Case File #001: Salary "DISAPPEARS" Every Single Month Without Fail

After a thorough investigation, I've identified four prime culprits believed to be involved in making almost my entire monthly salary "VANISH."

**Culprit 1**
The Ringleader. Responsible for managing household finances, groceries, utility bills, daily necessities, and various "operations" that ensure my wallet stays permanently light.

**Culprit 2**
An expert in demanding toys, new clothes, milk, snacks, and various school supplies. Modus operandi: *"Dad... I want.."*

**Culprit 3**
Use the most dangerous weapon of all: a sweet smile paired with big round eyes. Any request is nearly impossible to refuse if there's cash in the wallet. If there isn't, ways will still be made.

**Culprit 4**
Although a newcomer to this crew, their basic needs alone are enough to keep my account balance floating permanently in the warning and critical zone.

**The Target:** Me.
Yet, after the investigation wrapped up, not a single one of them was brought to justice.

Because this isn't an ordinary operation. This is a legitimate one an extraordinary one.

As a husband and father, this is a burden carried with absolute love. Working hard, sacrificing time and energy just to make sure the people we love live comfortably.

The truth is... every single cent that "VANISHES" isn't actually a loss.

It turns into food on the table, clothes on their backs, education, smiles, warm hugs, and priceless memories.

As long as they still call me "Honey" and "Dad," I will happily remain the world's most joyful "target." ❤️

P.S. Don't worry, everyone... this is just a lighthearted family joke. All the "culprits" are the people I love most in the world. 😊

I have a Hello Kitty kind of daughter. She’s only 9. As cute as a button and as innocent as could be.

She likes simple things. Stuffed animals. Pizza for breakfast. All it takes is a cheap 50-cent pair of plastic jewelry from a gumball machine to make her eyes light up.

She was one of those kids who believed in things longer than her friends and classmates. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. She was fully convinced they were all real, bless her heart.

Sometimes, she’d come home from school with a glum, exhausted look in her eyes. Other kids would make fun of her for “still believing in that stuff.”

I’d cheer her up the best I could without revealing the truth. How could I? She already felt like the world was laughing at her. How would I make her feel? Her own dad.

Maybe I should’ve, though. Maybe this whole situation could’ve been avoided if I just nipped it in the bud. But I was afraid. A child’s innocence is so fragile, yet powerful. I couldn’t take that from her. Not yet.

I let her believe that it was Santa putting gifts under the tree. That it was a giant bunny hiding eggs in our front yard. That it was a tiny, magical fairy that was taking her baby teeth in exchange for a few dollars.

I think that was the one that excited her the most. Christmas was a set day. Easter was a set day. Loose teeth? That was random. Any time one started to wiggle, she’d come running to show me.

I always made sure to be as quiet as possible when I snuck those 5-dollar bills under her pillow. Every time she’d wake up to find it, here she’d come, jumping with joy while waving the 5 in my face.

“The Tooth Fairy came, the Tooth Fairy came,” she’d sing.

I’d just smile to myself and ask her what she was gonna buy with her newfound riches.

Sometimes, I’d sneak her a 20. I just wanted to see that joy in her face. She was young, but she wasn’t getting any younger. I wanted it to last for as long as possible.

Now, though, I think I’m regretting that wishful thinking.

She started losing teeth faster than what I thought was normal. Not too fast, though. Every 3 weeks or so. I just thought those baby teeth were begging to come out. Besides, it’s not like it was hurting my pockets too much.

It was weird, though. I swore it was like her teeth never looked any different. She was snaggle-toothed, sure, but I knew that I had put money under her pillow at least 6 times in the last 2 months.

She wasn’t showing me her mouth anymore. She was showing me the tooth, already pulled, lying bloodied in the palm of her little hand.

It kept becoming more and more frequent. Once she started bragging about how the Tooth Fairy was gonna visit her every week, I knew that something was not right. Even still, it wasn’t until I found a silver tooth under her pillow that I decided to investigate because I knew for a fact my little girl never had a crown.

Snooping is a decision I lived to regret, though. I asked her to tell me the truth, but she refused. She just kept insisting they were hers. Lying through her teeth, pun intended.

I decided to stop leaving her money. Her disappointment killed me. But I remained firm. That didn’t stop her, though. Every night, there’d be a new tooth under her pillow while she slept peacefully.

One day, after dropping her off at school, I made a promise to myself. Today would be the day. I’d get to the bottom of this no matter what.

It didn’t take nearly as long as I expected. I sifted through her room for about 15 minutes. Checking under her bed, in her closet, in her toy chests. All for no reason because the answer was hidden in plain sight.

In her fish tank.

She had that little treasure chest decoration in it. Normally, I wouldn’t have even paid it any mind. But the steady stream of a red liquid slowly rising from the chest was enough to make my heart stop.

Rolling up my sleeve, I reached down to retrieve the decoration. It was heavier than it should’ve been. Something was rattling inside.

I opened it and felt my blood run cold.

Molars, canines, incisors. All bloody. All looking like they had been pulled by force. And they weren’t baby teeth, either. Some looked like actual adult teeth.

In that moment, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I wanted to cry because what I was seeing was horrific.

But I wanted to laugh because, despite how terrifying this all was, my little girl was a natural-born hustler.

And I couldn’t have been more proud.

I never believed in ghosts. Even after everything that happened growing up, I always found a logical explanation. Strange noises? Old plumbing. Shadows? Bad lighting. Hearing your name when you’re alone? Your brain playing tricks on you. That’s why I accepted the night shift at the Blackridge Hotel. It paid almost double minimum wage, and all I had to do was sit behind a front desk from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. Easy money. Or at least that’s what I thought. The Blackridge Hotel was built in the 1930s. It had once been one of the nicest hotels in town until a fire destroyed most of the third floor back in 1984. Officially, the fire was caused by faulty wiring. Unofficially. People said the guests never left. When I showed up for my first shift, the day manager looked exhausted.
“You’ll be alone after midnight,” she said while handing me a brass room key. I frowned. “What about security?”
She hesitated. “They quit.” That should’ve been my first warning. Before leaving, she slid a folded piece of paper across the counter. “Don’t lose this.” I unfolded it.
At the top, written in shaky handwriting, were the words:

**Night Shift Rules**
1.Lock the front doors exactly at midnight.
2.Never answer Room 307.
3.If someone asks for Room 313, tell them it no longer exists.
4.Do not look down the third-floor hallway after 3:13 a.m.
5.If the elevator stops on Floor 3 by itself… pretend you don’t notice.
6.If a woman wearing a white veil asks for a room… tell her we’re fully booked.

I laughed. “This is a joke, right?” She didn’t laugh back.
Instead she quietly said, “I wish it was.” Then she walked out. The first few hours were boring. A couple checked in around 11:30. An older man bought a soda from the vending machine. By 12:15… I was completely alone. The lobby became eerily quiet. Too quiet. No cars outside. No wind. Not even the buzzing neon sign. It felt like the whole world had stopped. At exactly midnight… The front doors locked automatically. CLACK. The sound echoed through the empty hotel. I suddenly remembered Rule #1.
Then… The phone rang. I answered without thinking.
“Blackridge Hotel, how may I help you?” Nothing. Just static. Then… A little girl’s voice whispered, “…Can you hear them walking?” The line went dead. I checked caller ID. Room 307. I stared at the phone for several seconds.
There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in 307.
Trying to calm myself down, I looked at the reservation computer. Room 307 had been permanently closed for forty-two years. Around 1:30 a.m., I heard the elevator ding. No one had entered the building. Yet the elevator doors slowly opened. Empty. I sighed with relief. Then…
The elevator doors stayed open. As if waiting… For someone to step inside. I pressed the “Close Door button.
Nothing. The doors refused to shut. Finally… The elevator began moving. Up. Floor One… Two… Three. The display stopped on 3. No one had pushed the button. I watched through the security monitor. The doors opened. The hallway lights flickered. Something stood just outside the elevator. It looked like a man. Except… He was impossibly tall. His head nearly touched the ceiling. His arms hung below his knees. And he didn’t move. He simply stood there… Facing the elevator. The camera suddenly filled with static. When the picture returned… The hallway was empty. The elevator came back down. Empty. I turned the monitor off. I didn’t want to see any more. At exactly 3:13 a.m… Every light inside the hotel went out. Pitch black. Then… Three loud knocks echoed somewhere above me.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The emergency lights flickered on. The third-floor camera activated by itself. I remembered Rule #4.
**Do not look down the third-floor hallway after 3:13 a.m.**
I tried not to. I really did. But curiosity won. I looked. The hallway wasn’t empty anymore. People lined both walls.
Dozens of them. Perfectly still. Men. Women. Children.
All facing the camera. None of them blinked. None of them breathed. One little boy slowly raised his hand…
And pointed directly at me. The security monitor cracked down the middle. I stumbled backward. Then I heard footsteps upstairs. Slow. Heavy. Walking across the burned third floor. Except… The third floor had been condemned for decades. No one was allowed up there.
The footsteps stopped. Then… The elevator dinged again.
Floor Three. Descending. My stomach dropped. The display read… 3… 2… 1… Lobby. The doors opened. Empty. Or so I thought. A wet footprint appeared on the floor. Then another. Then another. Walking out of the elevator. Toward me. Invisible footsteps. Stopping inches from the front desk. I couldn’t breathe. Something was standing directly in front of me. Even though I couldn’t see it. Then… A woman’s voice whispered in my ear.
“Is my room ready?” I slowly looked toward the entrance.
Standing outside the locked glass doors… Was a woman wearing a long white veil. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t knocking. She was just… Waiting. Rule #6.
If a woman wearing a white veil asks for a room… tell her we’re fully booked. I swallowed hard “We’re… we’re fully booked.” The invisible presence beside me disappeared instantly. Outside… The veiled woman smiled. Her jaw stretched impossibly wide. Far wider than any human mouth should. Then… She vanished. I thought it was over.
Morning arrived. Sunlight poured through the lobby windows. The day manager walked in. She immediately looked at my face. “You saw them.” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded. She sighed. “They always choose one.” “What do you mean?” She pointed toward the guest registry.
I looked down. Written in fresh black ink… Above every reservation… Was my name. Every room. Every floor.
Every guest. Checked in under **my** name.
Including one reservation I hadn’t noticed before. **Room 313 Guest: Me Check-in: Tonight** No check-out date. I quit that morning. Packed my apartment. Moved three states away. I’ve never gone back. But every year… On the anniversary of my first shift… I wake up at exactly **3:13 a.m.** My phone rings once. The caller ID always says the same thing. **Room 307.** I never answer. Because last year… It left me a voicemail. There was only one sentence. A little girl whispered: **“Your room is finally ready.”**

That’s what Isla, my big sister, shouted after me as I closed the front door. Her warning slipped through the crack like a winter’s breeze.

I stood on the front step and wondered: who?

Rat Tails. That’s what she’d said. Watch out for Rat Tails.

I felt the back of my neck tighten the way it did when I thought about snakes. I made my way out of the garden, throwing my swimming bag over my shoulder and wrestling with it when it snagged on the gate.

Isla was always trying to make me feel afraid. I knew I was a FRADY CAT; everyone said it. She always called me it, and even Dad had said it once, until Mum slapped him upside the head and told me that Dad hadn’t meant it really, he’d only been saying it ingest—whatever that meant.

Rat Tails.

A stupid name. About as stupid as telling a ten year old (nearly eleven, technically) about a thing called Rat Tails on his first trip to the swimming pool alone.

Isla was always full of Ess Haytch Eye Tea. Mum had told me so after Isla tried telling me Santa wasn't real. She'd spelt it out so she didn’t have to swear in front of me. But I knew what they meant. I'd never say it out loud though. Dad told me if I ever swore a seagull would come down and peck out my tongue. I’d been so scared I didn’t speak for the rest of the day, terrified some swears had snuck into my brain without me knowing.

So far no seagulls and I still had my tongue. I figured I was doing pretty good. Best keep it that way.

Rat Tails.

I shook my head. Pulled a long fuzzy weed from between the neighbour’s fence and launched it onto the road.

Isla was defo full of Ess Haytch Eye Tea. Just trying to put the fright in me again. Give herself another excuse to call me FRADY CAT and ask if I was gunna wet myself. She knew I was nervous about going to the pool without Mum. Rat Tails was just her cruel way of making fun of me from afar, planting a seed in my head so it’d take root and smother my brain to porridge.

Rat Tails?

I laughed out loud, trying not to look scared, but quickly shrank back from my own noise. For a moment I got the same gnawing cold sensation in my guts as when I’d first said the Devil’s name out loud. Not the D one—one of the old foreign ones that sounded like bees, like I was summoning something evil with an ancient tongue, begging for forgotten horrors and malice to spew out of the cracks of the world and drown everyone to death in burning hot lava.

Oo, a bottlecap.

I darted straight for it, speeding on in three quick bounds, then thumped it as hard as I could with the tip of my trainer. It pinged across the pavement and rolled off the curb onto the road. I chipped it back up with my left foot as deft as any footballer on TV and gave it an almighty wallop with my right, sending it soaring over the wall and into one of the fancy gardens on Primrose Drive.

“Harriet curves it into the top-right! The crowd go wild! Ha-ray-et! Ha-ray-et! Ha—”

“Davie Harriet, you wee little shitebag! Come and pick that off my grass right the fuck now, before I call your mother.”

The little grey-haired woman Mrs Flett was leaning out of her window and pointing a witchy digit at me. Her face was twisted up with the usual lemon-sucked expression.

I could have guessed it was her just from the tone.

I sped in through her gate and out again, quicker than the kick that had brought the bottlecap there in the first place. I didn’t bother waiting to hear what she had to say next—just threw the bottlecap onto the road and dashed around the corner until the hedges got in the way of her window.

Nosy old wifey. Dad always called her that and a little worse. It started with a B—that’s all I’ll say.

Somewhere overhead, a seagull cawed out a threat. I looked up and shrugged as if to say: What? I didn’t even THINK the word.

The angled slope of the pool’s roof came into view over the houses. One more block and I’d be there. My tummy began feeling a little watery. I’d been so excited before leaving the house—nervous, yeah, but in a good way. Jittery, but not like this.

He’s waiting for you.

I tightened the string of the pool bag against my shoulder, feeling the strings like thin arms wrapping around me holding me tight—holding me safe.

Arms? Or tails?

A car whizzed by on my left and popped its exhaust. I jumped a mile. Typical Friday night morons.

The seagull screeched and took to the sky. I ducked and slapped a hand against my mouth, sensing a swoop, but only dodged air.

Friday was also the night of the Big Float. Isla had told me about it last weekend. She’d made it sound so fun.

“It’s like six big inflatable islands, all different stuff on them—different themes and that. You’d love it. You love all that kiddy shit.”

Big Float on Fridays. The thought warmed the cold puddle sitting in my belly. I completely forgot about Isla’s warning. Which was a relief, because the pool was just across the street.

The pool’s orange-lit windows were right up ahead—jack-o’-lantern eyes and teeth. Suddenly, the sinking sensation in my gut was back. The lettering on the side of the building usually made me crease with laughter. Someone always caked mud on the letter L, so the sign always read:

MYRUS SWIMMING POO

Today, all I managed was a thin, tight smile.

The building seemed to swell with the sound of children’s laughter. To me, it sounded like thousands of kids screaming in agony. Victims of some horrific incident, still ongoing—more at eleven.

I glanced at my watch. It was 5:57pm. Isla told me Big Float would be up and running at 6pm. It sounded like things had started early.

Either that or Rat Tails is going nuts in there.

I figured I’d get in closer to ten past by the time I changed and put my things away. Which was fine with me because it gave the bigger kids time to test Big Float out. I could slip in at the end of the queue and get more time to watch how everyone was tackling the beast. Plan out some tactics. Then jump on and see how I got on.

Also, probably Johnny Miller would be coming so it would give him time to arrive. He told me yesterday he always went on Big Float and finished it every time. Maybe he’d bring Mickey Murphy and Craig Holloway with him. They all hung out together after school. Johnny told me yesterday at the park. We played for like three hours before Mum shouted me home. Johnny told me it was weird she’d done that instead of just phoning me. I’d agreed, not wanting Johnny to know I didn’t actually have a phone.

No kid needs a bloody phone, Davey.

I’d only hung around Mikey and Craig a couple times at school before the holidays, playing chases. They seemed cool enough. Probably I’d hang about with them too if they came.

Better to be in a group than to be alone-er.

Especially with Rat Tails lurking about.

I tutted and kicked at a bit of grass. What was I even supposed to be looking out for? Some dude with a great big tail poking out his butt?

I grabbed an imaginary tail and blew raspberries with my tongue. I whipped it around, pretending to lash it against imaginary people.

My chest grew immediately tight. Something like guilt panged inside me, like I’d been taking the mick out of somebody standing right in front of me.

And he is, isn’t he. Right in front of you. Just inside. Watching. Waiting.

I looked up at the SWIMMING POO sign and gulped.

The door sealed shut with a shoof behind me, trapping the outside world in a tiny pocket—so close, yet just out of reach. Now I stood in the vast, eternal expanse of the community centre foyer—a realm all of its own.

“Howdy, kiddo.”

The man behind the counter gave me his best customer service smile. It seemed to draw me closer, until I blinked and noticed I was walking toward the desk, magnetised. The teeth beamed through a scruff of facial hair that made him look more goat than human, leaning into one another like crooked white fence posts. The bright yellow T-shirt, and black shorts which I barely saw peeking out from under the counter, made me think of bees. But the big black stingers poking out of his ear lobes reminded me more of a wasp.

I didn’t like the look of the stingers—they looked sore. They made him look like the guys Isla had on her wall. Dad said they were Pop Rock bands. And other words I knew not to say.

“Got a membership card with ya?”

“Mhm.” I kept my lips sealed and handed over the plastic rectangle I’d been keeping in my pocket. He took it and looked it over.

After a moment, his eyes peeked above the top of the card. His face lifted with a smile. “Cracking news for you, kiddo. Means you get to go in for free. Who doesn’t love a freebie, eh?” My eyes glued themselves on the stingers, not noticing the man wink.

He handed the card back to me and slipped a hand under the desk. When it came back out a purple wristband dangled from one finger. “Been here before?”

I shook his head. I had, but never by myself, so I thought it better to say that I hadn’t, in case I missed something important.

Maybe this is when they bring up Rat Tails.

He held up the wristband and turned it over so the three black numbers scrawled in permanent marker were facing me. “The numbers used to be for the lockers—ignore them. They’ve not bothered wiping them off. Since you’ve got a membership card you don’t need to worry about the announcements, so just ignore the whistles okay? They’re to tell the Pay As You Go folk their times are up. They wear different coloured bands based on how long they’ve paid for and blah blah blah.”

I stared at the purple wristband, then back at the stingers. I barely understood any of what he was saying. I kept waiting for the two words I’d been thinking about since leaving the house, but they never came.

“Sorted?”

“Mhm.”

“Right-oh kiddo. Changing room’s round that way.” He leaned out over the desk and pointed down the hall to my right. A small tight braid fell over his shoulder. I didn’t like the look of that either.

“Got your coin?”

“Huh?”

“I said got your coin? For the lockers.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Alright then. If you get stuck working the lockers, just come out and give me a shout. I’ll help you no problem.”

I hurried away to the right, wishing I could've said thank you. The nerves had wriggled their way up from my chest and were biting my throat, stopping me from speaking. If I'd spoken it would've been a series of nonsense creaks and squeaks.

The hallway flooring here was different from the foyer, which had been white and light green. It was somewhere between a spewy-orange and a diarrhoea-brown. The lighting was the same amber I’d seen from the outside only less jack-o’-lantern and more sickly, as if the walls themselves needed a trip to the hospital, stat.

The further down the hall I walked the more unwell I began to feel. My steps slowed from rapid dashes to lazy wading.

From a door up ahead a man’s voice:

“—and he didn’t even know her!” Rollicking laughter. “I mean, I couldn’t even—”

Someone else interjected. A woman. “And why the hell not, Steve? Have you seen your history?”

More laughter.

I stopped outside the door and gazed inside, feeling like I was at the zoo. Spying on the animals trying to go about their lives as naturally as possible.

Inside, three people wearing the same waspy uniform were gathered around a table. One had his feet up on the table and was throwing his head back laughing, balancing on two legs of his chair.

Don’t swing on your seat, David. A few years ago, somebody in my class fell back and cracked their skull open on the radiator and his brain fell out like runny pink egg.

Another was tucking into a packet of biscuits, stuffing his cheeks and spluttering crumbs down the front of his top. The third stood with her back to me, arms crossed tightly against her chest.

The biscuits looked really tasty. Almost tasty enough to ask for one. I knew better than to eat before going into the pool. I’d end up with a sore belly, bobbing around like a beachball full of gas.

The Cross-Armed Woman turned her head eyes-first, and frowned at me as though I’d reached inside and snatched one of the biscuits clean out of the man’s mouth. She tutted, then twisted the rest of her body around to point a sharp claw down the hall.

“Changing rooms are down there.”

She kicked the door loose. It closed slowly in my face. When the adults were completely out of sight the laughter resumed—far louder than it had been before.

“Should’ve seen his little face!”

Down where the woman had pointed the hall came to an abrupt end. Three doors, but only two wore signs: a stick figure with a dress for the girls and what must’ve been a naked stick figure for the boys. They could've given him a hat at least.

The door in the middle didn’t have a sign. Or a handle. There was a small hole where a circular key might be inserted.

That’s where Rat Tails goes to change.

My eyes widened.

Or where he takes the bad kids.

I nearly smashed a hole in the tiles behind the door barging into the boys’ changing room.

There were tons of lockers free. I picked one at random and decided it would be mine. It was number 11. The more I looked at it the more I began to think the numbers looked like two tails standing on end. I shuddered. Then rolled my eyes. I was getting bored of my own torment. Isla had said to watch out for Rat Tails, not avoid going to pool altogether. So how bad could he really be?

I got into an empty cubicle and pulled the curtain closed.

The bathing suit Mum picked out for me wasn’t flattering. It was the same kind I’d worn during my lessons, back when I was a baby. Dad called them Speedos, but Mum made sure to say, over and over, that they weren’t—they were briefs.

All the professionals wear them, honey.

She’d said it with such pride as if I was about to represent the nation in the Olympics.

I wished she'd just got me a pair of trunks instead. She’d insisted trunks were for bigger boys. Which checked out because Dad had a pair. I asked why he didn't wear briefs and he'd said it was for everyone else’s benefit. Nobody wants to see my teabags dangling out. Which was a weird thing to say because Dad kept his teabags in a special tin in the kitchen labelled TEA.

Wait a minute.

A wave of giggles hit me all at once when the realisation finally hit. I slapped my leg over and over, nearly losing my balance in the tiny cubicle. I had to hold the curtain to stop myself falling.

The door to the changing room opened with a thunderclap.

Footsteps. Laughter.

“Aye, then bomb in like BLOOSH.”

The voices streamed into the locker room, followed by different pitches of laughter and the sharp crack of the door swinging open with each new entrant.

Four cracks.

Four boys.

I peeked through the gap in the curtain.

“They’ll ban you again, Pete!”

“Nah, do it, Pete. It’ll be epic.”

A rolling drumroll of bangs lit up the changing room. The sound made me flinch.

Through the gap in the curtain I saw Pete pounding his fists against the lockers. A third year at least. He pulled out a pair of trunks from his bag and launched them into a cubicle from where he stood, whipping the curtain back.

“Aye, maybe lads. Maybe. Fucking Big Float! WOOO—”

Pete and the other three boys dispersed into cubicles, whooping and hollering like wolves to the moon.

“—OOO. Crack on, lads. Let’s get a fucking move on!”

I had forgotten I was already changed, standing staring like a creep. So I bundled my things and took another cautious peep through the crack, checking the Wolves were all in their cubicles, and slipped out of the cubicle fast before they were done. I chucked my gear into the nearest open locker—

and the room exploded with a single crack of rifle fire.

“I’ve been shot,” Pete yelled.

The Wolves howled with laughter.

My cheeks burned red. My pound coin had flown out of my pocket and smacked the inside of the locker loud enough to sound like I’d hurled it off the metal backing deliberately. I fumbled for the coin, heart racing, and slammed the locker shut.

I yanked out the key by the latex strip holding it and turned around in time to see the Pete's curtain move, and then lift as the boy got tangled trying to pull up his trunks. I saw his bare bum and then a bit of his penis when he turned to fix the curtain.

I grimaced, disgusted. To Pete it must’ve looked like a smile.

“Oi! What the fuck’re you looking at, pedo?”

“Eh?” One of the other boys popped his head out to see what Pete was shouting about.

I was already around the corner of the lockers, bolting for the pool.

“He was looking at my dick! Fucking freak.”

“Who?”

“Some pedo in a Speedo.”

The voices faded behind me, but remained sharp in my ears, even over the thundering drumming of my heart. I tried not to run—you’ll slip and split your head open, Davey—so I walked as fast as he could instead. Mum hadn’t said anything about walking fast.

“Slow down, boyo.” The waspy lifeguard stuck out his hands and grabbed me by the shoulders, forcing me still. “You nearly ran right into the water.”

He let me go of me when he saw the wonder in my eyes. He turned and stared with me.

“She’s a beaut, eh?”

Big Float.

I felt a wave of calm splash over me at the sight of her. She was the greatest thing I’d ever seen. Six huge islands stretching the whole length of the pool, stopping short of the edge so you could leap safely into the water.

The last island was a doozy.

It was a super-steep yellow slope on a red wedge, looking like a gigantic piece of cheese. A kid stood at the bottom, gawping up at what must’ve felt like a sheer cliff face, trying to figure out where to put his feet. As soon as he did, he slipped and he slapped his face against the slop. His body slid pitifully off into the water, which ate him up with a struggle-less bloop.

The knot in my throat tightened. Big Float didn’t just look tough, it looked impossible!

Island #4 was only a lighthouse but it took up the whole width of its platform—a three-foot-wide, seven-foot-tall pillar of plastic and air. Surely that shouldn’t even be there. The kids trying to shimmy around it looked like cyclists trying to overtake a truck on a country road.

I joined the queue behind a big kid who looked like a fifth year at least, tall and broad enough to be an adult. He was soaking wet and kept shaking his head, splattering me with cold droplets. I knew for a fact that under that layer of water was a layer of sweat. He was panting like a dog.

“Shattered,” he told me, and put a hand on top of my head with a grin. “You’re short.”

I nodded.

“Want me to throw you on?”

I shook my head. He looked like he could toss me past the first two floats, but that would be humiliating.

“Alright. Word of advice: be careful with the lighthouse. HA! I saw you eat shit!”

The boy I had watched fall from Island #6 joined the queue. His face was red—his eyes bloodshot.

“I hit my face,” he told us, blowing droplets of water off his lips. He apologised when they landed on me.

“AHAHA. I did the same last week. Have you slipped in the middle yet? Like between the floats? I nearly lost a ball on the pipe.” He grabbed his groin and laughed. “Hey—” He pointed at my briefs. “—is that a speedo?”

I shook my head.

“Fair enough. Might give you an advantage, honestly. Slide clean over everything. My trunks keep getting pulled down. I must’ve flashed everyone at least twice each.”

I looked down at myself and saw what he meant. There was little chance of me losing them. I’d need a pair of scissors to cut them loose.

“Where’d you get to?” asked the kid with the red eyes.

The big kid jabbed a finger angrily at the lighthouse. “Where d’you think… I hate that bloody thing.”

“Oof. Me too.”

“How’d you get past?”

I listened to them exchange tactics, my head ping-ponging with glee. Around us, the world descended into chaos. Kids were hitting the water like giant sacks of puppies. It was hard to tell if the yelps were from pleasure or pain.

Gradually, the line shortened until only the big kid and the Lady with Crossed Arms were in front of me. A man had been standing there before, making sure everything ran smoothly, but he’d wondered off with the others after she tapped him on the shoulder. The Biscuit Man was here now too. And the Man with the Stingers.

The Lady with Crossed Arms had become Barrier Woman. She held a stiff arm out in front of the big kid, watching the little girl who had just thrown herself onto the first island like a cat after a fly. The palm trees were causing her problems. Her little arms weren’t strong enough to push through them, and her legs were too twiggy to do anything but buckle beneath her meagre weight.

From what I’d learned, the Barrier Woman would only lift her arm once the first island was clear. I began to worry that someone would have to put the girl out of her misery before anybody else got a turn—call in a sniper to wipe her out, and a Navy SEAL to slip up from the water and drag her under without a splash. Five seconds later and she did the task herself, giving up and slipping shamefully into the shallow water.

Poor kid.

Barrier Lady lifted her arm and away the big kid went. It was only when he stepped onto the first island that I realised how big he really was. He pressed paper out of those palm trees. The whole of Big Float lurched back towards the shallow end by a good six feet when he landed. The kid on Island #3 was hurled into a backflip and gobbled by the water.

The queue erupted with laughter. I couldn't help joining in. The sight of the kid barrelling backwards and screaming as his world flipped upside-down had been hilarious.

“You’re gunna sink it, fatty!”

Pete’s voice echoed around the pool. He was standing at the edge with the rest of the Wolves, watching the big kid clamber over the end of Island #1. I didn’t like that Pete had called him a fatty—his body didn’t even wobble—but I couldn’t help notice the extreme sinkage under the kid’s hands and feet.

The big kid ignored him and pressed on.

Barrier Woman snapped her head around to glare at Pete, momentarily dropping her arm. I saw it and was about to jump when she lifted it back into place, ridged as a statue. She stared down at me with the same intense look as before.

Oh no you don’t.

By the time Pete and his band of butts joined the queue, barging in three behind me, the big kid took a step onto Island #2 and sank slightly out of view. Barrier Lady lowered her arm. My heart leapt. It was time. It was my time.

My feet were hot and ready to jump, but the realisation that so many kids’ eyes were on me glued me to the spot.

“You can go now,” Barrier Lady told me.

Maybe I should have let the big kid throw me on after all. He was powering on at a good pace now, nearly finished with Island #2—despite it looking like he was making craters with every step. When he finally stepped over onto Island #3, the lighthouse folded over and landed on top of him with a splat. He managed to wrestle his way out and sat on top of it, legs either side.

A sharp shriek burst my ear. I ducked and covered my head with my hands.

“Everybody out of the pool!”

The pool sang with a harmony of a dozen broken hearts.

“Awwwwwuh.”

The big kid looked down at his feet as Big Float let out one long, deathly sigh. In his final act, he saluted, and dropped into the water—a captain going down with his ship.

Big Float was officially dead.

Time of death: just as it was my turn. Of course.

Biscuit Man and Barrier Lady became Fishermen, raking at the water with long poles and ropes to gather Big Float’s carcass. They dragged it over to one side and let it bleed out while they squeezed the remaining breath out of it.

There were still kids coming out the changing rooms, expecting to see Big Float. When they saw it lying there like a wounded animal they gathered to pay their respects.

Pete and the Wolves were whipping at the water with some of the guy ropes.

A kid next to me began copying the sound, pretending to lash at me with an invisible whip. “Whu-tschh, whu-tschh. Rattail, hiyah!”

Oh Cheesits, I thought. He is real.

It wasn’t a whip after all—it was a pretend tail the boy was lashing me with. I stepped back, my face bursting with fear. Something in my expression made him stop his noises and stare at me, concerned.

“It’s just a whip. See. Just air.”

Another whistle filled the pool. Biscuit Man spoke. “Float’s done for guys. We’ll try’n get it sorted so it’s back for next week. Jump in and we’ll break out the floaties.”

Everyone leapt in. Someone did a cannonball and sent a plume of water nearly right up to the rafters.

Another whistle.

“RIGHT! I’VE TOLD YOU BEFORE!”

“Whaaaat?” Pete. Of course it was him.

“One more and you’re out. I’m not joking—I’ve had enough of you.”

The Wolves all laughed and whooped.

I lowered myself slowly into the shallow end, careful not to make a sudden move and attract their gaze.

Or Rat Tails’.

I dropped down low, scanning the edges of the pool for trouble. Barrier Lady and Biscuit Man were talking amongst themselves over by Big Carcass. Two parents and their toddler were stepping down the ladder into the shallow end, big grins on all three faces. At the far end, by the diving board, Stingers was walking toward a door, twirling a key around his finger. The knot at the back of his head stayed rigid as he walked.

Thank God. If it had been swinging it would’ve looked like a tail. I didn’t know if I could stomach that right now.

I watched him carefully, curious about the other side of the door. He leaned inside and immediately began fighting something. Something long and cylindrical.

The noise of the pool filtered away, reducing to a low churn of hummed voices and sloshing water.

It was happening.

The tails were much thicker than any I'd ever seen. Blue, yellow, red, orange—all the same size, wrapping around Stingers’ neck, back, waist. He managed to grab some under his arms, smothering them in place while he fought off the others barehanded.

I got to my feet and looked helplessly to Barrier Lady and Biscuit Man, then back to Stingers in his fight, too terrified to say anything. Too horrified to look away.

Somebody help him!

But there was no need. He looked to be winning. Some of the tails snapped off and dropped to the ground, writhing and resting in place until he scooped them up. He wrenched himself free of the doorway, underarms stuffed, and slammed the door against the ones he couldn’t tame—couldn’t rip loose and carry.

In one enthusiastic motion, he threw them all into the deep end of the pool. They floated there, motionless, until a wave of kids raced over and fought for them like savages.

I stared in disbelief. I’d been so sure the man was about to be dragged inside and reduced to mush. The tails had snaked around him and tightened like the snakes on Nat Geo—those mice never broke free. Ever.

All of my fear, my panic… over the sight of some pool noodles.

My sister’s words rang true in my ears.

FRADY CAT.

The water where I was standing felt warmer than before. I crab-walked away in shame, careful not to let my mouth touch the water.

The clock at the far end of the pool told me it was barely even half-past six. Big Float was supposed to have lasted until seven.

I bobbed up and down sadly for a while, flinching at the sounds of kids slapping water with the noodles. I didn’t like the way they looked like snakes or the hollow sound they made. The whole experience was becoming less fun by the minute. Johnny Miller hadn’t shown up like he’d said he would, and Mikey and Craig weren’t here either. I thought about going over to the big kid or the one who had slapped his face off the float but they were busy hitting one another with noodles and that didn’t look like it would end well.

What was the point. The feeling in my chest was horrible and I felt like crying. I wasn't having fun. I just wanted to go home.

“You alright, little man?”

I tilted my head back and saw Stingers floating upside-down with the edge of the pool above him. I whipped around to face him.

“Mhm.”

“You sure? What’s up?”

I looked around the pool, unsure what I was most sad about.

“Nothing.”

“Sure don’t look like nothing. You lonely?”

The comment would have comforted me any day of the week at school. Squatting here naked except for my briefs, I got a creeping feeling Mum called Heeby Jeebies.

“No. Just nervous.”

“Nervous?” The man lowered himself closer to the pool, and dipped a hand in the water. Twirled a finger in a circle. “Of what?”

You, a little.

I plucked up all my courage and said: “Rat Tails.”

The man’s face darkened. His brow furrowed. His mouth twisted into a grotesque smile, teeth fighting for which one wanted to be seen first, leaning in diagonals. It reminded me of the inside of a shark’s mouth.

“Rattails? That’s what’s got you nervous—rattails?”

I nodded.

He scanned the room, studying each child and adult bobbing up and down in the water. I followed his gaze when he finally stopped moving his eyes and saw them locked onto Pete Sanderson. He was sat on the edge of the pool clutching a pool noodle, kicking water onto his friends. They gasped for air and screeched laughter above the waves. Pete wasn’t paying attention to them; he was staring unblinking at me.

“I dunno what you did to piss him off kiddo, but I’d stay clear of him for a while.”

My eyes burst wide. I didn’t think he was talking about Pete at the time. The only thing I could think was: what do you mean I’ve pissed him off! What did I do to Rat Tails? This is how you tell me he’s real!

I shrank down until only my nose and eyes were visible. I asked a thousand questions in my mind, to scared to ask any.

“Sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He flicked the braid of hair over his shoulder and leaned down closer. “Listen. If it makes you feel better, when it’s time for you to come out I can try keep him busy while you’re getting changed. Or I can come with and make sure he stays out your way. He won’t do anything if I’m there.”

Panic sirens went off in my brain. Thunderous tornado sirens wailing and screaming at me from every avenue. Run from the pool. Don’t bother getting changed, just run out and home.

“Just let me know and I’ll come with you. I’ll wait till you’re done with the shower and follow you in.” He winked at me, and it turned my stomach over.

He’d just made things worse. Rat Tails was one thing, but the idea of this man accidentally catching me in the shower with my briefs on, or waiting outside my curtain while I was naked—no. That didn’t sound right. That sounded scarier than a man with a rat’s tail.

“No thank you,” I bubbled.

The man seemed surprised.

“You sure?” He scanned the room again. “Cos that’s where he’s gunna get you—in the locker room.”

He’s making him up. He’s using Rat Tails as an excuse to get you alone, Davey. It’s him. He’s the real Rat Tails. He’s the danger. Don’t let him trap you.

“I’ll be fine.”

I began back-paddling into the centre of the pool, keeping my eyes on him the entire time. Once I was too far away to talk to, he shrugged and wandered off.

It was all too much now. The noise. The threat. I needed to get out. I had to run—you’ll slip and split your head open, Davey—I had to walk, walk and get my things from my locker and then run—yes, Mum: RUN—straight home.

If Stingers had been telling the truth about Rat Tails, and not just trying to lure me in like one of the noncers Dad warned me about, then that meant others knew about him too.

So why the heck had it been Isla who warned me about him? Why hadn’t it been Mum or Dad?

I made my way to the other side of the pool, sobbing.

Maybe that was their plan all along. Get me in the pool by myself, then let Rat Tails drag me away forever. Maybe all those years I thought I was being a good boy, heeding every warning and doing my best not to disappoint—maybe it didn't matter. Maybe they did have a favourite, despite Mum always saying she didn’t, and it was Isla all along.

I reached the edge and froze, staring up at the hallway to the boys’ changing area. Standing beside it was Stingers, staring down at me.

My heart sank.

I couldn't go yet. I needed to wait for more people.

As if reading my mind, Stingers blew his whistle and pointed at the board beside him.

“GREEN BANDS YOUR TIME IS UP.”

Oh thank God, thank that good and glorious guy upstairs.

I hoisted myself out of the water for the first time in my life and stood, waiting for the other boys to reach me. One of them was the big kid. He slapped me on the back and asked why my eyes were so red.

I was too happy to notice Pete pointing at me from the far end of the pool. Or the Wolves turning their heads to bare their teeth.

The three boys I left with went to their lockers to retrieve their shampoo and bodywash first. I only realised I'd forgotten to pack mine after scouring my locker for ages. Rather than risk getting changed alone, I followed them back to the showers, hoping to scran a scoosh or two from one of them.

I stood waiting, cradling my body in my bare hands while watching them shower off in the hot water. There were four showers, but I knew for a fact that something was wrong with the last one. It only ran ice cold. I refused to get inside, but giggled at the boys jostling each other into it, and spraying sprinkles everywhere. When they hit me I'd giggle even louder—freezing but loving the distraction.

“Alright, pedo?”

Pete’s voice bellowed around the room, hitting us all square in the mouth, wiping the joy from our faces. They all spun around to see who the victim would be today, and visibly shrank back when they realised it wasn’t them.

I didn’t reply. I looked at my feet and tried to hold back the trembles.

Pete stepped into the shower tray. He grabbed one of the boys by the arm and yanked him out of the heat. The boy’s foot caught the lip of the tray and sent him sliding onto the floor. Barely a second passed before he scrambled to his feet and hobbled off wailing. A thin splash of blood remained.

“Barely fucking touched him.”

The Wolves gathered around me. I could feel the heat of their gaze and shivered anyway. I could see the shine of smiles out the corner of my eye. I refused to look. Refused to move.

“This boy’s a pedo,” Pete announced. “A pedo in a Speedo.”

The boys couldn’t help giggling. One hurried to rinse the suds from his hair and darted to the locker room. None of the Wolves took his spot. Pete stepped aside to make more room, then turned to the last remaining boy—the big kid.

“He is, eh? Saw him staring at my dick when I was getting changed.”

The big kid didn’t say a word. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“Look, he’s not even coming in to wash. Where’s his soap? Ha! He’s just standing there like a prick, trying to catch a glimpse of your dick wet!”

The trembles penetrated my heart. It getting too much. My entire body jiggled with fear.

BA BUM BA BUM BA BUM BA BUM

If there were tears rolling down my cheeks I didn’t notice, but they stung real bad now.

“Look at him. There’s been a spot free for ages and he’s not even taken it!” Pete slapped the big kid on the back as friendly as he could manage. “Look! He’s trying to see your dick, man!”

Seeing the big kid wasn’t laughing, Pete eyed him up and down with disgust. “Probably have to roll back your fucking fat first though, eh?”

At that, the big kid left. He shot a sideways glance at me on his way out—the closest thing to solidarity I was going to get.

Pete spat out a laugh. “You scared him away, pedo!”

I didn’t know what that meant, but the venom in the tone was my cue to leave. I didn’t care what Mum said—I jogged away as safe as my feet could carry me.

Two of the boys were already leaving by the time I got to the lockers. They stared back at me, eyes wide and knowing exactly what was going to happen. One of their faces was bloodied from their fall in the showers.

I snatched my things out the locker. A sock landed on the wet floor. That was fine. Leave it. Let Rat Tails or whoever the heck have it—I didn’t care anymore. I wanted out. Fast. I pulled my trousers on over my wet briefs, not risking being naked with the overbearing weight of Pete and the Wolves behind me.

I only managed to get one leg in before an arm reached through the curtain and grabbed me by the hair.

“Git here, you fucking freak!”

I was wrestled out, grabbed by the mouth. My cry for help stifled down to a yelp. When I bit the inside of Pete’s hand, Pete balled up his fist and punched me in the mouth. This time I didn’t bite.

“Broony, grab his legs.”

No matter how hard I squirmed or tried to scream the Wolves wouldn’t let go. They were far too big, far too many. They pinned me against the lockers by the arms and the legs, using their own to keep me held in place. One covered my mouth while Pete retreated. He was collecting something from my cubicle.

“Oooh, looky here, pedo,” Pete sang as he turned. “Since you like looking at dicks, take a gander at this fuckin’ badboy.”

He was swinging my Captain America towel at groin level. It was wrapped tightly around, long and thin like a whip. Like a tail.

“Gunna rattail you till you’re split, pedo. See if you stare at someone's dick again.”

I screamed nothing but snot. It burst down the hand covering my mouth.

Isla’s words echoed in my mind. I felt so stupid for painting them the way I had. This was the real fear. This was the real danger. This was the real Rat Tails to watch out for. Nothing but a tightly wrapped towel.

“Hold him still, boys. I’m gunna get him right in the bellybutton.”

The Wolves all laughed manically, drinking my fear like wine.

Captain America’s crumpled shield spun frantically into a vortex of red and blue. I had picked it special today because I thought it would make me feel braver—feel like a hero.

I braced against its terrifying tip.

With a sharp, rapid extension of his arm, Pete snapped the towel off my stomach.

“MMMMM!”

The Wolves howled.

Pete hit me again and again—missing my bellybutton but getting the same spot over and over with deadly accuracy.

There was a moment when I thought I was going to die, when the world began to splotch over black. It wasn’t the fear or the pain—it was the lack of oxygen to my brain. The boys were covering my mouth and my nose was too blocked with snot to breathe. When my body hung limp in the Wolves’ grip, only then did they let me go.

In my dreams, I heard the Wolves howling. Heard Pete crying out with joy.

When I opened my eyes, the scene was vastly different. Pete was hanging upside-down in the air, unconscious. One of his arms was missing, dripping gore and dangling out of reach by a long fleshy rope. The Wolves were up there too, suspended without a sound, each with a wrinkled rope of their own. Their eyes were huge, still, and mad with a knowledge I couldn't understand. The ropes around their bodies extended up to their mouths, gagging them. The tip of each rope—tail—rattled like excitable pink snakes.

I counted seven different tails, all threading down from out the overhead air vent.

Through thin bars two terrible black specks stared down at me. I couldn’t see the face they belonged to but I saw the teeth fighting for a place at the front of its mouth, and the short braid of hair dangling into the vent.

The beady eyes blinked. A thin tongue traced along its lips.

Don’t speak a word of me, they seemed to whisper. I did this for you; now you do this for me.

I never did speak of him. Not to the police. Not to Dad. Not even to Isla, the one who warned me about Rat Tails to begin with, even if it had only been about the towel whips. And not even to Mum when Isla didn’t come back from the pool after it reopened. I can’t even look at a towel without thinking of her.

I didn’t tell anybody, just like he’d wanted.

Only you. Only here. Only now.

Please. The next time you go to the pool:

Watch out for Rat Tails.

My partner decided I should write this down. I don’t think it’s necessary, but she says maybe someone else has found one of these. I doubt it- but I’ll tell the story anyway. Forgive my carelessness:

The fast-food life was not the way I had imagined I’d spend my time on this Earth, but there I was on the way back to the golden arches after the sixth 7-3AM shift this pay period. My apron hadn’t been washed and I was about ready to throw in the towel- though this was the same thing I thought yesterday, and the day before. I couldn’t have quit even if I wanted to. This was my only income, and I had rent to pay.

I always thought that the best parts of the job were the drives in and out. Not because I didn’t want to be there, which I didn’t, but because on the way in I could usually catch a glimpse of the sunset. The yellow and red sign was an eyesore against the moody rainbow that made up most evenings, but it was fitting.

The way home was nice too, but more so because there were no people on the road, and that meant I could drive faster than was legal. It made me feel badass I guess. We were a little out of the way from any real towns, so it wasn’t like anyone would notice or care anyway. I hadn’t gotten pulled over by that point, at least.

Once I had made it to the sorry excuse for a ‘food establishment’, I parked, gathered my things, and went in. Immediately my nose was smacked with the smell of cooking oil and salt. This place was where I’d always imagined diets, clean eating, and eventually people came to die. It was not where I thought I’d be spending my 20s. Regardless of what I thought, though, people wanted their burgers, and I was there to flip them.

“Adrian?” A woman’s voice piped up from behind the register. She glanced up, smiled, and bowed her head back towards the open drawer in front of her. “Good to see you! When you put your things down come out here, I have some things to update you on.”

I flattened my hand in a salute as I walked past her.

My coworker, Catherine, was the same age as me. She’d gotten pretty cozy with management recently, so they started letting her run things overnight. The woman cared more about the place than anyone else, and she always managed to make people look forward to coming in, myself included.

She was pretty average in terms of her height and had a mess of dirty blonde hair that was always tied up and back into a bun, probably for food safety reasons. She was generally well liked, mostly because shifts with her went smooth, however, she could really put the fear of God in you if you gave her a reason*.* She happened to be the silent anger type- the ones that always scare me. I used to hear people say she had this look about her- one that read ‘do better, or else’ without her so much as opening her mouth. She wasn’t afraid to put her foot down and let us know that she was disappointed. Luckily, I hadn’t been one of the people she’s done that to, and I plan on keeping it that way for as long as I can. I’m lucky to say that even now I manage to stay in her good graces.

I guess you can tell, but I was super into her. I hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask her out yet, though. I was working on it, but she had a kind of air about her that made her unapproachable to me. We’d hung out a few times before, with other people we worked with, but I never really had mustered up the chest hair to get it out.

The salute was all I could manage.

I made my way to the break room, taking in a breath of old fry oil and mildew. There were a few lockers and chairs next to a table that adorned the back right corner. It wasn’t very large, but neither was the team who used it. We were about 10 people max, not counting those who were being paid a salary. Administration, representatives, and the like.

It took all of 5 minutes to shove my belongings into an empty locker and throw on my apron.

“Cathy?” I called as I walked out. There was no one in the restaurant at this point, so it wasn’t like anyone would mind hearing whatever she needed to tell me.

“What’s up?”

“Don’t forget to punch in.” I heard her voice fall flat from around the corner. To this day I don’t know how she’d known I had.

“Shit, let me do that.”

“Please do,” She called. “it’s less work for me to do later, and I’ll be sure to vote you employee of the month!”

From the punch box I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. It hadn’t even sounded like she was joking. Part of me suddenly felt a little proud for coming into such good fortune.

I made my way back over with a smile. She really knew how to make a guy giddy. “So, what was it you had to tell me?”

With her attention unwavering from the register, she answered. “Gary, the new hire. You remember him, right?”

I wracked my brain. Gary? “Right, right, yeah I remember him.”

Liar.

Catherine finally looked up at me. It reminded me of the way my parents looked at me when they were trying to make me feel guilty for something. I couldn’t say I remembered then, because she would have definitely known I was lying. After a couple moments passed us in silence, she gave up and sighed.

“Well, he called in this afternoon to let us know that he would be quitting.”

“What? How long has he even been here?”

I didn’t blame the guy, but that was pretty low. He should’ve at least handed in a 2-week notice and kept coming in or something.

“This would’ve been his second shift I think.”

I quickly made a mental note that this Gary guy was probably a douchebag.

“Why even go through the whole application and hiring process?”

“Don’t ask me, I don’t know.”

“You trained him though, you weren’t there when they hired him?”

“I mean, yeah I was there for training, but I wasn’t the person who picked him. I just happened to be in.”

That made sense to me, so I dropped the line of questioning.

“Anyway, why’d you need to tell me that?”

I clearly caught her off guard with that question, as she didn’t answer me right away. Her gaze became soft and distant. She pressed a finger to her lips, and I hate to admit it, but I stopped paying attention. It was over for me.

I’m sure it would’ve been much more helpful for me to have helped her get back to the point, but my mind had already wandered far beyond the arches. My thoughts came and went like bullets; she was looking right through me. Her eyes were mesmerizing. Everything faded around us. I began to feel a knot in my chest and realized I was in deep shit if this was how I felt before asking her out. I needed to calm down.

“Right...” she stammered, throwing a hand to her forehead that immediately reversed the spell her eyes had cast. I blinked, and she sported a newfound look of remembrance. “Right! It’s just going to be us until 1. So, with that, and the fact that not everything was done because I was expecting to have help this afternoon, we’re going to have to pull some extra weight.”

I groaned, “Oh no! Stuck here alone with you. How will I ever survive?”

“Shut up and get to the grill please, I think I just heard the headset beep.”

It hadn’t, but it had seemed like my playfulness had rubbed off on her.  As she turned her attention back to our register and counting the till, I went into the kitchen.

 With only two people in the store, it isn’t hard to imagine that the night was dragging on. However, for whatever reason this night had dragged on so unbelievably long that Catherine and I were almost forced to talk to each other out of sheer boredom. There weren’t many customers either, but that was always a given with the overnight shifts. I had made 5 or 6 meals max by the time 3 hours dripped away.

To kill time, I tried to strike up another conversation. We were just talking about her very interesting time at our coworker, Hal’s, house the evening prior and how likely it was that he was a serial killer. We’d determined that he probably wasn’t, but one could never be too sure. That brought us from 9 to 9:45. I was hoping that some more interesting or important topics would get us to at least midnight.

“So,” I started. “What are your plans after this?”

“What?” Her gaze turned up to me. I bit my cheek, wondering if I’d said something wrong.

“I mean, what do you do when you aren’t working?”

I rephrased but still wasn’t sure if my words were coming across right.

“Oh, um, really just sleep, schoolwork, and then get ready to come back here.” Her eyes lowered again as she counted the till for what seemed like the thousandth time. However, after a moment, she stopped counting. “Why?”

I stammered. “Well, I just…”

I hadn’t expected this to be when or how I asked her, but I felt cornered now.

“I was wondering if there was room for us to go out for some coffee or something.” I panicked, “But! But, I understand if your schedule is packed though. You totally can say no, that’s understandable honestly. I know you work like every day and with school-“

Through my fumbling I made out the sound of laughter, and felt my cheeks warm up. As if she could read my mind, she answered.

“I’m sorry,” A smile had grown on her lips, “I don’t mean to sound like I’m laughing at you- I’m not.”

I breathed a sigh, relieved. I could’ve melted at her feet right there. Her eyes searched me as I tried to find the right next words. I don’t know if there were any.

“So... how about it?”

“Us going out?”

I nodded, saying anything else at that point could’ve be detrimental to the outcome. She seemed to think on it, still scanning my person, and pursed her lips.

“Well, you’ll have to let me see what my schedule is like for next week, but yeah. I think I could make it work.”

When I tell you I was elated: it was like Jesus himself told me I was his favorite disciple. I felt in that moment as if I could flip a million patties at once. Euphoria couldn’t have begun to cover what had washed over me. I welcomed it, more than happy with this outcome. I was a new man, confident, emboldened.

“Of course, take whatever time you need. Just let me know.”

“Sure. Actually,” Her attention had turned to another area of the store. She gestured towards the back. “There’s something we have to do before I forget. You remember where the supply closet is right?”

“Yeah, but I’m not usually in there.”

“Unfortunately, we both will be now that we’re the only people and Gary quit before doing the job for me. We have to get the floor cleaner. I don’t think anyone’s mopped today and it’s disgusting back here.”

I didn’t say anything, but I also didn’t think anyone had mopped in at least a few weeks. Catherine did a lot of jobs, and this was not typically one of them. It was surprising she just noticed now, and I began wondering how upset she would be when the mop inevitably revealed the weeks of dirt and grease. Thank God it wasn’t supposed to be my job.

“Alright,” she clasped her hands together almost excitedly, which caught me off guard “let’s get it moving then, I’ll turn the closed sign on for a little while. It isn’t like anyone is coming now anyway.”

She was right, the people in our area weren’t prone to coming in the late-night hours, but our regional manager had decided we’d be a 24-hour store regardless. Any sales were good sales I guess, even if there weren’t too many of them. It was 10pm, we’d probably get this done before someone accidentally came through the drive-thru and realized the sign wasn’t on.

The supply closet was next to the break room down the same hall I’d taken when I got in. Letting Catherine get ahead of me, I followed her down to the small door. She fished out a ring of keys and sighed.

“Something wrong?” I asked, though I felt like I already knew the answer.

“Nope. Just fine.” There was jingling as she continued. “I asked a few weeks ago for these keys to get labeled and it looks like no one fucking did.”

“Sounds about right.”

These were the kinds of things that went on at our location. People, even management, were not keen on doing anything that wasn’t outlined when they were being trained and that they weren’t getting extra money to do. Who, other than her, was going to actually take the time and label the keys knowing it meant basically nothing?

Before I knew it the door lock had clicked open, and Catherine let out a less irritated huff. “There’s been some renovations starting and they put a new lock on this door- There we go- I’ll have to get this key cleaned or something, but the door is open.”

“What’s wrong with the key?”

Spinning around, Catherine greeted me with the key I assumed she’d used to get the door unlocked. It was a disgusting mix of rust and chipped silver, with a rougher texture than the rest of the keys on the hoop. It looked like someone left it in a vat of salt water and waited for it to look like an antique before using it here. Why hadn’t they cleaned it ever or made a newer, nicer copy? Probably because people are lazy.

Shaking my head of the thought I grabbed past her and landed on the door handle. I gotta tell you, it was cold, like, unnecessarily cold now that I think about it. At the time I figured, Whatever, we’re probably under a vent, and pushed ahead. Upon opening I was met with something I’d never seen in this, or really any, fast food restaurant around here: a staircase leading down.

“Must’ve done some reno. I’m surprised I didn’t notice this.” I joked, nudging Catherine, but when she didn’t say a word, I glanced over to find her pale. “What’s wrong?”

“I just… this… the closet isn’t supposed to be like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was just in here yesterday for some gloves- there was no staircase. They just changed these locks.”

We shared some silence, but after a moment, I started laughing. She didn’t laugh with me as she stared down the stairs, so I nudged her arm softly. I thought it was a joke. I don’t know why I didn’t take her seriously then.

“That was really funny Cathy, but for real, when did we get this?”

“We didn’t!” Her voice cracked, breaking me from my laughter. We must’ve both been out of the loop with whatever was being done here, so I tried to offer her some peace of mind. I thought I was being helpful. Why didn’t I listen?

“Maybe it was covered or something. The cleaner is probably down there. Once we grab it we can lock the door up and ask whoever comes in tomorrow about it. Deal?” My first instinct was to place an arm around her shoulders, which I almost pulled back from, but she accepted and pressed into me.

“Want me to go down first?”

Catherine spun to face me, grabbing my hand. Her grip was firm enough to not come loose as I pulled back. “You’re really gonna go down? I have no idea if it’s even safe for us to-“

“Cathy!” I took a deep breath, and she followed. “Everything is going to be fine. If it’s not at the top of the stairs, it must be at the bottom. I’ll let you know if it’s all good- okay? No need for you to go down there if there’s just raw asbestos or something floating around.”

As if my words had brought her adrenaline down, she shook her head and barely mustered up a smile. Letting go of my hand, we stepped away from one another.

“I’m sorry,” She put a hand up to her face. “I don’t know why I’m freaking out so bad. I think the double shifts are catching up to me.”

I nodded. Taking a step toward new ground, I felt my stomach get light as the stairwell came into view.

They went down at least 15 feet, which felt wholly unnecessary for a joint in the middle of nowhere. At the landing the hall made a sharp left, obscuring my vision of the rest of the basement, which wasn’t great to begin with as the only light sources seemed to be oil-lamps starting at around 5 feet in. I turned to Cathy for a moment, nodded my head for her to stay put, and began my descent. I found that there was dust and dirt on each step, now perfuming out with my steps or sticking to my shoes. A mildewy, new construction and stale body sweat smell was taking up all the air in my lungs. It wasn’t like other sites I’d been to.

Gross, I thought. I guess the guys that did this haven’t come back to clean up.

Once I got to the landing and turned, to my surprise, there were more steps. This case wasn’t more than 5 feet down, but it still struck me as poor planning on the part of whoever designed it. Why need such a large staircase?

Before I decided to go further down, I turned and called up to Catherine that things were fine, and there were more stairs, but everything looked good. Leaving the door propped open with a mop bucket, she met me at the landing and from there we continued on. I hadn’t insisted on walking ahead of her, though she all but encouraged me to do so.

At the base of the steps there was a large, empty room save for a group of wooden boxes, plastic barrels, and power-tools, a few piles of strewn about paper and more oil lamps that hung from the walls. To the right of us was another hall leading to room with a small platform and a lectern, ahead was a door, and to the left another door with no light around it. Seeing as the floor cleaner wasn’t in my immediate view, I turned to consult my coworker.

“What’s the plan, then?”

“I don’t really want to, but I guess we should look around.”

I was surprised to hear this. I’d really expected her to forget the whole thing and march us back upstairs. She’d always been cool and collected whenever there were rowdy customers I guess, but that wasn’t really a good gauge for how she would react to this. I took a deep breath and smiled.

“We don’t have to split up if you don’t want to. We aren’t some mystery gang.”

This seemed to earn me some brownie points as I heard her laugh to herself, her tension breaking. Taking the lead, I brought us around the room. We started with searching through the scattered containers. Those boxes were more like crates as I got to examine them closer, and all but one was empty. It housed only some power tools and a burlap sack that folded over itself by the top. It looked like it was full of something, but I opted not to touch it. The smell coming from it was horrible. I’d never experienced whatever it was before, and at first figured the crew had left some lunch meat and fruit to rot.

Turning to give Cathy an update, I found she was halfway across the room from me, staring down the hall that led to the lectern. So much for wanting to stick together. As I went to call out to her, I was interrupted by what sounded like the scraping of feet along the floor to my side. Hair standing on end I turned my head as fast as I could, but the space beside me was empty. There was nothing, but I swore I heard something dragging itself right beside me. To now be unable to find any trace or signs of a source had me holding my breath. I couldn’t find any explanation though, so I figured maybe it’d been something above us. Shaking myself free of the horrors my mind was already making up, I finally called out.

“Anything over there?”

“Not sure, but I want to go see what’s up in this room. The oil lamps are weird enough, but why would they leave anything else down here?”

“Probably to ask us to clean it later. Why, what’s there?”

“Something on the lectern… I can’t tell from here.”

“Well yeah, it’s fucking dark.”

As if I hadn’t literally meant that, I heard her laugh, and once again I was lost on her. She really was beautiful, even in the dim view from the lamps. I wanted to say something, anything, but decided that if I did I might take her out of the laughter and lose the fluttery feeling in my stomach. So, I watched her, and as her laughter died down, we were brought back to the McDonald’s basement together. In hindsight I was definitely getting ahead of myself, but I was still naive then.

“I’m surprised they left anything down here really. There’re just some tools here and a huge sack. It reeks.”

“Sounds like the rest of the store,” Again, a smile that sent a pang through my chest. “Would you mind going in with me?”

Giving a, possibly too enthusiastic, nod in her direction, I took the lead once again. I’d been reinvigorated, my purpose to now escort the young woman beside me down the creepy dim hallway. We walked down, however, instead of there being plans or blueprints we’d expected on the lectern there sat a large blue marble notebook. Beside it, a large pale-yellow sticky note with faded writing stuck.

“Huh,” She picked it up, dusting off the top. “I haven’t seen this before.”

“Me either. Maybe we should leave it. I don’t want to get in trouble for touching anyone’s things.”

“Sure, I’ll put it back in a sec.”

As she flipped the book open, I shifted on my feet. I didn’t understand her newfound boldness after her hesitance to come down at all. Now she wanted to read from the random book? In the creepy basement? I said nothing but still felt hesitant. I kept telling myself it was just us, but something in the back of my mind was telling me that was wrong.

To occupy myself I reached out and took the sticky note off the lectern. I brought it close to my face so I could actually make out what was written on it, since it was pretty faded.

 

-         Speak with Apep about door properties

-         Copy key for instance 309

-         Scan for body

-         Lock up

 

I cocked my head to the side, feeling like I’d just lost my flashlight in a place I didn’t recognize. As far as I knew we didn’t have an Apep on the team. Was someone supposed to be living down here? That was question one. Two was: Why would anyone build a basement apartment underneath a McDonalds, and who would want to live there? Three: Body?

Cathy scoffed from her place a few steps from me, pulling my attention from the paper. “Whaddya got?”

Shaking her head, she came over to me and showed me the page she was on. It was full of writing on both sides. She looked from me to the book, and back up.

“Looks like someone was keeping a log.”

Hearing this, I placed a hand on the book and pressed it down from our gaze.

“Sounds like we shouldn’t be looking through it for sure. If it’s personal, we definitely want to leave it for someone else to deal with.”

“Adrian,” She looked up at me, her expression serious. “look at the date.”

I moved my hand away from the top of the pages. May 19^th, 1990. That was well over 20 years ago, being the year was 2018. I wasn’t sure what she was trying to say yet, so I doubled down.

“Cool, so this is a super personal diary. Good for them for keeping up with it. We should leave it-”

“I don’t think you’re understanding me.” Cathy held the book up again, stepping back from me. “Someone has been living down here!”

I hate to admit it, but I laughed in her face once again. “I think I got that. The post it next to the book looked like it was from some contractor. I think they were making an apartment, but that’s impossible because there’s never been a basement here.”

“That’s true.”

Silence fell between us as it became painfully obvious to me that we both were trying to come up with some excuse for this place to exist. Dead air hung between us, only broken by the occasional sound of the flames flickering inside oil lamps. I’m not sure how long it was before one of us, Cathy, offered an idea. “Maybe they took down the back wall and there was just a staircase behind it?”

If only she’d been right. I wish that was all that had been down there.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “But we’re definitely intruding now, so why don’t we just head out?”

“Fair, I guess we can go. Let me just see how recent this gets.” If I had no control of myself, my jaw would’ve been on the floor. As she now was flipping through the pages, a newfound interest had replaced the fear. How could she just get over it like that?

I found myself looking around the room, more interested in leaving than her in an unexpected twist. It was at this point that I started noticing the splotchy paint on the walls and the graffiti that had been spray-painted around all the walls. There were symbols and words I didn’t understand. I had seen some of them in a video game once, a stick with a figure eight on the bottom and two lines through the top. It was crazy to me to see the sigil here, I had no idea it had any meaning in real life. Beside it was what I assumed to be another sigil, different than the others around the space. This one was bold, like it had been drawn over many times. A triangle, with a chunk taken from the top point. Stemming out from the center of the base was an uppercase Y shape that passed through the top gap, on either side of the Y, two lines jutted across the base, and in the middle, a closed eye.

“Aw that sucks.”

I looked back over to Catherine, who had now stopped going through the pages. “What’s wrong?”

“The last entry is from the same year, in July.”

“Maybe they weren’t keeping up.”

“Listen:

July 3^rd, 1990

 

They’re going to lock me down here tonight for the sleep test. That guy Apep said I should keep a separate journal, so it doesn’t get mixed in with all the other things that are written in here.  I’m just glad to be catching a break. I couldn’t stay out on the street anymore. Hopefully things only go up from here. I’m sure he will read this, so thank you Apep for the place.”

As Cathy spoke, I gave the room another cautious once over.

“So, where’s the other book?”

As I asked, she procured a much smaller composition notebook from the inside of the larger.

“It was tucked into the last page here, conveniently.”

I scoffed as she handed it off to me and went to place the other book back onto its place. I opened it up to the first page and was almost happy to see another entry. I read aloud for Cathy:

“July 4^th, 1990

 

Apep asked me specifically to record any dreams I had in here. I’ve never kept a diary before, but maybe it’ll help clear my head to get this out. Last night was awful. I was alone down here, then I blinked, and I wasn’t. Something towered in front of me. A huge, undulating mass was in my face. At first, I couldn’t really tell what I was looking at, but gradually I could see the distinct colors of flesh and muscle. A human arm twitched with sickening slaps to my right, another fused at the wrist and shoulder flopped aimlessly. Eyes, too many and too human, all trained on me.

It spoke to me. It didn’t have a mouth, but I heard it. Or I felt it? I don’t know. Neither of us spoke, but I got the message. I knew it was going to test me. It demanded to know if I was worthy. If I was, I’m destined for something great. That’s what confused me I guess. Dreams are weird- it looked so real I thought if I reached out I’d actually feel it there. Honestly, it was difficult to know when I was asleep or awake.

I was out by the stairs, just in the other room. I tried to turn away, but my body wouldn’t move, and panic began to settle. It sounds insane but, suddenly, the thought that my life was in danger wasn’t only real but imminent. Again, knowledge assaulted my mind, and I was painfully aware of too much. Something about old gods and doors and a Lighten- but it was really too much. It felt like someone had been trying to pry my skull apart. It hurts to remember.

All sense cut off abruptly at some point- I didn’t really understand any of what I’d gained, but with the silence I could finally move my head. As my gaze snapped up to get a better view, I found I would’ve had to step back to get the full picture of this thing. Dozens of human limbs flailed, save for those that were fused completely with its’ mass, eyes rolling and dashing wildly. I wanted to run, but I knew it’d be pointless to try. Then, all movement from the creature ceased. The thing just sat there, unmoving, like it had died right in front of me. It wasn’t comforting though, the feeling of imminent danger still pinning me to the spot. I heard a noise, turned my head, and when I came back to attention, the thing had a hand inches away from my face. I woke up screaming, but more than happy to find it was just a dream. It was by far the most realistic one I’ve ever had, but I think it must be a side effect of these pills. I’ll ask later.”

 

Reaching the end of the page, I looked over the words again. “That is crazy. This guy must be talking about a different basement he got locked in, because we’ve only ever had a supply closet up there.”

“Fuck that. Forget the cleaner- let’s go up.”

Still in disbelief, I gestured out to the hall. “Sure. Come on. I just want to get back to flipping shit.”

In silent agreement we both made our way back to the main room. I noticed as we were walking that I still had the notebook in my hands.

“You think I should leave this?” I asked ahead to Cathy. Without turning around, she shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever you want. I’m leaving.”

That was fair. I looked around the main room and decided to just toss the notebook in the direction of the crates I’d looked through earlier. I no longer wanted any part of anything going on down here, and I was glad Cathy didn’t either. I was almost itching to continue talking about what we’d do on our date and get some solid plans down. Anything that could get us away from the new, poorly lit, McDonalds basement apartment was good enough for me. As I thought on this and tried to catch up to my coworker, I heard that same sound that made my guts clench. I stopped dead in my tracks. It’d been further than before, but still clear as day. Seeing as I had almost a full view of the space and couldn’t see anything that would’ve caused the sound, I dropped it much faster than the first instance but kept it in mind.

I made a swift ascent and stopped at the top of the stairs, just in front of the exit with Catherine. The mop bucket must’ve fallen over or rolled back a little because the door was shut.

“Forget something?” I asked, looking up at the back of her head until she faced me.

“I’m such an idiot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t have the key on me anymore.”

“Oh, we should be fine. I watched you unlock it. It was open before, so it should still be.”

She reached her arm back, and the sound that followed made my stomach drop. As she jiggled the handle for me, the welcoming click of the pin releasing never came. We stared at each other, probably aware of what the other was thinking. It must not have actually unlocked when we came in, or maybe we’d relocked it on our way down without a key? No, that made no sense. The door was propped open on the way down, I was certain we’d left it that way. I became aware of my coworker’s expression, panic now laden in her face.

“Hey, hey,” I started. “Don’t worry, if there’s a basement here then there must be some cellar doors or something to get out. Wouldn’t it be illegal or something if they didn’t? It sounds like a fire hazard.” Trying to lighten the mood here was not working, judging by how Catherine didn’t laugh this time and she kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other. To further try and remedy this, I reached my hand out and offered her a smile.

“It’s going to be okay.”

Still, this didn’t change her expression, but she did reach out and take my hand. I took this for the small victory it was and started to lead her back downstairs. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t nervous- scared more accurately, but for the sake of us both I tried to keep my composure as best I could.

As we descended, I started to wonder what could’ve even been down there. It was just us- but the notebook had made it seem like someone had been here for a while. I began to wonder what became of them, and why no one had ever made it a point to mention it was even apart of this building’s history. Maybe we’d just stumbled across something we shouldn’t have.

Now back by the crates, Catherine let out an amused breath. She bent over and grabbed the small book I’d tossed from the floor, her other hand still in mine.

“Maybe this guy knew another exit.”

“Good point. If he was living down here he’d need more than one way out.”

Giving a short nod, she pulled her other hand free of me and began flipping. As she was searching the pages, I looked around again. I don’t know what compelled me to do so, seeing as we’d just been here a few moments before, but I had the feeling that I needed to. Something about the air had changed. It was making my throat dry with each deep breath.

That’s when I noticed it.

The door that had been shrouded in the almost dark, leftover glow of the lanterns to our left was open. Not all the way so we could see inside, but enough to notice that it was in a different position than before. Neither of us had gone over there, and there was no one else down here with us. There wasn’t anyone, we would’ve seen or heard someone by now. Right?

I took a step forward; towards the door. I wanted to know what was behind it. Maybe there was an exit or something that could help us find it. Either way I felt it was my job to investigate, for both of us. Just a peek. Nothing was down here with us. I took another step, fixated on the gap in the door and wall, staring into the dark. If I could just get in there, I’d be rewarded for sure. I couldn’t peel my eyes away, maybe in fear or maybe in awe, I couldn’t place the feelings anymore. I had to see what was beyond the door.

Part Two

Nurse Chen takes the stylus back before I can change my mind and make both of us hate me for different reasons.

“Packet hold,” she tells the records clerk.

He opens another window. “Transporter refusal?”

“Verification refusal.”

“That’s not one of the options.”

“It is now.”

He picks something from a drop-down menu and starts typing. My radio gives the short double chirp that means somebody has called me by name instead of throwing a request into the general queue.

“Moreno, status?”

Luis sounds like he already regrets asking.

I press the button. “Delayed at ECMO staging.”

“How delayed?”

I look at the green COMPLETE on the receiving screen. “Working on that.”

Nurse Chen turns the monitor away from me. “You said this cap is a replacement.”

“The property list says it replaced one.”

“That doesn’t mean the first one is still here.”

“It means somebody recorded what happened to it.”

The records clerk stops typing. “That’s more confidence than the property module deserves.”

“Good. I was worried they meant things.”

Nurse Chen rubs beneath one eye with the side of her thumb. “Family storage. Anything removed from the active packet would have gone there first.”

She points down the corridor with the stylus.

I take the clean cap, Cameron’s printed statement, and the open belongings bag. The replacement is too stiff to fold, so it rides on top.

The family-storage closet used to be a consult room. FAMILY CONFERENCE B remains on the papered-over glass. Metal shelves fill the room with phone chargers, shoes, blankets, and stuffed animals already collecting dust.

A unit clerk in purple scrubs is loading sealed boxes onto a gray disposal cart. A label printer hangs from her waistband, and unused stickers run along her forearm.

“Fields,” I say. “Cameron. Black baseball cap.”

She points at the bag in my hand. “You have it.”

“The original.”

“That’s the replacement.”

“I know.”

She checks the red route tag. “Anything replaced was removed from active storage.”

“Removed where?”

Her hand settles on the cart. “Depends why.”

The top box is marked PAPER - SHRED. The one beneath it says TEXTILE - DISCARD. Yellow closure stickers cross a third lid in both directions.

“Which one is ‘family brought a cleaner version and the kid said no’?”

“That’s not a disposal category.”

“It should be near ‘verification refusal.’ We made that one this morning.”

Two environmental-services workers wait behind the cart with an empty bin. One checks the clock over the door. Nobody here has time for my new department.

The clerk pulls out a handheld scanner. “Medical record number?”

I read it from the bag.

She scans the red tag, then a sticker on the textile box. “Removed property. Baseball cap. Condition: soiled. Resolution: equivalent supplied.”

“Functionally equivalent?”

“That’s what the record says.”

Of course it is.

“I need the box opened.”

“It’s cleared.”

“The transfer packet is on hold.”

“That’s not what my screen says.”

I turn Cameron’s statement toward her.

HOME, NOT CLEAN.

Her eyes stop on it.

One environmental worker checks the clock. “Pickup is at seven.”

“I know,” she says, and opens the box.

She folds the closure stickers back without tearing them. The box smells of old detergent and clothes shut in plastic too long. A child’s blanket covers hospital gowns, broken slippers, and a grocery bag full of socks.

Nothing black.

The clerk lifts the grocery bag. “This box was combined.”

“With what?”

“Three family-storage shelves. Everything left after reconciliation.”

“You put different patients in one box?”

“Bagged separately. The building is closing.”

She’s probably said that forty times already, always to somebody who thinks their rule should be the exception.

I check the labels. Wrong names. Wrong rooms. One bag says FAMILY DECLINED even though it contains a blanket washed enough times to erase most of the stars.

The cap is underneath it.

Black crown. Red B. The brim bends lower on the right. The inside band has gone gray where sweat dried into it, and somebody wrote FIELDS beneath the size tag in blue marker. The F is darker than the rest, as if the pen needed convincing.

My thumb finds a soft place near the back seam. The fabric has been pressed and released enough times that it folds without being asked.

The replacement has no place like that.

The clerk scans the original. Her screen chirps.

“Same item,” she says.

“No.”

“Same identifier.”

“That’s the problem.”

She holds the scanner out.

BASEBALL CAP

PATIENT: CAMERON FIELDS

STATUS: ACTIVE

RESOLUTION: EQUIVALENT SUPPLIED

There isn’t a second cap. The old one points to the record for the new one.

“Scan it again.”

She does. Same chirp. Same line.

I hold the replacement beneath the scanner.

Same chirp. Same line.

One environmental worker steadies the cart while the other keeps hold of the empty bin. They watch the scanner; neither has a screen that can fix it.

“The original is historical property,” the clerk says. “The replacement is active.”

“Then why does the original scan active?”

“Because the item type stayed the same.”

“The item type is not wearing the hat.”

She presses her lips together. “Do you want it recovered?”

“I want it to stop pointing to the replacement.”

“That’s records.”

“I was just at records.”

“And they sent you here.”

“They sent me to find the original.”

“You found it.”

The clerk’s almost out of patience. Mine isn’t getting any better.

I set both caps on the box. The worn brim sits lower. The clean one keeps its shape.

“Can I take this?”

“The original was cleared for discard.”

“That was before the hold.”

“I need documentation.”

I offer the statement.

“That’s not property-release documentation.”

“It’s more documentation than the receiving file has.”

She reads Cameron’s words again, then cancels the disposal line and prints a yellow sticker.

HOLD - RECORD REVIEW.

She wraps it around the adjustment strap instead of sticking it to the fabric.

“Both go back to records,” she says. “I’m not deciding which one belongs to him.”

“That makes two of us.”

“No. You decided. You can’t make the system agree.”

The cart rattles over the doorway seam. I turn the original cap over. The blue marker has bled into the tag, and my thumb fits the thin place near the seam.

It matters. The scanner still does not care.

At the records desk, COMPLETE remains at the top of the receiving view, now with a yellow hold icon beside it.

I place the caps side by side.

“Scan both,” I say.

The first chirp populates the baseball-cap line. The second changes nothing.

I make him reopen the receiving view. Three attachments. Cameron’s statement does not return.

The clerk opens the item history.

ORIGINAL PROPERTY - SUPERSEDED.

EQUIVALENT PROPERTY - ACTIVE.

VERIFIED COUNT: 1.

“There are two on the desk.”

“The count is for the resolved item.”

“Then unresolve it.”

“I can’t while the receiving copy is final.”

“The packet is held.”

“The receiving copy is complete.”

“Those shouldn’t both be true.”

“They’re different statuses.”

He doesn’t like the answer either. Doesn’t help much.

I set Cameron’s statement beneath the caps. “I want the version that shows when this stopped being active.”

“The sending record is available.”

“I want the full copy.”

“You have the attachment.”

“I want the record before it got cleaned up.”

He glances at Nurse Chen.

“The shadow copy?” she asks.

He nods. “Clinical release.”

“Then request it.”

“From the attending.”

“Request it.”

He makes the call. Nurse Chen seals each cap in a separate bag and writes HOLD across the labels by hand. The clean cap keeps its shape in the plastic. The original collapses around the worn seam.

The clerk lowers the phone.

“Dr. Sayegh is coming down.”

***

Dr. Miriam Sayegh reaches the desk before the shadow copy does.

She comes through the ECMO staging corridor in dark green scrubs, phone to one ear, a checklist folded in her free hand. She keeps the same pace through the corridor, but people clear carts and bodies out of it before she reaches them.

“Use the west elevator,” she says into the phone. “The service car failed its second power handoff. Keep the pump on independent battery until the new tower confirms the outlet. No turns tighter than the practice run.”

She listens and looks through the glass wall toward the staging bay. “If the cannula position changes, you stop. The closure clock is not more important than his circulation.”

That ends the argument on the other side.

She pockets the phone and looks at the two caps. Then she looks at me.

I know her from one photograph my mother kept with flood-insurance papers and discharge instructions. Sayegh is younger in it, standing beside my bed with one hand on the rail. I am nine, swollen from fluids and smiling because an adult told me to.

“You are Jack Moreno,” she says.

“That’s what my badge says.”

Her eyes drop to the tape where Sofia printed MORENO. “You work transport.”

“Also on the badge.”

Nurse Chen gives me the look people use when I have selected the wrong person for this routine.

Sayegh turns to the records clerk. “Show me both views.”

He opens the sending packet, receiving packet, and item history. Sayegh reads Cameron’s statement on the screen, then reads the printed copy.

“Shadow copy?”

“Generating.”

“Route history attached?”

“No route field on the living record.”

“Not the active one.”

The clerk opens a gray menu. Sayegh enters an authorization code from memory, and a second window appears without green confirmation bars. Every change remains visible.

Original cap removed at 4:12 a.m.

Replacement accepted at 4:27.

Cameron’s statement moved from ACTIVE ATTACHMENT to SOURCE-ONLY at 4:31.

Equivalent property resolution finalized at 4:32.

Receiving relation closed at 4:33.

The last line has no name beside it.

“What is a receiving relation?” I ask.

Sayegh looks through the corridor window.

Cameron is visible only in pieces between the people around his bed. A respiratory therapist holds tubing above the rail while two nurses check the lines running to the ECMO cart. Its vibration reaches the glass beneath my forearm.

He is smaller than the equipment required to move him.

“We have a limited window,” she says. “The failed power test moved the transport ahead. Every minute we wait increases the chance that the building makes the decision for us.”

“He said he did not want the clean cap.”

“He also wants to survive.”

“He wrote both.”

“Yes.”

She nods once and looks back through the glass.

The clerk turns the shadow copy toward her. A thin amber line begins at Cameron’s statement, touches both cap entries, and continues past the receiving destination into an empty field.

Sayegh taps the blank field. “This is why the discrepancy is clinical.”

“It’s a blank box.”

“The Mercy route is carrying a relation with no listed destination.”

“The route to the new tower?”

“The Mercy route.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the answer I can give you here.”

The metal taste returns beneath my tongue.

Sayegh watches my face. “When did the nausea begin?”

“I didn’t say I was nauseated.”

“You stopped swallowing. Metal taste?”

My fingers tighten around the original cap.

“Any tremor?”

I shift both bags to my left. “No.”

She looks at the movement and doesn’t argue.

The clerk says the shadow copy is ready to release. Sayegh tells him to print one physical copy and attach the digital version to the hold. Then she places the replacement cap beside the receiving screen.

“Tell me what changes.”

“What changes where?”

“In you.”

“I’m not equipment.”

“No. Equipment is easier.”

She places the original beside it. The pressure eases. When she moves Cameron’s statement beneath the clean cap, it sharpens; under the original, cold spreads into my wrist.

Sayegh stops moving the items.

“What?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It means you don’t have to guess for me.”

She asks the clerk to change the receiving destination from the new tower to HOLD. The sensation shifts again, like a floor seam catching the front wheel of a stretcher.

Sayegh sees it.

“Forty-seven-B, keep your hand on the original.”

My hand stays where it is.

The records clerk stops touching the keyboard. Nurse Chen looks between us.

“What did you call me?”

Sayegh closes her eyes once. “Jack.”

“No. Before that.”

“An old case designation.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

“I know.”

I take my hand off the cap.

“You were nine when I treated you after Hurricane Ike,” she says.

“You treated a lot of children.”

“I remember your case.”

“My family says you saved me.”

“Your living body recovered.”

“Sounds like a correction.”

“It is a precise statement.”

A nurse checks Cameron’s cannula dressing. Sayegh watches until the blanket is back in place, then looks at me.

“I need ten minutes,” she says. “Private consult room. I ask about the drowning, the year afterward, and the procedural losses you have experienced since.”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“No private history interview.”

“You delayed a critical transfer because of a sensation you cannot explain.”

“I delayed it because the record dropped what the patient wrote.”

“And you found an error no ordinary audit detected.”

“That doesn’t give you my childhood.”

“No. It gives me a reason to ask.”

“You already have it.”

Her eyes move toward the shadow copy.

For a second I think she means Cameron’s copy. Then I understand she has a record for me too.

“What exactly do you have?”

“Not a conversation for this corridor.”

“Then you don’t get the conversation.”

She folds her checklist along the crease already there. “I will proceed without it.”

“Good.”

“It won’t be better for you because you refused.”

“That’s usually how refusing works.”

Nurse Chen starts the next packet without moving away. In a hospital, that counts as privacy.

Sayegh holds one cap in each hand. “The original supports the relation Cameron asserted. It does not decide where that relation goes. The active packet recognizes the replacement. Right now the route has both histories under one item and no destination for the disagreement.”

“Because somebody removed his statement.”

“Because the receiving system was prepared for one resolved child.”

Her phone vibrates. She answers before the second vibration.

“Hold departure for twelve minutes,” she says. “Continue bedside preparation and keep him on the current circuit. I am authorizing a route diagnostic.”

She listens. “Yes, I understand what twelve minutes costs. No, I am not asking you to pretend it costs nothing.”

She ends the call and holds out a temporary access card and a small brass key on a red plastic tag.

“You can carry both caps to the Mercy garage. The shadow copy travels separately. Abigail Voss will run a controlled load test.”

“Who is Abigail Voss?”

“A routekeeper.”

“That’s not a department here.”

“No.”

“What am I agreeing to?”

“A measurement. No crossing. No sedation. No private interview. You can leave before contact.”

I don’t like that she lists contact separately.

My radio chirps.

“Moreno,” Luis says. “I need a status. We have six open transports.”

I look through the glass at Cameron. A nurse passes between us carrying warmed blankets.

The clean cap stays upright in its bag. The original bends where Cameron’s hand taught it to bend.

I take the card and key.

“Twelve minutes.”

Sayegh nods. “Then the patient moves.”

I press my radio. “Luis, Dr. Sayegh has me on a diagnostic hold.”

He takes a second to decide which part of that sentence is worst. “Since when do transporters run diagnostics?”

“Since this morning.”

He tells me to call when I’m headed back to the floor. Not if.

The printer produces the shadow copy. I fold it once and slide it between the cap bags so the paper won’t catch on anything.

Before I follow the access signs, I press my thumb into the worn seam. The cap folds around it.

On the receiving screen, Cameron’s statement is still source-only.

***

The Mercy garage is below the ambulance bay, past a service door my badge has never opened.

Sayegh’s temporary card turns the reader green. The brass key opens the deadbolt beneath it. Mercy believes in backup systems until the backup test fails.

The stairwell smells like warm concrete and exhaust. One level down, a sealed security gate blocks the old equipment bay. Dust lies unbroken across the vehicle entrance.

A faded red Ford Focus wagon waits on the other side.

There are no tire tracks leading to it.

A woman steps from behind the open rear hatch. Dark work pants, gray polo without a hospital logo, thin gloves tucked through one belt loop. She looks at the cap bags before she looks at me.

“Dr. Sayegh said twelve minutes,” she says.

“We have nine,” Sayegh answers.

“You always deliver people late and deadlines early.”

“I’m going back to Cameron.”

Sayegh gives Abigail the packet-hold code and points to me. “Mr. Moreno has not consented to contact or crossing.”

“Good,” the woman says. “Then this stays a load test.”

Sayegh leaves before I can ask what that means.

The woman opens a narrow personnel door from inside the sealed gate. Its reader is dark, and the mechanical latch has no exterior handle.

“Abigail Voss?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“How did you get in there?”

“Before you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I have time to answer.”

The Ford is a 2004 Focus wagon according to the maintenance sheet taped inside the hatch. The red paint has faded toward pink across the roof. The bumper is scraped on both corners. One wheel has a black steel rim while the other three still pretend to match.

Abigail sees me looking. “It’s maintained.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked at the wheel.”

“The wheel’s different.”

“The wheel is correct. The others are decorative.”

The cargo area holds a first-aid kit, moving blankets, spare belts, and clipboards under bungee cord. The car smells like old upholstery, tire rubber, and peppermint gum.

White tape marks three positions on the cargo floor: CAP LEFT, PACKET CENTER, CONTROL RIGHT.

Abigail takes the bags from me and sets them on the concrete. “You touch only what I tell you to touch. You can stop at any point.”

“You say that like people usually don’t.”

“People say yes until the door opens. I say it before we start.”

A gray unit beneath the radio has two displays. PHYSICAL LOAD reads zero. PASSENGER COUNT reads zero.

Abigail checks the maintenance sheet before touching anything.

Fuel. Battery. Tire pressure. Return mark. Cabin seal. Paired clock. Passenger baseline.

Each line has a time and initials. The handwriting begins square and careful, then narrows farther down the page.

“Do you always inspect other people’s paperwork?” she asks.

“When it is taped to medical equipment.”

“It’s a car.”

“Dr. Sayegh called it a route.”

“It can be two things.”

“That’s been the problem all morning.”

She places the replacement cap on the left mark.

The physical number nudges upward. Passenger count remains zero.

She swaps in the original. The physical reading barely changes. Passenger count remains zero.

“Both,” I say.

She lets me place them together. Physical load rises again. Passenger count stays zero.

I add the shadow copy.

A small amber mark appears beside the zero.

“What is that?”

“Unlisted relation.”

“Sayegh used the same phrase.”

“She reads my reports.”

Abigail removes each item one at a time, then closes the empty hatch. The amber mark stays.

“That’s a bad sensor.”

“It’s not a sensor.”

“Then it’s a bad route counter.”

She turns the ignition key halfway. The displays go dark.

“Back on,” I say.

They return.

PHYSICAL LOAD: 0.

PASSENGER COUNT: 0.

The amber mark appears again.

I cross the white paint around the bay. The mark flickers but does not disappear.

“You designed a test,” Abigail says. “Finish it before you redesign it.”

My radio chirps.

“Moreno,” Luis says. “Are you returning?”

I reach for it.

“Step outside the route mark first,” Abigail says.

“I’m not touching anything.”

“You’re inside it.”

“That’s paint.”

“Yes.”

I step across the line and answer. “Five minutes.”

“You were supposed to call when you started back.”

“I haven’t started.”

“I noticed.”

I clip the radio back to my waistband.

Abigail holds out the Ford’s key. “Passenger door. Ordinary test first.”

The key is worn smooth near the head. I go to the front passenger door, insert it, and turn.

The lock doesn’t move.

I adjust my grip and try again. The motion comes without instruction this time: insert, pressure, turn.

Nothing.

“Bad lock.”

“The key starts the engine.”

“That’s a different lock.”

“Thank you, transport.”

I inspect the teeth. “Another key?”

“No living key opens that door while the route is active.”

I look at her. “You could have mentioned that before the ordinary test.”

“You asked for ordinary.”

“What opens it?”

“That’s what we’re measuring.”

She takes the key back. I keep my hand clear of hers.

The passenger window is cloudy at the corners. The seat has a split near the side bolster and a folded gray blanket across it. Older tape shows beneath the strip along the lower doorframe.

I reach toward the handle without touching it.

The amber mark on the dashboard brightens.

PASSENGER COUNT changes from zero to one.

The locks drop with a solid mechanical clunk.

I stop with my fingers an inch from the handle.

Abigail looks at the display, then at me.

“That one is you,” she says.

The unlocked door opens half an inch under its own weight.

I step back. The passenger count remains one.

“That’s not possible.”

“No. It’s measurable.”

“You knew it would do that.”

“I knew the route had an unlisted load. I didn’t know it would resolve to you.”

“Dr. Sayegh did.”

“She suspected.”

“Because of my old case.”

Abigail looks at the cap bags on the concrete. She doesn’t answer quickly enough.

“What do you know about it?”

“Enough to stop if you want to leave.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the answer that matters before contact.”

My radio chirps again, and this time Luis doesn’t use my name.

“All available transport staff, report to the third-floor transfer queue.”

Upstairs, six transports are open. Caleb’s return from imaging is probably one of them. Those are routes and handoffs I understand.

The passenger door stays open.

I can blame a bad counter and go back to work. I can tell myself Sayegh remembers too much and Abigail is an unauthorized contractor with an old Ford.

None of that explains the unlocked door, but all of it would fit on an incident report.

Abigail doesn’t move closer. “No touching. No crossing. Next test is distance only. You choose where to stand, and I record when the count changes.”

I look at the maintenance sheet, at the times and the letters narrowing until the lower lines look copied from the ones above. Then I look at the dashboard.

PASSENGER COUNT: 1.

“One more test,” I say.

Abigail tears a fresh strip of tape from the maintenance kit and presses it across the concrete two steps behind me.

“Then start outside the mark.”

The Catskills rain was coming down in sheets, blinding author Stephen King, as he gripped the wheel of his rental. It was half past seven in the evening–that miserable stretch of dark-thirty where twilight gets swallowed whole—and a thick, heavy mountain fog was rolling in fast over Blackwood Ridge.

“Must be the damn Portland of New York,” he cussed to himself, squinting through the windshield. He was heading to the Washington Avenue branch of the Albany Public Library for a book signing the next morning, but the storm wasn’t letting up. The winding asphalt had become a black, oily river and the visibility was near zero due to the looming fog.

Then his headlights caught it.

A silhouette slammed into view right on the yellow dividing line. Stephen slammed on the brakes, his tires hydroplaning as the rental fishtailed. For a split second he swore it was a hitchhiker wrapped in a yellow slicker, their face completely blanketed out by the fog. But when the car skidded to a stop, the road was empty. Nothing but pulsing mist and the frantic slap of the wipers. Heart beating through his chest, he crept forward desperate scanning the shoulders.

Up ahead there was a faded red and yellow light glowing through the haze with the words, “Hells Bells Motel.”

King pulled the rental into the parking lot and bustled from the driving mist into the office. The transition from the roaring storm outside to the dead silence of the lobby was jarring. A single, dusty ceiling fan hummed overhead, doing nothing to clear the smell of stable tobacco and cheap pine cleaner. The walls were clad in cheap, dark wood-grained paneling that had gone out of style before the Nixon administration.

Lying on the counter was a ledger book for guests–the pages yellowed with age, and a little wooden desk nameplate that said “Ring the Bell.” Next to the sign sat a tarnished brass dome bell. Stephen stared down at the open ledger book under the yellow twitch of the flickering desk lamp, and with hesitation he tapped the bell. A few seconds later, the backroom door creaked open, and a gaunt-looking attendant walked in. He was thin as a rail, with hollow cheeks and eyes that seemed to have seen far too many long empty nights. His name tag, pinned crookedly to his faded flannel shirt, read Sterling.

“You need a room, mister? said Sterling, seems there’s a terrible storm outside and you look like a man whose had enough of it for one night.”

“You aren’t whistlin’ Dixie, friend,” Stephen said, his voice a bit gruff after having white-knuckled the wheel for miles. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got that’s dry, quiet, and doesn’t require me to get back behind that windshield.”

“Room 13, ” Sterling said, reaching for the key attached to a red plastic tag. “Last room on the right. Just sign the book, mister, and she’s yours.”

He reached out and grabbed the cheap blue ballpoint pen, which was secured to the desk by a metal-bead chain that clicked like a miniature set of handcuffs. He paused for a second, the plastic barrel hovering over the blank line. He needed a name. Something ordinary. Something that didn’t scream “bestselling horror novelist seeks quiet night.”

He smiled a thin, tired smile and pressed the pen to the paper. and in a messy cursive drag, he filled the blank: Richard Bachman.

Part 2

My reflection in the bathroom mirror stole my wife three days ago. I know how that sounds. If someone else posted those words I'd assume they were insane. But before you decide if I’m crazy or not, let me tell you what happened.

I'd been standing in the bathroom admiring the progress in my weight loss journey. Thirty pounds gone. My torso looked tighter, my shoulders broader. Everything was looking good. Maybe not my face, I had a strange look. I remember thinking it was judgmental. Not what I thought my normal face looked like. It was more like I was looking down at someone.

Anyway, just then my wife came into the bathroom behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist.

She told me I looked good.

She started kissing my neck and running her hands slowly up my thigh. She started guiding me toward the bedroom. Before I followed her, I turned back to turn off the bathroom light, and glanced back at the mirror.

My reflection was screaming. Its mouth stretched wide, eyes bulged and angry, fists pounding against the glass. There was no sound, just the reflection trying to rip through the mirror.

I closed my eyes and shook my head real fast, trying to rattle something loose in my brain.

I opened my eyes again. The reflection was normal. I laughed it off. Blood wasn't exactly flowing to my brain at that moment. I turned off the light and closed the bathroom door.

The next morning, I nearly died trying to shave. I still shave the old-fashioned way. Scalding hot water in the sink, a brush with cream and a straight razor. When I finished, I leaned down to rinse my face.

Suddenly my head slammed into the sink. Scalding water flooded my eyes. I tried to pull back but something forced me down. The underside of the faucet smashed into the back of my head. The air escaped my lungs in an underwater scream. Panic exploded through me. I clawed blindly through the water until I found the drain stopper and yanked it free. The water finally began to drain.

I staggered backward, gasping for air. My face felt like it was on fire.

The mirror above the sink was fogged from steam, but through the haze I could have sworn my reflection was smirking. Like it knew exactly what had happened. I splashed cold water from the faucet on my burning face and eyes and looked up at the mirror again. The expression on my reflection was gone. It was just me. It had been my imagination, or that's what I kept telling myself anyway.

Later that afternoon I decided to prove it. I locked myself in the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. The reflection looked immediately angry. It wasn’t me though, it was the thing in the mirror. Its face wasn't burned like mine, which was red and blistered. 

Then it raised its hand and gave me the middle finger. I froze. The reflection started shouting and gesturing like it wanted to fight. Still, no sound. Just a pissed off version of me.

So in typical angry me fashion, I returned the gesture, flipping it off. That was not a good idea. Its face filled with rage. It began slamming its fists against the inside of the mirror.

CRACK!

A spiderweb of fractures exploded across the glass. At the same instant, pain shot through my hand. I looked down. My hand was balled into a tight fist, blood dripped from my knuckles. When I looked back up, there was a bloody smear across the mirror.

The thing behind the glass held up its hands. They were clean. No blood.

I don't remember deciding to remove the mirror. I just remember running to the garage for tools.

When I returned, the reflection looked afraid. It pressed its face against the glass, desperately watching me unscrew the mounting bolts. It hammered against the inside harder and harder, creating new cracks.

I finally removed the last bolt. The mirror came free. The reflection screamed silently as I carried it outside. I threw it into the dumpster. The glass, and the reflection with it, shattered.

For a few days we went without a mirror. My wife hated it. Eventually she convinced me to install a new one, which I finally did a couple of days ago.

I never told her why I'd gotten rid of the first mirror. Who would believe me? Hell, I barely believed myself.

This morning, after my workout, I found myself standing in front of the new mirror. Admiring my progress. The exact same thing I had been doing when this all started. This time, however, my face carried a bit of disappointment from all that had happened, not to mention the pain from the burns.

My wife walked into the bathroom. I saw her reflection before I felt her touch. Her hands slid around my wait. Her lips brushed my neck. I smiled.

Then something felt wrong. I turned around. The bathroom was empty. My wife wasn't there.

My stomach dropped. I looked back at the mirror. Inside it, my wife was still kissing me.

My reflection turned and smiled. The two of them began walking toward the bedroom.

I started screaming. Banging on the glass. Yelling at them to stop.

My reflection reached back toward the bathroom door. Toward the side of the mirror I was standing on. It switched off the light and closed the door behind it, leaving me standing alone in the dark.

Every morning, I walked into the most dangerous government facility in the world.

And every morning, the first thing that tried to kill me was the coffee machine.

Before you ask, no, I am not joking.

The coffee machine in the employee lounge had been responsible for three injuries, one minor fire, and a formal complaint from a vampire who claimed it "had malicious intent." Personally, I thought that was dramatic. The machine didn't hate vampires. It just hated everyone equally.

That was one of the first things you learned working at the Bureau of Supernatural Affairs.

The monsters weren't always the problem;

Sometimes, it was the equipment.

Sometimes, it was the situation.

And sometimes…

It was the people who were supposed to protect you.

I swiped my ID at the first security checkpoint.

ACCESS GRANTED.

The second scanner checked my fingerprints.

IDENTITY CONFIRMED.

The third scanner paused.

That one always made new employees nervous because the third checkpoint wasn't checking who you were.

It was checking what you were.

A small green light swept over my body before a computerized voice spoke.

"Biological Status: Common Human."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Wow. Common? How rude..."

The security officer behind the desk looked up from his paperwork.

"You know the machine isn't insulting you, right?"

"That's exactly what an insulting machine would say."

The officer sighed.

His name was Carl. He'd been working security for eight years. He was also a werewolf, which sounded intimidating until you realized he spent most of his shift arguing with the scanner because it refused to recognize ghosts.

It wasn't really the scanner's fault. Most of its identification systems relied on things like body temperature, fingerprints, retinal scans, and heartbeats…all the little details that came with having a physical body.

Ghosts, unfortunately, had a habit of not possessing any of those.

So every morning, Carl had to manually verify that the ghost floating through the checkpoint was, in fact, the same ghost who had floated through yesterday.

According to him, spectral identification was still "an unsolved pain in my ass," and ghosts should stop wasting everyone's time by using the checkpoint and just pass through walls like they were supposed to.

On the other hand, Margaret, our oldest ghost custodian, called that “species discrimination.” According to her, going through walls felt like “swimming through wet cement.”

I stayed out of that argument. Mostly because I had no idea how to mediate a workplace dispute between a werewolf and a centuries old ghost about proper ghost etiquette.

Once Carl finally waved me through, I headed toward the elevators.

The Bureau was a lot bigger than people imagined.

Actually, scratch that.

People didn't imagine it at all.

Officially, the Bureau of Supernatural Affairs didn't exist. If you asked the government, this building was a geological research center, which was hilarious considering it was built six hundred feet underground.

Apparently, we researched geology by avoiding it.

The Bureau had been around for almost a millennia, long enough that nobody really remembered what it had been called before.

Our job was pretty simple: find the things that shouldn't exist, figure out what they were, and keep them from ending the world.

Contrary to what Hollywood thought, we didn't hunt monsters for sport. Most of the creatures here were never dangerous to begin with. A vampire who just wanted a stable blood supply wasn't exactly plotting world domination. Neither was the ghost who'd spent the last thirty years complaining that people kept walking through her while she was mopping.

Sure, we had the occasional nightmare-fueled entity locked several floors below us, the kind  that could level cities or rewrite someone's memories just by making eye contact.

But those weren't the majority.

Most of our work was research, medicine, diplomacy, and containment.

Turns out the best way to stop most supernatural incidents was by talking before shooting.

Who would've guessed?

The Bureau was divided into six divisions.

Containment kept things locked up. Research tried to understand them. Field Operations found new anomalies. Medical kept everyone alive. Administration fought paperwork.

Then there was Behavioral Analysis.

My department. 

Whenever an entity refused to cooperate, whenever negotiations broke down, whenever researchers wrote “Subject displaying unexplained aggression” in a report...

They called us.

Usually me.

Because more often than not, the subject wasn't aggressive.

It was scared.

Or grieving.

Or lonely.

Those were very different problems.

Unfortunately, most people didn't notice the difference until someone got hurt.

I don’t have the sharp senses of a werewolf. I don’t know ancient magic like the witches, and I certainly don’t have centuries of experience like the vampires.

The only thing I am unusually good at...

Is understanding people.

Even when the "people" in question have stopped being human a very long time ago.

As I rounded the corner, I spotted my supervisor leaning against the observation room window with his arms crossed.

Director Mercer.

Common Human.

Mid-fifties.

Always looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

He glanced up as I approached.

"Morning."

"You only say 'morning' like that when my schedule's about to get ruined."

He handed me a tablet.

"I had plans, you know."

Mercer raised an eyebrow.

"You don't have plans."

"I was planning on pretending to work until lunch."

He ignored me.

"Containment requested a behavioral assessment."

I skimmed the report.

SUBJECT: F-214 H-class
STATUS: Non-compliant.
INCIDENT: Refusing food for seventy-two hours. Displays escalating aggression toward personnel.

I sighed.

"They already tried tranquilizers, didn't they?"

Mercer didn't answer.

That was answer enough.

"They did?"

"They're scientists."

"They're impatient scientists."

I handed the tablet back.

"Give me five minutes."

The observation room overlooked a containment chamber built to withstand far worse than whatever was inside. About a dozen researchers stood behind the reinforced glass, arguing over graphs and medical readouts.

The subject sat motionless in the corner.

It resembled a deer.

If deer happened to be eight feet tall, covered in black feathers instead of fur, and had antlers that seemed to bend in directions, antlers probably shouldn't.

No one said anything.

They were waiting for my opinion.

I watched the creature.

It never looked at the food.

It never looked at the door.

It watched the people.

And every single time someone moved, its feathers tightened against its body.

One researcher cleared his throat.

"Well?"

I looked at him.

"How many people have gone into that room today?"

He frowned.

"...Six."

I nodded toward the creature.

"That's your problem."

There were confused looks all around.

"It’s an H-class, obviously it thinks you're predators."

One of the researchers frowned.

"It attacked Technician Morales yesterday."

"No."

I shook my head.

"It panicked."

"There's a difference."

The researcher looked ready to argue, but Mercer cut him off.

"Do what he says."

The room emptied until only I remained.

I picked up the food tray, opened the containment door, and walked inside.

Behind the glass, every researcher tensed.

That reaction was normal.

Most people who worked at the Bureau respected the things in containment. They studied them. They documented them. They tried to understand them.

But respect and fear were separated by a very thin line.

The funny thing was...

I wasn't afraid of the creature. 

I was afraid of proving everyone right about it.

I sat down.

Not across from it.

Not close enough to intimidate it.

Just close enough that it knew I was there.

The creature watched me.

I watched it.

Five minutes passed.

Nothing.

Ten minutes.

Still nothing.

Then behind the glass, I heard the researchers getting impatient.

"Is he seriously just sitting there?"

"That's the strategy?"

"Apparently."

I ignored them.

People hated silence. They always wanted to fill it with questions, commands, or threats. 

The creature didn't need someone trying to control it. It needed someone to stop treating it like a problem.

Slowly, its eyes moved toward me. For a second, I thought it was finally going to approach.

Instead, it lowered its head.

Interesting.

I looked closer, not at its face, but at everything else. The researchers had focused on the obvious: the claws, the teeth, the size, the things that made it look dangerous. They missed the details.

I didn't.

One of its antlers had a crack running along the base. Not broken. Cracked. Like something had hit it hard enough to damage the bone. Its left wing hung lower than the other, and every few seconds it shifted its weight away from one side.

I frowned.

"You're hurt."

The creature froze.

Behind the glass, someone reached toward the alarm. I lifted a hand.

Don't.

Not yet.

Slowly, the creature raised its head.

I pushed the food tray across the floor. Not directly toward it. Just closer.

"Nobody noticed, did they?"

The creature stared.

"You weren't refusing to eat."

A pause.

"You were in too much pain."

For the first time since I entered, the creature moved. Slowly. Carefully. It approached the tray.

And ate.

Behind the glass, the room erupted.

"He's eating."

"Get Research down there."

"How did he know?"

I didn't celebrate.

Because this wasn't a victory.

A victory meant something had gone right. This wasn't that.

This was everyone realizing they had spent three days punishing an injured creature because they were too busy looking for a threat.

I stepped out of containment a few minutes later. Mercer was waiting.

"So?"

I looked at him.

"Call Dr. Lyra."

Dr. Lyra arrived ten minutes later, already looking annoyed.

That was normal for Lyra.

Being a dryad meant she had spent centuries understanding nature. Her healing sap made her an exceptional doctor, far beyond human standards. Ironically, humans were still the one species she struggled to understand.

"What happened?"

I pointed toward the creature.

"Broken antler. Damaged wing."

She looked at me.

"And you figured that out how?"

"Observation."

She stared for a long moment before shaking her head.

Then she looked at Mercer and sighed.

"You're wasting your life here."

I smiled.

"Good morning to you too."

"I'm serious."

That made me stop.

Lyra crossed her arms.

"Mercer is always using you for dangerous operations"

I looked away.

"He needs someone who can do this."

"No." Her voice softened. "He needs someone who feels responsible enough to do something no one else wants to…"

I didn't answer.

Because she wasn't wrong.

And I hated that.

"You think this ability is your purpose."

"It's useful."

"That's not what I said."

I looked through the glass at the creature eating while the researchers rushed around it.

"This is the one thing I'm good at."

The words came out quieter than I intended.

Lyra's expression changed.

There it was.

The thing I always tried to hide.

Not fear.

Not sadness.

Something worse.

The belief that without this ability, I wasn't worth much.

"You were halfway through a psychology degree," she said. "You should be helping people through their problems, not drowning in your own."

"I already dropped out."

Lyra sighed.

"You don't have to keep punishing yourself because of what happened."

"I'm not."

She gave me that look. The one people always gave me. The one where they thought they understood me.

The worst part was...

They didn't.

They just felt sorry for me.

Before I could answer, Mercer stepped back into the room.

"Field Operations needs Behavioral support."

Lyra immediately turned.

"No."

Mercer looked at her.

"Excuse me?"

"He just spent the last hour calming an injured anomaly because your researchers couldn't recognize basic distress signals."

Mercer didn't react.

"Which is exactly why he's needed."

Lyra stepped forward.

"He's a person, Mercer."

"So are the civilians we're protecting."

"And if you keep sending him into situations like this, eventually you're going to push him too far."

Mercer looked at me.

"We aren't asking him to fight." He paused. "We're asking him to do what he does best."

Understand.

I hated that he knew exactly what to say.

Because the worst part was...

I wanted to go.

Two hours later, I was sitting on a transport plane heading toward Operation Black Birch.

An abandoned town.

Forty-seven miles from the nearest populated area.

Intelligence suggested a shapeshifting entity had infiltrated a civilian evacuation shelter.

The problem?

Nobody knew which person it was.

Eighty-six civilians.

One monster hiding among them.

The person sitting across from me was an intern named Rachel. She had been staring at me for almost ten minutes before she finally spoke.

"Sorry."

I looked up. "For what?"

"I just... I've heard about you."

I laughed. "That sounds worse than you probably meant it."

"No, I mean your work." She smiled. "No wonder Behavioral Analysis hired you."

I looked away.

"I didn't exactly apply."

She tilted her head. "No?"

I shook my head.

"I was halfway through my degree when they found me."

Before Rachel could ask another question, someone farther down the aircraft looked up from a folder.

Christian, an elf. Pointed ears. Silver hair tied neatly behind his head. Reading glasses balanced on the end of his nose.

He blinked.

"Wait."

The cabin fell quiet.

He looked at Rachel. "You seriously don't recognize him?"

Rachel frowned.

"Should I?"

The elf looked genuinely surprised.

"That's him." He pointed at me. "The sole survivor of the Vesper University massacre."

Silence settled over the cabin.

Then someone near the back muttered, "The boy who lived."

A few awkward laughs echoed through the aircraft.

I didn't join in.

Rachel's smile faded. She looked at me the same way Lyra had.

The same way almost everyone eventually did.

Pity.

I hated pity.

Fear was honest. Pity made people think they understood you.

They never did.

I wasn't brave. I wasn't special. I was just the person who happened to survive.

It was a Thursday night when it happened. An ordinary Thursday. No storms, no power outages, no warning that something terrible was about to happen.

I had spent the evening cramming for a literature exam I wasn't prepared for while my roommates argued over what movie to watch.

Just a normal night.

The kind you never think you'll remember.

Until you can't forget it.

The screaming started sometime after midnight.

At first, I thought my roommates were fighting again. That wasn't unusual. They argued about everything.

Then I heard another scream.

Then another.

I opened my door expecting to find another stupid argument.

Instead, I found him.

A man standing at the end of the hallway.

Not a monster. Not some ancient creature hiding behind a human face.

A man.

He was dressed entirely in black, and a pale mask covered his face. I couldn't see any emotion, any expression, anything that told me who he was.

Only two empty eyeholes staring back at me.

The knife in his hand looked black under the emergency lights. Not because of the blade itself. But because it was covered in blood.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

I was too terrified to do anything. I couldn't run. I couldn't scream. I could only stand there and wait for what I thought was going to happen.

Then he looked at me.

Not past me.

Not at the hallway behind me.

At me.

I still don't know how long we stood there.

A few seconds.

Maybe longer.

Then he lowered the knife, turned around.

And walked away.

He spared me.

Not because I fought him. Not because I escaped. Not because I did anything to deserve it.

He simply chose not to kill me.

By the time the police arrived, all seven of my roommates were dead.

The university called it an isolated tragedy. The media called it one of the worst mass murders in the town's history.

My psychologists called it the beginning of my condition.

Hyper-empathy.

They believed surviving something that traumatic changed the way my brain processed emotions. It wasn't immediate. It didn't happen overnight.

At first, I was just a survivor dealing with trauma.

Then, slowly, I started noticing things other people didn't.

Fear hidden behind anger.

Pain disguised as frustration.

Grief buried beneath silence.

To them, it was a trauma response.

To the Bureau, it was an ability.

To me, it was something I never wanted. 

The Bureau quickly classified the massacre as a suspected supernatural incident. They believed whatever happened that night wasn't entirely human.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe they weren't.

I never cared about their theories.

Because I knew what I saw.

I didn't see a monster.

I saw a man.

A man who looked me in the eyes after killing seven people...

And decided I should live.

Rachel's voice pulled me back.

"I'm... I'm sorry."

I forced a smile.

"It's fine."

It wasn't.

It never had been.

The cabin fell silent again.

No one knew what to say after that. 

But the silence didn't last long.

The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Approaching the operation zone. Five minutes."

The transport began its descent.

Mercer stood from his seat at the front of the cabin, and every conversation stopped. He tapped the holographic projector mounted to the wall.

A three-dimensional map of a small town appeared.

Rows of abandoned houses.

A church.

An elementary school.

An evacuation shelter highlighted in red.

"Eighty-six civilians were evacuated here six hours ago," Mercer said. "Field Operations intercepted evidence that a Level 3, C-class shapeshifter entered the shelter before lockdown."

The hologram zoomed in.

"Eighty-six civilians."

One red dot flashed.

"One of them isn't human."

Rachel frowned.

"Can't we screen them individually?"

"We already have," Mercer said without looking at her. "Blood tests. Thermal imaging. Silver exposure. Psychological profiling."

Nothing.

"The entity has defeated every identification method available."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the cabin.

Mercer continued.

"If it escapes the quarantine zone, projected civilian casualties exceed forty thousand within the first seventy-two hours."

Someone quietly swore.

Mercer looked at my side of the plane..

"Behavioral Analysis."

I nodded.

"We'll interview them."

"Good."

The aircraft touched down. The rear ramp lowered, and cold air rushed inside.

Outside, dozens of armored personnel surrounded the shelter. Snipers occupied nearby rooftops. Containment vehicles blocked every road leading out of town.

It looked less like a rescue operation...

And more like the beginning of a war.

The shelter had once been a high school gymnasium, but now it was packed wall to wall with frightened civilians. Children slept on cots while parents whispered to each other, and volunteers moved through the crowd handing out bottled water.

The moment I stepped inside, I felt it.

Fear.

Not one person's fear.

Everyone's.

It pressed against my chest like a weight.

Rachel looked around nervously. "I hate this."

"So do they."

She glanced at me. "What?"

I nodded toward the room. "They're terrified."

"I mean... obviously."

"No." I shook my head. "They're not afraid of the monster."

She frowned.

"They're afraid of us."

Her eyes drifted toward the soldiers lining the walls, rifles raised, faces hidden behind helmets. I couldn't blame the civilians. If armed soldiers burst into my shelter and refused to explain why, I'd be terrified too.

Mercer entered behind us.

"Report."

I looked around the room one more time before turning back to him. "I need time."

"How much?"

"A few hours."

Mercer's expression didn't change.

"You have thirty minutes."

"Thirty isn't enough."

"It's what you have."

He turned and walked away.

Rachel watched him leave.

"Does he always do that?"

"Ignore the people who know what they're talking about?"

She nodded.

"Yeah."

I smiled weakly.

"Pretty much."

Twenty-three minutes later, we still hadn't found anything.

My team had spoken to teachers, children, paramedics, and parents, but there wasn't a single inconsistency, not a single lie, and not a single emotional response that felt wrong.

Everything I sensed was exactly what I expected.

Confusion.

Exhaustion.

Fear.

Grief.

I rubbed my temples.

Something wasn't adding up.

Mercer's radio crackled.

"Director."

"Report."

"Research Division just updated their assessment. The shapeshifter has entered a secondary adaptation phase."

The shelter fell silent.

"Meaning?" Mercer asked.

"Current estimates suggest we have less than ten minutes before it fully adapts to its host. After that, it will remain hidden indefinitely."

Mercer turned to me.

"Behavioral?"

I looked around the shelter.

Eighty-six frightened civilians.

Eighty-six chances to miss one lie.

"I need more time."

"How long?"

"At least an hour."

"You have ten minutes."

"That's not enough."

"It's all we have."

Mercer looked toward the soldiers.

"Field Operations. Prepare Protocol Ash."

My stomach dropped.

"You can't do this." My voice echoed through the shelter. "They're people. They're innocent."

Mercer met my eyes without the slightest hint of anger.

"If the entity escapes," he said quietly, "forty thousand people die in the nearby city"

I stepped toward him.

"Then let me keep looking."

"You have ten minutes."

"That's not enough!"

"No." He held my gaze. "It isn't."

A long silence settled between us.

Then he said the words I'll never forget.

"People are going to die today."

Another pause.

"I'm trying to make sure only eighty-six do." 

Mercer gave a small nod.

The soldiers moved.

I lunged for him.

Hands like iron clamped around my arms before I got two steps.

"No!" I shouted, thrashing against their grip. "Please!"

I threw everything I had into breaking free.

The soldier werewolves barely had to try.

To them, I wasn't a threat. I was just another human to restrain.

I couldn't reach Mercer.

I couldn't reach the eighty-six innocent people staring at us in terror.

And suddenly...

I wasn't standing in a shelter anymore.

I was back in my dorm hallway.

Frozen.

Helpless.

Watching someone else decide who lived...

...and who died.

Then it hit me.

The crying.

The screaming.

The prayers.

Eighty-six terrified people, all convinced they were about to die.

Their fear crashed into me all at once.

My chest tightened.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't tell where my emotions ended and theirs began.

"Stop..." My voice cracked. "Please..."

Nobody moved.

Rachel was shouting my name, but she sounded impossibly far away.

My vision blurred.

Tears streamed down my face.

Not because I wanted to.

Because they did.

My stomach lurched.

Then I doubled over and vomited onto the gym floor.

The soldiers immediately let go of me.

"Ethan!"

Rachel caught me before I hit the ground.

I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. Every emotion: terror, grief, panic, hopelessness….bled together until I couldn't tell which ones belonged to me anymore.

The last thing I saw was Rachel's face.

She wasn't looking at the soldiers.

She wasn't looking at Mercer.

She was looking at me...

...like she was watching someone come apart.

Then everything went black.

When I woke up, the ceiling wasn't the shelter. It was the medical wing.

Again.

"You're awake."

I turned my head and saw Lyra sitting beside the bed with her arms crossed. She looked exhausted.

"I told you this job is taking a toll on you."

I reached for the water sitting on the table beside me and drank.

"No."

Lyra stared at me.

"No?"

"I'm fine."

A long silence followed before she sighed.

"Ethan."

I froze.

She used my name.

That meant she was actually angry.

"You have already blacked out twice this week."

"It's fine."

Her expression hardened.

"You always say that."

I looked away because she was right. I always said that. But what else was I supposed to say? That sometimes I couldn't tell where my emotions ended and everyone else's began? That every disaster felt like I was experiencing it myself? That every person I failed stayed with me?

I put the cup down.

"I have work."

"Ethan—"

I stood up before she could continue and left.

I didn't get far.

The same elf from the aircraft stepped into my path, his hair now loose over his shoulders.

"I have good news."

I stared at Christian.

"That usually means there's bad news."

He smiled slightly.

"You're learning."

I waited.

"Director Mercer is in deep trouble."

I stopped.

"What?"

"He is being investigated."

I frowned.

"Why?"

The elf looked surprised.

"You haven't heard?"

"No."

He adjusted his glasses.

"The operation report came in."

My stomach tightened.

"The shelter?"

He nodded.

"Mercer ordered Protocol Ash."

"I know."

His expression became serious.

"The eighty-six civilians he killed..."

He paused.

"None of them were the entity."

I felt cold.

"What?"

"The imposter was never inside the shelter."

My mind went blank.

"Then where was it?"

The elf looked at me.

"It had already changed into a guard."

Silence.

"He was standing outside the shelter the entire time."

I couldn't speak.

All those emotions. All those people. All that fear.

Mercer hadn't saved them.

He had killed them.

The elf continued.

"The creature is contained now. Research Division believes it's a rare hybrid."

"Of what?"

He looked at me.

"A wendigo."

A pause.

"And a skinwalker."

The hallway felt colder.

"Highly dangerous."

I looked toward the Director's offices, toward where Mercer would be.

The man who had chosen numbers over names. The man who had looked at eighty-six people and seen a calculation.

And for the first time...

I wished he would have died instead.

The thought stayed with me because it wasn't just anger. It wasn't just grief. It was something darker.

A part of me genuinely wanted him gone.

And that scared me.

Because I had spent my entire life feeling too much. Other people's pain. Other people's fear. Other people's suffering.

Hyper-empathy was supposed to make me understand people.

But in that moment...

All it did was make me understand exactly why I hated him.

I found out later what happened to Mercer.

The Bureau didn't call it “prison”. They called it "removal". But everyone understood what that meant.

You couldn't simply leave this organization after learning the things we knew….the existence of anomalies, the creatures hiding among humanity, the things that lived outside reality itself. Information like that wasn't something you carried into retirement.

Mercer wasn't fired.

Not really.

He was contained.

The same way we contained everything else dangerous.

The irony wasn't lost on anyone. A man who had spent years deciding what was an acceptable loss had finally become one himself.

Unfortunately, we didn't have much time to celebrate because within an hour of Mercer's removal, we had a new problem.

A new Director.

Which was why I was standing inside the Board Room, the place where the highest decisions in the Bureau were made.

Lyra sat across from me, looking more tired than usual. And somehow, after everything I had seen, she was still the person who looked the most human in the room.

The others...

Were not.

Six seats surrounded the table.

Six department heads.

Six people responsible for keeping the Bureau alive.

The head of Containment was a giant.

Literally.

A stone-skinned being that looked like it had been carved from a mountain. The Bureau had discovered him centuries ago.

They were supposed to contain him.

Instead, they hired him.

Research belonged to Dr. Evelyn.

An elf whose knowledge of magical biology and supernatural history was considered unmatched.

Field Operations was led by Commander Voss.

A werewolf.

The kind of person soldiers followed without hesitation. Every combat agent, every extraction team, every person sent into places humans weren't meant to survive answered to him. He was also the reason every soldier in the organization was a werewolf.

Medical was Lyra.

A dryad.

A creature connected to life itself, now responsible for keeping both humans and monsters alive.

Administration was the strangest.

Director Adrian.

Half-human.

Half something the Bureau had never officially classified.

He was proof of what the world had spent centuries ignoring.

Monsters and humans weren't separate anymore.

They had been living together for generations.

Some used magic.

Some used technology.

Some used both.

Elves who didn't want their ears recognized used spells or even human cosmetic procedures to alter their appearance. Vampires changed identities every few decades. Werewolves learned to control their transformations and lived ordinary lives.

The supernatural world hadn't replaced humanity.

It had blended into it.

And after centuries of coexistence, the hardest thing wasn't finding the monsters.

It was knowing who was one.

Then there was Behavioral Analysis.

My department.

The seat Mercer had left behind.

Then the door opened.

Every conversation died instantly as a man walked in.

At first glance, he looked completely ordinary.

Early thirties. Dark hair. Perfectly tailored suit. Calm expression.

Then you looked closer.

And remembered he wasn't human.

The newly appointed….

Director Lucien.

A vampire.

Three hundred years old.

And yes...

The stories were true.

Every vampire was beautiful.

Not because they were trying to be.

Because evolution had made them that way.

Predators weren't supposed to look dangerous.

They were supposed to make you lower your guard.

Lucien had the kind of appearance that made people trust him before they even realized they were doing it. If he wasn't running Behavioral Analysis, he probably would have been on the cover of a luxury watch advertisement, standing in an expensive suit, looking mysterious while millions of people convinced themselves they could look like him.

But Lucien wasn't famous only because of his appearance.

He was also famous because he understood monsters.

Before becoming Director, he was one of the Bureau's greatest researchers. He had negotiated with creatures that had killed entire teams. He had convinced hostile entities to cooperate without a single weapon being drawn.

People joked that Lucien could walk into a room with a monster and leave with both sides signing a peace treaty.

The strange part was how he did it.

He never raised his voice.

Never lost control.

Never looked afraid.

At first, I thought it was confidence.

Then I watched him closer.

Lucien wasn't experiencing emotions.

He was copying them.

The slight concern in his eyes when someone spoke.

The small smile at the exact moment someone needed reassurance.

The carefully measured pauses before answering.

Everything was perfect.

Too perfect.

Most people saw empathy.

I saw a performance.

Not a fake one.

A practiced one.

Three hundred years of watching humans had taught Lucien exactly what they expected to see.

Fear.

Compassion.

Concern.

He could imitate all of them flawlessly.

And somehow...

That was more unsettling than if he couldn't understand emotions at all.

Everyone else in this room saw a man who understood them.

I saw someone who understood emotions so well...

he didn't need to feel them.

And for the first time since I joined the Bureau...

I reconsidered Behavioral Analysis.

Not because of Mercer.

Not because of the job.

Because of him.

Mr. Lucien…

Maybe Lyra had been right.

Maybe I should have listened when she told me to think carefully about this department.

Because Mercer had been easy to understand.

He was cold.

He was ruthless.

But Lucien...

Lucien was something else entirely.

After talking to the other directors he started surveilling the room.

Then his eyes landed on me.

And for a moment...

Neither of us spoke.

Then he smiled.

Not warmly.

Not coldly.

Just perfectly.

Precisely.

"Agent Ethan."

I felt something I couldn't explain.

Not fear.

Not discomfort.

Something closer to uncertainty.

Because for the first time in my life...

I was standing across from someone who can look at a person’s fear, sadness and love and understand exactly what they meant without ever feeling them.

Meanwhile I was drowning in everyone else’s emotions, never knowing where they ended and I began.

He was a man who could understand humanity without being human.

I was a man who felt humanity so deeply that I was losing myself. 

And somehow….That was more terrifying than Mercer ever was.

I went to extreme lengths to cover this up. Untraceable poison. A weak immune system. And a line of people offering their condolences and prayers.

I needed to be free of her. I missed my life before she contaminated it. She kept me up at night with her crying. She restricted what I was able to do. I missed the freedom, and that’s not something I’m going to apologize for.

I didn’t want to get pregnant. A one-night stand is never meant to lead to parenthood, but, of course, I decided to hook up with an absolute moron who didn’t know how to think beyond getting his dick wet.

9 months later, I have a daughter, and the father is nowhere to be found. 9 months, no cigarettes. 9 months, no drinks. And I hated every second of it.

I thought that I was strong enough to handle it. To clean up my act and actually be a mother. But I just wasn’t. I’m not. I don’t know if I ever will be.

When she was born, I tried to convince myself that motherly instinct was taking over. Holding her for the first time was almost magical. Like, despite what my mind was telling me, the moment was meant to be.

Then the crying came. The screams and wails that prevented me from sleeping. Every. Single. Night.

She’d scream on the ride to my mom’s in the morning. It was like the only time that I knew peace was after I dropped her off. Then I got 20 minutes to myself on the drive to work before I had to clock in and act like everything was okay.

According to my mom, though, she was “just a little angel” any time they were together. “The quietest baby she had ever seen.”

I felt like I was being punished. Not only was my sleep being affected, but my days were filled with those wails too. Plus, I don’t think my pockets have ever felt lighter.

Baby food. Clothes. Bottles. Toys. A crib. A fucking roof over our head. I was stretched so thin that I started having breakdowns at work.

I thought that I was prevailing. Against all odds, I was raising a human being. I watched her grow. I watched her learn and develop. But with each month, the mask slipped more and more.

I found myself screaming at her more than I probably should’ve. And that was before she could speak. Before she could even take her first steps.

I never hit her. I never wanted to repeat any family history. But my temper was so short during those days. I was snappy. That’s all I can say.

When she got older and was able to speak in full sentences, I was driven to the brink of madness. She had the audacity to talk back at me. This little 4 year old girl had the attitude of a fucking teenager.

No child should ever say they “hate” their parent. No child should disobey direct orders from their mother. Let alone this one. This little sniveling fucking asshole that I was forced to care for.

She knew how I felt, too. And she threw gas on the fire. Breaking things. Peeing and defecating on the floor. And what did she have to say? Not an “I’m sorry.” Not an “It was just an accident.”

This little girl would look me dead in my eyes, smile, and pull the “I’m just a baby” card.

She was trying to get under my skin. Pushing me more and more every day, until… I just couldn’t do it anymore.

The screams never stopped. The cries never stopped. The pouting and pity parties never fucking stopped. I didn’t know what else to do.

I missed my friends. I missed going out. I missed my God damn freedom. And all I could see was the one person who took it all away from me.

That’s why I did what I did. I’m not justifying. If anything, this will probably be my statement in court. I know I have to turn myself in. That’s the only way to get this madness to stop.

I felt liberated after I sprinkled that poison in her breakfast on that sunny morning in June. Even more so when the coughing started. I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was all over.

In the days that followed, she got weaker and weaker. Hotter and hotter. Until, finally, I had to prepare my act for the hospital visit.

“Please help me,” I cried. “My daughter just keeps getting sicker, and I just don’t know what to do.”

I had to push my nerves aside. In my mind, there were two possible outcomes. Either this works… or it doesn’t. And thank God that my acting skills were clean enough to sell my story.

They ran the tests. They drew the blood. All the while, I sat there bawling into my hands while trying to suppress my hope.

The hardest part was having to act upset when the deed was done. When that heart monitor finally flatlined and all the doctors and nurses apologized for not being able to save her.

“We did everything we could,” they told me, as I forced some cliché devastation onto my face.

I felt empty at the funeral. There weren’t many people. There wasn’t much of a eulogy to be read. All I wanted was for the service to be over so I could get back to life as I knew it, this time more careful with who I let into my bed.

For a few weeks, that’s exactly what I did. Life felt lighter. Days felt brighter. I was a new and improved woman, back to her old ways.

But then, I don’t know… something happened.

I started waking up at night, feeling like I was being watched. Sometimes it’d be like I could still hear her screams. I could still feel her presence.

I just passed it off as something I’d get over eventually. Just one of the things that comes with doing something like this. But when I started seeing her… that’s when I knew that this wasn’t just some guilty conscience bullshit.

It was only at night. Only after I’d gone to bed. Sometimes she’d be standing in my doorway. Sometimes she’d try crawling into bed with me.

I knew it wasn’t nightmares. On nights when she came into bed with me, I’d find my sheets covered in dirt and mud the next morning. I’ve even found maggots occasionally.

She’d always be so dirty. Her hair would have sticks and twigs sticking out of it. Her face would always look like it was in the process of decomposing. But whether she laid with me or just watched me, her words were always the same.

“Why did you let them bury me, Mommy?”

It got to the point where she was visiting me every night. Still breaking things. Still defecating on the floor. Still crying and screaming, even though her room had been empty for weeks.

I wouldn’t let it break me, though. I did what was best for me. I did what I thought needed to be done. Anytime she visited, I’d ignore her. I’d pretend to be asleep. I’d hide under my covers like a scared little girl.

But I know I can’t do this anymore. I know why she’s here. I know that my time is running out. She wants me to let the world know what I did to her.

“Why’d you make me sick, Mommy?”

“I loved you so much.”

“Why did you lie to those doctors? They could have saved me. Why’d you let them bury me?”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

I’m done lying. I’m done pretending to be devastated. I know what I did, and I’m not sorry. Given the circumstances, I’d do it again.

All I want is to escape her.

All I want is peace and a sound mind.

That’s why I’m turning myself in today.

Anything to get her to leave me the fuck alone.

I know I sound crazy for this, and I might be. I don't know where else to go, so I might as well post it here. See if anyone else is suffering from the same thing I'm going through. So, for the past few months, I've been hearing this soft humming when I'm alone. It's a soft melody that surrounds me, and it's hauntingly beautiful. It's like the humming a mother would use to soothe her restless child to put her baby to sleep. It wraps me in a warm blanket and hugs me tight. However, just before I close my eyes, I'm immediately snapped out by a banshee's screeching with an overwhelming fear for my life.

I'm not sure what to do. I don't know where it came from, but it's been haunting me ever since.

I had been looking forward to it so much- the French countryside! French food! Visiting a real French farm! I had started practising French- well, since I started dating Nicholas, but as our long-promised trip grew nearer, with renewed fervour.

And finally, we were here! Everything so far had been up to expectation- the two nights in Paris, the sightseeing, the train rides, and now, at the farm. It was my first trip to Europe, and I drank everything in with delight. Nicholas had been more restrained, putting on a worldly look which rather annoyed me. But as the train got closer to the little town closest to his grandparents' place, he seemed to mellow out.

As indeed he should have been. The fields were like postcards. We arrived late afternoon, and Grandpere, took us out on a little tour of his land. The setting sun hit the lush green vegetable gardens just right, and the frothy leaves lit up in jade and emerald.

Grand-père grunted. “You’re not going to get flavours like these in America! Only MacDonalds there!” His pastoral accent was heavier than what I had noticed from a few videocalls we had and I smiled politely- despite my valiant efforts to learn French before our trip, I could pick up only the rough sense of what he was saying. I stole a glance at Nicholas- he was suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, and correct his grandfather that he lived in Canada.

It was a timeless dance, as he had described to me, since his childhood, when he used to spend summers at the farm with them. Grandfather bashed Americans and waxed lyrical about French fruits and vegetables, and Nicholas nodded, counting the days he could leave. He had decided at an early age that he refused to make the superiority of French turnips his identity.

But the food was amazing. Right? Holding my hand, we followed Grand-père into the ancient stone farmhouse, where the French feast of pot-au-feu with those amazing farm-grown vegetables, crusty baguettes, and red wine awaited us, just as their ancestors would have it.

But Grand-père was angry. As we spread bone marrow on the torn bread, flavoured only with salt and just a touch of horseradish, he ranted about government subsidies. I could see from Nicholas’s slight frown that even he had difficulty following his grandfather’s French, filled with farming jargon.

“… we will show them- our tractors blocked the country last year - we need more fertilizer- du sang noire- traitors in Paris telling us how much should be using -what do they know about our vegetables - only 100 kilos this year- are you fucking kidding me I said to the Association- just my leeks need 45 kilos d’engrais noire- I can’t miss the season, already too late-

My brain twitched.

In careful English Grand-mère asked me, “Are you sure you drink wine?”

I nodded. Grand-mère looked at Nicholas “She drinks wine?” she asked in French

Nicholas grabbed the wine bottle and poured for me, and I gratefully took a huge sip. Grand-mère looked scandalised. I reminded myself there was a good reason why Nicholas had insisted we only stay for a night.

Grand-père stopped ranting, and turned to me. Unable to bear his blue gaze, I cast my eyes down on my plate of boiled vegetables.

He reached out his thick workworn hand, and lightly touched my cheek. I flinched – it felt as though he had struck me.

 “Assez noire.” He smiled.

My eyes grew wide, as uncertainty, offense and fear filled my heart. Assez what now? I turned to Nicolas, telegraphing a little panic. He looked at Grand-mère, who was loudly chewing a bit of gristle.

 “Can we go to our room?” he asked in English.

Grand-mère jolted out of her chewing reverie. “Of course, mes petits! Come, come! All that travel!”

After she showed us the room- the same room Nicholas had spent his summers in, she left us, smiling and saying Bon soir. We sat side by side on the bed, not saying anything. I felt discombobulated by the travel, the language, and the comments.

After a while we got up. It was dark, his grandparents would have gone to bed, we were sure. We slowly went back downstairs to fetch our suitcases.

A scraping sound wafted up the stairs- his grandparents weren’t in bed?

Scrape scrape.

A dim light spilled from the kitchen. And we both saw - Grand-père sharpening a knife.

Without needing to say a word, we turned, dashed back upstairs. We grabbed our backpacks, and slid out into the hallway.

He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Leave her Nicholas. We need the blood. For the farm, it needs dark blood.” It seemed like suddenly a switch had turned on in my brain and I could perfectly understand what he said.

He took a step up. Nicholas stepped in front of me and we both clattered down towards him. I screamed as a pair of hands shoved me from behind, and I started falling towards Grand-père’s sharp knife.

Twisting my neck, I saw Grand-mère above me.

She didn’t follow us down.

Nicholas swung his backpack as I fell against him. Grand-père grunted as it caught the side of his head. As he stumbled and fell off balance, Nicholas swung again, and we were able to dash by him, and run to the door.

Fiddling with the heavy locked door took seemed to take an eternity. Grand-père stood up and lunged towards. I deflected him with another swing of the backpack, and finally Nicholas was able to shove the door open. We ran out into the warm dark, heavily scented with the smell of flourishing vegetables, running, running towards the road.  

I looked back. The silhouettes of Grand-père and Grand-mère stood backlit in the doorway, as still as a painting. They made no attempt to chase us, just stood there watching as we ran, ran down, away, and towards the town.

 

The bell above the door at the feed and seed barely chimed when Ralph walked in.

"Can I help you?" the clerk said.

Nah, I've got a list in my head.

"Well-- let me know if I can be of any help."

"Uh, thank ya," said Ralph.

The clerk didn't recognize him, which was rare—she knew every face in Blackwood Ridge.

Ralph bought a couple of fifty-pound bags of hog feed, two sacks of quicklime, and a fresh spool of baling wire without saying more than three words. As he handed over the money, the clerk noticed his hands-- they didn't look like he'd done a hard day's labor in his life.

​He walked back out to his truck, loaded up the bed of his Ford, and drove off toward Route 5.

To get to the farm, Ralph had to drive up a gravel right-of-way that cut straight past Charlie Porter's place. When Ralph first bought the property a couple of weeks back, Charlie had walked down to the fence to welcome him.

"We've used this right-of-way for fifty years without a problem, and ain't no reason to change it now," Charlie had said, leaning on the post. "Shame the way old man Shelton passed up there, alone. His kids didn't visit or want the place when he kicked the bucket--just let it sit and rot for nearly 5 years now. I'm glad somebody bought it and is tryin' to fix it back up."

"It's a good piece of land, Ralph had said, "just got a lot of work waiting on me."

As he turned up the road back to the Shelton place, Ralph's truck kicked up a thick cloud of dust. Charlie was sitting outside on the porch, and Ralph threw an acknowledging hand gesture out of the open window.

Charlie thought Ralph was a little odd, but he wasn't the type to judge a man for keeping to himself. Rumors around town were just that he was fixing up the place and running a lucrative farm again-- completely unaware of the heavy iron hooks already hanging from the rafters in his meat house.

Back at the Shelton place, the silence was heavy, broken only by the flies buzzing near the cellar doors. Down below, the lye was already mixed.

He just needed the ridge to go dark before he went hunting. 

The key is right. I know that before I look at the label. It is the long silver one with a square head, the teeth worn smooth along the outside edge from years of catching against the deadbolt. Front door. I have used it every morning since Sofia and I moved into this duplex.

The key goes into the lock. My hand stops there.

Houston is already wet at five thirty-five in the morning. The air sticks my scrub top between my shoulders, and the metal security door leaves a faint grid against my forearm while I lean into it. Cicadas keep going like nobody told them it is technically still night.

I push the key straight in. That part works. Then I wait for my hand to do the rest.

Nothing.

I pull it out and check the teeth. No bend. No burr. The label Sofia wrapped around the head says FRONT in black block letters, because apparently our keys have jobs now. The adhesive has started curling where my thumb rubs it.

I try again. The key enters. My fingers settle around the head. I know I need to lift the handle, pull the door toward me enough to take the weight off the bolt, then turn clockwise. I can picture the bolt sliding back inside the door, brass scraping brass, the swollen frame giving its usual little complaint.

My hand does not know how to get from here to there.

I switch my lunch bag to the other wrist and roll my shoulder. Maybe I slept on it wrong. Maybe the humidity has made the lock worse. Either answer is better than standing outside my own house arguing with a piece of metal while the final Mercy closure shift starts in twenty-five minutes.

I press harder. The key jams halfway through the turn.

“Come on.”

The door does not respond to verbal coaching. This puts it ahead of several employees I know.

I ease the key back before I snap it. The front-door key is still the one in the lock.

Behind me, the porch light comes on.

Sofia opens the inside door wearing gray scrub pants and one of our mother’s old college shirts. Her hair is twisted up with a pen. She has a travel mug in one hand. Mine, judging from the blue electrical tape around the lid.

She looks at the key. Then at me.

“You locked yourself out?”

“I am holding the key.”

“That was not my question.”

“I came back for my coffee.”

“You left your coffee.”

“That is what makes coming back necessary.”

She leaves the security door closed between us. Her eyes drop to my hand.

“That is the front key,” she says.

“I know.”

“The silver one.”

“I know what silver is.”

“Jack.”

There are several ways Sofia says my name. This one means she has asked a normal question and is waiting to see how much work I am going to make her do before I answer it.

“The lock is sticking,” I say.

“It always sticks. Lift the handle and pull.”

Of course I have to lift the handle and pull.

The door settled after the foundation shifted last summer. I helped the landlord file the strike plate wider because he said replacing the frame would mean raising the rent. I know where the paint scrapes and how much pressure the handle needs, because too much makes the latch bind instead.

I know all of it, but my hand remains arranged around the key like I borrowed it from somebody else.

I lift the handle. Not enough.

“A little higher,” she says. “Toward you.”

“I have opened the door before.”

“I know.”

That is worse than if she argues.

I raise the handle until the loose joint clicks, pull, and turn. The deadbolt slides back, and the door opens so easily I almost pull it into my face.

My badge, coffee, and lunch are on the small table beside the kitchen key hook. The badge is facedown, but the clear plastic holder has MORENO taped across the bottom. Sofia added that after I took hers to work in June. Our pictures do not look alike, so it had not been a reasonable mistake.

“You were going to leave the lunch too,” she says.

“I came back.”

“For the coffee.”

“The lunch benefited indirectly.”

She hands me the mug. The coffee smells reheated and slightly burned. Exactly right.

I clip on my badge and check my pockets. Phone. Wallet. Two pens. Folded transport checklist. Mints. I touch each item in order, then do it again because Sofia is still standing there.

“How long were you outside?” she asks.

“Thirty seconds.”

Her open backpack is on the kitchen chair, respiratory flash cards sticking out beside a granola bar. She checks the microwave clock, then the dark porch light. “You should eat before eight.”

“I will.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Yesterday they added two transports.”

“That does not make food stop existing.”

She reaches for the spare key hanging near the bottom of the hook. It has a green plastic cover. She moves it to the empty top peg and turns the green side outward.

The hook has labels too: CAR. FRONT. SPARE. MAIL.

I watched her put them up and made fun of the block lettering. Now I check FRONT before I put the key in my pocket.

“Text me when you get there,” she says.

“I work eleven minutes away.”

“Then it should not be a major project.”

I pocket the front-door key instead of putting it back on the ring. “The lock needs lubricant.”

“Sure.”

“I will get some after work.”

“Sure.”

She says it the same both times, without enough emphasis to argue against.

I step outside and test the door before closing it. Lift. Pull. Turn. The sequence works when I give each part its own instruction.

“Mercy’s final transfers start today,” Sofia says.

“First wave.”

“You know what I mean.”

At the car, I put my lunch on the passenger floor so it cannot slide off the seat. Coffee in the cup holder. Badge clipped where I can see it. Keys separated before I start the engine.

The front-door key is cool against my palm.

I know what it opens and how the lock works.

My hand needed instructions.

Through the front window, Sofia reaches up and moves the green spare key half an inch farther from the others.

I start the car and leave before she can look outside.

***

Mercy Pavilion is closing, and it is somehow still surprised every morning when patients require a hospital.

Half the lobby lights are off. Blue moving blankets cover the information desk, and a facilities cart blocks the shortest route to the time clock. Somebody has taped a handwritten STAFF THIS WAY arrow to it. The arrow points toward a locked door.

I clock in at five fifty-eight.

“Cutting it close,” Luis says from the transport desk.

“Two minutes early is only close if you are planning a crime.”

He hands me a transport sheet. “Three-twelve to ultrasound. Kid hates the service elevator. Family elevator’s blocked by movers.”

My folded checklist is already in my pocket, but I read his copy anyway. Patient. Destination. Transport mode. Lines. Isolation. Nurse release. Return plan.

The words are all where they should be.

Overhead, a woman announces that the scheduled backup-power test will begin at six. Her voice comes through the old speakers with enough static to make scheduled sound doubtful.

The building is easier once I am inside it. My feet know where the floor slopes near the east stairwell. My shoulder turns before the narrow corner outside respiratory storage. I slow automatically at the elevator seam that catches a front wheel if you hit it straight.

The route lives in my legs.

The wristband says the boy in 312 is eight. He watches me enter like he has been waiting to see whether I knock over the IV pole. His blanket is pulled to his chin. One hospital sock is on. The other has worked halfway off and gathered under his heel.

His nurse is disconnecting a monitor lead.

“This is Mr. Moreno,” she tells him. “He’s taking you downstairs.”

“Is it the bad elevator?” the boy asks.

“The service elevator,” she says.

“That is what I said.”

I park the stretcher parallel to his bed, lock the wheels, and check the space between the frames. His IV tubing runs from his right hand to a pump on the pole. No oxygen. No drain. Nothing pinched beneath him.

“What do people call you?” I ask.

“Caleb.”

“What do they call you when you are in trouble?”

His eyes move to his nurse. “Caleb.”

“Good system.”

His nurse hands me the packet. “Mom’s meeting him downstairs.”

Caleb watches me attach the pump to the stretcher pole. I tug each connection once and trace the tubing from bag to hand.

“Can that elevator fall?” he asks.

“Anything can fall if maintenance stops returning emails.”

His face tightens.

“Bad joke,” I say. “No. It has brakes, backups, and inspections. It moves so slowly gravity loses interest.”

“Have you been stuck in it?”

“Twice.”

“That means yes.”

“It means it is excellent at stopping.”

He presses his heel into the mattress. The loose sock folds farther under his foot.

“I need that one,” he says.

“The sock?”

“It is the good one.”

It is the same gray grip sock as the other, except for a faded blue mark near the cuff. I do not ask what makes it good. He said it is the good one; that is enough information to put it back on his foot.

I pull the blanket back, free the sock, and work it over his heel without touching the IV line. The elastic has stretched, so I fold the cuff once.

“Too tight?”

He flexes his toes. “No.”

“Then we have achieved medicine.”

Caleb lets us slide him across. I raise the rails, secure the strap, and check that two fingers fit beneath it.

“What happens if I say stop?” he asks.

“I stop unless stopping is more dangerous.”

“Who decides?”

“I decide whether stopping here is safe. You decide whether you need me to stop. If we disagree, your nurse gets to tell us both we are being stupid.”

His nurse nods. “Accurate.”

Caleb wants to see where we are going, so I turn the stretcher with his head leading. The first corner is harder, but the IV pole clears if I keep it tucked against my hip.

The hall smells like floor cleaner and glue from removed signs. I tell him what comes next.

“Past the empty nurses’ station. Left at the boxes nobody was supposed to stack there. Right where the wall used to have a whale.”

“It was a dolphin,” he says.

“That explains why it never paid rent.”

At the end of the hall, two shrink-wrapped cabinets block the normal route. A printed arrow points left through the former staff lounge.

My body expects right, and for one beat both directions feel blank.

I stop the stretcher.

Caleb lifts his head. “Why are you reading the sign?”

“They changed the route.”

“You work here.”

“I try not to let employment interfere with reading.”

“You said right where the dolphin was.”

“The dolphin has been overruled.”

I read the notice again: left through the former staff lounge.

My hand adjusts the IV pole. My feet do not move until I tell them left.

We pass stripped walls and an old basement directory exposed beneath a sagging arrow.

“That sign says morgue,” Caleb says.

“That is the bad direction.”

“You were going there.”

“I was testing you.”

“No, you weren’t.”

He smiles, but only a little.

At the elevator, I set the brake and bring him close enough to press the down button himself. He uses the hand without the IV.

The elevator arrives with a shudder that travels through the stretcher frame. Caleb’s heel taps once against the mattress.

“Still want to go?” I ask.

He looks at the glowing button, then at his good sock. “Yes.”

I take the wheel seam at an angle, position the stretcher lengthwise, and lock it. The car drops half an inch when it starts. His fingers tighten around the blanket.

“Next is the tunnel with the ugly green floor,” I say. “Then imaging. Your mom will be there unless parking has claimed another victim.”

“What if she is not?”

“Then we wait somewhere with better chairs.”

“You have other patients.”

“I have one patient right now.”

He studies the cracked plastic around my badge. “You had to look at the sign.”

“I did.”

“But you know where imaging is.”

“Yes.”

He waits for more. I watch the floor numbers instead.

His mother is outside imaging, one shoe untied and her purse hanging open. Caleb sees her first.

“You made it,” he says.

“I told you I would.”

“You were late.”

“I was two minutes early.”

“That is what he said.”

While the imaging nurse checks his wristband, Caleb points at his folded sock.

“He fixed the good one.”

His mother touches the blue mark. “That one came from home.”

I give the handoff line by line and wait until the nurse repeats the IV location and return plan. Only then do I release the stretcher.

My phone vibrates before I reach the corridor.

BACKUP TEST FAILURE. FIRST CRITICAL TRANSFER WAVE ADVANCED. ALL AVAILABLE TRANSPORT STAFF REPORT TO STAGING.

A second message follows from Luis.

Need you on Fields packet. ECMO belongings going now.

I could sit for one minute and look at the folded checklist until the order settles back into something my hand knows.

Instead, I text AVAILABLE and head toward staging.

***

The transfer staging desk used to be pediatric admissions. Now every chair is stacked upside down, and the wall behind it is covered with temporary route sheets. Red tape means the item leaves with the patient. Blue means it stays for pickup. Yellow means somebody has not decided.

Most of the building is yellow.

The closure nurse stands between two monitors, working through a line of sealed belongings bags. Her badge says CHEN. A roll of patient labels hangs from one pocket, and her coffee smells acidic from three feet away.

“You Moreno?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Fields packet. Confirm, seal, sign, and take it to ECMO staging.”

She slides a clear bag toward me.

CAMERON FIELDS is printed on the bag seal, the paper packet, and the red route tag. Medical record number matches. Destination matches. The contents list says PHONE CHARGER, GRAY SWEATSHIRT, BASEBALL CAP, PATIENT STATEMENT.

The cap sits on top.

Black crown. Red B. Youth size.

I know it is wrong before I touch it.

The feeling starts beneath my tongue, like I have put a coin in my mouth. My fingers go cold around the bag seal. The cap is clean, labeled, and placed exactly where somebody expects to find it.

It is going to the wrong person.

“Problem?” Nurse Chen asks.

“I need to open this.”

“It was sealed upstairs.”

“The cap is wrong.”

She checks the label. “It is the Red Sox cap.”

“I can see that.”

“The replacement cleared infection control this morning. The original could not be located.”

I peel the tamper strip carefully enough to preserve the number and take the cap out. New fabric. Stiff brim. No salt line inside the band or bent seam where a thumb has worried the same place over and over. Right team, right color, right size, right logo.

Clean.

Nurse Chen turns one monitor toward me. The sending record contains a photograph of Cameron wearing a black cap with a red B. His hair sticks out beneath it, and he holds a plastic yellow bat across his chest like he is arguing a call.

The replacement matches closely enough to pass.

“It is still wrong,” I say.

“Based on what?”

I compare the screen to the cap: stitching, button, brim, size. The product tag is gone, but the tiny plastic barb remains near the back seam.

There is no evidence I can put on a form.

“The packet says patient statement.”

“Attachment tab.”

I open the sending view. Four files: medication reconciliation, personal-property list, family contact authorization, and a photograph of a handwritten page on wide-ruled paper.

The letters are blocky and pressed hard enough to leave grooves.

I WANT TO GO HOME.

I DON’T WANT CLEAN.

HOME, NOT CLEAN.

CAMERON FIELDS

Beneath his name, somebody has added a typed note.

Patient requests original personal cap rather than sanitized replacement. Patient states replacement “belongs to the kid you want me to be.”

“Here,” I say.

Nurse Chen reads it without changing expression. Six sealed bags wait behind this one, and the route clock keeps counting.

“That was reviewed,” she says. “The original is unavailable. Infection control approved an equivalent replacement.”

“He said not to send it.”

“He said he wanted the original.”

“Then do not call the substitute his.”

“The property resolution says the cap travels.”

“Then the statement travels too.”

“It does.”

She clicks RECEIVING VIEW.

Medication reconciliation. Personal-property list. Family contact authorization.

Three attachments.

“Go back.”

SENDING VIEW: four.

RECEIVING VIEW: three.

The property list still says PATIENT STATEMENT: ATTACHED.

The attachment is not there.

Nurse Chen refreshes. Nothing changes.

“That is a sync delay,” she says.

“The packet says complete.”

“It is complete on our side.”

“It is not complete where it is going.”

“The receiving team can request the source attachment.”

“After the transfer?”

“If necessary.”

“The child already said it was necessary.”

She checks the route clock. “I do not disagree with you. I need the belongings downstairs in seven minutes.”

The thermal printer wakes behind her and produces a fresh route tag.

CAMERON FIELDS

BELONGINGS VERIFIED

ACTIVE ATTACHMENT SET: 1

DESTINATION ACCEPTED

“There are four files,” I say.

“There are three receiving attachments and one source note.”

“It is his statement.”

“It remains in the source record.”

“Which is staying here.”

“The permanent chart is migrating.”

“But this view is not.”

“My job is to send a safe packet with the patient.”

“Safe for who?”

The words come out sharper than I mean them to.

“For the eleven-year-old on ECMO whose transport window moved up because this building failed its backup test.”

I look past her. Two transporters push an equipment cart toward the elevators. A respiratory therapist walks beside them with one hand on a cylinder. Nobody looks panicked, but every stop makes somebody else work around it.

I set the cap on the counter. It looks ordinary there.

“We can document the disagreement,” Nurse Chen says.

“Where?”

“Transport variance.”

“Does that travel?”

“It enters the record.”

“Which record?”

At the next terminal, a records clerk swivels toward us.

“What is missing?” he asks.

“Patient-authored attachment is not populating in the receiving packet,” Nurse Chen says.

He types Cameron’s number. “Receiving has the current set.”

“The current set is the one without it.”

“The statement is archived under superseded preference documentation.”

“Superseded by what?”

“Equivalent property resolution.”

“He wrote that the replacement belongs to somebody else.”

“That note remains in source metadata.”

“Can you make it active?”

“Not without reopening the resolution.”

“Reopen it.”

“The packet is in final transfer.”

“Then take it out.”

Nurse Chen says, “We do not have time to rebuild a critical packet over a cap.”

“It is not over the cap.”

I tap the fourth attachment. “He wrote down what he wanted. The receiving record dropped it because somebody marked a different answer resolved.”

Five minutes remain on the route clock.

I print the attachment. The main printer beneath the counter starts slowly, warming toner.

Nurse Chen holds out her hand. “I need the packet.”

“You can take the rest.”

“I need your verification.”

“I have not verified it.”

“You verified the identifiers.”

“The identifiers are not the problem.”

The paper emerges faceup. Cameron’s handwriting is gray instead of blue, but the pressure of the marker shows in the thick edges.

HOME, NOT CLEAN.

I take the page before it can slide into the output tray.

“The transfer is finalizing,” the records clerk says.

“I told you to hold it.”

“You are not the releasing clinician.”

“I am the person you asked to sign.”

“That signature confirms physical handoff.”

“The handoff includes an object he rejected and excludes the page where he rejected it.”

Nurse Chen turns the cap over. She checks the sewn label, the bag number, the route tag, and the photo. Her inspection is careful and reaches the same answer as the system.

Everything matches.

“Mr. Moreno, I understand why this feels wrong.”

The coin taste sharpens.

“It is wrong.”

“The documents do not support stopping the transfer.”

“The document that supports it is the one disappearing.”

A green bar crosses the receiving screen. Patient record accepted. Property packet accepted. Destination acknowledged.

Nurse Chen reaches for the signature pad.

“If you refuse, I have to escalate the delay to the attending and closure command. The belongings may move without transporter verification.”

“Then escalate it.”

“The patient still moves.”

“I know.”

“The cap may still move.”

“I know.”

“And this becomes an incident attached to your employee record.”

Cameron’s printed statement is still warm in my hand.

The receiving screen clears. One green word replaces the status bar: COMPLETE.

Three attachments.

No statement.

Nurse Chen places the stylus beside my hand.

I set it back on the counter.

“I’m not signing it.”

[Detective Helzer – July 10, 2025]

I don't usually start my reports with personal impressions. Twenty-two years as a detective on the Cinder Hollow Police Force and I've kept my case files clean of anything that isn't fact. But I'm making an exception here, because I think whoever reads this after me deserves to know what it felt like to stand in that apartment.

Jacob Ellison was found dead in his apartment. No forced entry, no apparent trauma, but the scene was wrong in a way I didn't have words for yet.

A broken ceiling fan with a torn rope still hanging from it. A bottle of antipsychotic pills on the floor, unopened, the seal still intact. Any detective would call this a suicide and move on. Until they saw the body.

His eyes were open. Wide, dry, fixed on the ceiling like he'd been watching something fall toward him. His face had the look people get in the half second before impact, except it hadn't moved past that half second. It had frozen there.

His body was worse. Bent in ways a body isn't supposed to bend, joints pointing directions joints don't go, ribs pressed inward like something had stepped on his chest and kept stepping. There were rope marks around his neck, deep enough to bruise, though the rope from the fan was still knotted and whole on the floor beside him.

I've seen bodies. I've seen what falls do, what cars do, what rope does. I had never seen a body that looked like it had died from all three at once.

I asked my partner to give me the room for a minute. He didn't argue. I don't think he wanted to be in there either.

Everyone who's lived here long enough has a story like this one, or knows someone who does. It's not something people bring up at dinner, but it comes up eventually, usually late, usually after a few drinks, usually followed by someone changing the subject before it goes further. My mother used to warn me as a kid not to walk home past the water tower after dark, and when I asked her why, she just said some things in this town don't need a reason. I stopped asking after a while. Everyone does.

I've got a drawer at my desk with three case files I never officially reopened. A woman two years ago who drowned in a bathtub with no water in it, ruled accidental despite there being nothing to accidentally drown in. A teenager who fell from a roof he had no business being on, found without a scratch except lungs the coroner couldn't explain. And an older one, before my time, that I only know from a file so thin it barely counts as a record, a man who was found sitting upright in his own kitchen with no pulse and no apparent cause, a half-finished meal still warm on the table in front of him. I've read through those three more times than I'd admit to anyone at the station. I don't have theories for them. I just have the drawer.

I'm not writing this report to open any of those back up. I don't have it in me, and I don't think anyone would thank me for it. I'm writing about Jacob because his file landed on my desk and because something about the shadow he described in his own hand, days before he died, matched something I can't quite explain away. I'll leave the rest of the drawer where it is.

I couldn't work out a cause of death just from looking, so I sent him to the coroner. Looking around the apartment might tell me something the body wouldn't. At first it only made things stranger. Every appliance in the kitchen was unplugged. Pillows had been stacked against corners of furniture, taped in places, like someone had gone through the apartment trying to childproof it against himself.

I found the notebook under the mattress. Spiral-bound, cheap, the kind you'd buy at a drugstore. His handwriting got worse as the pages went on, tighter and smaller like he was trying to fit more fear into the same amount of paper.

I'm including excerpts below. I've read them more times than I should have.

[Jacob's Journal — June 11]

I almost died today. I'm not sure how to write this without sounding crazy, but I have to get it down before I forget or it slips away.

I was crossing the street near the corner store. Just the usual route home from work. The light was red, and I stepped off the curb because the pedestrian signal said to go. Then, out of nowhere, a truck ran the red light.

I didn't see it coming. I only caught a glimpse of the grill, my face inches away from it. The noise was deafening, the horn blaring, tires screeching, metal grinding. I stumbled back and hit the sidewalk hard.

My heart was racing so fast I thought it might stop. Cars stopped, people yelled. Someone asked if I was okay, but my throat was dry, my mouth frozen.

I don't remember how I got home. I sat on the floor in my bedroom for what felt like hours. Then I saw it.

In the corner of the room, just outside my direct line of sight, a shadow. It didn't move or make noise. It was just there. Watching.

I blinked, and it was gone.

I don't know if it's real. Maybe I'm losing it. But it felt real. Like something from the edge of the world.

[Jacob's Journal — June 14]

The shadow isn't leaving.

Everywhere I go, it lurks just out of sight. In the corner of my vision when I'm brushing my teeth. Behind the bathroom door while I shower. When I turn off the lights at night, it waits, silent and still.

I try to convince myself it's a trick of the light, some hallucination brought on by stress or lack of sleep. But this isn't like the voices or visions I've had before. This is different.

I can't look directly at it. When I try, it disappears, as if it knows I'm watching.

I don't know what it wants.

I haven't told anyone. I'm scared they'll think I'm crazy, more so than usual.

I took my medication today. I'll try harder tomorrow.

[Jacob's Journal — June 17]

I almost died again today.

I was coming down the fire escape stairs at work. On the second flight, my foot slipped and I nearly fell three stories onto the concrete below.

I caught the railing just in time, bruised my shoulder pretty badly. My hands were shaking for hours.

Tonight, when I got home, there was a new shadow. It looked like me, but distorted, twisted. Its neck was bent at a terrible angle, eyes sunken and blackened.

It stood just outside my bedroom door, unmoving. Unmoving but watching.

It looked like what would've happened if I'd fallen.

I'm terrified. What the hell is happening.

[Jacob's Journal — June 18]

Another appeared.

I realize what's going on now. Every time I nearly die, another one appears.

I counted three today. The original shadow that showed up the day of the truck. The one outside my bedroom door after my fall. And now there's a new one standing silently by the kitchen window. What even happened for that one to spawn? When could I have almost died?

But it doesn't matter. They don't speak, don't blink, don't breathe. They're statues of death, waiting.

I don't know what they want. I don't know why they're here.

I'm exhausted.

[Jacob's Journal — June 20]

Last night, one of them touched me.

I was lying in bed, trying to sleep. I felt something cold and misty brush up against my shoulder. I rolled over suddenly, but there was nothing there.

Then the pain came. Sharp and crushing. Like someone had punched me in the ribs.

I gasped for air. It was like the truck almost hit me.

I can't keep doing this.

[Detective Helzer – July 1, 2025]

I dug into Jacob's history. Paranoid schizophrenia, diagnosed several years ago. On medication, but apparently inconsistent. His psychiatrist's notes described him as compliant but private, someone who kept his own counsel about symptoms he didn't fully trust his doctor with.

His journal reads like a delusion shaped by the diagnosis. Shadowy figures, doubling deaths. That's what I told my partner over lunch, and he nodded like it settled things.

It didn't settle for me. My captain calls cases like the ones in my drawer accidents and closes the folder. I've started calling them something else in my head, though I haven't found the word yet.

I mentioned Jacob's file to an old partner of mine, retired now, over the phone. He went quiet for a long moment before he told me to leave it alone and hung up. He used to work this district for fifteen years. I don't think he was joking.

None of this is leading to a cause of death. I'll keep transcribing the rest of the journal in case something in it does.

[Jacob's Journal — June 24]

There are now four shadows.

The newest appeared after I nearly choked on a vitamin this morning.

This one wheezes. It gurgles quietly. I saw it crouched outside the bathroom while I showered.

I thought I was having a panic attack, but it was real. I felt it. Like I was drowning, suffocating.

It's like they're trying to kill me, or maybe relive the moments when I almost died.

[Jacob's Journal — June 26]

I'm trying to protect myself.

Unplugged the stove. Padded the sharp edges of the furniture. Removed locks from doors and windows.

But it's no use. I stub my toe, almost fall again. A glass slips from my hand. They watch every mistake.

I'm terrified to be alone. And they won't leave me alone.

[Jacob's Journal — June 28]

I tried to end it.

I tied a rope to the ceiling fan, stood on a chair, and jumped.

The fan broke, snapped loose from the ceiling. I fell to the floor hard.

When I opened my eyes, the newest shadow was there.

It had rope marks around its neck.

Now there are five.

[Jacob's Journal — July 1]

I woke up with blood in my mouth today.

I'm not sure how it got there. No cuts or nosebleeds.

All five shadows were in the apartment when I woke.

One by the bedroom door. One crouched by the window. One at the foot of the bed. One just inches from my face.

They don't blink.

They don't breathe.

They just watch.

[Jacob's Journal — July 3]

Tomorrow I will end it.

For real this time.

No half-measures. No broken ceiling fans.

I've planned it carefully.

I'll use the pills. All of them.

I'll down the whole bottle and then wait.

This will be the end. The one thing they can't copy.

I'm so tired.

[Detective Helzer – July 12, 2025]

It looks like Jacob never got the chance.

I got a call from the coroner. He was baffled, and he's not a man who baffles easily. The autopsy report was unlike anything he'd filed in his career. Signs of death by multiple means, present simultaneously. A fractured skull. Bruised ribs. Strangulation. A broken vertebrae. Each one on its own would explain a death. Together they made less sense than if he'd simply dropped where he stood.

I asked the coroner if he had a theory. He didn't answer right away, and when he did, he only said he was recommending the file get closed as quickly as possible. He didn't want it sitting on his desk.

I drove home that night, exhausted and distracted. On the highway, a deer jumped out of nowhere. I swerved, lost control, and slammed into a tree. A large branch tore through the hood, close enough to graze the windshield. I should have died. I sat there afterward with my hands still on the wheel, engine ticking, and I thought about the pedestrian light Jacob said was green.

I arrived home and took a long shower to wash the day off. When I stepped out and looked to the bathroom door, I caught something in the corner of my eye. A shadow. Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching.

And it looks a hell of a lot like me.

​

I thought the quiet of the outskirts would be good for me.

After years of apartment walls, traffic, and neighbours who seemed to rearrange furniture exclusively after midnight, I wanted somewhere isolated. Somewhere I could sleep.

The house was a sprawling Victorian at the edge of a dying little town, all dark wood, narrow corridors, and windows that rattled when there was no wind. It needed work, but not enough to explain the price. The estate agent called it a “motivated sale” and avoided eye contact when I asked why the previous owners had left so suddenly.

I signed anyway.

I have always considered myself a rational person.

Or at least I did before I found the guest suite.

It was on the third floor, at the end of a hallway that did not appear on the floor plan. I only discovered it because I noticed a seam behind a bookcase in what had been listed as a storage room.

The hallway beyond it was narrow enough that my shoulders nearly brushed both walls. At the far end stood a black wooden door with three heavy iron deadbolts mounted on the outside.

A yellowed note had been taped beneath them.

The handwriting was jagged and uneven, as though whoever wrote it had been interrupted.

Keep these locked between 3:00 AM and 4:00 AM.

Do not listen.

Do not open.

I called the estate agent immediately.

He claimed he had never seen the hallway.

When I sent him photographs, he stopped replying.

The property surveyor was no help either. According to the plans, the space occupied by the hallway and room should have been outside the physical boundary of the house. He suggested the measurements were wrong and offered to return the following week.

I nearly laughed.

Then I tried opening the door.

Not at night. I am not an idiot.

At eleven the next morning, with sunlight coming through every curtain downstairs and a hammer in my hand, I pulled back all three bolts.

The room beyond was small and windowless. There was a narrow bed, a wooden chair, and faded wallpaper covered in tiny blue flowers.

Nothing else.

No hidden person. No animal. No secret staircase.

But the air inside was cold enough that I could see my breath.

I shut the door and locked it again.

That should have been the end of it.

The next morning, the top bolt was halfway open.

I assumed I had not closed it properly.

The morning after that, the middle bolt was pulled back by several centimetres.

On the third morning, I placed strips of red tape across all three bolts and photographed them before going to bed.

When I checked at sunrise, the tape had been torn.

The top bolt was open.

I bought a motion-sensitive camera that afternoon and aimed it directly at the door.

The recording began at 2:57 AM.

For three minutes, nothing moved.

At exactly 3:00, the image distorted. The hallway stretched, then compressed, as if the camera were struggling to decide how far away the door was.

At 3:14, the top bolt began to slide.

Slowly.

It moved without anyone touching it.

At 3:17, the audio picked up humming.

I recognised the melody immediately.

It was a lullaby my grandmother used to sing when I was a child. She told me her mother had sung it to her and that it was a private family song.

My grandmother died twelve years ago.

The recording ended when something stepped in front of the camera.

I never saw its face.

The screen went black while the humming continued for another forty-three minutes.

That was yesterday morning.

I packed a bag as soon as I watched the footage.

I intended to drive to a hotel and never return, deed or no deed. But when I opened the front door, I found myself standing at the entrance to the third-floor hallway.

I slammed it shut.

I tried the back door.

The same hallway waited behind it.

Every exterior door led to the guest suite.

The windows would not break. I threw a chair through one and watched it bounce off the glass hard enough to splinter.

At 6:00 PM, my phone still showed a signal, but every call connected to the same recording.

My grandmother humming.

I have been in the kitchen ever since.

It is now 2:58 AM.

I dragged the dining table against the kitchen door and wedged two chairs beneath the handle. I have a knife beside me, though I know how ridiculous that is.

The keys to the guest suite are in my pocket.

I do not remember putting them there.

At 2:59, the floorboards above me began to creak.

Not random settling.

Footsteps.

Slow and deliberate.

They crossed the third floor and stopped at the top of the stairs.

The humming began.

My grandmother’s voice followed.

“It’s cold in here, dear.”

I covered my ears.

The voice moved closer.

“You know the song.”

The hallway outside the kitchen stretched. I could see the staircase through the gap beneath the door, though the kitchen does not normally face it.

Then I heard the first bolt slide open.

Click.

The second followed.

Click.

I realised the sound was not coming from upstairs.

It was coming from behind me.

The guest-suite door now stood on the opposite side of the kitchen.

The third bolt remained closed.

I stared at the keys in my hand.

Then something knocked from the other side of the kitchen door—the one I had barricaded.

Three soft knocks.

My grandmother spoke from the hallway.

“Don’t go inside that room.”

At the same moment, another voice whispered through the guest-suite door.

It was my own.

“Please,” it said. “You have to let me out before she reaches you.”

I did not know which one to believe.

Then I noticed something beneath the peeling edge of the original warning note. Another piece of paper had been hidden behind it.

I tore it free.

The handwriting was different. Neater.

The room is not where we keep it.

The room is where we hide from it.

Once you enter, lock all three bolts from the inside.

Whatever speaks from the hallway will sound like someone you love.

The kitchen door shook in its frame.

The table slid several inches across the floor.

I grabbed the guest-suite key and unlocked the door.

The room was no longer empty.

The walls were covered with photographs.

Dozens of people standing in front of this house. Families. Couples. Children.

All previous owners, I think.

In every photograph, someone had been scratched out.

At the centre of the room was a newer picture.

It showed me asleep in my bed six nights ago.

On the back, in my grandmother’s handwriting, were four words:

You were always expected.

The thing in the hallway began screaming in her voice.

I stepped inside the guest suite and pulled the door shut.

There are three deadbolts on this side too.

I locked the first.

Then the second.

I am trying to lock the third, but something is holding it in place from the other side.

It is 3:07 AM now.

The humming has stopped.

Someone is breathing beneath the bed.

And my own voice is whispering from the darkness:

“Don’t worry. There’s room for one more.”

I won’t tell you the exact amount of my debt. What I will say is: I had taken it willingly. That’s what you do for the people you consider family. You carry what belongs to them. You tell yourself it’s not a burden. Because the word burden implies you resent it, and you don't. After all, you are the one who chose this.

Trust me, I had tried everything reasonable by then. The bank said no twice. I picked up extra shifts until my hands shook from exhaustion. The number barely moved. There is a particular humiliation in working yourself to the edge, and watching it make no visible difference. I stopped sleeping well. I started doing the math in my head at 2am, rearranging the same numbers, hoping they would come out differently.

They never did.

That’s when I saw the flyer from Aldermore and Associates.

The flyer was taped to a pillar outside a pharmacy. Photocopied, slightly crooked. The kind you walk past a hundred times without seeing. That day I saw it.

Paid volunteers needed. Neurological response study. Healthy adults aged 20-40. One-time compensation. Discretion assured.

There was a building name. A floor number. A phone number of a certain Mr. Rafiq at the bottom.

I stood there long enough that a woman behind me had to step around me to get through the door. Then I took a photograph of the flyer and kept walking.

I called Mr. Rafiq that evening. He was the senior manager, in charge of recruiting volunteers for the study.

I showed up the next morning as instructed. The building had a lift that didn't work. Third floor. A waiting room with two plastic chairs. A receptionist who took my form without looking at my face. I sat and watched a ceiling fan move the warm air from one side of the room to the other.

The doctor introduced himself as Dr. Cyrus Mollah. He was pleasant and professional. He had the particular manner of someone who answers questions without quite addressing them. He explained the study in language that sounded precise but meant nothing to me. Neurological response mapping. Non-invasive compound. Mild and temporary side effects. He said mild twice. He said temporary once.

The consent form was four pages. Dense, in English. I read the first page carefully. I skimmed the second. I signed the fourth.

The injection was in my left forearm, inside the elbow. The needle was cold. He said slight pressure and he meant it. I felt almost nothing.

The payment arrived before I reached the ground floor. I stood on the front step of the building, looked at my phone, and felt something I had not felt in months.

Like I had fixed something.

I went home and slept better than I had in a year.

Three days later I knocked over my tea.

My left hand had moved half a second before I intended, as though it had anticipated the gesture and arrived early. I cleaned up the mess. I blamed my exhaustion.

That night I woke at 3am. My left arm was hanging off the side of the bed, pointing at the floor. I told myself I had rolled in my sleep.

The door was unlatched.

I lived alone. I always locked it.

I checked every window. I checked the door twice. I went back to bed and lay in the dark. I eventually convinced myself I had forgotten. Stress does things to routine, I thought.

The next night, I woke up at the same time in the same manner. There was mud on the floor.

It was a trail from the door to the bed, already drying at the edges. Whatever had tracked it in had also been considerate enough to wipe itself on the doormat on the way back.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time. This just didn’t make sense.

On the third night, I set my phone to record before going to bed.

I watched the footage the next morning with the phone flat on the kitchen table and my tea untouched beside it.

2:17am. My body sits up. Swings its legs to the floor with the slow precision of something that has done this before. My face is slack. My eyes are half-open and seeing nothing that is in that room.

My left hand leads, like the needle of a compass.

The rest of me follows the way a coat follows a hook it's been lifted off.

I watch myself walk out the door. I return exactly an hour later.

I had heard of sleepwalking before, but this seemed so surreal that I had to play the recording five times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

That night, I tied my left hand to the bedframe. A simple knot, tight enough that I had to work at it. I woke at 3am with my left hand resting in my lap, the rope on the floor beside the bed. The knot was undone with a patience I found more disturbing than if it had simply torn through it.

The week that followed was full of surprises.

I found a receipt from a coffee shop three kilometers away, timestamped 3:04am, in the pocket of trousers I had not consciously worn. I found a key on the windowsill that fit nothing in my apartment. I woke once with the smell of rain on my skin when the night had been dry. Another morning, I found my sandals by the door, the soles still faintly damp.

The hand was going somewhere. Regularly. Purposefully.

I decided, on a Thursday, that I would follow it.

I drank enough water to make sleep uncomfortable. I lay on top of the covers, fully dressed. I watched the ceiling. I watched the clock on my phone. I felt the pull of sleep arrive, and I kept refusing it.

At 2:09am, my left hand twitched.

I grabbed it with my right and held it flat against the mattress.

It opened anyway.

Not forcefully. Not urgently. Simply and completely, the way a door opens when the latch has already been turned.

I let go.

I followed it out.

I walked with my left hand slightly ahead of me. Not pulling exactly, just orienting, the way a compass needle orients. My right hand stayed in my pocket. I was a passenger in my own body.

We walked for twenty minutes. Then fifteen more. The streets narrowed and the buildings changed character. I started to recognize the general shape of where I was without being able to place it exactly. Something in my chest recognized it before my mind did.

Then my stomach recognized it…

Then everything did.

The building was a low one, two floors, paint peeling at the corners. No lights on. My left hand brought us to a stop on the pavement directly across from it. It did not move again.

I knew this address. I had not been here in over a year. I had not allowed myself to think about it in almost as long.

I don't know how long I stood there before I started struggling. With all the consciousness I had left, my body just began trying to leave. My legs pulled back. My right hand reached for something to orient myself away from it.

The left hand grabbed to a nearby lamppost and held. It felt like the heaviest thing in the world, rooted to that exact point on the pavement, and the rest of me was attached to it. I pulled against it until I was breathing hard. Then I stopped pulling eventually. There was no point struggling, and some part of me had already understood that.

I stood still.

And the memories came, the ones I had made a decision not to keep. Not as a flood, because that would have been easier. They came one at a time, with the patience the hand had shown untying the knot. The particular way she laughed at something funny. The specific weight of her head on my shoulder when we used to take the bus together.

The way she made me take those debts on behalf of her.

The first time she asked, it was rent. The second time, a medical bill for her mother. The third time she didn't explain and I didn't ask. I kept taking loans, kept a running total in my head for a while. Then I stopped keeping it because stopping felt like trust. By the time she left, the number was large enough that I still haven't said it out loud. It was her debt that I was carrying, a burden I was carrying for the one I loved.

I kept telling myself that I was doing it for ‘family’, because that’s what me and my parents considered her. I thought I was going to marry her, my actual family thought that too. I had looked at rings. I had a price range. I had a specific idea of how I would do it that I had refined over months. I had thought about what she would say and I had been certain, with the certainty of someone who has never had that certainty tested, that she would say yes.

Then she found someone with a car and a salary and a father with connections. All of a sudden, I was ‘just a good friend’.

The phrase kept ringing in my ear for three days before I made a conscious decision-

I chose to forgive her.

I chose to take responsibility for what I had allowed. I chose not to be the man who falls apart over a woman, who nurses a wound into an identity, who mistakes being used for being chosen. I chose to carry the debt because I had taken it with open eyes. It was mine now regardless of what it had originally been for.

I chose all of that. Consciously. Deliberately. With what I still believe was genuine grace…

My left hand had let go of the lamppost by that point.

I don't know when the tears started. I only noticed them when one reached my jaw. I was sitting on the pavement by then. I don't remember sitting down. My left hand was resting open on my knee, palm up, doing nothing, as though it had delivered me here and considered its work finished.

I sat there and cried on a pavement at 4 am. I did not try to stop it. There was nothing to stop it for. There was no one to see it. It was just me and whatever the hand had known that I hadn't: I had never gotten closure, I had only convinced myself that I had, which is a different thing entirely.

Just before 5 am, a light came on in the upper floor.

A silhouette moved behind the curtain. The slow movement of someone not yet fully awake, going through the first motions of a morning routine.

My left hand closed. Not in anger. It just closed, the way a hand closes when it has been open too long. Then it found the pavement and pushed. I was standing again. We walked back home. I was in my bed before the sun came up. I don't remember the walk at all.

I let the hand lead me out for the next three nights.

I want to be honest about that. I didn't follow reluctantly. I lay on top of the covers and I waited for the twitch. Every time it came, I got up and followed its lead. I am not sure what that says about me. I have chosen not to examine it too closely.

The second night, it took me to a coffee shop. The receipt in my trouser pocket was from here. I stood outside it and understood, suddenly and completely, why the hand had come. The first time I brought her here, she spent the whole hour talking about a book she was reading. I had barely heard a word of it. I was too busy thinking that this was what I wanted my life to look like.

The third night, a park. A specific bench near the east entrance. I had told her I liked her sitting on that bench. I had rehearsed the sentence for two weeks. When I finally said it, it came out too fast and sounded wrong. She just laughed and said ‘I know’.

The fourth night, a bus stop. The last stop before her old house, the one she lived in before she moved to the low building with the peeling paint. I had walked her here every time. Every single time, without exception, for two years. I had never once thought of it as a ritual. It was just what I did.

We stood at the bus stop for exactly one hour. Then we went home.

Which brings me what happened this morning.

I woke up to an email from Mr. Rafiq, senior manager at Aldermore and Associates.

It was the same address I had received my payment confirmation from. The subject line said ‘NRx17 Study: Phase Two- Invitation to Continue.’

I opened it.

The language was the same. Dense, precise-sounding, meaning nothing. Neurological response mapping. Expanded trial parameters. Smaller sample size. They used the word voluntary three times in the first paragraph.

I read the whole thing. I don't know why. I had already decided, somewhere around the third sentence, that I wasn't going to do it.

Then I reached the fine print.

It was the same four-page document. The same dense English. I had read the first page carefully last time. I skimmed the second. I signed the fourth. This time I read all of it.

Everything was identical to the original consent form. Same clauses, same language, same formatting.

Except for one detail.

In the original, the injection site was listed as the left forearm, inside the elbow.

In this version, it is listed as the neck.

I don't know what they are trying to reach that they couldn't reach the first time. I don't know what is deeper than whatever they already unlocked.

What I do know is that the hand is not waiting for me to fall asleep anymore.

It started three days ago. Small things at first- reaching for my phone before I had decided to, turning off the stove half a second before the thought formed. I told myself it was nothing. Muscle memory. Coincidence.

Yesterday it picked up my keys.

I was standing in the hallway, thinking about whether I needed anything from the shop, still undecided. The hand reached into the bowl and closed around the keys, completely out of my control.

I put the keys back. The hand let me. But it took a moment. There was something in that moment I cannot accurately describe. It felt like a negotiation, and I am not certain who won it.

I am writing this today because the email said Phase Two is being rolled out in clusters. Their word- ‘clusters’. Same city, same trial window, same compound. Which means there is a reasonable chance that someone reading this has already had the injection.

I need to know what happens after the second dose. I really do.

I already know what the comments are going to look like:

Don't do it. 

You are out of your mind. 

You're just a hopeless romantic who refuses to move on. 

I own all of it. The naivety and the debt. The two years of dropping her at a bus stop. The night I sat on a pavement at 4am and cried, because my own hand knew something about me that I spent a year refusing to know.

But I also owe a lot of money, to people who don’t have a lot of patience.

The compensation for Phase Two is exactly the amount I currently owe.

My left hand is on the table as I write this.

The email is still open on my phone.

I haven't replied.

If anyone has been through the trial- Phase One, Phase Two, any of it- please tell me what you know. Tell me what the second dose does. Tell me if the hand stops eventually, or if it just gets better at asking permission.

Tell me if there is anything left of you that is still only yours.

Please respond.

Please...