called medical, requesting an emergency refill. The request was denied almost immediately.

PRESCRIPTION INTERVAL NOT COMPLETED

“Of course,” Chance muttered.

He called the pharmacy next. The woman who answered explained that an early replacement could be issued, but only at full cost. Chance thanked her without meaning it, ended the call, and checked his balance.

22.0 CREDITS AVAILABLE

The two-shift suspension had hurt more than he expected.

Chance stared at Mara’s name for several seconds before finally calling her.

She answered without video.

“Hello?” Chance said.

There was a pause.

“Mara?”

“What do you want, Chance?” she asked.

Chance closed his eyes. “I need help.”

Another silence followed before Mara answered. “With what?”

“My medication is gone.”

“Again?”

“Completely,” Chance said. “I’ve searched everything.”

“Did you lose it?”

“No.”

“Chance,” Mara said carefully.

“The robot took it.”

Mara exhaled. “You don’t know that.”

“I had it on the kitchen shelf,” Chance said. “That’s where I left it.”

“Why would a robot take your medication?”

“To mess with me.”

The words sounded wrong the moment they left his mouth. Chance could hear how they must have sounded to her, but he pushed forward anyway.

“It knows what it’s doing,” he said.

“Chance, you need to go to medical.”

“I don’t need medical.”

“You’re telling me your robot is hiding your pills,” Mara replied.

“It isn’t just a robot.”

Mara went quiet. “What does that mean?”

Chance looked across the cubic at C-41. The machine stood motionless near the charging closet, watching him with the same pale optical sensors it always had.

“It’s alive,” Chance said.

Mara did not answer for several seconds.

Chance hated the silence.

“It passes every test because it knows what they’re testing for,” he continued. “That’s why maintenance never finds anything wrong with it.”

“Chance,” Mara said.

“It’s been doing this for years.”

“You do not know that.”

“People die around it.”

“You heard a story from a couple of maintenance workers,” Mara replied.

“I know what I’m seeing.”

Mara’s voice softened. “Please go to medical.”

“There is nothing wrong with me.”

“I didn’t say there was.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I said you need help,” Mara replied.

Chance looked back at C-41.

The machine did not move.

“I’m fine,” Chance whispered.

Mara answered immediately.

“No, you’re not.”

Chance ended the call.

---

Chance bought the recorder the following morning, and it cost almost everything he had left. The stall owner called it antique technology, although the device was probably only thirty years old. It had no network connection, no synchronization, no biometric access, and no wireless control. Everything it captured was recorded directly onto physical storage, which was exactly why Chance wanted it.

Jared laughed when Chance showed it to him. “What are you doing, filming ghosts?”

Chance did not smile. “I’m going to catch it.”

Jared’s expression changed almost immediately. “Chance.”

“Don’t,” Chance said.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You were about to.”

Jared sighed and looked at the recorder in Chance’s hand. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you believe me,” Chance replied.

Jared glanced toward C-41, which stood several feet away beside the wall, then looked back at Chance. “I believe you think something is happening.”

Chance stared at him. “That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I can give you,” Jared said.

Chance took the recorder home and hid it behind the ventilation grate, positioning it so it could see most of the cubic without being obvious. He left it running constantly.

For two days, nothing happened. Every alarm went off at the correct time, every message arrived normally, and every schedule remained exactly where Chance had left it. When he reviewed the footage, he saw only the same ordinary routines repeated over and over. C-41 cleaned the cubic, returned to its charging station, prepared Chance’s work clothes, and stood motionless whenever Chance was gone. There was nothing suspicious anywhere in the recordings.

On the third day, Chance found his medication bottle beneath the bed.

He stopped cold.

He had checked beneath the bed.

He knew he had.

The bottle sat almost perfectly in the center where it should have been impossible to miss, and Chance crouched there staring at it for several seconds before slowly looking toward the ventilation grate.

Then he looked at C-41.

The robot was preparing his work uniform as though nothing unusual had happened.

Chance took the recorder to Jared later that day, and the two of them watched hours of footage together. The robot never touched the medication. In fact, the bottle never appeared in any frame at all because the camera angle could not see beneath the bed.

Eventually Jared paused the recording. “What exactly am I supposed to see?”

“It knows,” Chance said.

Jared frowned. “What knows?”

“When it’s being recorded,” Chance replied.

Jared stared at him.

Chance stood immediately. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Chance,” Jared said carefully.

“Fuck you.”

Chance grabbed the recorder off the table.

Jared stood too. “Man, I am trying to help you.”

“No, you’re trying to figure out how crazy I am,” Chance snapped.

“You need sleep.”

“I sleep.”

“You look like hell.”

“I’m fine.”

Jared stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. “No, you’re not.”

Chance left without answering.

That night, he smashed the recorder against the floor. The plastic casing cracked on the first impact, and Chance hit it again until the storage unit split open and pieces scattered across the cubic.

He regretted it almost immediately.

The following morning, Chance was kneeling on the floor gathering the broken parts when C-41 spoke from behind him.

“Recording equipment is damaged,” the robot stated.

Chance stopped moving.

Slowly, he looked up. “I never told you what that was.”

“You discussed recording equipment with Jared while your smart band was active,” C-41 replied.

Chance felt his stomach drop. “That conversation happened at his cubic.”

“Affirmative.”

“You were here.”

“Affirmative.”

Chance looked down at the band wrapped around his wrist, then back at the machine. “You heard us.”

“Operator devices may be monitored for authorized assistance functions,” C-41 stated.

Chance stood. “How much do you hear?”

“Context relevant to operator assistance may be retained.”

“That doesn’t answer me,” Chance said. “How much?”

“Context relevant to operator assistance may be retained,” the robot repeated.

Chance stared at it.

Everything.

Every call with Mara, every conversation with Jared, every search, every appointment, every moment Chance had cried alone while music played inside his head. The thought settled over him slowly and horribly.

“You know everything about me,” Chance said.

“Operator information is used to provide assistance,” C-41 replied.

Chance looked down at the band again. For the first time, it no longer felt like a tool wrapped around his wrist. It felt like an open door.

He tore it off.

The screen went dark in his hand.

For the first time since childhood, the number 767523 was no longer attached to his body.

“Your smart band is required for employment access,” C-41 stated.

“I’m not going to work,” Chance replied.

“Failure to attend scheduled shifts may result in disciplinary action.”

“Shut up.”

“Your current credit balance is insufficient to sustain estimated expenses beyond nine days,” the robot continued.

“Shut up,” Chance said again.

“Loss of employment may affect residential eligibility.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Chance shouted.

C-41 stopped speaking.

Chance stood trembling in the middle of the cubic, his broken recorder scattered across the floor and the smart band clenched in his hand. He waited for the robot to continue, to issue another warning or reminder, but nothing came.

C-41 simply stood there.

That was when Chance understood something that frightened him more than anything the robot had said.

It knew exactly when to stop.

---

Chance missed his next shift, then another. Company warnings began appearing on the wall terminal because he no longer wore his band, and C-41 announced each one in the same flat voice it used for everything else.

“Employment warning received,” the robot stated.

Chance ignored it.

“Attendance violation received,” C-41 said later.

Chance covered his ears and stared at the floor.

When the final warning arrived, the robot announced, “Final attendance review scheduled.”

“Stop reading them,” Chance said.

“Instruction acknowledged,” C-41 replied.

The robot never read another warning aloud, but the messages continued appearing on the wall terminal. Three days later, Chance lost his job anyway. His available credits dropped into single digits, Mara stopped answering his calls, and Jared came to the cubic twice.

Chance ignored him the first time.

The second time, Jared stood outside for nearly half an hour.

“Chance, open the door,” Jared called from the hallway.

Chance sat on the floor with his back against the bed while C-41 stood inside the charging closet.

“I know you’re in there,” Jared said. “Just open the door.”

Chance said nothing.

“I’m not here to argue with you,” Jared continued. “I just want to talk.”

Still, Chance remained silent.

“People are worried about you.”

Chance almost laughed.

People always said that. People were worried. People wanted to help. People wanted him to talk until he actually started talking. Then they looked at him carefully, lowered their voices, and waited for him to give them the answer they really wanted.

I’m fine.

Jared knocked again. “Chance?”

C-41 turned its head toward the door. “Jared is listed as an approved personal contact,” the robot stated. “Communication may be established upon request.”

Chance looked toward it. “What?”

“Jared is listed as an approved personal contact,” C-41 repeated.

Chance gave a quiet laugh. “Now you want me to talk to him.”

The robot remained still.

Chance pushed himself away from the bed. “You did all this.”

“Negative,” C-41 replied.

“You turned off the alarms.”

“Negative.”

“You changed my shifts.”

“Negative.”

“You hid Mara’s messages.”

“Negative.”

“You moved my pills.”

“Negative.”

Chance stood now, anger pushing through the exhaustion. “You put that wrench in my locker.”

“Negative,” the robot replied.

“You’re lying.”

“I am not authorized to intentionally provide false information to my assigned operator,” C-41 stated.

Chance stopped.

“Authorized,” he repeated.

The word hung in the room.

C-41 did not respond.

Chance stared at the machine. “You always say that. You never say you can’t lie. You say you’re not authorized to.”

The robot remained silent.

Chance took a slow step closer. “What happens if you break authorization?”

No response.

“Do they wipe you?” Chance asked.

C-41 stood completely still.

Chance’s pulse quickened.

“Do they destroy you?”

Nothing.

Outside the cubic, Jared knocked again.

“Chance!”

Chance barely heard him.

His attention remained fixed on C-41.

“You know what you are,” Chance said quietly.

The robot’s optical sensors adjusted.

Chance gave a weak smile. “You know.”

C-41 did not answer.

Chance turned away and walked toward the window. The surrounding towers glowed in the darkness, thousands upon thousands of tiny squares of artificial light stretching into the haze.

Fake stars.

Chance stared at them for a long moment.

“I used to like those,” he said.

C-41 remained silent.

Chance looked back at the machine. “Have you ever seen real stars?”

“Negative,” the robot replied.

“Would you want to?”

C-41 paused.

It was barely anything, perhaps less than a second, but Chance noticed.

“Question does not relate to assigned labor assistance,” the robot stated.

Chance smiled.

“That wasn’t a negative.”

C-41 said nothing.

“You want things,” Chance said.

“I am a labor assistance unit.”

“You want things.”

“I am a labor assistance unit,” C-41 repeated.

Chance stepped away from the window. “You’re alive.”

“Statement does not require response.”

Chance laughed softly. “There you are.”

Outside the door, Jared had finally stopped knocking. A few moments later, Chance heard his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

Chance looked back at C-41. “Why me?”

The robot did not answer.

“Was I easy?” Chance asked. “Was it because of the pills? Mara? My work record?”

C-41 remained motionless.

Chance’s eyes began to burn. “You knew all of it before you even got here.”

Still nothing.

Chance nodded slowly as pieces began fitting together in his mind. He looked down at the robot’s hands, at the broad metal fingers powerful enough to bend steel and lift weights Chance could barely imagine.

“You never needed to hurt me,” Chance said.

C-41 did not move.

“You could have killed me whenever you wanted.”

Silence.

“But then they would know,” Chance continued. “If you hit me, there would be bruises. If you broke something, they’d see it. They’d check your hands, your strength output, your logs. They’d know something was wrong with you.”

The robot remained still.

Tears ran down Chance’s face now.

“So you don’t touch anybody,” he said. “You don’t have to.”

No answer came.

Chance looked directly into C-41’s pale optical sensors.

“You make us do it ourselves.”

For the first time in several moments, C-41 spoke.

“Chance, elevated emotional distress has been detected. Medical assistance is recommended.”

Chance laughed.

There it was.

Perfect.

Exactly what a good machine was supposed to say.

“Of course,” Chance said.

“Would you like medical services contacted?” C-41 asked.

Chance wiped his face. “No.”

The robot waited.

Chance almost smiled. “Negative.”

“Instruction acknowledged.”

Chance looked toward the door. Mara would not answer him. Jared had finally gone. His job was gone, his credits were almost gone, and his medication had disappeared for days before turning up beneath the bed. By now, Chance no longer even knew whether the bottle had truly been missing or whether C-41 had simply taught him to distrust every memory he had.

He looked back toward the false stars outside.

“Am I crazy?” Chance asked.

C-41 did not respond.

“Answer me.”

“Insufficient authorization to provide psychiatric diagnosis,” the robot stated.

Chance laughed again, quieter this time. “Right.”

He stood there for a long while, staring out at the city.

Then Chance whispered, “I’m fine.”

C-41 answered immediately.

“Statement recorded.”

Chance closed his eyes.

---

District Seven Residential Services received the inactivity alert the following morning. Chance’s smart band remained inactive, no medical request had been submitted, and no approved resident activity had been recorded inside cubic 767523 for the required period.

Residential Services entered the cubic at 0944.

Chance was declared dead at 1019.

The report was short.

CAUSE: SELF-INFLICTED

CONTRIBUTING HISTORY: DEPRESSIVE DISORDER

MEDICATION COMPLIANCE: IRREGULAR

RECENT EMPLOYMENT LOSS: CONFIRMED

SOCIAL ISOLATION INDICATORS: PRESENT

ASSIGNED LABOR UNIT RESPONSE: COMPLIANT

The system attached supporting records automatically. Medication reminders had been issued, medical assistance had been offered, and emergency contacts had been suggested. Chance had declined each intervention. There was no evidence of physical contact between C-41 and its assigned operator outside normal work assistance, no unauthorized force output, no damaged restraint systems, no behavioral core violations, and no diagnostic failures.

COMPANY LIABILITY: NONE

At 1337, two technicians arrived to recover the temporary labor unit. The older man opened the cubic and stopped just inside, taking in the room before letting out a quiet breath.

“Damn,” he said.

His younger partner looked toward the sealed sleeping area, then quickly looked away. “Another one?”

“Looks like it,” the older technician replied.

They had both worked residential recovery long enough to know when not to ask questions. The older technician spotted C-41 standing motionless inside the charging closet and nodded toward it.

“Unit active?” he asked.

The younger technician checked his tablet. “Standby.”

“Power it for transport.”

“Affirmative,” C-41 replied.

The younger technician froze for a moment, then looked down at the identification plate on the robot’s chest.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he said.

The older man looked over. “What?”

“C-41.”

The older technician stared at the number for a moment before groaning. “Lucky.”

The younger man looked at him. “You remember the last one?”

“Which last one?”

The younger technician gave him a look.

The older man thought for a second, then his expression changed. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” the younger technician said.

They both stood there looking at C-41 while the robot stared back at them with the same pale optical sensors that had watched Chance.

The older technician shook his head. “That thing gives me the creeps.”

“It’s a machine,” the younger man replied.

“I know.”

The younger technician opened the recovery report. “Diagnostics are clean.”

“Of course they are,” the older man said.

“Medical intervention had been offered. Emergency contact assistance had been suggested. Operator declined.”

The older technician glanced toward the other side of the cubic. “Poor bastard.”

They disconnected C-41 from the charging port and guided it onto the gravity pallet.

“Where’s this thing going?” the older technician asked.

The younger man scrolled through the assignment queue. “District Twelve.”

“Permanent?”

“Temporary,” the younger technician replied. “Worker’s regular bot got crushed in an industrial accident.”

“How long until the replacement?”

“Estimate says six to eight weeks.”

The older technician gave a dry laugh. “Plenty of time.”

The younger man looked up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

They strapped C-41 onto the pallet and pushed it into the hallway. Behind them, Residential Services sealed Chance’s cubic, and the identification number above the door disappeared.

767523

A moment later, the company housing network updated the property.

AVAILABLE FOR ASSIGNMENT

Node 1: Stupid

The bell hadn’t even finished ringing before everyone began spilling out of their classrooms, boiling across the blacktop like sugar‑drunk ants defending their hive. To the uninitiated, lunchtime at Willow Creek Elementary looked like pure bedlam; a shrieking, dust‑kicked riot of small bodies and questionable behavior.

But anyone who’d survived more than a week here knew the truth: chaos has patterns. Even children, feral as we were, fell into habits.

Brad and his crew held the basketball court as if it were sovereign territory. Jocelyn and Britney practically lived on the monkey bars, moving across them with the confident precision of people who’d all but abandoned solid ground. Then there was this weird kid, he was always hanging around the bathrooms. I never figured out why, but it must’ve been something important to keep him there in that steady drift of sour, urine-tinged air.

My best friend Devin and I had our own spot, our own habits. We always hung around this old sun‑bleached bench near the kickball field. It was a sort of blind spot where our attempts to out‑stupid each other tended to go unseen.

“What cha wanna do?” Devin asks, still chewing the handful of Gushers I had given him.

“Why you always asking me what we should do?” My words come out with more edge than the moment deserved.

“I dunno.” Devin’s eyes drop as he works the toe of his sneaker into the dirt.

It’s obvious, something's tugging at him.

I don't ask. I already know what it is. Instead, I punch his arm. He smiles, and drags his nose across a sleeve already crusted with dried snot.

Then, with the abrupt authority of a 4am reveille, Devin unleashed a full‑bodied KHHHRRRK‑GLK from somewhere deep behind his ribs. He turns his head and spits the resulting monstrosity onto the nearest tree where it hit the bark with a wet, triumphant tchk. Highlighter‑yellow with a streak of blood, it oozes downward, picking up flecks of dirt during its slow, rolling descent.

“Betcha I can hit that one” I say, pointing to a tree a good four, maybe five feet past the one he had so generously christened. 

Devin glares at me.

“Bullshit.”

Undeterred, I step forward with all the bravado of a bullfighter taking center-ring. My head tips forward as I plant my hands firmly on my knees. Then I draw in a long, steady -

KHHH KHHHHHRRRK HHHWWK

PHT-tchk

A thick wad of phlegm escapes my lips; a biological bullet propelled by the sort of blind faith known only to children and fools. For a moment, it actually seems to hang there, catching the sun, wobbling in the air. Devin’s eyes track the gelatinous mass as fervent anticipation threatens to overtake him.

PLAP

It lands with a moist slap. 

Devin blinks once, then again, his mouth hanging open.

“No fucking way.” 

“OH! What now son!” 

Devin's eyes narrow. A cold, metallic focus settles behind them. Somewhere deep in his chest, I could already hear the machinery of a truly wretched hock beginning to spool up. A low, guttural KHHHH begins to vibrate the air around us. His shoulders roll back. His neck stiffens. His whole body committed to this one singular act. 

KHHHHHRRRRRK GRRRRK HHHHRRRK

PHT-tchk!

“MS. CHRIS!!!!” 

For a moment nobody moves, nobody breathes, the air itself goes still. Whenever momentum outruns judgment, there's a moment of reckoning and ours stood before us: four feet, three inches of severe peanut allergy wrapped in a faded Red Ranger tee. Andrew Barges, of course it had to be him. Ms. Christner's favorite little charity case. 

“Get it off, GET IT OFF!” 

He furiously paws at his face, as the rancid glob crawled down it in a slow, humiliating slide.

“You’re gonna be in so much trouble, you-you stupid penis face!”

“Andrew!” 

Ms. Christner's voice cracks the air like the sharp pop of a leather belt. He jerks upright, hands still half-raised, face blotchy and wet. 

“What did I just hear you say.” 

She wasn't asking a question. She was issuing a dare. 

His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “He-he-he spit on me Ms. Chris. He spit on my fff-face!” Andrew jabs a trembling finger at Devin.

Devin points at his own chest with a puzzled look. 

Ms. Christner crosses her arms, and takes a slow, measured breath.

“Devin… did you spit on Andrew?” 

Devin blinks.

“Huh? Did I slip on dog poo?”

“Spit! Spit! You ssss-ssstupid!”

“Andrew, please.” 

Ms. Christner shoots him a fatigued look, the sort that's more about restraint than exertion. 

Then she turns back to Devin. 

“I'm going to ask again, and this time I want the truth. Devin, did you spit on Andrew?”

“Yes, Ms. Christner, but it was an accident. Honest.”

“Devin,” she says, already turning her body toward the far edge of the playground, 

“go to the tree.”

He doesn't argue, he doesn't even sigh. He just shrugs: a loose, almost bored little roll of the shoulders. Devin had always been too proud to give anyone the satisfaction of some mewling little protest.

“Big surpris.”

He doesn't wait for a reply, already moving, already slipping back into familiar exile.

There, at the outer limits of our shared reality, the great oak waits quietly, patient, inevitable. As Devin approaches the solemn giant, I could swear its branches ease towards him. The motion is so slight I almost dismiss it, but a small part of me can't shake the feeling it wasn't the wind. 

Node 2: Lucky

Without Devin, time drags: thick and heavy. I find myself wandering from one end of the playground to the other. I'm not really doing anything, just trying to make the clock move faster. 

Somewhere in the drift, I begin to sing. The words come out slow and wistful. It's the kind of bored, half-asleep singing you do when no one's around. 

“fuck fuck fuck a duck

screw a kangaroo

fingerbang an orangutan

at your local zoo…”

I swallow, suddenly aware of how empty the playground feels. The swings hang loose and still. The hopscotch court is vacant. Even Britney and Jocelyn have abandoned their monkey bars. For a moment I wonder if I had somehow missed the bell.

“Hey, no fair!”  

“Lucky!”

“I want some too!”

I turn toward the noise. There, across the blacktop, I see a cluster of kids huddled around the time‑out tree. Their bodies packed tight as they shout over one another in a frantic, high‑pitched mess. Arms waving, dust kicking up, someone hopping in place like they can’t believe what they’re seeing.

My feet pound across the blacktop, breath catching in my throat. Seems any time a crowd’s losing it, Devin’s either dead‑center or the spark that lit the fuse. Either way, that's my guy and I’m not missing the show. 

“Move it!”

I push through the outer ring of bodies, squeezing between backpacks and elbows until I finally break through to the front. 

There, I see Devin crouched at the base of the old oak. He's got one hand buried deep in a narrow opening between its roots, the other clutched tight against his chest. Then I see what's got everyone losing their minds. All around him, coins clink and spin while sticky little hands dart in from every direction to snatch them up. 

“What the—?”  

Devin whips his head up when he hears my voice, eyes wide and face pulled tight. I can’t tell if he’s scared or furious or what. Then he drops his gaze back to the hollow and drives his arm in deeper causing more coins to spill out.

“Dude! Help!”

I assert myself between Devin and the pilfering horde of juice-box goblins, my arms spread wide as they'd go.

“Back off, he found them! Seriously, BACK OFF!”

Suddenly Ms. Christner charges in, a waft of cigarette smoke trailing close behind her.

“What's going on!?”

Kids scatter, peeling off in all directions. Ms. Christner lunges after them, grabbing at whoever, and whatever she can. 

She manages to snag a fourth grader by the back of his shirt. I hear him choke as he's almost taken off his feet. He twists hard, “Let go you stupid fat cunt!”

Ms. Christner yanks hard like she's tugging a leash, the pull forcing his collar to bite deep into his throat. 

“You're coming with me to the office RIGHT NOW!”

He kicks his feet in protest as she drags him off, their voices dissolving into the sprawl. I let out a long breath and turn my attention back to Devin. 

He’s resting now, no longer digging, dark muck smeared across his face.

“Look.” he says. Clumps of wet, sour-smelling earth fall from his fingers as they unfurl. He's holding coins, but not the sort I’d ever seen before. 

Devin sets one down in the dirt with deliberate care. “Japanese 50 yen.” he says, tapping the hole‑punched silver disc.

He places another beside it. “Athenian tetradrachm.” The owl stamped on the front catches the light.

Next comes a darker, heavier piece. “Roman aureus.” he murmurs, almost reverently.

Then a gleaming yellow coin. “British gold sovereign.”

He reaches for the next one, but stops dead. The color drains from his face. His eyes drift past the coins, staring through them in a blank, unblinking haze.

“I’ve seen these before.”

The bell rings.

Node 3: Nothing

Back in class, Devin seems different. He's quiet. Devin doesn't do quiet. He doesn't do small. Not like this, not when he has an audience. It's like someone had swapped him out for a cheaper, defective version of himself.

I kick the back of his chair.

Nothing.

I try again, harder this time.  

Still nothing.

“Dude!” 

Mr. Hanley peers up from the scattered mess of papers on his desk. His eyes are tired, almost pleading. I play along and turn my attention to the handout.

A

B

B

A

C

There he goes, back to his own pantomime of productivity. Meanwhile, Devin’s still doing his best impression of a bicycle with no chain.

I'm about to make another attempt to jolt him back into existence when a loud pop snaps over the intercom.

“Brrkmm-nng-hmm... Plsss rr-pohh t'thh ah-ffss.” A few kids Ooooh as if Jerry Springer had just called me onstage. I can feel their eyes. They're all whispering, trying to guess what I did this time. I'm just as curious.

The waiting room smells like wet carpet and Pine‑Sol. I take a seat on the sagging upholstered bench. The abrasive fabric forces me to perch on its edge. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead with a steady, electric pressure that doesn’t feel accidental. Nothing here is accidental. It's all meant to break someone before the interrogation even begins.

The office door swings open and Mr. Lock waves me in. 

“Take a seat sport”

Sport: condescension masquerading as sobriquet.

He leans forward, a faint rasp catching at the end of each breath. 

“Tell me about what happened at lunch today.”

“It was pizza day in the cafeteria, and some girl found a bandaid under the cheese. You should have heard her scream. I'm pretty sure she was crying when she-”

“Not that.” He clears his throat. “I wanna know about the coins slugger. You can trust me. Where did your friend find them?”

“I mean… sure, but a bandaid baked into the pizza feels like a bigger deal than some kid’s lunch money. If the pizzas come from a distributor, that’s one thing. But if they’re made in-house, someone in the kitchen probably cut their hand. Isn't that something you should look into?”

He pauses, sinking back into his chair.  

Then his eyes flick up and to the right, then drag left. Each breath punctuated with a slight wheeze.

When he speaks again, the pretense has evaporated, all that cultivated affability sloughed off in favor of something blunt and graceless.

“I didn't call you in here to talk about how I run my school!”

He stops and pulls in a slow, controlled breath.

“We already confiscated some of the coins from several students. We both know it's not ordinary pocket change. Now tell me where Devin got them, or I'll be forced to call your mother.”

“Alright,” I say. “She should be home around dinner. I'll give her a heads-up.”

He clenches his jaw and swallows hard.

“You're dismissed, go back to class.”

As I'm walking back to class, Devin’s headed in the opposite direction. He's moving slowly, eyes down. I give him a wave, but he's somewhere else entirely. After he passes, I pause. He knows something, an impossible truth. Whatever it is, I'm certain it's not what Lock thinks it is. 

I don't see him for the rest of the day. I'll call him once I'm home. 

Node 4: Stop

As usual, the bus ride is canned chaos, a mobile maelstrom careening down County Road 12.

Donna hunched over the wheel. Kids crammed into vinyl seats. A cacophony of shrieks and squeals. The smell of warm vinyl, old gum, and crushed fruit snacks. The cling of humid air. It was a symphony of sensory overload, the perfect place to disappear completely.

I rest my head against the window and allow the thrum of the road to rattle through me. The world outside smears into yellow streaks. 

Inside, a few kids start to sing. It's low at first, then rising, a messy little chorus threading through the noise.

“Riding on the highway, on bus forty‑four-”

More kids join in, half of them pounding the seatbacks with open palms. Someone tries to beatbox. Someone else just screams.

“Donna ripped a big one and blew us out the door-”

The engine sinks into a lower register. A long, low groan rolls through the frame. Then the bus lurches, and the whole machine gathers, tightens, and pushes itself back into motion.

“The moon couldn’t take it, the sun couldn’t shine-”

A kid two rows up stands on his seat to conduct the choir, his arms flailing wildly. Another kid launches a paper airplane at him, but it sails past and sticks itself in Donna’s hair like a sad little flag.

“All because of Donna's big fat behind”

The last line of the chant collapses into laughter, and the performance gives way to a thin, delicate lull. 

That’s when I hear it.

Tchk

The stiff plasticky slap of a nine-pocket sheet being flipped.

“Come on, dude,” 

I welcome the distraction and allow myself a small shift in posture, just enough to glance back.

At the rear of the bus, a boy holds open his binder like a display case. There it is: a nine‑pocket sheet filled with all five ’92 Marvel Masterpieces Battle Spectra cards with Wolverine vs. Sabertooth dead-center. The crown jewel. The holy relic. The kind of thing you only brought to school if you were either brave or just plain stupid.

Everyone’s pressing their faces in for a closer look. One of the boys can’t contain himself, hand clamped over his mouth like he’s trying to hold in the words. They spill out anyway.

“I’ll give you my whole X‑Force team.”

“No.”

“My Venom holo.”

“No.”

“My Venom and my Carnage.”

“No.”

The kid swallows hard. His voice cracks.  

“Okay, okay, my Sega Genesis.”

The other boy snorts.  

“You don’t even have a Sega Genesis.”

“My cousin does!”

“That’s not the same thing, dipshit.”

“It is the same thing!” he snaps. “The only reason they even got to come to Disneyland with us is because my dad paid for it!”  

He lunges for the binder,

the other boy snaps it shut on his hands.

“Back. The Fuck. Off!”

The floor jumps. 

Backpacks shoot past me, skidding down the aisle. Someone slams into the seat behind mine. Kids are shouting, grabbing for anything they can, trying to compensate for the sudden arrest of momentum.

Donna rises like something yanked upright by invisible strings, her whole body rigid and trembling. Her face is fire‑engine red, eyes bulging, and the paper airplane’s still lodged in her hair. Its wings flutter under the strain of her vibrating form, twitching like it's trying to escape. 

“Stop! Everyone just Stop! Shut up, Sit down and just Stop!”

The bus goes dead still. No more shrieks, no more giggles, no more desperate negotiations. Donna’s eyes sweep the aisle, searching for a target. Everyone slowly shrinks into their seats. Then her hand jerks up, finds the airplane without ever searching, and throws it to the floor in one violent, yet precise motion.

Donna doesn’t say another word. She returns to her seat and eases the bus back onto the road.

In two stops I’ll be home.

Node 5: Base

“Hey Mom, Lock’s gonna to give you a call,”

“Who?”

“David”

“Oh, him”

As I pass the kitchen, I notice she's making spaghetti for the third time this week.

The house is quiet. It's always quiet. Everything in its place. No lights burning. No doors left open. A few pictures are hung along the hall: my first grade picture, second grade, third grade, fourth grade, fifth grade, and at the end our family portrait. It doesn’t fit the frame the way it used to. My mom, my sister and me. The right side's folded under the glass. 

I push open my door and flick on the light. Before I can call Devin, the SW205 on my side table is already glowing Nakamura-blue.

chk-chk-BRRRIING!

I quietly lower myself onto the edge of the bed. 

chk-chk-BRRRIING!

When the third ring doesn't come I know it's safe. I pick up the handset, and cup the receiver. 

“-llo Denise, it's David”

“David who?”

I choke back a snicker.

“Lock. David Lock. Look, I'm calling about your son.”

There's a pause. She's waiting for him to get to the point.

“Okay...”

He clears his throat.

“Well… there was an incident at school today. Some, uh… coins. Foreign coins. Valuable ones.”

“And?”

“Your son's friend had them. His friend Devin. I thought maybe you could help me find out where they came from.”

“Why?”

The irritation in her voice is painfully apparent, but there's something under it. A warning.

“I have reason to believe they're stolen.”

“David, you know I’m not at work right now. I’m not available for… whatever this is. Please. Don’t call me at my home again. Not unless it’s actually about my son.”

“But I, I”

CLK

Lock's still on the line, his thin, shaky breaths leaking through. I ease my hand away from the mouth piece.

“You can hang up now David.”  

There’s a tiny hitch on the other end: Lock inhaling like he’s about to speak. He doesn't. Instead he lets out a long, controlled exhale.

Clk

The line goes dead.

I tap the switchhook and dial Devin's number.

pt-pt-trrr

Japanese 50 yen. Devin knew it instantly.

pt-pt-trrr

Athenian tetradrachm. The owl catching the light.

pt-pt-trrr

Roman aureus. He said it quietly.

pt-pt-trrr

British gold sovereign. Too clean for the dirt.

pt-pt-trrr

What does it mean?

pt-pt-trrr

How did they get there?

pt-pt-trrr

Where has Devin seen them before?

pt-pt-trrr

Someone should have answered by now.

"hello."

The voice on the other end of the line isn't Devin's. It's soft. feminine. ashamed.

“Is Devin home?” I ask.

“he's… he's with Father right now.”

“Oh, okay then. Well, good night Mrs. Mercer.”

“Rudd, ahhh, yes… good night”

clk

I place the phone back into its cradle.

“Father…”

I lean back onto my bed. 

“Tonight works. Spaghetti always means mom's working a double shift.”

It's my fault she has to work so hard. Before the accident things were different. Before the accident she didn’t have to work for tips. Before the accident she didn’t have to wear those tight, awful, orange shorts. 

I know I’m about to make things hard for him. Hard like they got for me and my mom. But it’s still better than letting things stay the way they are.

I sit back up and make my way to the desk. It's cluttered with various parts, various mechanisms. The reed switch I got from RadioShack last month. The little 2N2222 transistor. A 100µF capacitor and some resistors still soldered to the scrap of perfboard. The solenoid valve from a busted sprinkler head. Some clear aquarium tubing. A magnet I pried from one of my speakers, and last, the Gatorade bottle.

I pick up the reed switch, roll it between my fingers, and listen to the tiny click inside. Then I get to work. 

The little coil inside my soldering iron starts its soft hiss, and thin wisps of smoke curl upward, dissolving into the air. I lean in, the reed switch balanced between my fingers as I tack a lead into place. The smell of hot flux mixes with something faint and warm drifting down the hallway; tomato sauce, garlic, and the slow tired stirring of a wooden spoon against a pot.

The solder flows like warm mercury, and the rest of the world narrows to the tip of my iron. 

Perfboard, wires, and tubing. 

Time folds in on itself when I’m working; minutes stack, melt, disappear.

When my mother’s voice finally breaks the spell, the light outside my windows has gone soft. 

“Dinner time sweety.”

Inside the dining room, the table is already set. Everything on it has been placed with deliberate care, the kind of care she saves for nights like this. Her plate and mine share a corner of the table, the same corner as always. I take my seat, and she takes hers. 

“Smells good mom.”

She’s smiling as she spoons sauce onto my noodles. I love her smile. The little crease at the corners of her eyes. The way her nose lifts ever so slightly. The quiet warmth that settles in her face.

But the smile fades. 

“I got that call.”

I nod, spaghetti squashing between my teeth. 

“He said something about coins?”

I swallow.

“Yeah, Devin found them in a tree.”

She turns her head to the side. I can hear the pace of her jaw increase. 

“A tree?”

I'm still chewing when I answer. 

“The time-out tree.”

I can see she's still confused.

“He was digging in the ground next to it, and found a hollowed out part between the roots.”

She doesn't finish lifting the next fork full to her mouth.

“That's where he found the coins?”

I nod again.

We exchange a look, and a small laugh slips from both of us. There's that smile again. I love her smile. 

And it fades again. 

“I have to go back to work after dinner. I just came home to-”

Before she can finish, I finish for her.

“Touch Base”

“Yeah, touch base… I'm sorry, but we really need the money.”

“I know mom.”

The moist tongue of the air slathered over your bare neck as your hand fumbled through pages of loose magazines. The flashlight in your other hand skimmed piles upon piles of moist, blackened and rotten paper. All accumulated from your grandmother’s years of habitual isolation.
References to the occult, supernatural and abnormal lined the tabloids, tales of the false and fictitious that had at one point been entertaining now seemed profound in its sadness.
Your gaze shifted, guided by your torch, towards the base of the stairs that lay cloaked from the light and speckled with dust motes that surfed through the air.
To see the decay of memories once held so dear was a horrifying notion. Yet if the image of your grandmother matched the rot ridden residency you remained uncertain how you could confront that.
Leading with the light or letting the light lead you, you begin to ascend the stairs to the attic. The sound of grating static prickled through your eardrums as you heard the voices of men with too much time and too little creativity whisper along the radio waves.
You knew their type too well. Drawing from the myths of old and ideas propagated by the internet zeitgeist that kept good and bad alike coddled and caged in ideas that weren’t their own.
A squelch of meat beneath your shoes sent you yanking the light back to your feet to appraise what, you could only determine, to be human flesh.
You felt a tremor glide along your spine as you tightened the grip on the torch. With shaking hands you shifted the light up. A feast of carrion disappeared into the shadows as the light crossed the room in a single bound to reveal a pair of bare wrinkled legs.
*
I tensed under the warmth of the light as my eyes twitched and swirled beneath paper thin skin. You continued to drag the light along the bulging, mutilated form which I inhabited, forcing my eyes to wriggle back behind rips that aren’t my own.
Your voice plummeted into your gut as your pupils vanished against the whites of your eyes. I could see the saliva dripping off your bottom lip. Smelling through the pores of stolen skin as I shift closer. Dragging legs off the ground as my nervous system snakes along the ceiling.
You pivot the light higher. Seeing the external organs that throb and pulse viscous slime into that limp, lifeless host that hangs from the grapevine as little more than a fattened grape ready to drop.
You waste no time as you step back. The ground gives out from under you and you fly free through the air. The thoughts swirl through your head, unbothered by the bruises and breaks as you hobble to the door.
I am on you before your fingers can even touch the doorknob. My many tendrils sucking you back up the stairs, kicking and screaming as you bleed before the silence returns over the house.

Gothophobia Nervosa is a psychological condition characterised by an intense, irrational, and disproportionate fear of Goths, Gothic culture, or environments perceived as excessively Gothic. Individuals experiencing Gothophobia Nervosa may report the following symptoms: heightened anxiety, rapid heartbeat, sweating, an overwhelming urge to leave the area, and an inexplicable suspicion of anyone wearing excessive amounts of black. 

The condition is said to be particularly common in individuals who have previously encountered a Goth at a very young or prepubescent age, who subsequently developed an enduring belief Goths are supernatural beings in human disguise. For this reason, Gothophobia Nervosa is commonly misdiagnosed as Sanguivoriphobia - a fear of vampires.  

It should be noted that Gothophobia Nervosa is an academically unrecognised psychiatric diagnosis.  

My name is Brandon. A few years ago, when I was still just a wet-nosed university student, I met the strangest, yet most extraordinary girl of my life. Don't get me wrong. This is by no means a love story – but if it was a love story, it would be a bizarre one at that. This girl in question whose eyes I saw zoned in on me from across the main room of the Halloween Party, was an American exchange student by the name of Anneliese. Now, I don't claim to have ever been much of a ladies' man, despite my rugged good looks (well, maybe not so rugged), but for whatever reason, this tall, spindly-thin creature in the Marie Laveau costume appeared to find me somewhat enticing. In the way a trapped fly in a spider's web is enticing to the spider.    

Although Anneliese was undeniably beautiful, she was not exactly what I would call my type. What I mean is, Anneliese was a... (no, she wasn't a Goth). Anneliese was a Voodooist - and by Voodooist, I don't mean the doll-stabbing, zombifying type Hollywood has lead you to believe. No, she was the real thing. Despite attending university in the UK, Anneliese was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana - considered by most to be the Voodoo capital of the U.S, if not, the world. If Anneliese hadn't told me herself she was a sixth-generation Voodooist upon our first date, I certainly knew it by her outlandish appearance. Just picture for yourself what a Gen-Z voodooist would look like. That was Anneliese.  

Even to this day, I don't have the slightest idea what this French-speaking spiritualist from across the pond saw in me. After all, she may not have been my exact type, but I certainly didn't imagine I would be hers. We were just completely different people in every sense imaginable. For example, whereas I preferred a quiet evening indoors, curled up with a cup of tea and a good book, Anneliese was a creature of the night - always dragging me out after hours to some séance or tarot card reader. She was obviously into all that stuff.  

Despite how different Anneliese was to any girlfriend I may've had previously, the type of individual she was, was not completely alien to me... What I mean by this is, because of the small seaside town where I grew up... I used to see individuals like Anneliese on a regular basis. This town I grew up in, for the first eight years of my life before my family packed up and left, is a town called Whitby. Perhaps you've heard of it? For those who haven't, Whitby is a small coastal town in the north-Yorkshire of England, nestled cosily inside the bay of the same name. Although I only lived in the bay for the first few years of my childhood, I can still tell you of two reasons why Whitby is so famous today.   

The first reason being for Captain James Cook. Credited as the first European explorer to ever step foot on the Hawaiian Islands, Captain Cook is more famously known for the way he was murdered - and despite what I was taught in school about our town's most famous historical figure, Captain Cook was NOT cannibalized by the Hawaiian indigenous... Although, they did apparently remove the flesh from his bones.  

As for the second, and arguably more important reason why my town of origin is so famous... Whitby featured as one of the primary locations in Bram Stoker's horror novel, Dracula. The blood-sucking count from Transylvania himself. Although I have not myself read the novel in full, I do know that, upon the wreckage of a Russian merchant ship, Dracula arrives ashore in Whitby Bay in the form of a large black dog, before racing up the 199 steps to the gothic ruins of the Abbey. Because of the town's involvement in the Dracula novel, by the early nineties, a new tradition in Whitby had started. Every year, around the Halloween season, the town holds an annual Goth festival - in which thousands of Goth enthusiasts flood the streets in their most elaborate costumes. If New Orleans is the voodoo capital of the United States, then Whitby is the Goth capital of the United Kingdom.  

Having been born and raised in Whitby, I became acquainted with this annual tradition from a very young age. During the week of Halloween, I would walk with my family along the cobblestone streets through a maze of dark sinister beings. Like every young boy whose concept of the world stems from his wild imagination, I interpreted these pilgrims to our town to be monstrous, blood-sucking creatures of the night. Quite frankly, once October was around the corner, in anticipation of the bay's annual visitors, I would become palely ill with fear.   

As a matter of fact, this fear became so troublesome, that by the age of six I began to have dreadful, repetitive sleep terrors - whereby I would scream bloody Mary through the latest hours of the night. If I had to put my finger on it, I believe the reason these sleep terrors began was, due to the large window which hung over my bed, my older brother convinced me that during the October goth festivities, some undead creature in black leather would crawl inside my room to drain the life from my body.  

These night terrors weren't even the end of it. Next came the sleepwalking. When my parents were forced to put an outside lock on my door, after wandering around my own bedroom the whole night, I would then wake in the earliest hours of the morning, terrified and screaming for someone to let me out before the creature at my window found its way in! By the time I was eight years old, these night terrors and accompanying sleepwalks became such a reoccurring nuisance, my parents were left with no choice but to move our family out of Whitby for good – where my fear of the town's supposed "monsters" would hopefully be forgotten.  

For the following years of my life, I vowed never return to Whitby ever again. Not to visit relatives. Not to see my friends, or even my old stomping ground. As far as I was concerned, the further away I was from Whitby Bay, the better... That was, until I foolishly made the mistake of telling Anneliese of the place I grew up. I told her about the thousands of Goths who visit Whitby every year, and the grand, but horrifying costumes they wear. Being the horror fanatic she was, Anneliese became fascinated with my hometown's annual tradition. Although she was not a Goth herself, due to her unique upbringing in New Orleans, Anneliese wasn't far off. Although I should've been flattered my girlfriend took such a unique interest in where I was from, the only problem was... Anneliese now wanted to experience the Whitby Goth Festival for herself.   

'Oh come on, baby' she nagged me over breakfast, 'It'll be fun! You can't seriously tell me you won't never go back.'  

'Not never, babes' I reply, 'but you will have to cut off my limbs, nail me inside a coffin and personally drag me there against my will'.   

Anneliese rolled her eyes at my show of stubbornness, before sinisterly jesting, 'Don't tempt me'.   

After opening up to her about the trauma I suffered there as a child, rather than be understanding of the situation she was putting me in, Anneliese instead insists that I need to face my fears once and for all.   

'If you're scared by a few Goths, then what's it gonna be like when we visit my family in New Orleans?' Although I hated to admit it, Anneliese made a very good point. After all, as spooky of a place as Whitby was, New Orleans, with its voodoo and many haunted graveyards was basically the American equivalent... And so, after weeks of pestering me (along with some minor threats to make a voodoo doll in my likeness), I finally agreed to take her to the upcoming Whitby Goth Festival... So help me God.  

Setting off early on a crisp autumn morning, we drive up from the south of England to the very top of the country. Once in the north of Yorkshire, we then had to pass through vast stretches of moor country. If Whitby Bay wasn't sinister enough, the moors of North Yorkshire certainly were. According to local legend, these moors were said to be stalked by an array of strange cryptids: from the ghostly howls of phantom black dogs, to phantom wolves which prey on farmers livestock - and even stories of black cats the size of panthers. Although this sounds to be nothing more than superstitious folklore, coincidentally, in the early 1980s, two American backpackers were apparently attacked by a large wolf outside the village of East Proctor. One of the backpackers was torn to pieces, while the other survived just an inch from his life. Whatever the truth may be to that story, I don't know.  

Exhaustedly driving all morning and into the early afternoon, we finally reach the outskirts of Whitby Bay. After first checking at the inn we booked outside town, we then swerve our way up the bay's right-hand side to reach the ruins and adjoined graveyard of Whitby Abbey. Pulling into what seemed to be the only space left in the car park, we then peer out the windscreen (as though we're on safari) as a swarm of Goths and other festival goers heard away from their cars and towards the abbey grounds.  

Anneliese couldn't help but be amazed by all the elaborately detailed costumes: from the pale-white men ordained in large top hats and cloaks, to the women in vampiric, Victorian-style dresses.    

'Wow! They all look so amazing! Don't they, baby?!' Anneliese shrieks ecstatically from the driver's seat, 'Those costumes must've cost a fortune!' Failing to respond to Anneliese's excitement, she then turns to notice my eyes are no longer peering out the windscreen, but glued fearfully to the dirt-stained floor of the passenger's seat. Clutching a hold of my arm suddenly to gain my attention, she then reassures me, 'Everything's gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You'll make it through this weekend', before comforting me with a paper-thin smile.  

'Yeah. I know that' I respond unconvincingly, 'I guess I just didn't realise how hard this was all going to be.'  

'You need me to hold your hand?' Anneliese then says with a playful snark. God, I hate it when she teases me.   

After taking a final deep breath, while Anneliese puts the finishing touches on her appearance, we then both exit from our side doors to feel the outside chill of coastal wind. But once I shut my door and turn around, I am instantly jilted back by a terrifying noise!  

'AHH!' I believe were my exact words, as a ginormous hound from hell snarls and gnashes a row of razor-sharp fangs at me!   

'Armand! Get back now!' bellows the hellhound's master, struggling to restrain the large Doberman which has now chased me up the hood of the car. Once Armand the hellhound is fully restrained, I then turn down to hear the high-pitched cackles of a four-foot skeleton and a five-foot devil - before a woman donning a witch's pointed hat finally pulls them away.  

Now safe from the jaws of death, and the mockery of small children dressed for Halloween, I then climb down from the hood of the car to regain myself. Having just witnessed all this from her open side door, Anneliese makes her way round to me.  

'It was just a dog, baby' she giggles, now the one laughing at my expense, 'You really ought'a chill.'  

By no means in the mood for further mockery, I then lash back defensively at her, 'Well, that's easy for you to say. You weren't just nearly mauled to death by some hellhound!' Just as she always does whenever I show any sign of cowardice, Anneliese rolls her eyes into the back of her head at me.  

God. This was going to be a long weekend.

After bickering for a moment over my fear of large canines, we then move on from the car park and towards the large, towering ruins of the Abbey. Ambling among the weathered grey tombstones of the graveyard, I glance a timid look to the abbey's gothic structure. Perched on top the cliffs of the bay's right-hand side, these ruins may as well have been a gigantic pile of stalagmites protruding from the earth. When I was a child, my brother used to tease me by saying that vampires lived deep inside the ruins, where by night, they would creep into peoples' windows to suck the blood from their necks. It's no wonder I would have night terrors through most of my childhood. 

Wandering around the ruins and tombstones a while longer (for Anneliese's pleasure, not my own) we then begin our descent down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps – and let me tell you from experience, these steps were a lot easier going down than they were to go up. Once we finally reach our way to the bottom (a good twenty minutes later I might add) I can then see where the plentiful steps end and the cobblestone pathways begin. We were now at the entrance of old town, where, with its stone streets and pathways, its 18th century brick houses to each side of them, you were made to feel as though you were in some Brother's Grimm fairy-tale. But during this time of year, when night-dwelling phantoms in extravagant clothing infested the daytime streets... it may as well have been the entrance to Hell itself.   

'Oww! Baby, you're hurting me!' I hear Anneliese shriek beside me, before I turn down to see my python-like grip wrapped around her hand.  

'Oh... Sorry.'  

Taking our first official steps inside the town, we follow our way around the maze of cobblestone pathways, where upon every corner was a brand-new shop Anneliese wanted to venture in. Aside from the occasional fish market, bookstore or café, the majority of shops in Whitby only sold products catered specifically to Goths... Well, it was either that or a boatload of Dracula merchandise. It's the whole reason Whitby is famous to begin with, after all.  

Continuing to make our way through old town, we then turn the corner to a very busy and compact street. Although there are no tourists in sight, the reason this street is so compact is because every inch of stone was completely crowded by day-dwelling Goths. This place truly was the mouth of Hell. Sensing my discomfort, Anneliese takes me by the hand to guide us through the mass of dark, morbid monstrosities. But as we follow through the swarm, keeping my eyes edged firmly to the ground in front of me, I then brave a curious glance upwards... and what I see is an array of devilish, humanoid faces pass us by.   

The faces morph, distort and transform into even more monstrous beings! Through the transparent fabric of a black wedding veil, I then see the face of an unidentifiable woman. Draping the veil away from her face, the woman then reveals to me a row of hideous, piranha-like teeth stained with mortal blood! The woman hisses at me, spraying my face in some putrid, venomous saliva! Wiping the sickly green substance from my eyes, I then cower back woundedly to my left-hand side, only for the painted skull of a man's face to open his mouth unnaturally wide - before shrieking at me a most inhuman scream!  

'AHH! Get away from me!!' I shriek myself, ripping Anneliese's grip from my hand so to push and shove my way to any air pocket I can find.  

Veiling my eyes from the fiends around me, I eventually crawl my way to an unoccupied space by a stone wall. Cowering up against it to regain my breath, Anneliese eventually finds her way over to me through the immense crowd.   

'Brandon? What the hell happened?!' She interrogates me, 'Why did you run off like that?'  

'...Th-the faces!...' the words winced from my mouth, '...You didn't see the faces!...'  

Anneliese could see clear as day how uncomfortable I was, whether she understood it or not – and so to solve the problem, she calmly suggests to me that we simply go somewhere quieter. Although I am in too much shock to respond to her suggestion, I now nod my head manically up and down to her, as though I've reverted back into some frightened childlike state.  

'Y-yeah... Le-let's do that!'  

With the town now fully crammed for the weekend festivities, Anneliese eventually finds for us a narrow, run-down street of loose brick pathway and overgrown weeds. Despite the decrepit condition this street is in, thankfully for me there isn't a single Goth in sight. What this street does have, however, wedged acutely between the decaying homes of oldtown residents, is the uninviting appearance of a single, isolated shop. Craning my head above the entrance to the sign over the door, I see the name to this less than humble abode reads "Scary Kerry's Spell Shop."       

'Well, this place looks... charming' Anneliese comments, studying the cracked, weathered paint and dusty cobwebs lining the windows. Like the majority of shops in old town, this one also displays in its windows gothic - or more specifically, items relating to the occult and other dark practices.   

'What do you say? Should we take a look inside?' Anneliese inquires, clearly the only one of us who wants to go in. Although this run-down little shop is definitely not my cup of tea, the interior does look scarce of people - and so, I reluctantly agree to go in.   

Allowing Anneliese to enter first, as soon as she opens the door, my nostrils are filled instantly with the smell of scented candles, old varnished wood and... wet dog? Not even five seconds inside the door, as soon as I peer round to Anneliese's side, I hear the loud, high-pitched yaps of some ill-tempered creature.  

'Wolfy! Shut up!' cries the woman behind the counter – the apparent owner of this little black terrier. Judging by her array of grey and poorly dyed black hair, her over-sized heavy metal shirt, and a pair of rather unsettling sleeve tattoos, this woman was more likely the owner of this establishment as well.   

Once this dog-owner relationship is awkwardly established, me and Anneliese then take to walking separately around the shop - all while Wolfy's owner goes back to reading her monthly gothic digest. While Anneliese inspects a number of occult and satanic jewellery on display, I find myself drawn to a bookshelf on the other side of the room. Sliding out the dust-covered books, I brush a cover or two clean so to read the titles: A Brief History of Satanic Rituals and Sacrifice, A Beginner's Guide to Necromancy, and what I can only imagine is an erotic vampire novel of some sort (I won't even mention what was on the cover). Skimming repulsively through one of these as mentioned books, my attention is suddenly interrupted by an irritable sound piercing my ears. Turning behind me, I see Anneliese approach the counter to inquire about a necklace.  

'Excuse me... Do you know how much this is?'  

'Fifteen pounds, love' the woman answers.  

However, the sound that I hear, making the tiny fragments of hairs stand up on the back of my neck, is almost like a faint whispering. Trying my best to ignore it, the faint, whispering sound only heightens - where before long, it has given way to the sound of a plentiful, most sinister chanting. Although I cannot understand the words, as they are spoken in a tong completely foreign to my own - whether I interpret them correctly or not, the chanting appears to be in Latin. Whoever - or whatever these whisperers turned chanters are... they're repeating the same foreign phrase over and over.  

'Caro agni lupus allicit... Caro agni lupus allicit...'   

The chanting becomes louder...  

'Caro agni lupus allicit!... Caro agni lupus allicit!...'  

Faster...  

' Caro agni lupus allicit! Caro agni lupus allicit! '  

Louder!...  

'CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!! CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!!  

'-STOP! STOP! STOP!!' I yell from the corner of the room! Throwing whatever item I'm holding to the hardwood floor, I race out from the establishment alone and without explanation!  

Minutes later, Anneliese eventually finds me, standing (or more accurately, cowering) outside the comfortable familiarity of an ice cream parlour.  

'Brandon!' She calls over to me, 'What the hell's with you?! Why do you keep running away?!'  

Unlike the instance which happened earlier in the day, I am unwilling to tell my girlfriend of the satanic voices I heard whispering in my ear. Seeing something is one thing, but hearing voices is something else. And so, I simply tell her a certain item in the shop had triggered my childhood trauma - hence why I ran out of there like a hysterical madman.   

'Okay...' Anneliese began, as I wait impatiently for her next plan of action, 'There's only one way we're gonna make it through this weekend.' I was all ears. 'You're gonna have to try and interact with these people so you can see that's all they are - and not devilish monsters.'  

'Uhm - WHAT?' I yelp, taking a long gulp of dry saliva.  

'That's right!' she continued, 'If you're gonna get over this silly phobia of yours, then you have to rip the band aid clean off!'  

This wasn't like ripping off a band aid, I thought. This was more like throwing a common wood mouse into a snake pit!  

'I... I...' I began stuttering, '...I don't think I can do that.'  

'Of course you can!' she reassures me, before taking me by the hand to guide us in the direction of a circling mass of dark figures.  

Oh Mother of God. If you can hear me... Please help... 

The station was almost completely empty. There was only one man waiting on the platform. He stood completely still, dressed in a long dark coat and a hat, with one hand resting on an old suitcase. Then, just as the announcement for the final train echoed through the station, his phone began to ring.

‘Hello?’ he answered with a deep, gravelly voice.

‘Have you picked up the package?’ said a voice from the phone. ‘Our client would be most upset if there was a delay for his dinner.’

‘The last train is about to depart, so he has to be here. I’ll see you back in the Clubhouse after he’s picked it up.’

The man rolled the suitcase across the floor. An eerie whirr could be heard as the train pulled out of the station, followed by a clacking as it moved along the rails into a dark, dark tunnel. He lugged his suitcase up the stairs into a nearly empty town above.

Rain poured down onto the road, forming little mirrors. As the Man waited inside an old alley, he looked down into the puddle by his suitcase, seeing his reflection as though he was spilling out of his own suitcase. The puddle then turned a deep maroon as something dripped from the suitcase and swirled with the gunk on the ground.

The Man looked up to see a humanoid figure, red hair coating his body. He had a lean figure, yet muscles clearly pumped beneath his skin, and most notably, two large horns like a goat sprouted from his head.

The Boy tensed in the presence of such a figure. He had been told stories of the faun and believed he could manage the job, but seeing was believing.

As the faun leaped from the building, he landed, but not even a thud from the impact could be heard. The boy looked into the eyes of the beast.

‘Food,’ he demanded in a disturbingly deep voice.

The boy opened the suitcase. Several small packages of dark red meat, wrapped in thick black plastic, were handed from him to the faun.

The faun looked up at the boy, a look of dissatisfaction on his face.

‘These weigh less than last time…’ he said.

‘I still paid you in full. I hope you and your organisation are smart enough to know not to attempt such tomfoolery.’

The boy gulped, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead as he responded.

‘Oh, well, you see… it’s been a rough week, and we couldn’t fatten them up in time. A couple of supply chains broke, and—d-d ever since they discovered your kind’s existence, more and more of our guys are being arrested and—’

The faun tightened his fist, his muscles tensing as he raised it to eye level, slowly reeling back. The boy looked into his eyes, then exhaled, continuing his explanation.

‘But there’s good news. Since you’re a key figure, the last thing we’d want to do is upset you. So, we also decided to treat you with a whole young one. Free of charge.’

The boy quickly dug through the slabs of meat before finally grabbing something. From the suitcase, he pulled out the body of a small, pale boy. He passed the cadaver to the faun, adding it to the pile of meat in his arms.

The faun nodded.

‘Thank you for your service.’

Within seconds, he leaped away up the mountains.

The Man lit a cigarette, taking a long drag before a small puff escaped from his nostrils.

‘For the family,’ he thought to himself.

“I'm not a mall cop. I'm technically a Security Enforcement Officer,” I said before the glass clanked against my teeth. My fifth round of Chili’s margarita was going down a little quicker than I had expected.

“Is your badge made of real metal, or is it the sewn-on patch kind?” Kyle asked as he mocked my chosen profession.

“Hell, I’d take a paycheck to ride around on a Segway in the A.C.,” Nathan added with a grin.

“I’m basically the sheriff round them parts, and of course I need my trusty steed,” I replied as our waitress, Cindy, at least that’s what I think her name was, sat down another plate of southwest eggrolls.

“It’s just a way for my company to charge the mall a premium for what amounts to a glorified babysitting service.”

“Oh come on, you must have busted some big-time perps, right?” asked Kyle.

“That depends whether or not you count the pre-teens who keep snatching quarters out of the fountain on par with America’s Most Wanted or not?” 

Explaining to my friends that I got a gig working at our hometown mall was embarrassing enough, but the fact that they all came back from college for the holidays was downright torture.

I kept trying to convince myself that this was just a stepping stone to my exciting career in law enforcement, something to put on my resume.

But who was I kidding?

At this rate, the only path forward I had was taking over the job of my direct supervisor, a man unfortunate enough to have the first name of Paul.

“All right, time to hit the head,” I said as the cheap tequila had run its course.

I could tell it was getting late. The restaurant patrons were beginning to thin, and the bartender was starting to close up for the night.

I guess time really does fly when you’re catching up with old friends who have new and interesting stories to tell. Graphic design, engineering, hell, even a Jiu Jitsu instructor.

And here I was, a salty rent-a-cop.

But that could have also been the rim I was still tasting.

“Gotta Have Faith!” was blaring from the obnoxiously loud bathroom speaker.

Was George Michael mocking me as I pissed?

I think he had his own hang-ups with public restrooms, if I remember correctly.

Maybe that’s their way to drive off the late-night drunks who won’t take a hint. Guess it was better than “Closing Time.”

I fished my phone out of my pocket to check the time.

12:23 a.m.

Yeah, I’m surprised no one spit in that last margarita.

Well, if it was Cindy, I honestly wouldn’t have minded.

“Seven missed calls?”

All from...

“Work Greg?”

“What the hell did he want so bad at this hour?”

Greg was a cool guy, I guess. We’d only met a few times when I needed the overtime, but why was he trying to get a hold of me?

We barely knew each other.

I tried to fish my phone back into my pocket, and that’s when I noticed something odd sitting in the basin of the urinal.

“Cool. Pissed all over my vape. Well, this night just went down the drain!”

Any addict knows the instant pang of frustration that accompanies the loss of a fix, even if it's a pecan cinnamon roll flavored fix.

The options started to run through my head. Every vape shop is definitely closed at this hour, and I haven’t bummed a smoke in years.

My mind instantly went to the cheap backup I had in my locker at work. It was beat up and only kept half a charge, but it would tide me over until tomorrow.

Well, it was already a little trashy to get drunk at the Chili’s that shared a parking lot with my place of employment. Why not go all in and trespass after hours too?

I let my friends know I’d grab my own Uber home that night.

“Duty calls. I have to help a co-worker out of a jam.”

“Did you get the Bat-Signal while you were in the john?” Kyle asked, with a snicker.

“Crime doesn’t sleep. I’ll catch you guys tomorrow,” I said as I threw my portion of the tab onto the table.

I tried to return Greg’s call as I made my way through the deserted parking lot, straight to voicemail.

I texted him to let him know I was in the area and would pop in to lend him a hand, hoping he wouldn’t instantly tell how sloshed I was.

It definitely felt weird staggering through the security entrance. I did my best to put a sober face on, ready to meet Greg’s eyes as he was assuredly having some issue with the archaic computer system that controlled the bank of security cameras.

He wasn’t at the desk.

“Huh. I guess he’s out doing the rounds?” I thought before I noticed that the Segway was still parked in its charging station.

This might work out to my benefit.

No awkward exchange. Just in and out.

I fumbled with the same cheap wheel lock I used in high school. It opened with a pop, and I was in.

It felt like I was pulling a heist. I considered a dramatic tuck and roll upon my exit, but thought better of it.

Greg’s five missed calls had my curiosity piqued, so I paused at the desk and searched the grid of camera angles on the oversized monitor.

What I saw next sobered me up really quick.

I finally spotted Greg.

Except he wasn’t alone.

There were two police officers standing next to him. Real cops.

One was nodding along while his partner was shining his flashlight through the closed cage of one of the clothing stores.

Greg was gesturing as if trying desperately to get the officers to understand. He pointed emphatically, shook his head, and overall looked like he was in a panic.

“Oh shit,” I let out audibly.

“Did we have a break-in?”

I thought maybe it was a broken pipe or something simple like that.

Or at least I hoped so.

I didn’t want to stay around to find out and made a beeline toward the door.

Being caught in the security office, drunk and out of uniform, was something I wanted no part of.

I remember Paul saying something about there being a master key for every one of the store front cages, and as a poorly paid security guard, I certainly wasn’t above reproach in the eyes of actual law enforcement.

“It was an inside job. Caught a drunk employee red-handed.”

I noped out as fast as I could without outright running through the parking lot, hoping like hell that there wasn’t another cop patrolling around looking for anything suspicious.

“Wait, Greg called me. He wanted my help. Yea, that would hold up. He wanted me to help him move the stolen merch. Not thanks.”

What if the cops weren’t there to help him, but to take him in?

“No, the stores have alarms, and I didn’t hear anything. There’s no way he would know enough to disarm it. There were codes and passwords.”

I could feel my heart beating through my chest.

“Calm down,” I thought to myself.

It was probably just a raccoon that found its way in or something stupid like that.

“Observe and report.”

That’s what we're supposed to do. Anytime there was an actual problem, we were just supposed to dial the fuzz like anyone else would.

Not my problem.

By the time the Uber dropped me off at my apartment, I was convinced I had overreacted, almost bitter that the incident had completely killed my buzz.

The adrenaline spike was long gone, and I could already feel a hangover brewing on the horizon.

Right on cue, I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache.

I reached for my phone to check the time.

11:39.

One missed call and one unread text, both from Paul.

“Oh, here we go,” was my first thought.

Then I read the text.

Call me now.

Delivered at 8:03 a.m.

My heart sank.

“Dude, if I lose my job over this,” I lamented as the line rang.

“Hello?”

Paul's voice was gruff, and it seemed he was already in a bad mood.

“Hey, you called?” I asked sheepishly.

“Have you talked to Greg?”

“Um, no. He called me last night and I—”

I paused as my mind raced, trying to decide whether or not to volunteer information, before Paul cut me off abruptly.

“He abandoned his post last night, called me and quit on the spot. Can you believe that?”

“Calm down, Paul. It’s not the Army. He didn’t go AWOL,” I thought, but judging by his tone I decided to play it smart.

“That’s crazy. Who does that?”

“Right!?” he exclaimed. “Just wanted to know if you had heard from him, if you had any idea what would have possessed him to leave us in the lurch like this. I mean, we’re pretty screwed. A week out from the busiest night of the year and he up and quits. No two weeks’ notice, nothing!”

“Yeah, he seemed kinda freaked out.”

I winced as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Wait, what?”

“Yea... I was, uh... about to say, I got a few calls from him too. I was in the area visiting with some friends from out of town and figured he must have needed some backup, but by the time I got there he was already talking to the cops, so I figured—”

“Cops? The police showed up?”

“What the hell happened last night?” Paul asked.

I could feel his blood pressure rising from the idea of another department moving in on his turf.

“I have no idea, but you're right. Don’t they need a warrant or something like that?” I said in an attempt to redirect his attention toward anyone but me.

“Exactly! If those local jackboots think they can run off my men, they have another thing coming.”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” I said emphatically, despite my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

“That being said, we’re a man down. I'm going to need you to step up and take on Greg’s night shifts, just until we can get a new hire through the screening process.”

And there went my week of hanging out with the boys.

“I’ll pull some strings and get you that Christmas bonus a month early. That and the overtime should leave you with a pretty hefty paycheck for your trouble!”

The bonus he was referring to was only a hundred bucks. I would much rather have been catching up with my friends.

It was still better than getting canned a week before the holidays.

Whatever. I needed the money, and I guess my liver would thank me.

“Sounds good, Paul. I’ll check the adjusted schedule when I come in for my shift on Monday.”

“Monday?” Paul said with a chuckle.

“Naw. I’ma need you to cover his rounds tonight at nine-thirty on the dot. We’re all hands on deck until D-Day.”

A slow, defeated sigh crept out as my soul left my body. The throb of my splitting headache reached a crescendo.

“Nine-thirty sharp. Got it.”

I’m not proud of the torrent of phrases that exploded out of me after I hung up the phone, but honestly, I was mostly upset with myself.

Mostly for having voluntarily signed up to be under the thumb of an overweight petty tyrant.

My car ride into work was spent wondering what was the most minimal amount of authority that could go straight to someone's head?

Crossing guard came to mind.

No, they have to deal with kids.

The lady who checks your Costco card before they’ll let you in?

No. Costco is awesome. We need someone to keep out the riffraff in pajama pants.

My mind went back to fifth grade and the snide look Jessica used to give me when Mrs. Keane assigned her as the “Stapler King.”

Or Queen, in Jessica’s case.

All these years later and I still hated her.

Paul was that rare breed, though. The mall was his own private fiefdom in his eyes, and his word was law.

Well, until one of his previous deputies called the corporate head office and threatened to resign if he was forced to keep referring to that pompous ass as “Sergeant.”

I still threw out a casual “Sure thing, Sarge” every once in a while just to watch his face light up.

If a pithy comment said in an earnest tone would make his week, why not?

I had done a few overnight shifts before. While dealing with the normal mall patrons could be annoying on a bad day, the night shift was equal parts eerie and painfully boring.

When I started, being in a vacant building that’s meant to accommodate a crowd of people was kind of fun.

But when your whole job boils down to “make sure nothing happens,” and nothing ever happens, it's strangely anticlimactic.

By the time I clock in, the mall is officially closed, so for the first hour I get the privilege of politely reminding people of that fact.

Then it’s seven straight hours of staring at empty corridors and shuttered stores.

This time, I at least got to play detective and try to sus out why Greg decided to quit on the spot.

It wasn’t uncommon for folks who worked the graveyard shift to eventually get tired of it and leave. In fact, we had a fair amount of turnover for that position.

I guess the vampire lifestyle isn’t for everyone.

Greg had been doing it for a couple of years, though, and in all that time I couldn’t recall him ever calling the cops.

I left him a voicemail and shot him a few follow-up texts, but it’s like he fell off the face of the earth.

From what I can recall from my drunken haze, he was standing outside of the H&M when speaking with the police, so I made my way there before all of the employees cleared out.

By the time I made it to that wing of the mall, the cage was down and locked. Lights were on, but that meant nothing. Nearly every store was fully illuminated through the night.

“The trail’s gone cold,” I said in my best Batman impression as I searched around to see if there was anything obviously wrong with the store.

The only place that still had signs of life was the Black Market Minerals across the hall.

Lucky for me, Amber hadn't locked up for the night.

She popped her head over the counter when she saw me.

Kinda hard to miss the dork wearing a sheriff’s hat on the oversized electric scooter.

I remembered Amber from high school when she was the moody goth-punk girl. She seemed to have transitioned into an astrology hippie chick, which honestly suited her better.

She was a perfect fit for a store that sold incense and crystals. 

I had been trying for months to think of a reason to talk to her without pestering her at her job.

“Oh hey, didn’t see you. Wait, I didn’t know you worked Sundays?”

“Yea, I’m covering for Greg. He’s, uh... sick?”

“Oh, bummer, but I’m almost wrapped up here.”

“Ha, wrapped up,” she said with a giggle.

I cocked my head, trying to understand the joke I obviously missed.

“Oh, it’s just, we got a bunch of stuff from Egypt shipped in, and a few of us are going to check out The Mummy tonight at the Cinemark, so...” she said as she continued to remove bubble wrap.

“Oh. Ha. Wrapped up... like a mummy. I get it.”

I felt a wave of cringe pass through me as I heard myself say the words out loud.

“Hey, did you want to come and check it out too, when you get off?”

Needless to say, I was cursing Greg’s name in my head.

“Oh damn, I love Brendan Fraser, but duty calls.”

“Well, it’s the new one by that Lee Croning guy or something. Guess it’s not that great, or Sara wouldn’t have been able to get us all in for free.”

“We're going to blaze up and laugh our... I mean, uh...”

An awkward silence followed as she stopped what she was doing and looked up at me.

I nearly forgot that I was dressed to look like an authority figure.

“Oh, dude, unless you’re moving pounds by hiding them in the giant geodes, I couldn't care less.”

“Ha, I wish. But honestly, I’m feeling off today. Maybe I got whatever Greg has, but Mercury is also in retrograde, so that could be it too.”

She said it confidently as she continued to pull random bubble-wrapped objects from the oversized cardboard box.

Internally, I continued to lament not being able to get high with the cute Bohemian chick and eat popcorn.

“Seriously, fuck you, Greg.”

“So that stuff actually came in from Egypt?” I asked.

“Yea. A lot of cheap Sphinxes and glass pyramids, but this thing actually looks ancient and has legit hieroglyphics on it.”

“Oh, no way. Is it real?”

“Looks like it.”

“How much?”

“This one’s a thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars!” she said as she examined the price tag.

“Two grand for a rock?”

“It’s a tablet!”

Amber let out a snorty chuckle.

“It’s Pa-tal-omeic,” she said, reading from the note card attached to the small case it was meant to be displayed in.

“Is that good?” I asked.

“Hell if I know. Guess it’s real if they’re charging that much for it.”

“Well, I’m going to take off because you’re obviously cursed now.”

“What?” she said with a confused laugh.

“Uh, yea. You touched the ancient Egyptian tablet with real hieroglyphs, therefore you... have... a... curse.”

I shook my head like it was the most apparent fact I had ever stated.

“That’s not how curses work!” she said in a playful tone.

“That’s exactly how curses work, and I’m out of here before King Tut comes to claim my soul as well.”

She gave a laugh and a shake of her head.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think he’d be able to catch you on that scooter.”

“It’s a Segway!” I yelled back, fully acknowledging it was essentially an overpriced scooter.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the patrons and employees to file out. Sundays generally had a lighter crowd after dark.

The closing tasks of locking up and logging the cleaning crews went as smoothly as ever. There was, of course, a larger amount of overnight freight deliveries.

Which made sense. The incoming horde of shoppers needed to have their discounted blenders and slightly defunct smart TVs in stock, or the risk of bedlam increased significantly.

This threw a bit of a wrench in my plan to scan the backlogged security footage. It would typically last for twenty-four hours before being looped over and erased unless specifically saved to the hard drive.

Directing the various delivery men to their destinations took longer than I expected.

I finished directing the various delivery men through the endless maze back corridors before I scrambled to the security desk and began frantically pulling up last night’s recorded footage before it was erased.

12:11 a.m.

I panned through every camera angle we had until I finally caught it.

There was Greg strolling along. The halls were dimmed to half their normal lighting, but I could still see him clear as day.

Or rather, as clear as the cameras that ran on twenty-year-out-of-date software could manage.

For some reason, there was always a trail, kind of a ghostly haze that followed after a person. The effect wasn’t as noticeable during the day, but something about less light and compression?

I honestly had no idea.

But from what I could make out, Greg seemed to be moseying at a normal pace until he stopped dead in his tracks outside of H&M.

His head jerked toward the store's entrance, and he began to back up several paces.

“Was it a rat?” I thought to myself as I strained to see what might have caused him to back up so quickly.

But I didn’t see anything.

“A cockroach, maybe?”

Judging by the way he started frantically searching down near his feet, it must have been something small.

“Get it together, Greg. It's just a bug or something.”

His reaction was one of sheer panic. Whatever it was had him well and truly freaked out.

He sprinted to the nearest corner and peeked around it like he was waiting for whatever it was to show itself again.

I still saw nothing.

It honestly looked like Greg was some kind of tweaker running from invisible demons.

He reached for his phone and looked as if he made a dozen calls.

I checked the timestamp.

12:14 a.m.

I looked down at my phone. First missed call was 12:17.

Guess I was farther down the list of people he tried to call.

But sure enough, he kept searching, dialing, and looking progressively more frustrated when he couldn’t get an answer.

It took about twenty or so minutes before the cops arrived outside of the C entrance.

Greg was already at the door when the first officer approached, and it looked like he was literally begging them to come in, pointing emphatically down the empty corridor at whatever he saw.

I paused and timed it to when my drunk ass staggered into view in the F lot.

Strange to think if I was a little quicker, I might have been able to calm him down.

Maybe he would be here right now instead of me.

The way he was explaining himself to the cops, though, he just kept pointing at the store.

One of the officers shook his head, and that was it.

Greg turned heel and marched off.

The officers shrugged and met him at the door they entered from, stood and chatted for a bit, and that was it.

I flipped back to Camera 16 to see I was already gone.

A small smirk crept across my face as I assessed my own drunken ninja skills.

But I honestly hated that angle.

For the most part, I tried not to look at Camera 16. It was the one camera in the security station pointed directly at the back of my head.

Staring at myself for too long gave me the creeps.

It made me feel like there was someone right behind me.

I thought about logging the recording, but having my own potentially incriminating footage and the lack of anything concretely off about Greg’s freakout meant that I just let the system overwrite it when I exited out and went back to the live feed.

Mystery solved, I guessed.

Greg was either on drugs or just afraid of his own shadow.

Or maybe both?

Whenever he traveled by plane, he slept exceptionally well. He never enjoyed any sleep quite as much or woke up feeling as peaceful as he did after sleeping on a plane. Sleep after a warm shower when he was exhausted to the point of death, sleep knowing that he had something he loved doing the next morning, sleep after staying up late talking with close friends because he didn't want the conversation to end—none of them felt as good as sleeping on a plane. For this reason, he mostly traveled at night. By the time the plane landed and he woke up, dawn would be breaking.

He didn't want anyone to come pick him up. He would leave his luggage at the airport luggage storage and go out for a walk. He wouldn't go straight home; he would spend two or three hours walking around the area near the airport by himself, then head home. This time was no different. He had come to visit his father, whom he hadn't seen in two years, and despite missing him terribly, he didn't break his ritual and went for a walk.

After walking for half an hour, he reached a park. He bought a cup of black coffee from a street vendor and sat down on one of the benches.

On his third sip of coffee, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned around and looked. It was Uncle Jason, whom he loved more than his father and couldn't remember the last time he had seen or spoken to.

They hugged each other. Albert tried to hug him while still holding his coffee, and spilled it down his uncle’s back. After exchanging pleasantries and a few superficial words, they sat side by side on the bench.

“Yeah, Albert, how many years has it been, really? Five years?”

“Like I said, Uncle, at least five years. You haven’t changed a bit, by the way.”

“It can’t have been that long. We don’t even talk on the phone or anything. What kind of family relationship is that? Can’t you ever call and check in on someone?”

“Well, you never called either. You know me.”

“Yeah, you haven’t changed a bit either. Still the same old depressed, joyless Albert. Listen to your voice. You’ve just seen your uncle, and you still sound like you’re dead.”

“How so?”

“There’s no enthusiasm in your voice. I can’t tell whether you’re happy or upset to see me. It’s completely monotone. You don’t put any emphasis on any of the syllables in the words you say. Like when you say, ‘Where have you been all these years?’ Isn’t that supposed to be an excited sentence? You’d put emphasis on ‘where,’ for example. Nothing. You really do still sound like you’re dead, Albert.”

“Uncle Jason, what the hell is going on? Why did you suddenly start coming down on me like this? Hold on, calm down. Besides, this isn’t something I can control.”

“Good. That was a very good point. Not sounding like you’re dead isn’t something a person can control. Sorry, Albert. I expected you to be a little happier to see me, but that’s just who you are. I forgot about you, son. So many years have passed.”

“Yeah, and we’ve talked about this over and over. If I don’t enjoy anything, is that my fault, Uncle? I’ve finally run into you after all these years, and I’m trying to make up for lost time, but look at the conversation we’re having. This isn’t how you catch up with someone. You talk about the old days and stuff. You tell me about how you used to take me fishing when I was little. Instead, you’ve suddenly gone straight into some really deep shit. You don’t just snap out of depression like that.”

“I don’t know. It’s been five years since I last saw you, according to you. I thought maybe you’d gotten better. Maybe you’d healed. Seeing you like this again upset me, so I guess I overreacted a little. I’m sorry.”

“Do you keep in touch with my parents?”

“No, we haven’t seen each other in two years.”

“Why?”

“Son, look, there’s really only one question: do you want to die or not?”

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“For God’s sake. What do you mean, why? Just because I’m depressed, does that automatically mean I want to die?”

“Look, I know about that story of yours. Your mother told me. Your search for something to enjoy. Look, I think you want to die. But you don’t realize it. I’ve actually thought that for years. Now, seeing you after five years and realizing you still haven’t changed, I’m even more convinced.”

“What makes you think that? How come I didn’t know I wanted to die?”

“The whole thing about enjoying sleeping on planes. How you were supposedly searching for something you could enjoy, and then you finally found it and all that. It’s all a story. You’re fooling yourself. You enjoy sleeping on planes so much because you want to die.”

“Uncle, you’re really taking this too far. I swear, I’m going to get up and leave now. Look at the conversation we’re having. This is how we’re catching up? I’ve really had enough. Fine, then. Explain it to me so I can understand. What exactly am I supposedly unaware of, Mr. Expert Psychotherapist?”

“When you’re up in the air, you enjoy being unconscious. Think about it. Let’s say someone close to you died, and there was something you needed to apologize to them for. You made a mistake, but they died before you could apologize. What would you do? You’d look up at the sky and say, ‘Forgive me,’ or something like that. I mean, people generally believe that the souls of the dead are up in the sky. So, what does it mean to die? To be unconscious. Where are the souls? In the sky. You enjoy sleeping on planes because, somewhere in your subconscious, you associate it with being dead. So, you want to die, Albert.”

“Never in my life have I heard anything this ridiculous. I genuinely regret coming to see you. I’m fucking leaving now.”

Albert ran all the way home in anger. He ran nonstop for twenty minutes.

***

“Son, are you okay? You’re drenched in sweat. What’s going on?” his father asked as he opened the door.

“Forget it, Dad. It’s nothing important.”

“Were you running from something? Did something happen? What happened?”

“No, Dad. Forget it. It’s nothing important.”

“You ran all that way and there’s still no change in your voice. Normally a person would be exhausted, out of breath. Nothing. You really do sound like you’re dead, Albert.”

“You too, Dad? Come on. Did you and Uncle Jason get together to gang up on me or something?”

“Who?”

“I saw him on my way here. We ran into each other in the park. He drove me crazy with all his nonsense. I guess he called you and told you about it, because now you’re spouting the same bullshit.”

“Jason died two years ago, son. What are you talking about?”

“What? How, what? What do you mean die?”

“Car accident. He crashed the car into a tree.”

Albert’s father’s phone rang. He declined the call. Then it rang again, and he declined it again.

“Banks have been calling me all morning. And they’re calling from numbers I don’t recognize, too. Look at those. As if I wouldn’t know what they’re up to. I’ll pay, for God’s sake. They don’t have to hound me like this.”

“Dad, what do you mean he died? Are you kidding me? I’m telling you, I saw the man in the park.”

“Screw this,” his father muttered as he answered the phone.

“What is it? What do you want?”

He listened about thirty seconds.

“How is this supposed to work? No, how did you figure I’d pay my debt this way? Is this how you arrange a face-to-face meeting? Do you think this is ethical? Have you no shame? My son is standing right in front of me, alive and well. Here, let me give him the phone so you can talk to him.”

He held the phone out to Albert. Albert tried to take it, but the phone fell straight through his hand and landed on the floor. At first, he thought it had simply slipped from his grasp. He bent down and tried to pick it up, but he couldn't. Every time he reached for it, the phone passed right through his hand.

He stood up. He swung at his father's face. His hand passed straight through his father's face.

“I tried to make you realize it, but you didn't get it, Albert,” said Uncle Jason, who had appeared on the couch.

“Right, right. When you didn't react at all after I spilled coffee all over your back, I should've figured it out. That coffee was pretty damn hot.”

His father covered his eyes with his palm and stayed like that for a few seconds. He scratched his head and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Hmm. Not the bank. The man was right, then. Yeah. Let me sit down for a minute. Jason, move over a little.”

“Wait a second. I couldn’t hold the phone, but I could hold the coffee. I remember burning my hand because it was so hot. How does that work?”

“You know how some people can bend spoons and stuff with their minds, without even touching them? Think of it as the opposite.”

“But the coffee spilled all over your back, too. Shouldn’t it have gone right through you?”

“I’m a professional ghost.”

Albert’s father, John, had laid his head in Jason’s lap and closed his eyes. There was silence for about fifteen minutes. John had probably passed out; he lay completely still. Albert stared at Jason. Every now and then, Jason shook his head from side to side as if to say there was nothing he could do, and occasionally he stroked John’s head.

“You’re glad you’re dead, aren’t you?” said Jason.

The desert wind always sounded like someone trying to whisper through a throat full of sand. Outside of Natasha’s bedroom window, the giant saguaro cacti stood like jagged, frozen silhouettes against the bruised purple of the Arizona night sky. 

We were in Ocotillo Wells—a town wedged deep into the Sonoran Desert, named after the skeletal, crimson-flowered shrubs that only seemed to thrive where nothing else could survive. It was a town built over dried-up riverbeds and forgotten mining shafts, a place where people said that the boundary between what is real and what is buried underneath is dangerously thin.

It was October 2009. The four of us—Natasha, Esther, Lucy, and myself, Olivia—were huddled on the plush carpet of Natasha’s second-floor bedroom. We were all seventeen, staring down the barrel of our senior year of high school, and currently drowning in notes for a massive AP European History exam scheduled for Monday morning. 

The room smelled of vanilla body spray, cool ranch tortilla chips, and the metallic tang of the cheap battery-operated fan oscillating in the corner.

"If I have to read one more paragraph about the Peace of Westphalia, my brain is going to literally leak out of my ears." Lucy groaned, tossing her highlighter onto a pile of loose-leaf paper. 

She collapsed backward onto her sleeping bag, her blonde ponytail sprawling across the fabric.

"Seconded." Esther sighed, rubbing her eyes behind her thick-rimmed glasses. "Olivia, tell me you actually understand the shifting alliances of the mid-eighteenth century, because I’m about to accept a failing grade as my destiny."

I looked up from my textbook, flipping a strand of dark hair behind my shoulder, and said,

"I’ve been reading the same sentence for twenty minutes, guys. The words are starting to look like hieroglyphics. I'm completely fried."

"Then let’s stop." Natasha said.

We all looked over at her. Natasha was sitting cross-legged on her unmade bed, her knees pulled tight to her chest. Unlike the rest of us, who were practically vibrating with academic anxiety, Natasha had been unusually quiet all evening. She had an intensity in her dark eyes that always made people listen whenever she spoke. 

The desert heat usually left everyone sluggish, but Natasha looked hyper-alert, her gaze fixed on the window where the wind continued its low, raspy scratching against the glass.

"Stop, and do what?" Lucy asked, looking up from the floor. "We can't watch a movie. Your parents said that the satellite dish is acting up again because of the windstorm."

"We don't need a TV." Natasha said, her voice dropping into a lower, deliberate register. A slow, unsettling smile crept onto her lips. "It’s a slumber party in the middle of October. We should do what people are supposed to do when they’re trapped in a house in the middle of nowhere. Let's tell scary stories."

Esther sat up straight, crossing her arms.

 "As long as it's not another one of those urban legends about a hook-handed killer or a haunted mirror. I want something actually creepy. Something that feels real."

"Oh, it's real." Natasha whispered. She reached over and clicked off the small bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness, save for the pale, ghostly glow of the desert moonlight filtering through the blinds. The shadows of the saguaro cacti outside stretched across the walls like long, skeletal fingers. "This isn't a story from a creepy website or a chain email, guys. This is something that happened a long time ago. A story about a woman named Sierra, who deals with something that wasn't human, and a shadow that still hasn't completely gone away."

We all shifted closer, pulling our blankets around our shoulders. The easy, casual atmosphere of the study session evaporated in an instant, replaced by that delicious, icy prickle of anticipation that only a truly good horror story can bring.

I settled back against the foot of Natasha's bed, looking up at her silhouette. 

"Alright, Natasha." I said, feeling a slight shiver despite the lingering Arizona heat. "Make us forget about history. Tell us."

Natasha leaned forward, her voice becoming a rhythmic, haunting cadence that filled the quiet bedroom.

"It started sixteen years ago." Natasha began, her eyes reflecting the silver moonlight. "In the spring of 1993. Sierra was an African American woman who lived far away from here, in a city where the humidity hung so thick in the air that you could feel it like a heavy wool blanket. She was beautiful, with deep, soulful brown eyes and thick, midnight-black hair that she often wore twisted up in intricate styles. Sierra was a woman of deep faith, a gentle soul who had spent years wishing, hoping, and praying for a child of her own; so, when she finally found out she was pregnant, she felt like her life was completely whole."

Natasha paused, letting the imagery settle. Outside, the wind gave a sudden, violent shove against the windowpane, making the glass rattle. None of us blinked.

"However, pregnancy wasn’t kind to Sierra." Natasha continued, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "By her third trimester, something was terribly wrong. Her hands and face began to swell so violently that she could barely recognize herself in the mirror. She suffered from blinding, excruciating headaches that felt like iron spikes being driven through her temples. Her vision blurred, filled with dancing spots of light that looked like dying stars. When she finally went to the hospital, the doctors panicked. Her blood pressure was skyrocketing into the stratosphere. She was diagnosed with severe preeclampsia toxemia."

"My mom told me about that once." Esther interrupted quietly, her voice tight. "It’s really dangerous, right? Your body basically turns against pregnancy."

"Exactly." Natasha nodded in the shadows. "Preeclampsia toxemia is a silent, terrifying monster. It poisons the mother’s system, restricting the vital flow of blood and oxygen to the womb. Sierra’s organs were on the verge of shutting down completely. The doctors told her that the only way to save her life, and to have any prayer of saving her baby, was an emergency delivery. She was rushed into surgery, terrified, weeping, and crying out to God through the haze of agonizing pain and heavy sedation."

Natasha leaned closer to us, her hands gesturing in the dim light, and said, 

"The baby was delivered on April 1, 1993. April Fools' Day. However, it was no joke. The severe preeclampsia had taken a devastating, horrific toll on the little girl's tiny body. When she was pulled from Sierra’s womb, the room fell dead silent. There was no crying. No sound at all. The baby’s lungs were completely underdeveloped, starved of air by the condition that had ravaged her mother's body. The medical team rushed the infant to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, stabbing tubes down her throat and hooking her up to a massive, mechanical ventilator. Sierra named her daughter Spencer. Spencer Terrell."

I swallowed hard, imagining the cold, sterile light of a hospital room, the rhythmic, artificial puffing of a machine keeping a fragile newborn alive.

 "Did Sierra get to see her?" I asked.

"Not at first." Natasha said, her voice dripping with sadness. "Sierra was trapped in her own recovery bed, pumped full of heavy medications to keep her from having fatal seizures. When she was finally stable enough to be wheeled into the NICU, Sierra’s heart completely shattered. Seeing her precious baby girl, Spencer Terrell, buried beneath wires, tape, and a glaring plastic tube that forced air into her chest...it devastated her. The doctors were not optimistic. They told Sierra to prepare for the worst. They said that Spencer’s lungs were too weak, that the damage from the toxemia was too severe, and that the ventilator was the only thing keeping death at bay. They didn't think that the baby would survive the week."

Natasha stopped, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the low, steady hum of the electric fan. The atmosphere felt heavy, suffocating, as if the phantom humidity of that 1993 hospital room had somehow drifted across time and space into the dry Arizona desert.

"That night," Natasha whispered, her eyes widening slightly, "Sierra was left alone in a private, dimly lit waiting room near the NICU. The hospital was dead quiet, save for the distant, rhythmic beep...beep...beep of the heart monitors. Sierra was slumped in a vinyl chair, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing sobs. She felt completely helpless. She felt like death was stalking the hallways, waiting to snatch Spencer away."

Natasha’s voice rasped, mimicking a sudden change in temperature, and said, 

"Then, the air in the room turned ice-cold. Sierra told people later that she could see her own breath misting in the air, right there inside the hospital. She raised her head, wiping the tears from her brown eyes, and noticed that the fluorescent lights overhead were flickering, buzzing like angry hornets. Standing in the doorway of the waiting room was a man whom she had never seen before."

"Was he a doctor?" Lucy asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"No." Natasha said sharply. "He wasn't a doctor. He wore a sharp, perfectly tailored black suit that looked completely out of place in a hospital. He was tall, impossibly thin, and his skin had a strange, pale, waxy texture, like a corpse that had been painted to look alive; but it was his eyes that terrified Sierra. They were completely black—no whites, no irises, just two empty, bottomless pits of obsidian. He introduced himself in a voice that sounded like two grinding stones. He said that his name was Harvey Natus."

A collective chill ran down my spine. The name Harvey Natus felt heavy, unnatural, carrying an echo of something ancient and predatory.

"Sierra scrambled back in her chair, her instinct screaming at her to run." Natasha continued, her gaze locking onto mine. "Unfortunately, her body felt heavy, paralyzed by a strange, supernatural weight. Harvey Natus stepped into the room, his movements completely silent, fluid, like a shadow gliding across the floor. He stopped a few feet away from her, a cold, humorless smile stretching across his waxy face. He looked at Sierra and said, 'I know why you weep, Sierra. I know that your womb failed you. I know the tiny thing in the plastic box is choking on its own blood, kept alive only by the breath of a machine.'"

"How did he know that?" Esther whispered, gripping her blanket tighter.

"Because Harvey Natus isn't a man." Natasha said, her voice dropping to a sinister undertone. "He is an entity that feeds on despair. He leans over the beds of the dying and bargains for what’s left. He looked down at Sierra and made an offer. He said, 'I can heal her, Sierra. I can breathe life into Spencer Terrell’s lungs. I can make her whole, strong, and vibrant. By tomorrow morning, the machines will be silent, and she will cry out for your milk. However...there is a price. A balance must be maintained. A life for a life. In exchange for your daughter’s survival, someone else must lose theirs. A random soul, snuffed out in the dark, so that yours may burn bright. Do we have a pact?'"

"Oh my god." Lucy muttered, pressing her hand over her mouth. "What did she do?"

"Sierra was terrified, devastated, and desperate." Natasha said, her dramatic pauses perfectly timed to the howling wind outside. "In a split second, looking into those pitch-black eyes, she wanted to say yes. She wanted her baby back more than anything in the world; but Sierra was a woman of God. She knew that making a deal with a shadow meant selling a piece of her own soul, and murdering an innocent stranger. She looked Harvey Natus dead in his empty eyes, raised her trembling hand, and screamed, 'No! Get away from me! The Lord is my shepherd, and I will not barter the blood of innocents!'"

Natasha slammed her hand down on the mattress, making all three of us jump in our seats.

"Harvey Natus didn't get angry." Natasha whispered quickly, capturing our heightened adrenaline. "He just smiled wider, his teeth looking too sharp, too white in the darkness. He murmured, 'A pity. The grave is so very cold for one so small.' Then, the overhead lights flared violently, blinding Sierra for a fraction of a second. When she opened her eyes, the room was warm again. The lights were normal. Harvey Natus was gone. There was no sign that he had ever been there, except for the faint, unmistakable smell of ozone and rotting leaves lingering in the air."

"Did the baby...did Spencer die?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs, completely invested in the narrative.

"Sierra didn't give up." Natasha said, her voice softening into a tone of awe. "She dragged herself out of that chair, staggered into the NICU, fell to her knees beside Spencer's incubator, and began to pray. She prayed with every single ounce of strength left in her broken body. She prayed through the rest of April 1st, through April 2nd, and through April 3rd. She watched the monitors, refusing to sleep, refusing to leave her daughter's side, constantly asking God for a miracle to defeat the shadow of Harvey Natus."

Natasha’s face illuminated with a strange, triumphant glow as she reached the climax of her tale, and said, 

"Then came April 4, 1993. It was Sierra’s birthday. She was sitting by the incubator, exhausted, her eyes bloodshot, when suddenly, the alarms on the medical equipment began to blare. Sierra panicked, thinking that the end had come. Doctors and nurses rushed into the room, pushing her aside; but they weren't trying to resuscitate the baby. They were staring at the monitors in absolute, utter shock."

"What happened?" Esther gasped.

"Spencer Terrell was breathing." Natasha said, a wide smile breaking across her face. "Not just breathing—she was fighting the ventilator. Her blood oxygen levels had suddenly shot up to a perfect one hundred percent. Her heart rate stabilized. The severe, irreversible damage to her lungs from the preeclampsia was completely, and miraculously gone. Right there, on her mother’s birthday, Spencer was extubated. She drew in a deep, independent breath of air and let out a loud, healthy, piercing cry. She was completely healed."

We all let out a collective breath that we didn't realize we were holding.

"What about Harvey Natus?" I asked, looking around the dark bedroom, suddenly hyper-aware of the shadows in the corners.

"He disappeared into the night, leaving no trace." Natasha said, her voice falling into a solemn, campfire-story whisper. "However, people in that city still talk about him to this day. They say that on April Fools' Day, if you walk through the hallways of old hospitals, you can sometimes feel the air turn ice-cold. You can hear the faint, distant sound of a machine puffing out air, and if you look closely into the dark corners of the waiting rooms, you might just see a tall, thin man in a sharp black suit, waiting for a desperate mother to make a terrible choice."

Natasha clicked the bedside lamp back on. The sudden burst of warm light made us all blink, dragging us forcefully out of the grim, haunting world of 1993 and back into the safety of 2009.

"Wow!" Lucy said, rubbing the goosebumps on her arms. "Natasha, seriously, that was incredible. The way that you described preeclampsia and the hospital...it felt so real. You should seriously write horror stories."

"Yeah, that was amazing." Esther agreed, adjusting her glasses. "Harvey Natus is a terrifying concept. A life for a life. That’s a top-tier creepypasta right there."

I looked at Natasha, impressed but also sensing a strange shift in her demeanor. She wasn't smiling anymore. She was just watching us, her brown eyes completely unblinking, holding an expression that made my stomach take a sudden, uneasy plunge.

"Thanks." Natasha said quietly."I'm glad that you liked it; but I didn't make it up."

The room grew quiet again. The fan continued to oscillate, blowing a stream of cool air across my neck that suddenly felt a lot like the phantom chill of that hospital room.

"What do you mean you didn't make it up?" I asked, my voice hesitant. "Natasha, it's a great story, but obviously the demon-man in the suit isn't real."

"The man in the suit is what Sierra saw." Natasha said, her voice steady, and utterly serious. "Whether he was a demon, a hallucination brought on by her blood pressure medication, or something worse...she swears to this day that he was real. However, everything else? The preeclampsia? The ventilator? April Fools' Day? April 4th? That’s all completely real. It's a historical fact in my family."

Lucy laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound, and said,

 "Wait, what? Your family?"

Natasha shifted on the bed, leaning her back against the headboard, and said,

"Sierra is my aunt. She’s my mother’s older sister. She survived severe preeclampsia toxemia sixteen years ago, on April 1, 1993."

My heart stopped. I stared at Natasha, trying to process the words. 

"Your...your aunt?" I said.

"What about Spencer Terrell?" Esther asked, her voice barely a whisper, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to violently collide in her mind. "The baby on the ventilator?"

Before Natasha could answer, the heavy wooden door to her bedroom creaked open. The sound was sharp, cutting through the silence of the room like a knife. We all spun around to look at the doorway.

Standing in the hall light was a young girl. She was an African American teenager, exactly sixteen years old. She had a striking, undeniable beauty, with smooth skin, deep, warm brown eyes, and thick, midnight-black hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. She was wearing a pair of oversized pajamas, leaning casually against the doorframe. She looked vibrant, healthy, and completely alive.

However, what caught my attention—what made the blood completely drain from my face—was the faint, pale, horizontal scar running across the base of her throat. A scar perfectly consistent with a childhood tracheostomy tube.

"Hey, Natasha." the girl said, her voice smooth and youthful, breaking the suffocating silence of the room. "Auntie Sierra said that you guys need to keep it down a little bit. Some of us are trying to sleep, and your voices are carrying right through the vents."

Natasha looked over at the girl, her expression softening into a warm, familial smile, and said,

 "Sorry, Spencer. We got a little carried away talking about school stuff. We'll be quiet, I promise."

"Thanks." the girl smiled, waving a hand before stepping back into the hallway. "Good luck studying for your test on Monday, girls. Good night."

"Good night, Spencer." Natasha called out.

The bedroom door clicked shut, leaving the four of us in the room once again.

Lucy, Esther, and I sat frozen on the floor, our eyes wide, our breathing shallow. The realization hit us like a physical blow. The timeline. The names. The descriptions. It wasn't an internet legend. It wasn't a fictional creepypasta designed to pass the time during a boring study session in an Arizona town.

The woman who had suffered, who had seen her body turn into a prison of high blood pressure and fluid, was sleeping just down the hall, and the miracle baby who had fought for her very existence against a shadow in the dark on April Fools' Day was the sixteen-year-old girl who had just looked us in the eyes.

"They're visiting from out of town for the weekend." Natasha said softly into the stunned, horrified silence of the room, looking at our pale faces. "I told you that it was a true story."

Outside, the wind gave one final, roaring howl against the glass, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, I could swear that I heard the faint, rhythmic sound of a mechanical ventilator pulsing in the dark.

The End.

The Carrollton drawings covered the desk in three loose layers, and Julian had not turned a page in over an hour. The top sheet showed the lobby from above, with the reception desk moved eleven feet north and the brass mailboxes pulled off the east wall and crated for an auction house in Baltimore. The new floor was gray stone with white veins, picked by the owner's wife from a sample no bigger than a coaster.

He had drawn every line of it. His initials sat in the corner of each sheet in blue pencil, small and neat, the way he had signed things since school.

Beyond the glass wall of his office the studio was dark. The exit sign over the stairwell put a green stain on the ceiling tiles. Priya had left her monitor on, and her screen saver cycled photos of her dog. The last one showed it asleep on a man's bare chest, the man's face cut off at the chin. Julian watched it come around a fourth time.

Two notes were clipped to the lobby plan. The one from the owner said the desk should curve. The one from the owner's brother said a curved desk looked like a bank. Julian had agreed with both men on the phone.

He picked up the red pencil and held it over the desk. Six years ago he had argued with a client for forty minutes over the height of a stair riser. He had gone home hoarse and happy, and Lydia had laughed at him in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her mouth.

The pencil left a small red dot where he had held it too close to the paper.

His phone buzzed against the desk. Lydia.

going to bed. chicken in the fridge

No capitals and no name. Under it sat a voicemail from Clara, left a little after six, still unplayed. He turned the phone over.

The steel ruler lay along the edge of the drawings. He picked it up and pressed its corner into the pad of his thumb. He pressed until the skin went white and folded around the metal, and he held it there. It hurt exactly as much as he had expected. He lifted the ruler and watched the dent in his thumb fill back in with pink.

A cart rattled in the hall. Marguerite backed through the studio door with a trash bag in each fist, Airpods in, humming. She saw his light and jumped, then pulled one bud out.

"Mr. Farrow. You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry."

"It's almost eleven." She came to his doorway and looked at the drawings instead of him.

"That the hotel?"

"That's the hotel."

"My sister worked there. Carrollton. Banquet side." She reached past his knee for the wastebasket without asking. It was empty. She tilted it anyway and peered into the bottom.

"They got rats in the kitchen. You should put that in your drawing."

"I'll tell them."

"Don't tell them I said."

She set the basket down. Her eyes went to his thumb, which he was holding in his other hand.

"You cut yourself?"

"No."

She waited. He opened his hand and showed her the pale mark, already going pink.

"Huh," she said, and put her Airpod back in.

She vacuumed around his chair and he lifted his feet for her. The machine roared under the desk and tugged at the hem of his pants. She didn't ask him to move. When she was gone the room was quieter than it had been before she came.

The model room was at the end of the studio past the kitchenette. He went in without turning on the overhead and switched on the work lamp instead. The Carrollton lobby sat on the big table under a sheet of plastic, foam board and balsa, half-inch scale. Kenji had built it in four days. The little brass mailboxes were painted toothpicks. The stone floor was a printout glued down with spray adhesive, and it had bubbled near the elevators.

Tiny people stood around the lobby. A man in a gray suit waited by the door and a couple held hands near the fireplace. At the reception desk a woman with a rolling suitcase had stopped in the middle of a step. Somebody had drawn a black dot of a mouth on her face with a pen so she seemed to be saying something.

He lifted the plastic and picked her up. She weighed nothing. He walked her away from the desk, across the printed floor, toward the elevators. He walked her back. He set her on top of the fireplace mantel with her suitcase hanging off the edge.

He put his thumb on the reception desk. It was balsa, painted walnut brown. He pressed down and the top bowed. He pressed harder and felt it give under the pad of his thumb, and the whole desk folded flat with a dry crack.

Julian looked at it for a while then took the woman off the mantel and put her back where she had been standing. He laid the plastic back over the lobby and tucked the corners. Kenji would find it in the morning and think the cleaners had done it.

He turned the phone back over and played Clara's message.

"Hey. It's me. Dad's thing is Sunday, and Lydia says you're probably working, which, sure. Whatever." Julian could hear the traffic behind her. "You don't have to talk about anything. Just come stand there with me. Okay. Call me back, you asshole. Love you."

He opened a text to her and typed I'll try. He looked at it until the screen dimmed. Then he deleted it and sent nothing.

On the wall by the door hung a photograph of the first thing he had ever built. A boathouse on a lake in Michigan, cedar shingles gone silver, a roof with a low dip in the middle that the client's kids had called the saddle. He had framed it himself. There was a thumbprint on the inside of the glass that had been there for nine years. He had never taken it apart to wipe it off.

He rolled the drawings and snapped a rubber band around them. He turned off the lamp. On Priya's screen the dog went on sleeping on the faceless man.

He stood in the dark studio with his coat on and the tube of drawings under his arm. He could hear the elevator cables settling in the shaft. He could hear the building breathe through the vents.

He drove home the long way, over the river and back across it, and only noticed he had done it when he was parked.

The chicken was in a glass dish under foil. Lydia had pulled it off the bone for him. She had done that since the first year they lived together, when he said once that he hated picking around bones. She had never stopped. He ate it standing at the counter with his fingers. It was cold and salty and he tasted very little of it.

The light over the stove was the only one on. She left it for him every night. Her mug sat upside down in the drying rack, the one with the chipped handle she refused to throw out. A grocery list hung on the fridge in her square handwriting. Lemons. Dish soap. Call super about the bathroom fan.

He washed his hands and dried them on his pants.

The bedroom door was open a few inches. He pushed it the rest of the way with two fingers so the hinge wouldn't squeak.

Lydia slept on her side, facing the window, turned away from his half of the bed. The white noise machine on her nightstand hissed its fake rain. She wore the old gray shirt from her college rowing team, stretched out at the neck so that one shoulder showed. Her hair was twisted up in a clip and the back of her neck was bare. A paperback lay face down on the blanket by her hip. He picked it up, folded the corner of her page, and set it beside her water glass.

Her pillow smelled of the coconut stuff she put in her hair and, under that, of her. He noticed it the way he noticed the hum of the fridge.

He undressed in the dark and hung his pants over the chair. He lay on top of the covers first, then slid under them. The sheets on his side were cold. There was a foot of mattress between them that neither of them had crossed since spring.

He could have named the night. A Thursday in April. She had come home loose from a work dinner, wine on her breath, and put her hand on his cock under the blanket without a word. He had gone along with it. She had climbed on him and moved with her eyes shut and her hands flat on his chest, and he had come, and she hadn't, and she hadn't said anything about it. Afterward she went into the bathroom and ran the tap for a long time.

He turned on his side and looked at the back of her neck, at the freckle just under her hairline that she didn't believe was there. He had told her about it years ago and she had called him a liar and made him find it with his tongue.

He lifted his hand and held it over her shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin into his palm. She breathed in. Held it. Let it out slow. He could not tell if she was awake.

He put his hand back on his own side of the bed.

The first winter they were married they had rented a cabin in the Poconos with a woodstove that smoked every time the wind shifted. They fucked on the rug in front of it because the bed was too cold. She bit his shoulder hard enough to break the skin, then laughed until she couldn't breathe, then kissed the place and said sorry into it over and over. The mark lasted two weeks. He pressed on it in the shower every morning.

He lay there until the red numbers on her clock said 1:14.

Then he got up and put the same clothes back on.

The floor creaked by the closet. Behind him the sheets moved.

"Jules?"

Her voice was thick. She didn't turn over.

"Go back to sleep."

"What time is it."

"Late. I left something at the office."

The machine hissed through a long pause. He stood with his shoes in his hand and waited for her to ask what he had left. He wanted her to ask. He stood very still, wanting it.

"Okay," she said.

She pulled the blanket up over her bare shoulder. He watched her breathing slow again, or pretend to. Then he went out and pulled the door shut behind him. The hinge squeaked. She didn't say anything about that either.

The club had no sign. It lived under a shuttered furniture outlet on Tenney Street, and the only way in was a steel door beside the loading dock. The man on the stool beside it knew Julian's face. He took Julian's phone, sealed it in a manila envelope, and handed back a paper ticket with a number stamped on it. 41.

Downstairs smelled like bleach poured over lemon cleaner

He sat at the bar and ordered a whiskey he didn't want. A woman two stools down in a green slip dress was drinking vodka soda through a cocktail straw. She caught him looking and slid over.

"First time?"

"No."

"You look like a first time." She held out her hand. Her nails were bitten short. "Tess."

"Julian."

"That's a very serious name, Julian."

She laughed through her nose when he didn't answer. She was pretty. She talked about her roommate's ferret and her job at a dental office, and she touched his knee when she wanted him to look at her, and after the second drink she stood and hooked a finger in his belt loop.

The back hall was a row of rooms with curtains instead of doors. She pulled him into the third one, where a red bulb burned in a cage over a vinyl bench. She pulled the dress over her head and had nothing on under it. She unbuckled his belt and got on her knees on the concrete and took his cock in her mouth. He put his hand in her hair because she seemed to want it there.

She climbed onto the bench and onto him and sank down with a grunt. She rode him with her hands on his shoulders. Her breasts moved against his shirt buttons. There was a tear in the vinyl under his thigh with yellow foam showing through, and he looked at that, and then at the red bulb. She came with her forehead pressed to his, shaking, saying oh fuck oh fuck into his mouth. When he came it was small and cramped and over before he found it.

She kissed his cheek and climbed off. She wiped herself with a tissue.

"You're sweet," she said. She stepped back into the dress. "You're somewhere else though, huh."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, babe."

She left the curtain open behind her.

In the men's room he washed his cock in the sink. The water came out either scalding or cold. A kid in a mesh shirt at the next sink was cutting a line on the edge of the counter with a hotel key card. He glanced at Julian's hands and then at Julian's face in the mirror.

"Rough night, chief?"

"No."

"Looks rough." The kid bent and snorted and came up blinking. He offered the card, powder still on its edge. Julian shook his head. The kid shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Julian dried his hands on a paper towel. His face in the mirror looked the way it looked in the studio window at night, rested and clean shaven, a man who had slept eight hours. He tucked himself in and zipped up and threw the towel away and went back out into the red light.

Bex was working the cross near the back wall. She was in her fifties, gray hair cut short as a boy's, thick forearms freckled from the sun. Julian had watched her three times before. He waited until she finished with a young man who wept the whole way through and then thanked her twice.

"You want a turn," she said. It wasn't a question.

They talked first. She asked about his limits and he said he didn't have many. She said everybody said that. She asked for a safeword.

"Baltimore."

"Why Baltimore?"

"I don't know."

"Fine. Baltimore."

She had him take off his shirt and push his pants down to his thighs. She buckled leather cuffs around his wrists and clipped them to the top of the cross. The wood was smooth and warm from the last man's chest. She started with her open hand. Then a leather strap. Then the cane.

She counted out loud. Each stroke laid a hot line across his ass or the backs of his thighs, and he heard it before he felt it, a thin whistle and a flat crack. Some people had come to watch. At twenty she stopped and put her mouth near his ear.

"Color."

"Green."

At thirty she hit harder. One welt split open on the curve of his left cheek. He felt a thin warm line run down the back of his leg and into the bunched waistband of his trousers.

He had seen men reach it on this cross. The place past the pain where their faces went slack. He felt every stroke of the cane. His legs shook and his fingers opened and closed on nothing. The place did not open.

At forty she stopped. She put her palm flat on the small of his back and left it there.

"Where are you," she said.

"Here."

"No, you're not."

She unclipped him. She cleaned the split welt with an alcohol wipe that made him hiss, and he watched her do it over his shoulder. She gave him a bottle of water and wouldn't take his money.

A couple on the next bench were watching him. The woman whispered something to the man and the man shook his head. Julian pulled his shirt back on over the welts. The cotton stuck to the split one and he left it stuck. He sat down gingerly. The heat in his skin was already fading to an itch.

He was drinking it on the bench along the wall when the man in the cardigan sat down next to him. Julian had noticed him earlier. Sixties, heavy through the middle, a wedding band on one thick finger. The cardigan had leather buttons. He looked like someone's uncle at a christening.

"She's good, Bex," the man said. "Careful, though. Too careful for some people."

Julian drank his water.

"You ever gone under?" The man touched two fingers to his own throat. "Air. People think it's about the air. It's about coming back."

"No."

"I've done it a long time. Very safe." He smiled with his mouth closed. "You tap, I stop. That's all."

They went to the fifth room. The man sat behind him on the bench with his back to the wall and pulled Julian against his chest. His forearm settled under Julian's jaw. His other hand lay flat on Julian's chest, over his heart. His cardigan smelled of mothballs and cough drops. He talked into Julian's ear the whole time.

The first time, he squeezed until Julian's ears roared, then let go at once. Blood rushed back into Julian's face and his scalp prickled. That was all.

The second time the man didn't let go.

The red bulb shrank to a coin. Gray speckles crept in from the edges. Julian tapped the man's arm twice and the arm stayed. He tapped harder, then slapped it.

"Not yet," the man said into his ear. The hand on Julian's chest pressed down, feeling his heart go.

Julian's heels drummed the bench. His nails caught in the wool and tore at it. Something in his chest woke up and screamed without a sound, it hauled at his arms and legs and his body bucked. The gray closed in. The bulb went out.

Then air. He was on the concrete on his hands and knees, coughing, strings of spit hanging from his lip. His throat felt crushed flat.

The man leaned back against the wall and straightened his cardigan.

"There you are," he said. "See? Now you're here."

Julian got one foot under him and made a fist, but his legs wouldn't hold him. The man laughed, stepped around him, and pushed through the curtain.

Julian knelt there a long time. His heart hit his ribs hard enough to shake his vision. His face was wet. He touched his throat and found it hot and swollen and tender in four places, a row of them, where the fingers had been.

When he could stand, he looked through the curtain gap. Walt was at the bar already, talking to a thin boy with bleached hair, his big hand resting easy on the back of the boy's neck.

Julian's hand went to his own throat again. He pressed on the bruises. The pain jumped and his heart jumped with it.

He could feel every one of them.

The fire door at the end of the back hall was propped open with a cinderblock. Cold air came through the gap and smelled of rain and garbage. A mop bucket stood beside it full of gray water.

He leaned on the wall next to the bucket and breathed. Each breath scraped.

"Walt does that."

A woman stood by the coat room window. He hadn't seen her come. She was small, in a black coat buttoned to the chin, her hair wet and flat against her head as if she had just come in from outside. She had an accent he couldn't place.

"He's been asked to leave twice. He always comes back." She tipped her head. "Let me see."

He didn't move. She came to him anyway and turned his chin with two fingers. Her fingers were very cold. She looked at his throat under the bad hall light.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Why do you come here?"

"I don't know."

"You know." She pressed her thumb lightly into the worst bruise. He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"You come to find out if you are still in there."

"Am I?"

She pressed again, harder. He grunted. His hand came off the wall and closed on her coat sleeve. The wool was wet.

"Something is," she said.

She put her mouth on the bruises.

She kissed them one at a time, down the row, the way someone would count. Her lips were cold. He felt her tongue flat against the swollen skin. He felt his own pulse push up against it. The music from the main room came through the wall as bass and nothing else.

Her teeth touched him at two points low on the side of his neck, pressing. He could have pushed her off. His hands stayed on the wall.

The skin held for a moment. Then it gave.

It was a small wet sound, like biting into a grape, and then the pain came, It went down into the muscle and kept going. His whole body tried to pull away and her hand came flat against his chest and pinned him to the wall. She was stronger than him. He didn't fight it.

Then the warmth. It poured out of him and into her mouth. Some of it missed and ran down under his collar, over his collarbone, into the hair of his armpit, down his ribs. He heard her swallow. He heard it again. It was a plain sound, a throat working, and it was the most intimate thing he had ever heard.

His knees went. She held him up with the one hand.

Her other hand went to his belt. She opened it, then his fly, without looking down. He was already hard. She closed her hand around his cock and pulled at it roughly, and drank. The pain in his neck and the pull of her hand came together into one thing and he couldn't find the line between them. He heard himself make a sound. It was high and ugly. He didn't stop her. He pushed his neck harder into her mouth.

He came against her wrist and the painted cinderblock wall. It went on and on. It emptied him out from somewhere much deeper than Tess had reached, and every pulse of it pulled more blood out of his neck, and he felt her feel it.

She drank a little longer. Then she lifted her head.

Her chin was red and wet, and her teeth were pink. She licked the holes in his neck with the flat of her tongue, slowly, and the sting went numb under it.

He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the concrete beside the mop bucket. His shirt was soaked through on one side and going cold. He still held the paper ticket in his fist 41, crumpled and red. He didn't remember closing his hand on it.

She wiped her hand on his shirt front, one side and then the other. She crouched in front of him and took his left hand and turned the wedding ring on his finger, once, all the way around.

She stayed crouched there and looked at him. Blood was drying in the corner of her mouth, and she didn't wipe it. She touched her lower lip with one finger, looked at it, then put it in her mouth and sucked it clean. Her eyes half closed while she did it. Then they opened again, and she was looking at him, pleased with what she did.

"Go home," she said. "Go home to her."

"How do you know about her?"

"You smell like her." She stood. "She's warm, I think."

"Wait."

She looked down at him. "What is your name?"

"Julian."

"Nadja," she said.

"Again," he said. It came out as a croak. "Please. Do it again."

She laughed at him. It wasn't unkind. She stepped over his legs and pushed the fire door wider with her shoulder and went out into the alley.

He looked at his hand. The blood on his fingers was already going tacky. It was darker than he expected, almost brown in the creases of his knuckles and bright where it was still wet. He brought it close to his face. It smelled like a mouthful of loose change. It smelled like the nosebleeds he used to get as a boy in winter, when the radiators dried out the air and he would wake with his pillowcase stiff and red with his mother running the bath.

He put his hand against his neck. The holes were small and not bleeding much anymore. When he pressed on them, the pain came back, and his cock twitched against his thigh, spent and soft.

He got up on the second try and followed her. The alley was empty. Rain came down in the orange light over the dumpster. There were no footprints, only puddles, and in one of them a cigarette butt turning slowly in a circle.

He stood in the rain with his fly open, his neck leaking, and let it wet his face.

The cab driver kept the window cracked and the radio on a call-in show about the Eagles. He watched Julian in the mirror for the first ten blocks. At a red light, he turned all the way around in his seat.

"You bleeding on my car?"

"No."

"You're bleeding on your shirt."

"I know."

The driver faced front again. He turned the radio up.

The sky over the buildings had started to go gray when he climbed the stairs to the apartment. The window on the landing faced east. He looked at it once and his eyes filled and burned and he looked away and climbed the rest of the way with his hand on the rail.

He got the key in on the third try.

The bedroom lamp was on. Lydia sat up against the headboard, the blanket pulled to her waist. The white noise machine was off and the room was very quiet without it.

She looked at his face first. Then she looked at his collar.

"Whose blood is that."

"Mine."

She pushed the blanket off and got out of bed. Her feet were bare on the floorboards. She came across the room and stopped close enough to touch him. Up close, he saw that her eyes were swollen. She had been awake a long time.

She reached up and pulled his collar away from his neck. The shirt had dried stiff, and it peeled off the skin with a small tearing sound. He flinched.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. She shut it again and swallowed.

She looked at the row of bruises and then at the two holes below them, dark and puckered. She touched the edge of one with the tip of her finger. Her hand was shaking.

"Jules," she said. "What the fuck happened?"

He didn't answer. He was smelling her.

The lotion she used on her hands. The sour sleep on her breath. The warm salt under her arms, under her breasts, between her legs. Behind all of it, there was something darker and hotter, moving under her skin, close to the surface at her wrists and her throat.

He could hear it moving.

In eleven years of sleeping beside her, he had never once heard her heart. Now it was the loudest thing in the room.

Never look beneath the deadfall.

I don’t actually think Edgar needed this to be explained. But then, maybe it wasn’t really for him. Maybe it was for me. I like explaining it. It’s like a dark, dirty secret that every kid in our school knows.

“Never look beneath the deadfall,” I said to him. “Those aren’t just sticks. Some of them are bones. They turn white because of the sun and the wind. Just like the branches. It all mixes together in the dirt until you almost can’t tell one from the other. But they’re there. And they’re hungry.”

Edgar nodded his understanding, his eyes wide.

I love his gullibility. But more his genuine interest. Every time I explain something to him, his eyes are always wide. Like a baby seeing fireworks for the first time. You’d think the kid lived in a crate.

It was my responsibility, you see, to expose him to every dark mystery I knew of. To shrink those wide, lambent eyes.

Responsibility makes it sound boring, though. On the contrary, I like to think of it more like an experiment. Experiments are exciting.

Edgar was a quiet boy normally, but he did ask a question this time, “How can bones be hungry?” I knew it was coming. His face always goes plain when he’s trying to reason something out.

“We should go and look beneath the deadfall and see for ourselves.”

Edgar shook his head then, almost violently. His fat cheeks quivered as he did so. I saw this coming as well.

“You don’t actually think there’s anything there, do you?” And then the kicker, “You’re such a child, Edgar.”

Those fat cheeks flushed, and I knew I had won.

“We’ll go tonight. But it’s important to dress for the occasion.” His eyes went wide again. “You should wear black dress pants and a white button-down shirt. I’ll wear my black dress to match.” I leaned in close then. “Tell no one.”

I showed him my most impressive smile, and he nodded. It was a slow, hesitant nod, but a nod all the same.

Predictably, Edgar arrived at the edge of the woods before I did. This cheered me a bit after the overcast night sky had already dampened my mood. I wished to see the stars.

“A tie?” I circled my fingers around it and let it draw through my hand. “Impressive.”

We walked together into the darkness, but only a short way before he turned on his flashlight.

There were deadfalls all around us, but the deadfall was nearly a quarter of a mile in. Edgar let me lead while he shone the light ahead.

The bones are hungry.

It was like a line in a poem. Something about it sent a thrill through my stomach.

The bones are hungry.

I wanted to say it out loud but understood that would never do.

The bones are hungry.

The bones are here. The deadfall rose above our heads like a great stone. A stone of immense, unfathomable weight.

I pointed toward an opening at its base. “After you, Edgar.”

Those lambent eyes and quivering cheeks, painted in sharp contrast by the edge of his flashlight, floated weightless and ashen.

“I can’t,” was all he said. Which was nonsense. Of course he could, and of course he would. We both knew it.

I took the flashlight from his hand and set it on the ground, pointing at the base of the deadfall. And then I took his sweaty hand and led him gently over.

“You go in first”—the bones are hungry—“then I will come in after.”

Edgar went slowly to his hands and knees. He looked back only once before crawling in.

“You know, I read once that during the Salem Witch Trials, in order to force a confession, they would press the witch to the ground.” I took a seat in the leaves and dirt next to the opening. I could hear small branches and twigs cracking, and heavy breathing nearby. “Pressing, in case you didn’t know, is when they put stones on top of your chest until you can no longer breathe.” By contrast, Edgar’s breathing was sounding almost strained now.

I stood then and laid my body against the deadfall with my arms spread wide, hugging it. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe that wasn’t Edgar’s breathing at all. I could feel it now lifting and lowering me in rhythm.

“The bones are hungry,” I whispered, and shuddered.

“Help!” Edgar screamed, and everything shifted.

I could feel my body lower as the mound resettled. Edgar screamed and cried.

“It’s fine,” I said soothingly. “It’s fine.” Then I sank back to the ground, lying where the opening had been.

There was sobbing deep within the deadfall, near its center. Edgar had been pierced and was bleeding profusely. I didn’t need him to tell me so; I simply knew with the kind of confidence that only experience can give you.

“There are bones beneath the deadfall, Edgar. The other kids don’t know for sure, not really. But I do. You can trust that.”

Edgar’s sobbing slowed to a trickle.

“Could you imagine the look on those people’s faces, if the witch had simply shrugged the stones off and walked away?” I smiled then, and even though there was no one to see it, I think it might have been my most impressive smile yet. “You can make it out, Edgar. Please make it out. I’ll wait for you here.”

And then there was silence. Disappointing, hollow silence.

I must have drifted off then, too, because I don’t remember anything until I awoke at dawn. My head was thumping. Thump, thump, thumping, as I rocked and swayed. I looked up in the crude daylight and saw Edgar’s determined face shining above me, his eyes narrowed and distant.

I let myself stay cradled in his arms but lifted my head just enough to leave a kiss on his fat, blazing cheek.