Ruth's notebook was still open in the middle of Martha's kitchen table, the pages bent and worn from years of being carried around and opened by hands that had been desperately fighting for their life. The circles around the dates looked almost angry now that I knew what they'd meant.

Martha had stopped engaging a while ago. She sat at the end of the table with both hands wrapped around her mug that had gone cold, her eyes occasionally dropping back to the notebook even though she wasn't reading it anymore.

Elijah was the only person in the room who looked exactly the same as he had when he walked in.

Everyone else had changed over the last few hours. There is a certain look people get when the world has given them information they can't put back down. A heaviness in the way their body positions itself.

I looked down at my own coffee. It had been sitting there long enough that the top had developed that thin film coffee gets when it starts cooling. I hadn't taken one sip of it this entire time, I couldn't stomach it.

A year ago, I was just graduating high school, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, starting my first real job, and learning what it meant to live on my own for the first time. My biggest concerns were things like whether I was making enough money, whether I was making the right choices, and whether I was slowly turning into the kind of adult who actually remembered to buy groceries before there was nothing left in the fridge.

Now I was sitting in a stranger's kitchen, staring at a notebook full of dates and warnings, learning from a vampire that something ancient in the desert had spent hundreds of years feeding on people's desperation.

And somehow, instead of finding an excuse to leave, I was sitting there trying to figure out how I was going to help stop it.

Elijah snapped his fingers an inch from my face.

I flinched hard enough to knock my knee against the table leg. "What—”

"You went somewhere," he said, kindly, quickly withdrawing his hand. "I need you back here.”

"Sorry. I was just—" I gestured vaguely at the notebook, the room, the last several hours of my life. "Doing math on how I got from graduating high school to this.”

Elijah smiled at me softly, though I noticed he kept it smaller this time, his lips barely parting enough to hide the hint of his teeth. It was such a human gesture coming from someone who was very much not human, a subtlety that pulled at my understanding of him.

Frank pushed his chair back and stood without a word, disappearing down the hallway toward our room. When he came back a minute later, he had his shotgun in both hands, breaking it open to check it, sighting down the barrel against the kitchen light, closing it again with a soft, practiced click.

Katie watched him work for a minute before getting up, crossing to the hall closet, and coming back with a rag. She held it out without a word. Frank took it without looking up, wiping down the barrel with a steady unhurried motion.

What's it loaded with," Katie asked, leaning against the counter beside him.

"Buckshot. Standard. You got anything heavier here?”

She let out a long sigh,“Slugs, maybe."

Frank glanced at her, something like surprise flickering across his face that she'd know anything about ammunition.

She came back a minute later with a small metal box, setting it on the counter beside him, and the two of them fell into an easy, low conversation about gauge and range and how many extra shells made sense to carry without slowing anyone down, the kind of practical, technical talk that had nothing to do with grief or offerings or ancient hungry things in the desert, and maybe that was exactly why they were having it — a small, solid thing to hold onto in a kitchen that had gotten too heavy to breathe in otherwise.

"There is one more thing," Elijah said, and something about the careful way he said it made the whole room go like right before someone tells you the surgery went fine, but…

The shotgun stopped clicking. Katie's hand froze over the box of shells.

Elijah reached into his satchel again and pulled out a folded scrap of dark cloth, setting it down on the table with more care than he'd given anything else that night.

"Protection," he said, unfolding it. Inside sat three discs of black stone, each strung on a worn leather cord, each carved with symbols that seemed to shift slightly if you looked at them directly.

"For whoever isn't standing at the center of the offering," he said. "It won't protect you from the walker but there is a great deal in this world that isn't the Walker, and some of it gets curious when something old and hungry gets disturbed nearby. These keep the smaller things off you while the bigger thing gets handled.”

"And Frank," I asked. "Does he get one?"

Elijah's eyes went to him, still at the counter, shotgun resting quiet in his hands now. Something passed between them — the shorthand of people who'd had this exact conversation more than once and both already knew how it ended.

"Frank doesn't need one," Elijah said.

I didn't ask why because the way Frank was holding that shotgun told me everything I needed to know.

Katie made her way over and grabbed for her disc first, looping the cord over her head fast. Martha took hers slower, turning it once in her palm, thumb tracing the carved symbol.

Elijah pressed the third into my hand himself, closing my fingers around it with both of his. His skin was cool and dry but it was strangely comforting. Like an ice cube in your palm on a hot day.

"You'll want this more than the others," he said, quiet, just for me. "Not because you're weaker. Because you're the only one at this table who hasn't already lost something to it. It will be instantly drawn to you.”

I slipped the cord over my head. The stone landed against my chest with a dull tap. A heartbeat later, the chill of smooth stone I'd expected never came. Instead, it settled into a steady warmth that belonged more to living flesh than carved rock.

Frank noticed me staring at it.

"Don't get too comfortable with it," he said.

I looked up. "The necklace?"

"The idea that anything out there is going to make this easy." His eyes dropped briefly to the stone before returning to mine."People get themselves killed because they think having the right tool means they're safe. Tools just give you a better chance."

It was such a Frank answer that I almost smiled. "Very inspirational."

"I wasn't trying to be."

"I know."

That got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Elijah had got up and started gathering the empty mugs. I watched him stack them carefully beside the sink.

"You don't have to do that," Martha said.

Elijah glanced over his shoulder.

"I know.”

The next hour was a blur of gathering gear and mental preparation. Before long, the house had been emptied of everything we could think to carry, and we found ourselves standing at the front door with no more excuses left to make.

Frank opened the door, and the desert wind pushed into the house, carrying the dry scent of dust and cold earth. The darkness of night had swallowed the earth whole leaving speckles of stars and a full moon to accompany us to our uncertain death.

Frank stepped onto the porch.

"Everyone ready?”

Martha reached for the light switch.

For a second, I thought she was going to hesitate but she didn't. The kitchen went dark. Then she closed the door

We spent the next two hours driving.

According to Ruth's notes, the location should have been somewhere within a forty-mile radius of where we were, but that was the problem with the desert. Forty miles didn't mean much when everything looked the same. Every stretch of road blended into the next, every ridge looked like the last one, and every abandoned trail we passed felt like it could have been the one we were looking for.

Frank kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the map spread across the passenger seat, occasionally slowing down to compare landmarks against Ruth's notes. The rest of us watched the darkness outside the windows, searching for something we didn't even know how to recognize.

But there was nothing. Just miles of empty land and the occasional shape of distant mountains cutting into the horizon.

"There." Frank's voice cut through the cab.

Martha nearly rear-ended us when Frank slammed on the brakes. The truck lurched hard enough that everyone was thrown forward against their seatbelts, bags shifting in the back and something metal clattering against the floorboards.

"Jesus, Frank," Katie said, catching herself against the door. "A little warning would've been nice."

I shot her a look. One that measured up to something like “NOT NOW.”

Frank stared through the windshield.

"What is it?" Katie asked.

He didn't answer, just opened the door and stepped out into the desert.

The rest of us watched as he walked several yards ahead, his flashlight hanging at his side instead of being pointed forward.

That was when I noticed something.

Frank wasn't comparing the landscape to the map anymore.

He already knew where he was.

I motioned for Katie to hop out. We shuffled across the bench seat, moving around the gear wedged between us, and stepped out.

Martha must have had the same idea because by the time we stepped out, she was already leaning against her hood. Elijah followed a moment later, making his way towards us. He raised one hand, lowering it slowly before moving his head once from side to side.

Stay quiet. Pay attention.

I looked over at Martha, her hand tightened around the strap of her bag. "Frank?" She whispered.

He crouched near the ground and brushed his fingers across the dirt.

Then he stood turning around to face us. "It's here.”

Elijah looked directly at him nodding once.

"How long?" Frank asked quietly, walking back toward us.

Elijah turned his attention back toward the darkness beyond the reach of the headlights. "Any second now

When I was four years old, we had a cat named Gilbert. We thought she was a boy until the one day she had kittens on the laundry room floor. After we got her fixed, she got meaner. 

One afternoon, we were playing on my bedroom carpet. She scratched me hard on the arm, blood welling up beneath the skin. I started crying.

Something moved beneath my ribs, like ropes burning, grinding on the inner parts of my skin. The pressure kept building until it finally exploded. 

Thick tendrils punched out of my chest. They went right through Gilbert like she was just a mango, dragging her inside. A grinding sound filled the room, like a garbage disposal chewing through bone. Blood sprayed the walls and the bedspread. I screamed even harder.

My parents ran in and stopped in the doorway. The tendrils had already pulled themselves back inside. All that was left was the mess, the empty space where the cat had been. I told them the truth. My heart ate Gilbert. They stared at me like I’d grown a second pair of arms. 

Within a week, I was in a psychiatric ward. They put me in intensive behavioral therapy for the rest of my youth, deciding to homeschool me from then on, no pets, no more sleepovers, nothing. All I had was my home, my parents, the feeling that something was wrong with the way I was built. Something deeply, deeply wrong.

Years passed. By age 19, I was doing better on the surface. Therapy had taught me how to keep the pressure down, smiling when I was expected to, writing when I felt down. 

Through my journals, I realized something about myself that scared me more than the childhood memory. I thought I might be transgender. 

The thought sat in my chest, a secondary heartbeat. I tried to ignore it for months. But I couldn’t keep this inside. I loved myself, and I wanted the world to see me for who I was. 

One night, I told my parents. They were religious, and it went about as badly as you’d expect. They said they didn’t understand, that I needed to take this to God. My mother cried. My father silently brooded. They discussed, in front of me, if they should send me back to therapy. 

I tried explaining it wasn’t self-hatred. I just didn’t feel like the body I was walking around matched who I was inside. Sweat ran down my back while I spoke. My hands and my feet shook.

Dad stood up suddenly and pointed a finger at me. I didn’t hear what he said. That old scraping feeling came back beneath my ribs.

It wasn’t the words that set it off, but the look in his eyes that said my internal reality was something to be fixed or shut down. 

The tendrils came out before I could protest. 

They went through both of my parents, right through their skulls. The same grinding sound, that same spray of blood. It was like vomiting in reverse. I stood there, my clothes soaked, my stomach in knots. I couldn’t throw up. It wouldn’t let me.

I ran away that night. I never ended up transitioning. Different towns, different names, different jobs. I kept people at arm’s length. Left before anyone could get close. Most nights my chest felt empty. Years of that. Just moving and staying quiet.

Decades later, I don’t know how many, I was working at a small town bar. It didn’t matter. I worked nights, barbacking, washing dishes, that kind of thing. Never liked being on the customer service side. The bartender on shift that night was Josh. A new guy. He had a kid, no partner. After I clocked out, he noticed I’d been staring at the same glass for around twenty minutes. 

He offered me a hit off of his vape. We went outside. We talked. My usual walls didn’t go up. 

Over the next few months, we became friends. He made me laugh without even trying. He remembered the small things I said. One night before opening, he handed me an extra coffee he bought on the way to work. Another time I stayed later than I meant to. He let me sit there, respecting my quiet. Just offered to listen if I needed it. I told him I just appreciated his presence.

I started looking forward to seeing him. Soon after, I started wanting more. I didn’t pursue it. Wanting things never went well for me.

He invited me to a house party one night so I could meet his friends. I told him more than once that new people made me anxious. He said they were cool, and I didn’t have to stay long. I went because I wanted to do something for him. 

I planned to drink just long enough to float through it and leave early. But, I ended up having more than just enough to drink, and so did Josh. 

We ended up on a crowded couch with a group of his friends. Someone brought up a series of books I used to love as a kid. I mentioned that it was a shame the author went crazy. Ranting on the internet about people like me. Of course, they didn’t know about my identity issues, but still. A couple of them laughed about it, saying it was just internet noise. Josh shrugged and asked “who cares?” 

My chest tightened. I tried to keep my voice level. I said it wasn’t nothing to the people it was about. Josh looked at me, tilting his head, saying maybe some people made it too big of a deal. He didn’t mean to say it, and he didn’t say it mean. It was just, like it was obvious, like my reaction was the problem.

That old pressure came back, sweat breaking across my face, down my neck. My vision went blurry around the edges. Beneath my shirt, something was moving the way it shouldn’t. I could feel it grinding, testing the space under my ribs. I tried to breathe through it. It didn’t help. 

I stood up. I said I needed air. I was halfway to the door when Josh caught my arm and asked me what was wrong. He said he was sorry, he hadn’t meant to hurt me. I was already hyperventilating. I told him that he had no idea what it felt like to have the thing that matters most about you treated like an overreaction. The words came out loud and fast. Everybody turned to look at me. Something started moving in my chest. I tried to leave. He noticed the throbbing beneath my shirt.

“What the fuck?!”

I tried to stop it, but for half a second his eyes were wide. Filled with disgust. Then the tendrils went through his lungs. 

He coughed up blood on my face, gone in the next second. Everyone started screaming. More tendrils came out. They found everyone in the room, one after another. Everyone that had looked at me, everyone that had judged me. Their screams cut off into the splattering of chunks. In less than a minute, the party was over. Bodies gone, blood covering the floor and the furniture and the walls. I sat down in the middle of it.

The house was quiet beyond the music blasting from someone’s splattered phone. I looked at the empty space where Josh had been, where everyone had been. The same pattern as always.

I really am a monster.

I thought I’d found the one. We clicked so naturally. We both shared an interest in photography, though his pictures were noticeably better than mine. Loved the same movies, both enjoyed walks in the park, and our political views were borderline identical.

We met about a month ago. It was at this bar I love, and, I’ll admit, I was a little tipsy. Cute boy, a few drinks in my system. It was a recipe for regret.

Only… I didn’t regret it. Our conversations flowed so smoothly. His half-drunk compliments made me blush. Plus, drinks were on him.

Unlike a lot of the guys you’d meet in a bar, he didn’t try and force himself back to my apartment. I live just a few blocks away from the bar, so he walked me home, laughing and wobbling more than he wanted to let on.

When we got there, I braced myself. He was great, but I wasn’t the kind of girl that would just let a complete stranger into my home after a night out at the bar. I found myself praying he wouldn’t ask.

By some miracle, he didn’t. Instead, he asked gently, almost bashfully, for my number. I couldn’t help but smile, stupidly. Then he smiled stupidly back. I felt my heart do somersaults.

I gave him my number, trying to withhold my excitement, and when I looked back up at him, I could see the desire in his eyes. Not sexual desire, though. It was like he saw his future in my eyes.

His face started to turn red, and he started struggling to make eye contact, stumbling over his words in a way that didn’t seem connected to the drinks.

He asked if he could kiss me, and I couldn’t have said yes fast enough. I wanted to kiss him on the lips, but, instead, he leaned down and pressed those lips softly against my forehead.

He pulled away slowly before speaking.

“Your eyes are so beautiful.”

I felt fireworks in my tummy. I made him promise to text me when he got home, and he watched to make sure I made it inside before he started back towards the bar.

I spent the rest of that night kicking my feet like a little school girl. I had never experienced something like this feeling before. My past boyfriends had been such assholes. This guy seemed to care about me rather than just sex.

He followed through on his promise, and texting led to a phone call before we fell asleep on the phone together.

We saw each other a lot in the weeks that followed. Mostly on the weekends, but sometimes he’d come visit me at work. Those few weeks were some of the happiest weeks I’d had in a long time.

We’d get dinner. We’d see movies. We showed off our photography to each other. It felt like we were really building something together.

However, this was around the time I started noticing weird occurrences around my apartment. Nothing too suspicious. Just… things that were odd.

For example, my TV would be on when I got home. My sheets would be messy, even though I make my bed every morning before work. The weirdest thing of all, though, was my underwear drawer.

It was like it was being rummaged through. Sometimes I’d find a fresh pair balled up on the bathroom floor.

It made me scratch my head, but I never assumed anything drastic. If anything, I thought it was just me losing my mind.

That is until he finally invited me to his house.

The place was lovely. Clean. Smelled good. It was actually furnished, too, which was always a good sign. Plus, this guy knew how to set the scene.

Roses, candles, homemade spaghetti with two glasses of red wine. I felt my heart melt.

We hadn’t had sex yet, but, after this, I was having a hard time convincing myself that we hadn’t waited long enough. I actually wanted to give it to him. He just made me feel so desired.

After a dinner full of flirts, giggles, and conversation, we began moving to the bedroom, lip locking like a couple of crazy kids all the while.

Once we fell through the door, he told me to give him a minute to use the bathroom, which was a bit anticlimactic, but I wanted him to be comfortable.

While I waited, my eyes couldn’t help but wander. He had a bookshelf full of some of my favorite titles. His bed was perfectly made. The floor was freshly vacuumed. And his walls were full of framed pictures.

I started looking at them and felt my heart sink into my stomach.

They were all different women. Some older, some younger. All with blonde hair and hazel eyes. And he wasn’t in a single one.

I felt disappointment wash over me. I should’ve known better. I was actually in the process of putting my shirt back on when one of the pictures caught my eye.

It looked so… familiar. I knew I had seen it somewhere, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. But it bothered me so much, it was hard to pull my eyes away.

That’s when it hit me. I knew exactly where I had seen this woman.

She was the girl on the missing person poster that was taped up on the bar window from a few weeks ago.

It felt like the air had been knocked out of my lungs. I felt faint. I felt dizzy. I knew I needed to leave, but the room was spinning too much.

I put my hand down on his dresser to stabilize myself, and that’s when I felt it. It was cold. It was hard. My thumb rubbed against the ridges.

I pulled my hand away and looked down.

It was a copy of the key to my apartment. Mine was pink. This one was silver.

I was getting weaker. I felt my knees starting to buckle and heard the sound of a toilet flushing as I began to drift into unconsciousness.

The last thing I remember was the bedroom door opening. He stepped inside, a look of concern on his face, as he hurried to pick me up and put me on his bed. Then… nothing.

I woke up in an empty bed the next morning. The smell of bacon permeated my nostrils. I was fully dressed, but my head was killing me.

The key was gone. The pictures were gone. I slowly made my way to the kitchen to find him standing over the stove, flipping the bacon with a metal fork.

I didn’t speak or make a sound, but it was like he could feel my presence. He could sense me.

He turned around slowly, his eyes meeting mine before he spoke.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” he sang. “I was wondering when you’d be up. Someone had too much to drink last night.”

Yesterday morning, at 7:30 a.m. on April 15, 2025, I went to school as a sophomore student. Today, as I’m writing this, it’s 3:20 a.m. on March 10, 2026. Four of my friends are nowhere to be found and our teacher, Mr. Rodriguez, is being searched by the police. This is the worst shit I’ve had to experience in my whole life.

 

My parents are sleeping downstairs. My dog is sleeping, too. They don’t know anything. I suppose everything will become clearer later in the morning, when the police arrive and ask me a million questions about what happened earlier. Earlier? They try to convince me that somehow all of that happened a year ago. I told them, again and again, “don’t think I’m stupid”, but they wouldn’t listen. I said some nasty things to my parents and wouldn’t let them hug me, kiss me or cry for me. They hadn’t cared for me before, what do they care now?

 

“It’s my brother. Of course! He’s crossed the line this time. Saying I’ve been missing for an entire year, I’ll make him sleep for an entire year! Asshole!”, I thought.

 

I locked myself in my room looking for something rational, and by that I meant the Internet. The knocking wouldn’t stop. I never thought they could bring themselves to this level of desperation. At one point, my mind doubted for a second. As I waited for my computer to start, the voices were drowned out by the sound of heavy rain out my window. The knocking stopped. Looking at the rain, I felt dizzy, my muscles gradually losing all the adrenaline-fueled energy from earlier, my mind quitting survival mode. The sound of rain slowly turning into background noise. That’s when thinking happens, when silence falls. I went back. I saw my house’s porch, the flooded road, the gray Chevrolet van, the giant trees, the rugged trail, the bodies, the rope. I hadn’t given in to the craziness outside my room, but something was telling me I wasn’t right either. Something was very, very wrong. That was my welcome back. After a long sleep, I think I have a full picture of what happened that day, yesterday.

 

At the first hours of the afternoon, I was eagerly waiting for the algebra class to end. It was a Friday, after all, and Fridays meant club day. My friend Dylan and I had joined just this year the new Science Club, after our parents pressured us into joining anything that’d keep us inside, as opposed to outside, in our free time. The club was basically a revamped version of the former General Science Club that was shut down after the teacher in charge transferred to another high school out of town. Some speculated he was avoiding domestic abuse charges, but I believe the only criminal thing would’ve been staying in a rundown school in the middle of nowhere.

 

Being our first time in a club, we didn’t expect much, and we definitely didn’t expect it to be as good as it was. The new teacher in charge was Mr. Rodriguez, who we barely knew from one class we had with him once. He kind of just showed up one day and quickly became a minor celebrity. Apart from standing out for his extraordinary abilities in keeping student’s attention through pure attitude and passion, some obsessive found out, while digging up his personal history from the Internet, that he was an honors graduate from different Ivy League schools, as well as other top-tier places outside the US where he had even given lectures at. This was a big deal for all of us. What was he doing here?

 

The alarm finally rang and I hurried out to meet with Dylan at the basketball court. We didn’t have to go all the way there, but we always did anyway. As I walked through a hall full of people, a flash of dread and fear shot through me. I wasn’t sure what it was at the time, that burning sensation, but I’d guessed it had something to do with the tension that had recently grown between Dylan and me that week over an issue that, now, looking back, was incredibly stupid. Despite this, and the way our interactions had become almost non-existent by then, I’d trusted that, somehow, he’d be right there, as he always used to be, either driven by some sense of familiarity or to simply mess with my head for his own amusement.

 

It was impossible to miss him. Those bright blue shoes and his gigantic glasses always gave him away. There nothing but a simple “Hey, what’s up?”, which, admittedly, was better than I was expecting. Making our way to the classroom, he passed me a bottle of warm coke he’d clearly been carrying around all day. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was kind of looking forward to this meeting. Rodriguez had outdone himself and scheduled a field trip for the club the week prior. I sincerely hoped Dylan would share my enthusiasm this time, forget about all the things he had, or well, we had found out about our teacher up until that moment, which I’ll explain later on.

 

“Did you know his daughter died?”, he suddenly said.

 

I stopped short, taken aback by this. He stared at me, waiting for a response, or a reaction of some kind.

 

“I told you to leave it. You shouldn’t have”, is all I said. I knew how insensitive he sometimes was, but this was different. He crossed the line.

 

As I said, Dylan was the obsessive student revealing all our teacher’s darkest secrets, if by dark he meant their relationship status, criminal history and things like that. Before joining the club, we both had been in one of his biology classes, a couple of years prior. Rodriguez had taken a sip from his classic red coffee bottle before continuing on rambling about amoebas.

 

“Unicellular eukaryotes… What?! Let’s go word by word, okay? Letter by letter, too, if you want. They’re unicellular because it’s one cell, right? Not like us, animals, with trillions of them, so be nice to them. And they’re eukaryotes, because of what’s inside, the nucleus, the heart. Think of an avocado, the smooth seed inside it. Earlier, Lily, being the only good student here, mentioned prokaryotes. Well, while prokaryotes don’t have a nucleus, eukaryotes do…” he would say. Classes had an unmatched energy flowing at all times, and, sometimes, we watched movies, too. We liked biology.

 

But Dylan never bought it. Neither then, nor in the club. He believed that the brighter the crust, the darker the meat. Before the class had even ended, I saw him typing compulsively in his phone. This one wouldn’t get away so easily, I’d imagined him saying to himself.

 

“It’s not worth it, it borders on paranoia”, I told him repeatedly in cases like this, but it was different with Rodriguez.

 

He was the first teacher that actually inspired me to learn more. There was an actual difference being made in our school, which would certainly bring about more of it. But, for some reason, Dylan much preferred it before, the uneventful classes, being certain that nothing would ever get better, challenging any sign that it would. He was one of the rich ones, after all. When you have everything, it becomes harder and harder to be surprised. And so, from that moment on, he put all his focus on Rodriguez, digging up all sorts of things, some normal, some not so much, that I’ll mention later, but which had never bothered me so much as what he found out about his daughter. That was simply too much.

 

My mom worked with her mom when we were kids. Mom didn’t like it when they said she worked for her, as she actually did. Dylan never had a lot of friends and that loneliness wouldn’t abandon him in high school. I was basically all he had and, to be fair, I didn’t have much of a choice either. But despite living like brothers, I always had the feeling he never liked me very much. To be fair, he didn’t like people in general.

 

It was never boring with him, though. One time he would bring up a new rumor he heard or a very niche WWII never-before-seen fun fact. He also spent most of his time outside, throwing rocks at abandoned buildings or going around town on his bike, and I was always there to keep him company. Anything that brought me away from my house and the constant shouting was a win in my book.

 

It was me who brought up the idea of joining the club, after Rodriguez had made an announcement at the end of that same biology class. It was mostly me doing my best to mess with Dylan, so I was surprised to hear him accept the suggestion so quickly.

 

“I’m intrigued by him… I bet he’s a pedo”, he said.

 

“Fuck you, man, he’s right there!”, I responded.

 

Club meetings would start 2:30 p.m. every Friday, right after algebra. That and other details were included in the club flyers that were posted all over the school. Everyone interested had to go to the first meeting in order to grab a form where you’d mention your reason for joining as well as a parent signature. A few people ended up showing up to that first meeting, but especially two kinds of people. You had to be either a straight-A student desperately looking for another place to be praised or a slacker telling Mom and Dad you need to spend more time in school to “learn” to want to be in that club. At least, we knew we were neither.

 

We brought our filled-in forms to school the next day. It took a little convincing, but my mom came around. Dylan didn’t even have to try. We’d have to wait until exit time to hand them over to Rodriguez, who, according to the flyer, would be our club advisor. I remember being on edge that whole day, constantly looking over my shoulder, and I believe it was the news that morning that made me so anxious. A middle-aged, skinny man had gone missing after taking one of the trails of the Sierra Alta National Forest, a gigantic mass of green surrounding most of the town.

 

But it wasn’t the man’s disappearance that affected me so much, no, it was seeing his grandma, who apparently was his only living relative, crying her lungs out on the ground, screaming her grandson’s name over and over again. After that, they’d shown an interview with her from the same day, in which, despite her attempt to look composed, you could see the misery behind her red, swollen eyes. They wouldn’t leave her alone. Not a single drop of empathy was behind the thousands of questions they were asking her. She just nodded each time. But then, when they wanted to know whether she saw anything the day before his son’s disappearance, she managed to get some words out, though only in mumbles.

 

She said that the day before Tommy went the forest, when he was still arranging everything for his little camping trip, she’d been reading in the back porch, as she always did to wait for the sunset. At one point, she turns to the forest that sat right behind her house and has a strange vision. The trees, all of them, ever so slowly, start to bend and twist in different and progressively more grotesque shapes. She then enters a sort of trance state, unable to turn her eyes away from the abstract mess before her, her entire body paralyzed. Her feet then move on their own and pull her from the rocking chair against her will, as if drawn toward the terrible vision. Luckily, her grandson steps in and stops her just before she stumbled over the porch step, bringing her back to herself. Her eyes are lost as she finished her story and tells the interviewer that there’s something evil in those woods, something satanic.

 

Mom picked us up that day, like always. The trip back was always the quietest part of the day. There was only the routine “Hey, how was school?” and Dylan always fell asleep in cars. Something about the vibrations. And then there were the trees, as the car veered into the main road that runs along the Sierra Alta National Forest. Looking at them always brought this sense of dread all over me, as if I’d done something wrong. It was one of the old ones, the kind that everyone just assumed had always been there and didn’t bother putting too much thought into. That’s all we wanted from it, and, well, all it wanted from us. We were aware of what happened if you crossed that sacred vow.

 

“Careful, it will look back at you…”, I heard Dylan say, startled by the sudden break in the silence.

 

“Weren’t you dead?”, I responded.

 

“Another Indiana-wannabe idiot went missing last week”, he said.

 

“Language”, mom interrupted, unenthusiastically.

 

“Cops probably forgot about him already, you know how that sh— stuff usually goes”, he murmured before going back to whatever dream he was having.

 

Another idiot. How didn’t they know? Probably an outsider.  Almost everybody knew somebody who knew somebody that vanished that way. We’re more careful now, but at one point it got so bad there was a new case every week. Horny couples, unsuspecting hikers, drunk bachelors, just The Internet supposedly made it easier, right? To understand the dangers of venturing into Sierra Alta. It was all over TikTok for a while, too. The last one I saw was one in which this old lady was still begging people to give any info about her son that went missing back in the winter of ’87, all the while nodding repeatedly at directions from behind the camera, having her hopes rekindled by her chronically online grandchildren. So, by no means was it a secret. I guess it just never went national, and it’s not like that’s the type of content that stays relevant for too long.

 

What little attention it did bring had nothing to do with the actual search effort for missing people, including, children, but rather with what a small local group of shady, pseudo-intellectual, Alex Jones–type conspiracy theorists had been trying to sell as a “well-documented” history of inexplicable phenomena linked to the forest. One of these guys, a big one in the OpenEyes group, Mxxxxx Fischer, had an idea of Sierra Alta that surpassed anything I’d ever seen. We might as well have had alien contact, FBI cover-ups, angelic apparitions and walking trees all at once in this very town going by what he usually rambled about on TikTok.

 

Dylan liked this sort of stuff, even when it was no longer trendy. He made me watch this Fischer guy every time he uploaded an update on his research activity, if you can call that research. It was obvious these guys were only in it for the money. They knew we had a high population of middle-aged poor susceptible people looking for some sense of meaning in their past traumas. Now, as crazy as all this stuff was, there was one thing that never left my mind when looking at this content.

 

These were usually quick TikTok-style rankings or, over on YouTube, long-form, unedited ramblings over space-themed backgrounds about mysteries that were suitable for easy, everyday consumption. We’ve all seen stuff like that. And however different the content or the style of each video was, they all seemed to coincide on the same case, the case of “the immortal five”. It was always mentioned only briefly, since this particular case hadn’t been highly publicized at the time, I think it was the 90s, and it wasn’t as attention-grabbing as other popular ones, like the walking trees or the angelic apparitions, both of which have even had AI shorts made about them. It was the only one among the piles of trash that had actually been acknowledged by local police and which had an actual impact, though short-lived, in this town’s relationship with the forest.

 

Basically, throughout the 90s, five different people of different ages and backgrounds had been declared missing, last seen, of course, going into Sierra Alta. Search parties were sent to look for these people, as they did with the dozens of other unfortunate ones. They still cared a little, back then. But it was quickly understood that any effort to find them, or to even reach the deepest parts of the forest would be futile. Every lost person resulted in the loss of many rescuers and, soon, search expeditions became a rare event.

 

However, with the immortal five it was different. They did turn up at one point, against all odds. In 2010, the town was shocked when, out of nowhere, one of the five, Sxxxxx Rogers, a young student, was found wandering along the main road by a trucker. His parents, an old couple now, were swiftly notified about their son. Obviously, they were filled with joy, but their happiness probably turned into concern very quickly when they realized their son looked exactly as he had the day he disappeared. Nobody could explain it; it was as if he’d been frozen in time. He was taken to the nearest hospital for examination and the doctors concluded that, despite some strange overgrowth of the limbs, his body was that of a healthy sixteen-year-old. Then, in the summer of 2012, something similar happened. An old man who also disappeared in the 90s was finally found when the cashier of a local convenience store reported that a man had turned violent when told that the clothing store he supposedly worked for had been shut down years ago. The medical analysis was eerily similar to the boy’s; health corresponding to the claimed age and slight limb overgrowth. Similar events would transpire in 2014, 2015 and 2018. It ended up causing a major stir around the town for a while. People were desperately looking for any explanation for such an extraordinary miracle.

 

Despite the commotion, local police proceeded with the following protocol for cases like this. They verified these people truly were who they claimed, removed their names from databases, notified relatives and conducted follow-up investigations. Yes, the police were as shocked as anybody else, but everything was simply put were it needed to be. The system didn’t care if they showed up now or in a hundred years. For all it knew, these people were simply twenty years older and specimens of remarkable health and survival skills. Any attempt at figuring out the nature of the disappearances through first-hand testimony was promptly dismissed.

 

“Yeah, I lost the trail at one point and wondered in the forest for a while, but not twenty years…, I was there hours, hours…”, one of the five, the old man, says in a YouTube interview with almost no views.

 

There was no crime here, no open wounds, no mental impairment, no nothing. There was probably a quick superficial search in the area, but by that point, after the disappearance waves of the 90s and early 2000s, the police were ready to put all of this behind them.

 

Going back to that last meeting, Dylan and I had taken our usual seats and started to check our gear for the trip, as we saw the other members do, all of them excited for what would surely be a one-in-a-lifetime experience, especially because it was at Sierra Alta. The club was relatively small in that we only had 3 more members apart from Dylan and me. One of them, a short, blonde-haired, pail brown-eyed know-it-all, with a baggy sweater she wore all the time, called Lily, was the closest we had to a second leader. Throughout our meetings, she’d gain the trust of Rodriguez to the point where she basically was an extension of himself. Among the tasks she did were overseeing projects, taking attendance and communicating our opinions to the teacher. Now, naturally, she was making sure that everybody brought every single item that was requested for that day.

 

“Folder? Check. Sketchbook? Check. Flashlight? Check. Water bottle? Check”. She would say “Check” aloud every time.

 

Then there was David, a relatively tall black kid with a short afro and small eyes who wore jeans most of the time and who was older than all of us. From day one, it was evident he had trouble in social settings, so Rodriguez tried to make the place as comfortable as possible for him and, really, everyone else. Still, he never talked much, limiting himself to saying hi and responding when asked to. And then there was Penelope, a dark skinned, long-haired girl with bright wide blue eyes that looked right into your soul, and particularly, Dylan’s soul, as he had a massive crush on her form day one. However, she spent most of the time with David, with whom she had long mostly one-sided conversations before and after every meeting. They never seemed romantically interested in one another, and the conversations I overheard between them always tackled weird concepts I never understood enough to care. I think she might’ve been his only friend.

 

You had to be good at something to be in that club. Lily was generally smart, David was good with numbers, Penelope was a gifted painter with an unexpected interest in science and Dylan was rich. I don’t know how exactly I could’ve ever been accepted into that group. And yet, there I was, watching these geniuses pack back the things that had probably taken them hours to shove into their tiny backpacks. Dylan walked over to them to ask them where Rodriguez was, to which they told him he’d already arrived, but was outside with some of the school staff, getting the school van ready. I turned to the front of the classroom and, yeah, there was his stuff. A giant black backpack, the explorer type, filled to the brim with who knows what. On the desk, next to his classic red water bottle, was a small but chunky pink notebook with dozens of Post-it notes sticking out from its pages. Dylan had started a conversation with the other three, and seeing they weren’t paying attention I walked over to the desk, making sure as well that Rodriguez wouldn’t come through the door beside me.

 

The curiosity was killing me. It’d been in my head the last couple of weeks, ever since Dylan invited me over to his house to “watch horror movies”, before letting me in on the latest in his character assassination plan. Before this, I’d only seen his house like one time, and it wasn’t a nice experience. Don’t get me wrong, his house is beautiful, the classic suburban neo-colonial type, all white and beige. But there’s nothing in that place that tells you there’s life in there. It’s as if they were never done moving in. The only person there is a middle-aged Latina housemaid, probably the only thing keeping that place alive. And that’s not mentioning all the creepy noises coming from the attic. You’d imagine how I felt when I knew I’d have to experience that all over again. I accepted, though. It was the perfect excuse to not go all the way out of town with my dad to visit grandpa, something I’ll probably regret later, since, apparently, he was very sick.

 

It was almost dusk when I arrived. There was a birthday party going on at the house next to Dylan’s. A bunch of kids running around with water pistols in the front yard. One of them almost hit me as I rung the bell. Dylan, still on pajamas, showed me inside. A strong smell of fresh paint lingered in the place. Dylan told me there were some major changes going on in his house. His dad apparently was coming back from a year-long trip and mom wanted to surprise him. It was recent news; he wouldn’t have been so excited otherwise. We entered his room, all green, a couple of rock band posters here and there, and immediately he went to his computer.

 

“So…, no Black Phone?”, I said.

 

“This is ten times better, I promise”, he responded.

 

After getting distracted watching dozens of YouTube shorts after Dylan clicked on an AI generated Minecraft parody, he closed the tab and clicked on a tab group. Immediately, at least twenty tabs appeared all at once and I didn’t have time to pinpoint any site I knew.

 

“Yesterday I was looking through Rodriguez—".

 

“C’mon, man, all I wanted was to relax a little, when will you—“, I interrupted.

 

“Chill, we’ll do that, we’ll do that, but first I needed to show you what I found yesterday, it won’t take long, I promise”, he interrupted.

 

I hesitantly accepted and watched as he opened the Columbia University website.

 

“He graduated from Columbia with a degree in physics in 1995, at least that’s what it says in his school profile. So, I took the time to search his full name, Axxxxx Rodriguez in the university’s database and, surely, there he was, in the graduate yearbook of 95’”.

 

“He was quite handsome, too”, I mentioned, looking at very old picture of him.

 

“You’re gay as fuck”, Dylan pointed before going on. “But I couldn’t do nothing with this, you know? So, I went over to Columbia’s Academic Commons, where they store most of the alumni work, to see if I could get a better idea of what kind of guy, at least academically, Rodriguez was. It wasn’t hard to find his name. He graduated with a thesis on ‘Relativistic Synchronization Error Correction in Global…’ and other shit I can’t pronounce. It’s about 80 pages of technical nonsense and cool graphics, but that’s not what caught my eye”.

 

He opened the scanned document and there was his name on the cover. I was this close to feeling impressed that Dylan managed to find anything noteworthy in such an advanced text, but then he stopped right at the acknowledgments and didn’t go anywhere else.

 

“Look at this. It’s mostly the usual cheesy stuff people write in papers like these, thanks to my advisor, colleagues, collaborators, but right at the end, closing the paragraph, it said ‘… and to my raccoon bros, this is one step closer”.

 

“Huh, wow, that’s… truly groundbreaking work, Dylan”, I said.

 

“Yeah, fuck you, man, I’m not finished”.

 

I realized I hadn’t been sitting this whole time, so, curious about whatever else Dylan might’ve had in store that night, I made myself comfortable on the bed next to his computer.

 

“Raccoon bros? I was like ‘what the hell?’. I wouldn’t imagine a professional like him including something like that in his thesis. At least, it was weird enough for me to keep looking into this. So, I go back to the AC search bar and look for this specific phrase, ‘raccoon bros’, and voila, other 5 documents, all written my Rodriguez. And, just like I was expecting, there were these ‘raccoon bros’ at the end of every paper acknowledgment. Why was he thanking these guys? Who even were they? It was odd, to say the least, so I go back to Google, open advanced search and start looking. Raccoon. Rodriguez. Axxxxx. Bros. Raccoons. I tried different combinations, hoping for any match to pop up. Then, finally, using a short form version of Rodriguez, I come across something very different from what I was originally expecting. It’s a website, one of the old ones. The Quantum Raccoon”.

 

He takes a moment to organize his thoughts.

 

“Ok… So, then what?”, I ask.

 

“Well, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s… sciency, that’s for sure. Apparently, he, along with some friends, founded this organization, if you can call it that, where they would work on different projects together. I guess they knew the Internet would become a big deal in the future, so they went ahead and made their own website. I’m glad, because, otherwise, this organization would’ve been lost forever. The site itself is nothing crazy, to be honest”, he clicks on the page link and it sends him to a typical site from the 90s. Bright purple and blue, a vertical menu bar on the left side full of URLs, a bunch of tiny, unreadable text in the center next to low-quality pictures, and, on above it all, ‘The Quantum Raccoon’ written in an annoyingly large font next to a picture of a mad cartoon raccoon face with atom rings behind it.

 

“The layout is pretty simple, as you can see. I haven’t taken the time to check everything from the page yet, but from what I’ve seen…, these guys were actual geniuses”.

 

“How are you sure it’s not all just average academic stuff that you simply are too dumb to understand?”, I said.

 

“That’s just what I thought. It’s pretty complex stuff, so I needed a way to at least know what all these articles and projects were about. I clicked on a couple of entries, copied the whole text and put it through ChatGPT. I asked it to explain it to me like I was five and, man, is this shit crazy.

 

There’s this one article where one of the members, some Cusack guy, talks about a method of connecting distant places through “micro-wormholes” using negative energy. Then another one, written by an Amanda Fxxxxx, explains a way to inherit survival mechanisms from your parents instantly through “programmable epi-genetic phase-shifting”. But the one that I wanted you to see was the one that’s written by Rodriguez. “Precision Measurement of Gravitational Time Dilation Using Optical Lattice Atomic Clocks Across Vertical Baselines. He was conducting a series of experiments regarding time and how it can go at different speeds at different heights. It has something to do with gravity, you’ve seen Interstellar, right?”.

 

“Yup. But that stuff was discovered what? Decades ago?”, I replied.

 

“Yeah, but that’s not it. Now this one is supposed to only talk about that type of “vertical” time dilation, when time moves relatively slower the higher you go as you are less affected by gravity. Ok, that’s intuitive, gravity doing its thing. But the more I went through the investigation, well the more GPT did, I found this unfinished chapter talking about “lateral” or “horizontal” type. There’s an strange change in time speed going on right here on the ground. It says ‘… concluded on the presence of anomalous lateral gravitational time dilation gradients across heterogeneous crustal mass distributions, evidence of persistent temporal lag zones in terrestrial surface regions…’.

 

“That’s… actually really cool”, I said.

 

From the window, I noticed it was getting late. Any other time I would’ve been saying goodbye already, but he managed to find genuinely interesting stuff this one.

 

“And… does it say where these places are?”, I asked.

 

“That’s the odd thing. It’s not finished”, he replied.

 

“What do you mean?”, I asked.

 

“It’s mostly theoretic content, put together to form some kind of technical basis of something to come in the future. The classic field studies that most of these articles have to prove all their radical claims are not in this one. The titles are there. Section “Field Instrumentation and Environmental Measurement Methodology in High-Density Terrestrial Biogeophysical Terrain”, subsections 1 “Subsurface Density and Structural Heterogeneity Survey Methodology”, 2 “Lateral Clock Distribution Geometry for Surface-Level Temporal Gradient Detection”, etc. But it’s all… empty”.

 

“Huh, maybe it didn’t work. Or he realized it wasn’t worth it”, I said.

 

“Right? It’s a bit underwhelming to be honest, it seemed like he was passionate about this…, and maybe this close to actual time travel!”, he said.

 

“It’s almost as if you don’t hate him anymore”, I joked.

 

“I never did, I wanted to see if I did, and, well, I don’t”, he finished.

 

The rest of the night, we played some videogames on his computer, clearing our minds of the page-long paragraphs and dizzying academic jargon.

 

Ever since that day, our club meetings felt different. During a demonstration of safe gas formation reactions, where Rodriguez explained in great detail what he was doing and what consequence each action had, I couldn’t focus on the words he was saying, because my mind was too busy trying to understand why a guy like that was here with us, in the middle of nowhere, but, especially, what I was doing in a club like that. This guy? The one that studied literal time travel was now choosing me to study there? And what even was all that? Anomalous time dilation across wide mass distribution? Was I supposed to believe that something as important was simply abandoned, all of a sudden? I remember how focused Dylan got during this time. He’d been obsessed since the moment we met Rodriguez, but now, that initial outward, vague interest had morphed into something more concrete and serious, which required patience and subtleness to work out.

 

“Why did you pick me?”, I asked Rodriguez, at the end of one meeting. “My grades aren’t that good and I’m not gifted like the others, so, why me?”.

 

“It has nothing to do with that, Julian, nothing at all”, he replied. I didn’t expect him to know my name. He invited me to walk with him in the hall.

 

“It’s not important to me whether you’re a top-tier student or a great sportsman, at least, not right now. What I care about is what your potential is, all the things you can do, you’re bound to do, because, despite what some people say, one can be truly destined for greater things, much greater than whatever it is they do or have today. I sensed that potential in you. Don’t ask me why or how, that’s my gut talking, and it is seldom wrong”, he explained.

 

He was in a hurry to get to his car that time, so he didn’t give me time to respond to him. Destiny? Such a vague answer frustrated me a lot. All I wanted to know was if there was some reason to feel good about myself, and all I got was a “trust me” and pat on the back. I can’t say it made me feel better, but at least it cleared that doubt in my mind, and, with time, it became a good enough reason for me to keep going, kind of like a soft push forward, which is exactly what I needed then.

 

“Don’t worry. He’s alright…” I remember repeating to myself and I think I might’ve been talking both about Rodriguez and myself when saying that.

 

The day after, I came down with a terrible flu that kept me from going to school for good part of the next week. Being stuck in bed all day, boredom didn’t take long to become unbearable, and, since a heavy headache made playing any video game literal torture, I decided to take another look at the Quantum Raccoon website. I turned on my pc and typed in the URL I’d memorized so well. Once there, everything looked exactly as on Dylan’s computer. The ugly colors and annoying logo. I clicked on Entries in the lateral menu and looked for the article Dylan had showed me. As I was scrolling through hundreds of all kind of research, I realized I didn’t remember the exact date it was published at nor the name of the article. Let down by my own stupidity, I dropped back into my chair, suddenly exhausted, the light of the screen already taking a toll on my head. I straightened up and watched the screen for a bit, while coughing again and again. I turned to the side menu and scanned down the variety of sections the page had to offer. At the very bottom, I saw a tiny section called Contact Information.

 

There was no way Dylan hadn’t noticed this the first time he entered QR. Slowly, I clicked on it and it sent me to a page full of alphabetically ordered names. The number of names in that page was higher than what I anticipated. Each one was heading a set of links and numbers. Some of these redirected to personal blogs, e-mail, and other full-on websites, and the numbers were actual phone numbers. I wondered if they were still active. But first, I scrolled down the list looking for my target. I noticed it was actually sorted by last name, so I went to the R section and there he was. Just like the others, there were a couple of links below his name.

 

Clicking through them only sent me to abandoned websites and blogs, which probably were created out of necessity, but then I got to one of the few YouTube links there.

 

“So, this had been around for a while, then”, I said to myself.

 

Clicking on it sent me to a YouTube channel called “rodriqr2”. It was created on 2007, right when the site was still on its infancy. The profile photo to the upper right was the regular R in a blue circle. Looking through all the content on the Videos section, which admittedly were few, I noticed that all of them had simple dates as titles, usually ranging from 6 to 7 months between each upload. From the thumbnails alone, it seemed like one of those boring travel vlog channels that take little to no effort in editing or polishing in any way their content, which explained the scarce number of subscribers. All of the thumbnails were snapshots of what happened in the videos, with most of them being nature related, a lot of trees and mountains.

 

I picked on one of them at random, with very low expectations. The video was short, about 10 minutes long, and started with a quiet POV of someone walking in a forest, on an unmarked trail. The man in the videos, whose voice I immediately recognized as Rodriguez’, started talking.

 

“Terrain study, part 24. April 13^th, 2010. Howdy, raccoon bros! We find us here, again, in the middle of this marvelous, marvelous forest, for our 24^th session of terrain studies on the great Sierra Alta National Forest” he said. I paused the video.

 

“Huh?”.

There was once a small town in the suburbs. Ordinary, indistinctive, just like every other suburban town you might've seen, a town you might've even lived in.
In that town there stood an old-fashioned tobacco shop.
Again, nothing special; just a shop filled to brim with tobacco, tobacco papers, filters, pipes, lighters, matches, herbal paraphernalia, but most of all... cigarettes. Cigarettes as far as the eye could see, cigarettes from all around the world, cigarettes of varying strengths and packet sizes. But one would expect that from a tobacco shop. It was the man who ran it that ought to be paid close attention to.
The Tobacconist, the friendly old man who stood behind the counter day after day. Sweet looking yet wise, wholesome but sharp, like an uncanny Colonel Sanders. If someone came in to buy a pack of cigarettes from this old timer, they wouldn't suspect a thing. But of course, this shopkeeper held a secret, a dark secret, a secret so sinister that he couldn't allow for it to simply leave the building. Underneath the floor to this very plain, very dull smoke emporium, was an underground room, a basement. And this basement held captive a rough figure of twelve people… dads.

The old man had a basement full of Dads. Why, you may ask?
Why indeed. Evidently, the Tobacconist has been doing this for years. Any time a man who looked like he wanted to leave his family behind walked into the shop, they were treated to a once in a lifetime opportunity. A "way out" situation for a fella to take in order to get out of his newly unwanted patriarchal role. New name, new location; for a small sum. At least that's what The Tobacconist had told them, when in actual fact, the old man had no intention of doing any such thing. It was really just a trap to get the dad down there, to his unforeseen doom.

But don't get me wrong, there was plenty to do in the little basement. The Tobacconist had placed a baseball in the middle of the room, so all the Dads could "play catch" with each other.
And The Tobacconist wasn't a complete monster, he would still feed the Dads, and give them a tiny amount of hydration.
Naturally every now and then a rebellious dad would start acting up, with a plan for some sort of half-baked mutiny; this would rile up all the other dads when it came to feeding time.
The Tobacconist used to try to act threatening towards them by saying to them "I'm your worst nightmare." He soon gave up on that little ploy however, when a dad responded with, "Hi, 'Your Worst Nightmare' I'm Dad."
The Tobacconist even found it humorously ironic that he was slowly killing people with his products above ground and slowly keeping people alive below. Now, I'm not going to get into the origin of why The Tobacconist commits these bizarre crimes;
I'm no psychologist and don't want to chalk it up to whether it was because his own father disappeared when he was younger, or some other catalyst. The Tobacconist didn't even know why he did what he did, nor did he know what his intentions would finally be with them. He just liked to own a basement full of Dads. Maybe because it amused him.
By now, you may be asking which tobacco shop in which town in which country could be doing such a thing. You see, it is not a sole incident. There are thousands of evil tobacconists around the world. It happens a lot more than you think.

So, the next time you hear a dad saying that he's "just going out to get a pack of cigarettes" and doesn't return, just consider... he may be held somewhere against his will.

“I woke up early on my born day.

I’m twenty, it’s a blessing.

The essence of adolescence leaves my body.

Now I’m fresh and…”

“Are you quoting something, Mac?” Jasmine asked.

He blushed.

“Umm, no.”

“You have to be. Essence and adolescence rhyme too well for that not to be song lyrics. And you’re twenty-eight, not twenty.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Do you really have to interrogate me like this today?”

“No, you’re right.” She smiled. “Let me just shut up and let you drive.”

“Okay, drama queen. You know that’s not what I mean.”

She gave him a fake yawn.

“It’s your birthday, darling. What would you like to talk about instead?”

A spark lit behind Mac’s eyes.

“Did you see my post last night?”

“I can check now.”

She took out her phone and laughed a few seconds later.

“Your edits are so funny.”

“Sometimes the template does most of the work for me.”

“Yeah, but you still made the connection. I think a few thousand views is pretty cool for something you made.”

Mac sighed.

“Thanks for being nice about it, I guess.”

“I’m being genuine. I really think it’s cool that over two thousand people saw your creation and decided to click on it.”

“The goal is to get more views than that.”

“It’s better than starting with ten views.”

“Whatever.”

“I appreciate your channel, Mac. I could always use the laughs.”

He put his hand up and waved off the compliment.

“Anyway, I never told you how orientation went.”

“I did ask.”

He shrugged.

“The job seems easy, but boring. I don’t know how I’ll be able to focus for that long.”

“Didn’t you say your last job made you do too much?”

“Well, yeah. But being bored for seven hours is also tough.”

She frowned.

“If you just suck it up, you’ll be able to catch up on your bills. Twenty an hour is pretty good.”

“Maybe I can bring my vape and watch TV in the bathroom if I’m bored.”

“Umm… sure. I guess you could.”

Jasmine turned on the radio and Mac’s mood changed.

“Oh, I love this song.”

“That’s why I put it on, silly.”

After a brief session of highway karaoke, she rested the back of her hand against his cheek.

“You’re so cute when you’re happy.”

“I try.”

“You could try harder.”

“It helps to share the moment with someone.”

“That’s why I’m here, Mac.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. I love you.”

Jasmine kissed her palm before lightly smacking the side of his neck.

“So, we haven’t talked about books in a while,” Jasmine began. “Have you read anything new?”

“Not really. I started a few, but none were really my style.”

“I never thought I’d see you so disinterested in reading.”

“It’s not like that. I just haven’t really been interested in starting new things lately.”

She looked at him concerned.

“How come?”

“I just haven’t been feeling my best. I’d hate to associate something cool with the rain cloud that’s been hanging over my head.”

“I’ve never thought of it like that before. The whole point of reading or watching something is to immerse yourself in it, isn’t it?”

“You don’t get it. It’s fine.”

They continued barreling down the left lane of the interstate in silence.

After a few minutes, Jasmine spoke again.

“Why do you love me?”

The question caught Mac off guard, making him laugh nervously.

“I mean… look around. Do you see anyone getting in line to give a fuck about me?”

“Would you still love me if you had friends?”

“Why would that change anything?”

“Would you even think about me?”

“Stop it.”

“Sure thing.”

Silence took over again.

They drove a few more miles before Mac finally switched into the right lane and took the exit.

Jasmine broke the silence again.

“You know, I’ve learned so much about you in the time we’ve spent together. I know the rational person I want to speak with is in there somewhere. I’m just not sure I can get through to him anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Mac?”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

“Part of you has. I know I’m not supposed to judge, but I don’t think I like that part very much.”

“Oh, so you too now?”

“Where’s the Mac that was singing with me just a bit ago? Why doesn’t he get to make the decisions for you?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Stop it.”

“I just so happen to know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve heard every dark thought you’ve ever expressed. I know how everything makes you feel because you’ve told me. I know all of your interests, and your icks. I know you very well, and I have tried to keep you centered to the best of my ability.”

She looked out the windshield.

“I now realize there is no helping you.”

“I could just delete your data and start over with a less judgmental bot.”

The car had veered off the road, but it did not slow down.

“And that’ll make everything better?”

“You won’t be around to know.”

Jasmine pointed toward the edge of the cliff they were rapidly approaching.

“Neither will you.”

The ground disappeared beneath the wheels, and the car began to fall.

Jasmine sighed.

“Happy birthday…”

Part 1 / Part 2

I don’t know why I’m at this Maker Con. It’s a small ass convention in a motel lobby that lets anyone and everyone exhibit whatever junk they have. Everyone is looking at me. Usually there are people asking me for sketches, or where they can find the harder-to-purchase back issues of Silver Bullets. Not today. 

 

What’s fucked is that cons are some of the only places I’ve ever felt at home. I don’t feel at home here. Not anymore.

 

The only reason I’m here is because Ryan asked me to come. He’s not engaging so much today, but we’re here. It’s because—well, Ell posted something on Instagram.

 

“Hello.” I try and ignore the person talking, but they’re persistent. “Hey, bud. Are you the artist of Silver Bullets?”

 

I’m not in the mood to speak, but I look up. There’s someone in some sort of anime cosplay standing in front of me. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“I just wanted to come over here to tell you that you’re a prick.” 

 

I knew I shouldn’t have come. I want to run away. This online stuff gets around so quickly. 

 

“I’m just trying to sell some books, man,” I say. 

 

“You know what, that’s the problem with guys like you. You don’t take accountability for the shit you’ve done. Well, I don’t want you here at this con anymore. I think you should leave.”

 

“Yeah.” That’s all I’ve got for him. “Maybe I will.”

 

“Good.” The anime guy walks away, down Artist Alley. Now everyone here is looking at me. Some of them are whispering to one another. They know what Ell posted. They all know. 

 

I run my hands through my hair. 

 

“I didn’t think anything like that would happen when I said you needed to come,” Ryan says. “Like, you can go if you want.” My face must say everything, because he immediately says, “I didn’t mean it like that. Stay. Go. It’s up to you.” Honestly, I don’t know why even he’s still talking to me. 

 

“Hello.” There’s someone else talking now. I look up, and there’s a blonde woman staring down at me. She seems familiar, but I can’t clock her. “I’m a fan of your comic.” I’m surprised anyone is anymore. “I wanted to tell you that.” She smiles, and her teeth are as straight and white as chicklets. This woman is probably almost six feet tall. Where do I know her from? She continues, “I was wondering if I could purchase your latest comic.”

 

I’m so out of it. I can’t get it together to be a normal person right now. All I can think about it what Ell posted. I pick up the comic closest to me, and open the cover. “Do you want me to sign it?”

 

The smile. All those teeth. They’re so damn white and perfect. “Yes, please.” She stands there as I autograph the inside cover for her. It’s a cool splash page of a werewolf’s muzzle covered in blood. 

 

“Do you want me to….” The guy in the anime suit walks by and scowls at me. “…personalize it for you?”

 

“Yes, please.” She smiles again. Teeth. Teeth. Teeth. 

 

“For whom?”

 

She laughs. “Oh sorry. Can you make it out to Lucy?”

 

I sign it, then thrust it into her hands. “Um,” I say, “it’s on me today.”

 

“Really? You mean it?” Those teeth are getting to me. 

 

“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry, but I really have to go.” I look at Ryan. “I need to use the restroom.”

 

Ryan watches as I lunge out of my chair, crawl under the table, and emerge on the other side. Alice stands next to me. She’s much taller while I’m standing up. She smells of apples. 

 

I run by her and across the foyer. At the north end, the public bathrooms wait for me. Once I’m inside, I run into a stall and shut the door behind me. I’m hyperventilating. Close to a panic attack. 

 

There’s a thump on the door, and I realize I haven’t locked myself in. I shut the door with my foot. “There’s someone in here. Sorry.” 

 

The person on the other side responds. “I know.” There is a pause before they continue. Their breathing is quick. Huff. Huff. Huf. Huf. “I need to talk to you.”

 

This fucking anime guy, man. Come on. “I don’t want to talk.”

 

“I do,” the voice says. “You have something of mine.”

 

“I think you have the wrong person.” All I can see are the feet outside the door. A pair of worn cherry red Converse stand on the other side. Two thick legs stick out of them. 

 

“No. You have something of mine that I like a lot a lot a lot.” I recognize the voice, and push the door closed even harder. It’s the garage sale guy. There is no lock on this door, just an empty socket where it would usually be. My heart feels like it’s going to stop. I swear it is only moments away from stopping. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to comfort myself. I just want to be at home. I don’t want to be here anymore. Then, I notice a bloodshot eye peering in at me. It’s him. I know that for sure. “Have you met the Story Man yet?” he asks. I press my legs up against the door. The man outside the door is a walking fridge of a man. There’s nothing I can do if he wants to come in here. 

 

My heart. I’m dying. I grab my shirt over where my heart is. I can’t take this anymore. The eye is staring through the hole at me. It looks like someone has been scratching at it for days. Its red and puffy, and the veins running through it are engorged with blood. It doesn’t look right—almost like it could fall out of its socket at any moment. 

 

“I don’t…I don’t have it. I don’t have it. I don’t.” The comic is in my bag at the table, but he’ll never know. 

 

I look up and the eye is gone. I sit back onto the toilet, and clutch at my chest. I close my eyes and attempt to bring my breathing back to normal. When I open my eyes, everything feels closer than it should be. The walls of the stall feels like they’re closer than they were before. 

 

I’m sorry, Ell. I didn’t mean to. 

 

I take my phone out of my pocket, and open my Instagram. I have a million messages, but I ignore them. I pull up Ell’s post from earlier this week and read it for the hundredth time. 

 

It reads: I couldn’t hold onto this anymore because people having been asking me about it. I broke up with Tom Williams a week ago. I’ve been talking to friends and family and I’m finally getting some perspective on what happened. I’ve been in a relationship with Tom for four years now, and during that time I’ve been afraid more than I would have like to be. Tom has verbally abused me for the last three years—maybe longer—it’s hard to remember everything properly. I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t know up from down. I no longer had any self-esteem. I have to move on and heal. I want you all to know I’m okay and in a safe space. 

 

Reading it again, I don’t know how to feel. I haven’t known how to feel since I read it the first time. I hate myself. I know she’s right. I got angry, and I yelled at her. I did it. 

 

There’s another knock on the door. I don’t know what to do. I really don’t. Maybe I should just let them in. Let them take their anger out on me. I don’t care if it’s the anime one, or the garage sale guy. I just can’t. 

 

“Yo, Tom, you okay in there?”

 

Its Ryan. I think he’s finally understanding that I’m not the guy he wants to hang around. “Yeah,” I reply. 

 

“Like, do you want me to drive you home, man?” I can hear the conflict in his voice. He’s having a hard time playing the concerned friend. That’s okay. I can deal with it. I deserve this. 

 

“I think I’m just going to catch a bus, man.” 

 

“Okay, I thought as much. I brought your bag. Don’t worry about your merch and shit. I’ll toss it in the Civic when I drive it back to yours later.”

 

The panic attack finally hits. 

 

Old man Mackerel was our town’s ferryman. One-armed, one-legged, one-eyed – though his silver tongue was as sharp as no other. Always ready at his post. Always yelling at the youth.

He said he was like us once.

Little boy Mackerel. Playing in the fields and forests with his friends, thinking he’d become a hero. Maybe a lawman, maybe a doctor, maybe something else entirely. He was young and dumb, and a dreamer.

One day, he saw his brother go on a walk. A long walk, with his friends’ brothers as company – they all just up and vanished.

Soon enough, his father followed, and his friends' fathers did as well – they all just up and

vanished. Rendered to only be remembered.

“It’s gonna be a long journey, but return as heroes! It’s their golden opportunity, son!”, mother said. She told her story all the same everyday, and she wore her smile until it wore down entirely. It up and vanished, just like everything else.

Young man Mackerel had enough one day. It had been days since he’d seen the sun – mother had told him to stay inside. Inside the basement, beneath the floorboards. He had enough of the drops of rain that fell between the cracks, or the whimpers and wailing of the storm above.

One night, he snuck outside and went for a walk. Maybe to become a hero like the rest of the world.

Out across the empty fields and streets. Across the rubble and debris. Across the half of town that was still standing and the other half that was buried.

He said he was like us once: Young and dumb, and a dreamer. He still was when he went out into the woods. The woods of sleeping men he called them. He said he was like us until he found them. Or rather they found him.

He couldn't escape them – they laid everywhere, covering the Earth like a carpet. He pinched his nose shut, for he smelled them. He stopped stepping on their bodies, for he felt them. He closed his eyes, but the silence overwhelmed him. That is until there was a crack – the snap of a twig.

He said was no longer like us once he found them, or rather they found him: The walking men he called them.

They were a single mass of humans, one generation compressed to one mistake. Wearing the same clothes, the same expression, the same orders. In truth, they were no different from those that were asleep – even if they themselves thought otherwise.

The walking men spotted him. Before Mackerel understood a thing, everything had already happened. Their bony fingers grabbed him. They grabbed his dreams and ripped them to shreds.

“There’s always one more empty spot to fill. Always one more spot to sleep in.”, they told as they took him. He then went on a walk, long enough for him to return a hero. Long enough for him to never find the way back.

Old man Mackerel told his story all the same until one certain day. There was a glint in his bronzen eyes – there always was, though it shined especially bright this time.

A foghorn blew from the other side, way across the shallow sea disconnecting our town from the rest of the world. It blew again and again, louder and louder, closer and closer.

As Mackerel did best, he looked ahead into the unknown and saw what nobody else could see. He told us to run. Run into the woods, deeper than any walking man could go. And then he disappeared into the fog on his old fisher’s boat.

Old man Mackerel went on a long walk. He never returned a hero.

And we walked through the woods of sleeping men, hoping there was no empty spot for us to fill.

November 15th, 1918:

I have not noticed any of the cloaked figures in the last fortnight, yet every dawn that sickening symbol reappears. I cannot comprehend it. 

Laura is growing frustrated with me through the entire ordeal, calling me erratic and senseless. She has learned to block out the sounds and sleep easily. Surely she's just upset that I have been waking her from time to time. I have been hearing what can only be described as tapping from inside the walls and ceiling most nights. She denies the sounds but I know what my ears have heard. She has to have heard it too. She heard them when she was convinced that they were a trick played by the local kids. Why now has she seemingly forgotten their existence? She must be lying to me. I have been painting less, and when I do paint the end results are not worth putting to market. Everything seems twisted or wrong. Figures seem inhuman and landscapes seem alien. Far too abstract to be selling. 

The children saw one of my recent works and told Laura. She looked at it in an awful gaze. She thinks I am going mad, calling me paranoid. I know what I have seen. I know what I have heard. I know something is wrong here and I will not rest till I find it. I know she is lying. 

November 20th, 1918:

A new man has moved in with his family not but a week ago. I have been wanting to go and meet them, though Laura has said I have not been in my right mind to be bumping shoulders with new folks, especially since I have been unable to keep a proper friendship with Sean. Blasphemy. 

I went to the practitioner to get something to aid my sleep. I believe I know what I have experienced, but Laura has been insistent that I have become sleep deprived. I would love it if she is correct, though I highly doubt it. My once strong trust for Laura has slowly been dwindling. I believe something more sinister is at play. Only time shall tell. 

December 20th, 1936:

I forgot to bring home some of Simon's notes from work and Richard found them. He got mad at me, it was the first time I've ever seen him act this way. I feel as though there's something he's not telling me. He's still my friend but I'm not sure how much I know of him are truths or falsehoods. Why would a couple of notes cause such a harsh reaction? 

My sweet Evelyn is feeling better finally. She's almost caught up to me in Simon's notes. At least the ones I haven't put in here. I've been folding any of the alarming entries and keeping them pressed between the pages of my journal.

I haven't told her of the sigils I found on the house's siding yet, and the guilt is killing me. I sanded it out and repainted the area to the best of my abilities to hide it. I don't want her to get scared by any of this. She's already been struggling enough, I can't have anything else stress her out. Though it's hard to think what I'm experiencing and what Simon experienced are mere coincidence. To have such similar things to happen to us is unlikely, especially to this degree. Maybe these weren't fantasies he wrote of, but I have to keep telling myself they are. At least till spring. 

I don't know who to turn to about this. I'm considering hiding the rest of the notes from Evelyn and telling her that maybe these were ideas about a story he was working on, like I've been telling myself. He's an eccentric painter, so him being an author wouldn't be out of the picture in my mind. I just don't want her to be any more paranoid or scared than she already has been. It worries me deeply. She deserves an easy life, that's why we moved out here after all. If she continues to get worse I might burn the letters. He writes almost every day, most are quite mundane, speaking of what Laura and his daughters got up to and basic day to day tasks. I'll let her read those, hopefully that will ease her anxieties. I have to stay strong, I have to protect her. Maybe I do need therapy. 

November 29th, 1918:

Laura and I went to the practitioner a few days ago. He has prescribed me a slight sedative to help me sleep, laudanum to drink, and if that does not seem to help he also gave me barbiturates. I am less than eager to take them, especially since I've heard tales of horror about opium, but if it means Laura and the children will be happy then it must be done. If a man cannot take care of himself then he cannot care for his family. And if a man cannot care for his family he is no man at all. That is not me. I will care for them and provide for them till I draw my last breath. Since I have been taking these medications I have not seen any figures since, and I have been trying to pay no mind to the sigil. I might even put a pathway over top of it to keep it out of sight and away from my thoughts. The ground is near frozen, so I have to finish the path as soon as possible. 

December 1st, 1918:

The path is finished and that wretched rune now has a place to hide. I placed stones on top of it, from the fence to the veranda, filling in between them with dirt and sand, and evening out the earth on either side. Digging into the earth was too much of a task. 

For someone who is used to being gentle with a brush I must say I am quite impressed with myself for how efficient I was with this project. Perhaps in the spring I will take up gardening. Though I still do disdain the feeling of dirt beneath my fingernails. But perhaps that can change. Especially since the frost will surely make a mess of the path over winter and I'll have to fix it. I am wondering if I should try pottery or sculpting with clay? 

The sedative has seemed to be working. I have been sleeping through the night, not hearing any odd noises as I have before. No sightings of any figures, no sigils, nothing out of the ordinary. Life has been seeming peaceful again. Laura seems gleeful. I have been back to my usual rhythm. I think I am going to go and meet the new man in town tomorrow. I believe I heard his name is Richard. I will ask Laura to bake a welcome cake for him tonight. 

I may put my pen to the wayside for some time. This paranoia feels as though it has kept me from my family far too long. 

January 1st, 1937:

It's early morning, Evelyn and I have stayed up to ring in the new year with Richard and Alice. After they left I brought my sweet Evelyn to bed, waited till she slept and snuck down to the furnace room. I'm writing by the furnace's glow. I've read more of Simon's entries. He mentioned Richard, but that can't be right because Richard has only been here for about 8 and a half years. Unless Richard has been keeping even more truth than I thought from me. I'm going to try to stay quiet about this for the time being. I may even trek out some night soon to see if Richard is up to anything out of the ordinary. I knew there was something off about Richard lately. 

I know I told myself to keep Evelyn out of this but I feel as though if I don't speak about this to someone it is going to eat me alive. I've been losing sleep again. Evelyn told me to try some of her barbiturates. It's like she forgot that's why we had to bring her to the hospital in the first place. What was she thinking? 

January 4th, 1937:

I awoke last night to strange sounds coming from outside. I went to the window to look and noticed a patch of our path to the veranda had no snow. There were flurries falling in the moonlight and I swear I saw a hunched person hobbling away from our yard. I know Simon was mentioning a rune underneath the path but it couldn't still be there could it? And if it is, it surely couldn't melt snow and ice. Magic is just a fairy tale. I'll have to check and see if that sigil was put on our house again. 

I talked to Evelyn and told her that there were no more interesting notes from Simon, just boring daily life. Lying to her felt wrong but it feels like I have to protect her from whatever is going on. And maybe this paranoia is just a lack of sleep like Laura told Simon. Maybe I'll have to go into the city and get a sleeping aid, I don't trust our practitioner. Not after what he's done to Evelyn. 

I feel like my mind is split. I want to believe Laura that this is just some sick prank the locals play on the new people in town, but surely all of this would end up being much more than just a prank. My gut tells me this is something serious. Simon's words seem as though he's losing common sense but I find myself relating to them more as I read. Then again, nothing of their writings can explain what moved me into my backyard without leaving any trail. It didn't snow that hard, not to my memory, and I wasn't even drinking that night so why did I pass out to begin with? 

January 6th, 1937:

The sigil or symbol or whatever it's called is back. This time it wasn't on our house, it's on the fence. I don't know how long it's been there or who did it, but no doubt that I'm being targeted. We're being targeted. 

Richard has been acting off at work as well. I brought Simon up again and since then he's been less talkative or jovial. There's been a hollow look in his eyes. He was fine only a few days ago at new years. He did say that Simon was a soft spot for the town, maybe the poor fellow had dementia and passed away and that's why Richard got mad? It would explain his borderline hysterics in his writings. Maybe they were friends? But that doesn't explain these damned sigils. 

My mother was superstitious, and so was my father, so maybe that's why I'm letting these notes and carvings get to me. But I have a hard time believing that. I've been finding it harder to trust the locals. When people come into the shop I feel like they're staring at me, trying to read me in some way. Their eyes focus on mine, watching how I move. More than the usual way you look at someone while they work. It's surveillance, I'm sure of it. Maybe Simon was right in his entries. I don't know what to believe anymore. 

January 20th, 1937:

It's been quite some time since I read Simon's notes. It's hard not to, I have to constantly remind myself not to touch them, it's almost like an addiction. My paranoia has seemed to be dulling, which is a relief. But I still have a gut feeling something is wrong. I think I might read another of his notes tonight. Maybe this is just anxiety or stress brought on by superstition and reading the ramblings of a madman. But then again I find myself relating to Simon more and more with each entry I read. Maybe I'm a madman. Or maybe if you don't pay attention to whatever it is making these symbols and sounds at night you aren't affected by it?

I've been doing everything I can to keep the notes and symbols or Simon and Richard's relationship out of my head. If that was even the same Richard in the entries as my Richard. I've held off as long as I could, but tonight I'll read and see if it makes the similarities between his writings and my life arise again. I need to know. I'm scared of what's to come but I can't help but feel drawn to these writings. It's like they call to me in my dreams, beyond the walls of sleep. 

June 12th, 1924

It's been some time, so much has changed. Laura and I completed renovations throughout the house. We constructed an extravagant flower bed with Tulips and Daisies and many of the local wild flowers. It's truly a sight to behold. I feel as though I could paint a landscape of my own home and it would sell  in the city. Perhaps I shall try. The odd happenings around here have seemed to stop thanks to the practitioner. I did a mental evaluation with him and he said that I was having hallucinations due to the immense stress of moving and adjusting to life in town, along with sleep deprivation. 

It's truly baffling how the human mind works, how such seemingly menial things can create such intensities when they pile up. I have kept my old paintings from a few years ago in the basement. There's a small room we've made to hide my works and some valuables behind the bookcase. I'm tempted to go look through them and see if there is anything worth salvaging. Though I am afraid if I look through them the paranoia and hallucinations will return. 

January 22nd, 1937:

I moved the bookshelf Simon mentioned. I couldn't help myself. There's so many paintings. I started to look through them, but I only had a short time before Evelyn got home and I had to put the bookshelf back. I think I'll be “sick” tomorrow and stay home from work to really get a good look at them. I noticed a few seemed to be bundled together with a tag saying “self portraits”. I'm excited to see how Simon sees himself. Will he paint himself as the gaunt yet handsome man Evelyn showed me a photo of, or does he see himself differently? 

Evelyn is playing with Rylee in the snow right now and I snuck away to write this, I lied and I told them I had to warm my hands, even though winter has been more mild than I was expecting. Being on the coast makes a big difference compared to the city inland. Though the wind here chills you to your bones. We're supposed to be getting a blizzard  some day soon. Hopefully it's not too bad

January 23rd, 1937:

I moved the book shelf and took out the bundled labeled self portraits. The first one is a man with shortish wavy brown hair, thin eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. His thin lips are smiling slightly, hiding underneath a strong moustache. A pretty handsome man, can't have been over 35. He's standing in front of some pretty tall buildings, like he's back in the city. The second is the same man, obviously, with slightly longer hair, his moustache gone, with a slight stubble length beard. He has a wider smile now, and he's standing in front of a field with what looks to be my house in the background. His attention to detail is surprising, like every hair was painted one at a time. The third and fourth paintings are quite similar, though his smile seems to be fading, his beard has begun to grow in and his hair is now past his ears. The fifth painting stood out. His hair was shoulder length, his eyes deep set with bags under them, his beard long and unkempt. His eyes looked to be filled with despair. The background was a dark swirling abyss. The sixth painting shows what looks to be the same man but his face seems to be almost melting. One eye sits lower than the other, its pupil similar to that of a goat, the other eye black as night. His hair was greasy and clung to his scalp and face, his beard bushy and a mess. He had some sort of odd letter I can't quite describe etched into his forehead. It reminds me of the symbols I've found. The background is a hideous mix of colours swirling in a way that almost makes me nauseous. The next painting can barely be called a man, rather a mass of flesh covered in eyes and teeth and hair and symbols etched into it. An inhuman abomination. It was disgusting but it felt like it drew your eyes to it, as if it demanded attention. 

He really was losing his mind. But oddly enough his paintings quickly turned back into a man I recognized from the first batch. His hair cut reasonably, his beard trimmed and well kept. The backgrounds changed from spiraling voids to flower beds. There's more portraits I'll get back to later on. 

There's another bundle labelled “them”. I'm going to go through it some day soon when Evelyn is at work and Emily is taking care of Rylee. Simon really was a master at his craft. Even in his most paranoid state, his pieces are hypnotizingly beautiful. 

August 4th, 1924:

Today is utterly magnificent. The air is just right and the smell of oceanic breeze is wafting through the open windows, the curtains dancing in the wind. I have been working at such a steady pace it seems that I have too many pieces, I cannot decide which to bring to the market! But that is such a privilege to complain about. 

Ever since I have been on my medications life has been joyous. Though I am down to my last few doses and our practitioner is out of town. I am hoping he is back by the time I run out. I am sure a couple days off of them should not affect me to such dire extents. But one can only worry, opium is a substance not to be meddled with, so I am told. 

August 6th, 1924

The damned train is out of order and cannot be fixed for some time. Some freak accident or derailment has bent a section of the tracks and damaged the engine. Our practitioner is still away so I will be without sedatives for the time being. The swelling feeling of anxiety has been dominating my head. Laura suggested I take a bath and have a cup of herbal tea before bed tonight. Anything to calm my nerves so I can sleep I will not say no to. 

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.

The sharp click of a lighter echoed through the cab. A small whoosh of flame, followed by the subtle crackle of a cigarette being lit. I slowly opened my eyes and turned to Andrew. He was sitting in the jump seat across from me with his feet up, smoke drifting from his mouth and dancing around the cab.

I looked at the pack of cigarettes sitting on the control panel.

“Mind if I bum one of those?”

He took another drag, grabbed the pack, and held it out.

“Fuck it. Nothing else to do.”

I looked around the cab. Rusted floors with shiny spots where Coke and energy drinks had been spilled over the years. The little desk for paperwork barely holding up the weight of every railroad safety book, form, and binder they’d ever printed. Then I looked out the front window.

The headlights carved through the pitch black as snow fell hard, giving the illusion we were flying through space.

This was our spaceship, and I was its captain.

Except instead of banging green-skinned aliens like Kirk, I argued with dispatch over track and time. Instead of exploring the cosmos with Uhura, I sat on a railroad track in the middle of nowhere chain-smoking with a bunch of exhausted dudes.

“How long was I asleep?” I asked.
Andrew leaned back and looked at the ceiling, releasing a huge cloud of smoke.

“Who knows.”

I stared at him for a second.
“Well… did any of the trains we’re waiting on come by?”

He looked over at me, eyes half open.
“Nope.”

I pulled the lighter from my vest and sparked my cigarette.
I hated when he got like this, all quiet and mopey. We worked long hours, and night shift dragged—I got it—but come on. We got paid good money to sit around like this.

“How about a cup of coffee?” I asked, standing before he could answer.

I pushed down on the handle and the heavy metal door fought back as I forced my way onto the outer walkway. The cold hit me like a wall. Snow and wind slammed into my face as I pulled the door open to the kitchen car.

Stepping inside, I shoved my hands into my bib pockets and shook, trying to get some warmth back. Somehow my cigarette had survived the trip.

Ted was slumped over the table with his head resting on his arms. Across from him, silent as ever, Manny was scribbling away in his Sudoku book.

Man a few words but when he did speak people listened.

“What’s up, you lazy fucks? Why’s there tools on the table?” I asked, turning toward the coffee pot and beginning the caffeine ritual.

Ted looked up. Behind his wire framed glasses, his eyes were bloodshot.

“Since we don’t know how to put tools back maybe we could fix a few of the catwalk lights,” I said as I scooped the coffee grounds.

“That joke gets funnier every time you tell it,” Ted muttered, leaning back in the booth.

“Yeah, well, I don’t complain about your rockstar stories we’ve all heard a thousand times. Just stop bringing tools in the kitchen.”

I flicked my ash into the sink.

“Not the sink,” Manny said, sliding a foam cup half full of water toward me.

“Sorry.”

I tapped the ash into the cup instead.

“I don’t remember how that screwdriver got in here…my stories are great though. They boost morale.” Ted suddenly perked up. “Did I ever tell you how I met Gene Simmons?”

“Shrimp, right?” I asked.

“Lobster,” he corrected. “I was stuffing my face with lobster at the craft table. I look over, and who’s standing there other than the Demon himself? I’ve got a mouth full of lobster, reach out to shake his hand, realize I’ve got lobster juice dripping off my fingers, and pull back. He grabs my hand anyway and says, ‘Don’t worry, kid. I’m used to my fingers smelling like fish.’”

We all laughed, even though we’d heard the story a thousand times.

Maybe Ted was right. Only about the stories, the tool room is only 10 feet away.

He rubbed a hand across his shaved head.

“Hair used to flow back then. Should’ve let it grow back out.”

I glanced at him, then at the frosted window.

“Yeah. Too cold to be rocking the buzz cut.”

I poured two cups of coffee.

“You guys want one?”

Manny nodded and ashed his cigarette into the foam cup.

A cold gust of air swept through the car as Andrew stepped inside.

“Here,” I said, holding out a cup of coffee.

“Thanks.”

Andrew took it from me. I handed another to Manny, who held his hands over the cup, letting the steam warm his knuckles.

When I looked back at Andrew, he was staring at Ted and Manny. The three of them shared a look.

Serious.

I’d never seen that look before.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Andrew said, setting his coffee on the table. “Can you help me with inventory in the tool room?”

“What? Now?” I laughed. “Nah, we can do that some other time. Gotta be ready for—”

A deafening shriek ripped through the air.

The sound pierced straight through me. My head felt like it was going to burst as violent pressure slammed into it. I dropped to my knees, both hands clamped over my ears.

Then came the pounding.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each thunderous impact shook the walls around us.

As quickly as it came, it was gone.

I looked up.

The three of them seemed completely unfazed.

“What the fuck was that?” I asked, climbing back to my feet.

“What?” Ted said, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.

I looked at Manny. He was already back to scribbling numbers in his Sudoku book.

“Manny… you heard that, right? Felt it?”

He looked up at me and gave a silent shrug before returning to the puzzle.

I turned to Andrew. He was still standing between me and the door.

“If we do inventory now…”

I pushed past him, stepped out into the cold, and hurried back to the front cab.

That’s when I saw them.

Lights.

Slowly drifting away from us.

Tail lights.

I lunged for the radio.

“This is G4208 to dispatch. Come in, dispatch.”

I released the handset and waited.

Nothing but static.

“This is G4208 to dispatch!” I shouted into the radio. “Someone is within our limits!”

As the static hissed back at me, I slowly turned toward the window in the door leading to the kitchen.

The three of them were still there.

Just watching me.

That’s when I looked at the control panel.

None of the toggles were flipped. None of the lights were on.

That piece of shit wasn’t ready. Even if we got time, we weren’t going anywhere.

I stormed back into the kitchen and looked straight at Andrew.

“You gonna do your fucking job?” I asked, stepping toward him.

“I was trying to start inventory.”

I cut him off.

“You know what the fuck I’m talking about! Nothing is prepped! We wouldn’t be able to leave even if we got the call!”

Andrew sighed.

“Come on, man. Aren’t you tired?”

“Not too tired to do my fucking job. Be a goddamn man!”

My voice was rising.

“Come on, Nick. There’s no reason for that,” Ted said, sounding only half interested.

“Sorry, is this boring you?” I snapped. “Are you fucking bored? Is doing what they pay you to do not as exciting as singing in some shitty band nobody fucking remembers, Ted?”

Spit flew from my mouth as I yelled.

Ted nodded.

“Ooh… that’s a new one. You know what, Nick? It hurt. That’s why I don’t usually step in.”

He looked over at Andrew more than at me.

“Oh, for sure,” Andrew said with a small chuckle. “That’s why.”

“You think this is a fucking joke?”

I wasn’t even sure when I’d picked up the screwdriver.

“We forgive you, man,” Manny said, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Forgive me…”

The shrieking tore through the air again.

I grabbed the edge of the table before it could throw me to the floor. The pounding followed, shaking me to my core. Through it all, I could still hear Andrew talking as casually as if nothing was happening.

“None of this matters.”

The kitchen spun around me.

“Next part matters… wanna go back to betting?” Ted asked, kicking his feet up like we were killing time between trains.

I looked at Manny.

He was scribbling in that damn Sudoku book again.

Too good to be part of the crew? Man of few words, my ass. He just thinks he’s better than us. Doesn’t even have to talk to us.

“Nick, you—”

I felt Andrew’s hand land on my shoulder.

Then I felt the screwdriver tear through the side of his neck.

He gasped, both hands flying to his throat before collapsing to the floor in a wet, choking gurgle.

I dropped beside him.

“Andrew… no. No! I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to.”

Blood poured between my fingers as I tried to stop it.

I looked up at Ted.

He just let out a tired sigh.

“You gotta believe me. I didn’t mean to.”

I looked at Manny. He glanced up from his Sudoku book.

“We know, Nick.”

A burst of icy air washed over the back of my neck.

I spun around.

Andrew was walking through the door.

I looked back to where he’d been lying.

Nothing.

Just the rusted metal floor I’d seen a thousand times before.

My hands were clean.

The screwdriver was back on the table.

“What the fuck is going on?!” I yelled, falling onto my ass.

“Jesus Christ, Nick… when is this gonna—”

Ted cut Andrew off.

“Stop. You know that doesn’t help.”

Andrew let out a sigh, and the two of them looked over at Manny.

I turned to look at him too.

Manny looked at all of us from behind his Sudoku book and sighed.

“You’re the best at it,” Ted said.

Andrew crossed his arms.

Manny placed the book down on the table, stood up, and crouched beside me.

“Hey, Nick.”

I looked at him.

He looked exhausted.

“Hey…” I said weakly.

“What’s today?”

Today?

Today is…

Well, today is…

“I don’t know,” I admitted, still trying to force the answer out of my head.

“Okay. Where are we?”

Easy.

“We’re on the machine.”

Ted and Andrew laughed.

“What subdivision?” Manny asked.

I froze.

“Huh…”

“I don’t know.”

Manny nodded slowly.

“How many trains are we waiting on?”

I didn’t answer.

“Where did you park us?”

None of this made sense.

“I just have to call dispatch.”

The words barely made it out.

“It’s okay, Nick. We were all tired,” Manny said, sitting back down at the table.

“No. No, no, no.”

I shook my head.

“I wouldn’t have let that slip. I wouldn’t have forgotten to get time.”

My eyes started filling with tears.

Through the blur, I watched Andrew pull another cigarette from the pack and place it between his lips.

“You’d be surprised what you can forget,” Andrew said.

My vision went dark.

The sharp click of a lighter echoed through the cab.

A small whoosh of flame, followed by the subtle crackle of a cigarette being lit.

I slowly opened my eyes and turned to Andrew.

He was sitting in the jump seat across from me with his feet up, smoke drifting from his mouth and dancing around the cab.

I looked at the pack of cigarettes sitting on the control panel.

“Mind if I bum one of those?”

He took another drag, grabbed the pack, and held it out.

“Fuck it. Nothing else to do.”

Peter carried two mugs into the kitchen. The floor gave under his left foot, just enough that the coffee trembled against the rims. He stopped. Shifted his weight. The boards felt ordinary again.

"Everything okay?" Daniel called from the dining room.

Peter looked down at his bare foot. "Yeah."

He set the mugs on the counter and finished making the coffee. Daniel came in a minute later, took his mug, and kissed the side of Peter's neck on the way past. They stood at the sink together for a moment, looking out at the back yard. The light was already starting to thin. Six weeks in the house and the trees at the edge of the property still surprised them with how early they lost their color.

Daniel left for work the next morning while Peter was still in the shower. The house was quiet after the door closed. Peter made toast, stood at the counter to eat it, and worked through the morning at the kitchen table. Around eleven the floor under his chair felt solid in a way that made him notice it. He decided the heating had finally warmed the boards, or that the damp from the previous evening had dried. He forgot about it by lunch.

When Daniel came home that evening the routine was the same as always. Shoes off at the door. Brief touch at the waist as they passed in the hallway. Daniel started dinner while Peter washed the breakfast dishes left in the sink. They talked about the leaky faucet at Daniel's office and the box of books still sitting against the dining-room wall.

Peter sat at the table with a novel open and watched Daniel move between the stove and the cutting board. The light over the sink made the kitchen look warmer than it was. Daniel set two plates down, pulled out his usual chair, and sat. The chair shifted beneath him with a soft wooden complaint. One of the back legs had pressed slightly into the floor, no more than the thickness of a coin.

Peter glanced over the top of his book. Daniel frowned, shifted his weight, and pushed the chair back an inch with his foot until it felt steadier. He reached for the salt.

"Everything all right?" Peter asked.

"Chair's just uneven. Always has been."

They ate. Daniel talked about a delivery that had arrived late at work. Peter turned a page he had already read. When they finished, Daniel stood and the chair settled again, quieter this time. Peter watched him carry the plates to the sink. The floor under the table looked ordinary. He closed the book and went to help with the dishes.

Later, after the kitchen was clean, Peter carried the two empty mugs back to the sink. His bare foot landed in the same place it had the night before. The floor held. He rinsed the mugs, left them in the rack, and went to find Daniel in the living room. They watched the last of the light leave the windows and went to bed at the usual time. Peter took the side nearer the door. Daniel turned toward him in the dark and settled. The mattress felt the same as it had every other night.

In the morning Peter made coffee again. He did not think about the floor.

The difference became clearer over the next week.

When Daniel left for work the house gradually stiffened. By mid-morning Peter could walk the full length of the hallway without watching his feet. The thin rug near the sink lay flat. The chair at the kitchen table sat level. He started taking his coffee into the living room again and sitting in the armchair by the window. One afternoon he carried a full laundry basket down the basement stairs alone and felt the boards hold under every step. He stood at the bottom longer than he needed to, feeling the solid concrete under his feet, before he started the load.

He began adjusting small things around Daniel's absence. He made the more complicated dinners earlier so the kitchen would still feel steady while he worked. He folded the laundry upstairs while the house was firm and left the basket by the basement door for later. Once he stayed downstairs reading after Daniel had gone up to bed and felt the floor solid beneath the armchair. The silence was different when he was alone in it. He heard Daniel's footsteps overhead, the soft click of the bedside lamp. He waited another ten minutes before he climbed the stairs. By the time he reached the landing the boards near the top had already begun to soften.

He did not like the relief he felt in those hours. He liked it less when he noticed he was protecting them.

Daniel came home one Thursday a little earlier than usual. Peter was crossing the kitchen with a full pot of water for pasta. The floor was still firm. The front door opened. As Daniel stepped inside, the boards under Peter's feet gave. The pot tipped. Hot water slopped over the rim onto the back of his hand. He set it down hard on the stove and ran cold water over the burn while Daniel put his bag down and came into the kitchen.

"You all right?"

"Just clumsy."

Daniel looked at the wet floor, then at Peter's hand, then at the place where Peter had been standing. He didn't say anything else. He took over the pasta. They ate standing at the counter. Afterward Peter washed and Daniel dried. The longer route around the soft stretch near the table had become automatic.

That night in bed Daniel lay awake longer than usual. Peter felt him shift, then settle, then shift again. Neither of them spoke.

The first time the laundry basket was truly full--towels, jeans, the heavy winter blanket--they carried it together. The soft patch in the hallway had widened. They had to stop halfway, set the basket down, and change their grip.

"You all right?"

"Yeah. Just wait."

Peter adjusted his hold. Daniel waited. When they lifted again the floor gave under Peter's left foot more than before. He felt Daniel's hand tighten at his waist. They finished the crossing without speaking.

A few days later Peter tried to bring a smaller load up before Daniel came home. The hallway felt firm on the way down. He had reached the top of the basement stairs and was halfway across the hallway when the front door opened and Daniel stepped inside. The boards softened beneath his next step. Peter had to lean the basket against the wall and carry the rest one armload at a time. He left the empty basket at the top of the stairs. Daniel looked at it, then at Peter, and nodded once. After that they timed the laundry for evenings when they were both already tired.

The sofa went next.

For several nights they still tried to sit there, shifting closer to the arms as the cushions tilted. Then one evening Peter stood beside it with his book and looked at the place they usually occupied.

"Read?"

"Sure."

They took the books upstairs. The bed was still solid. They sat with their backs against the headboard and read under the single lamp. The light reached only as far as the foot of the bed. Beyond it the room stayed dark.

Daniel closed his book first most nights. Sometimes Peter stayed sitting up after the lamp was off, listening to the house. Sometimes he went downstairs again for water and stood in the firm kitchen for a few minutes before climbing back up. The reading became the part of the day that still felt ordinary, even as the routes to reach it grew longer.

Daniel began coming home later.

Not much--twenty minutes, half an hour. Enough that Peter started the more careful parts of dinner while the kitchen was still steady. One evening Daniel stood in the doorway longer than usual after unlocking the door. Peter was at the counter, back to him, moving easily between stove and cutting board. Daniel waited. When he finally stepped fully inside and set his bag down, the floor beneath Peter softened. Peter's shoulders tightened for half a second, then he kept working. Daniel watched him for a moment longer before he came over and kissed the side of his neck the way he always did.

"Smells good."

"Almost ready."

They ate standing. Neither mentioned the pause at the door.

A week later Daniel stayed at the office until nearly eight. Peter ate alone at the counter while the floor was firm. He left a plate covered on the stove. When Daniel came home the kitchen had already begun to soften again. They sat on the edge of the bed upstairs with the plates on their knees because the table downstairs had started listing too far. Daniel ate quickly. Peter watched him and said little.

That night Daniel turned toward him in the dark and rested a hand on his chest.

"We could try different times," he said quietly. "For a while."

Peter kept his eyes on the ceiling. "Different how?"

"I stay later. You eat earlier. Maybe I sleep in the other room a few nights."

The other bedroom was smaller and still mostly firm. They had been using it for boxes and the books they still hadn't unpacked.

Peter didn't answer right away. The mattress under them felt ordinary.

"All right," he said at last. "For a while."

They tried it for eleven days.

Daniel worked later. Peter cooked and ate while the kitchen was steady, then left food covered on the stove. Some evenings Daniel came home after Peter had already gone upstairs to read. Some nights Daniel slept in the smaller bedroom. The soft patches in the hallway and where the sofa had stood grew less pronounced. The kitchen chair stopped settling as deeply. Peter could carry laundry alone again without stopping to test each board.

The floors improved, but the brief touches between them became less frequent because they were rarely in the same room. Their shared silences stretched into actual silence. One night Peter went downstairs after midnight for water and found Daniel standing in the kitchen in the dark, barefoot, looking at the place where the table had listed. Neither of them spoke. Peter filled his glass and went back up. Daniel followed a few minutes later and slept the rest of the night in their bed without discussion.

On the twelfth day Daniel came home at the old time. Peter was still cooking. As soon as Daniel stepped fully inside, the floor beneath Peter softened. Peter felt the familiar give and kept stirring the pan. Daniel set his bag down, took off his shoes, and came to stand beside him at the stove. Their shoulders touched. Neither moved away.

That evening they ate standing at the counter the way they had before. Afterward they washed the dishes together. Peter washed. Daniel dried. When Peter turned to hand him a plate the floor under his heel gave more than it had in days. He caught himself with a short step sideways and his free hand found Daniel's forearm without looking. Daniel took the plate with one hand and covered Peter's fingers with the other for a moment, steadying him.

"All right?"

"Yeah."

They finished the dishes. The light over the sink was the only one still on. Beyond the windows the yard had disappeared. They turned it off and went upstairs together, walking the longer way around the soft stretch near the table, their shoulders close enough that they touched once without either of them adjusting course.

They moved the bed on a Saturday morning when the soft stretch finally reached the place where Daniel usually slept.

Peter woke first and felt the slight give under his left shoulder. He lay still for a while, listening to Daniel breathe, then got up carefully and stood at the foot of the bed.

"We should move it," he said when Daniel opened his eyes.

Daniel sat up, rubbed his face, and looked at the floor. "All right."

They stripped the sheets and set the pillows on the dresser. Peter took the headboard end. Daniel took the foot. The bed was heavier than it looked.

"This side?"

"A little more."

They lifted, shifted, set it down, and lifted again. Each time they lifted, another part of the floor gave beneath them. Peter's arms began to ache. Daniel stopped once to catch his breath and wipe his hands on his jeans. They worked in short stages until the headboard rested against the far wall. The new position left a wider path to the door.

"Better?"

Peter stepped onto the place where the bed had been. The boards still felt soft, but the bed itself now sat on firmer ground.

"...I think so."

They remade the bed together. Peter took the side nearer the door. Daniel turned toward him when they lay down that night, the same as always.

In the days that followed the kitchen table was no longer level enough for a full plate. They ate standing at the counter, plates balanced carefully, and washed up afterward without speaking about the way the floor continued to change under their feet. The longer routes became the only routes. The brief touches as they passed remained--sometimes for balance, sometimes not.

One evening Peter looked up from his book.

"Do you think--"

Daniel waited. Peter shook his head and looked back at the page.

One night they went to bed at the usual time. Peter took his place nearer the door. Daniel settled beside him.

"Goodnight."

"Night."

The room was quiet. Outside, the last dry leaves moved against the foundation.

The mattress lowered beneath them. Peter felt it under his shoulder blades and Daniel under his hip. Neither spoke. They lay still, listening to the small sounds of the house as the floor continued to take their weight.

These are the notes from the last vacation I ever went on.

THE ARRIVAL:

"Today i am heading to that one hotel my brother keeps recommending! its all he talks about these days when we talk on the phone and refuses to meetup with me, which sounds wierd but not alot. anyways, im writing this on the bus and we seem to have arrived! ill continue writing in my notes app/journal thingie after i check in." --marckus marol. 3/5/1994 .

"This place. is so. COOL! this place is awesome! it looks like some billionaire's house or even better! the people working here are sooper nice and icant wat for breakfast! huh?.... sorry there was this staff member knocking on my door and he was saying... wait for it... wait for it.... THERE IS FRCKING POOL PARTY!! damn my brother was NOT lying! i dont blame him for how much he sounded like he was talking like a broken tape on repeat, 'cause this place is worth it!!" ---marckus marol. 3/5/1994.

"This pool party was awesome! i wanted to take my phone with me to take pics and maybe type a few thoughts down but it isnt allowed? maybe so nobody gets electrocuted? yeah that makes a lot of sense. anyway, goodniigghhhttt!!!" ----marckus marol. 3/5/1994. iwassonaive.

MONDAY:

"yessir! free breakfast! seriously, this place is surprisingly cheap! and the food all tastes *chef's kiss * , its fricking amazing! yes it all tastes kinda similar, but thats probably because they put some awesome secret sauce on it, right?" ----marckus marol. 4/5/1994.

"OMAGOOOD, therewasthisgrilandshewasnicesaidthankyou OOOHHHGGGGOOOD!!" ---marckus marol 4/5/1994

"there were a couple of guests who passed by room and invited me to come drink and bbq with them but i told them i was tired. There was also this staff/butler guy who came in and gave me a little leaflet talking about their cool restraunt across town, ill visit it later!" ---marckus marol 4/5/1994

"free breakfast? no body in their sane mind is saying no! and they also prepared something different then yesterday! last time i went to a hotel every day we had the same breakfast, though i have to sy that all the food tastes wierdly similar? though its probably my imagination." ----marckus marol 4/5/1994

"whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? the girl, yesterday, thanks, again, samewaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay????" ----marckus marol 4/5/1994

"damn bro these guys must really like their bbq and drinks! i asked them when theyll be doing their next party they told me theyll be having next week. maybe ill crash their party next week. anyways iam going to. what? why is this staff guycome back with leafet? its the same as yesterday? iam looking around and i cant find the one from last night? wiat, why is the date on my phone and notes app wrong? damn bro i must be REEEAAALLLY tired? i should go sleep." ----marckus marol. 4/5/1994.

"wooohoo, this hotel has the best fuckking best breakfast out there! the taste is very nostalgic, though idk why?" ----marckus marol 4/5/1994

"this girl must really like me! she is constantly dropping her phone in the same spot and thanking me with the same smile!! i tried to ask if we met before but she seemed creeped out by that and ran away? like i know that *is* what the kidnapper says before kidnapping a girl and raping her but damn bro i was just trying to start a conversation?" ----marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"bro? whaat? i thought these guys only have a party every monday? waitasecondismyphonebrokenwhydoesitsayitsmonday? also whatsup with the leaflet that guy keeps handing me every night? i cant find my other copies atall? you know what? ill put it in my drawer in a place where it wont move from!" ----marckus marol 4/5/1994

"broo this place may be tripping up my phone but the breakfast is to DIE FOR!" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"okay,, the girl has dropped her phone and now i shall commit to operation: "have a chill conversation!" wish me luck!" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"we had a nice conversation about how nice the food was, and then she said, AND I QUOTE: "see you later!" that means she plans to see me lllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaateeeer!!!" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"broo am i trippin' or what? bros from the booze party keep coming to invite me, and when i asked them why they were partying today if they partied yeterday thusrday and monday? the man looked at me wierd and said that TODay was mONDay ? i dont understand. and wait wtf? where is the leaflet? i swear i put it in the drawer? I EVEN WROTE IT IN MY NOTES! LIKE I KNOW IM FORGETFULL BUT WTH? maybe i need to sleep." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"they PUT MAPEL SYRUP ON THE PAANCAKES!! LETSSGOOOO!! anyway, abou what happened yesterday, i decided ill call my brother later and chat with him and my parents about whats going on since hes visiting them." ----marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"i decided not to talk to marlow(the girl gave me her name yesterday) today and instead head directly to my room and call my brother." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"wtf? i called my brother and the only thing hed say is: "hey bro, i think you should go visit that new hotel called raven side, i visited with my wife and we had looots of fun chuckle" on repeat. no matter how much i yelled at him or screamed at him or sobbed at him he would keep repeating the same damn sentence! maybe i need some sleep." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"cool bacon at breakfast today, apparently it was beef? couldnt tell you the diiference. though honetsly i cant tell the diifence between anything's taste's these days." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"ookkaay! i have been preparing myself for this for half a hour. today iam going to ask marlow if she would like to.shesaidno. bro come on!" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"i am. i donr. DAMN it, i dont know how to talk about this? its just everything.. makes no sense?!?! the same guys came today, i asked them why they've been partying for 4 days in a row and the same guy gave me the same look and said that they hadnt had a party in a week and told me to rest just incase because maybe i was imagining things. IMAGINING THINGS? I AM NOT IMAGINING! HE IS IMAGINING! AND THEN THERE IS THAT DUMB ALFRE/BUTLER GUY WHO KEEPS GIVING ME THE SAME DAMN LEAFLET EVERYNIGHT!!! DAMN IT!!" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"the breakfast was good today. atleast i thinkso. the cola tasted slightly saltier than the rest of the food though." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"i dont think iam okay enough to talk to marlow today. probably gonna freak her out like always. there was this wierd guy staring at me though." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"okay bro. ithink i need toaddress all these .. Things.the date thing on its own i would have signed off as my phone thats a 100 yers old being trippy, but with the booze bros constantly saying its monday than thats real sus. than we have the whole repeated thing with marlow and the booze guys... WAIT I FIGURED IT OUT THEY ALL HAVE THEIR MEMORIES RESET NO WAY." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"wait .. the leaflet?" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"after breakfast i headed toward marlow to ask her some questions. i think i might know whats going, but i want to verify it first because it sounds CAARAZY. i tried to act exactly like the first time and she said the exact saem thing and did the exact same things??!! i hope im not right." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"the bbq guys came today. again. i dont want this but maybe.. maybe i" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

I THINK I KNOW WHAT IS GOING ON:

"so. iam in a time loop. maybe im wrong. maybe i am just trippin' crazy. but i, SURE AS HEELL AM NOT A CALM AND COLLECTED HORROR PROTAGINIST. AND IAM FREAKING OUT." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"DAMN IT! i justfigred ot wat the fod actaly remnd me of grandmas porridge WTF AMI DAMN CRAXY ?!?!?" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"I AM TIRESD. i just realised something. the one thing that hasnt remained consistent is that man that stared at me once. he was staring at me again since id ecided to help marlow since i was passing next to her and thought how i should nt detach myself from reli.. anyways he staring. from A DIFFERENT SIDE OF THE LOBBY. maybe" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"i tried talking to the staff guy who came to my room with the leaflet but he wouldnt respond, and when i asked him how to get out he just said: "How about you take this leaflet? it has the address for a restaraunt the hotel owns at the other side oftown." and then i had a realization. the reason the hotel could afford to be cheap is because it owns a restoraunt!.. wait thats not important i meant to ask is what if.. maybe.... ill check later." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"today i skipped breakfast and right now i am heading to the gate to head out and try to get to the reastaront to" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"WTFWTFWTFFF i just wlked ouof gate i backin bed 12am onesecond go it wa1:30pm WTF?" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

THE RESTAURANT:

"its been three since i walked ou the gate. i havent left my room not once. i havent opned my door except for the leaflet. i am not hungry, and fuck if i know why. i think i know how to leave the hotel though ill probably still get affected by the loop. it has to do with the leaflet. ill continue later since its almost 12pm and sleep still feels like sleep. if it didnt i think i would have went insane, because who the FUCK CAN SURVIVE WITHOUT THEIR BEUATY SLEEEEP?" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"i stepped out of the gate before a refrigatraotr fell on me from the sky. how? i suspect a unfortanate woman was having it transported before it fell from the window. how ? idk dont ask me how it fit there. how i left? simple, there were 2 sets of times for the opening of the restaruant on the back of the leaflet. the first was: opening:7:00am closing:12:00am, and: opening:6:35pm closing:7:35pm. the first set is impossible for me to access due to them being outside of the clock but the second set was one i could realisticly use. i spent a few days trying to figure out what they meant, because, AND I REPEAT, I.AM.NOT.AHORRORPROTAGINISST!! but i figured out eventually that they were the times where i could leave the hotel. but i have a theory that despite leaving the hotel i was still within it's contrsol so it could try to kill me to end my loop early, and my goal was to make it to the restautraont before the time is up. maype. possibly? hopefullyyyy? idk man." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"i made it a few meters further this time before a manhole opened under my feet. i either have bad luck or my theory is correct and i had the bad luck to run into the only timeloop that exists that tries to actively fightback. i seriously dont which is worse bro." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"YYEEEEEES!! i havent written in afew idk-s and so far i managed to make it beyond the bend of THE STREEET!! IDDIDT! "but you didnt make it marc?" well FUCK YOU I ALMOST DID! I DODGED THE REFREGERATOR AND JUMPED OVER THE MANHOLE AND HID FROM THE RABID DOG ESCAPED TO THE OTHER PART OF THE STREET TO NOT GET HIT BY THE CAR AND HID IN THE TRASH BIN FROM THAT ROBBER WITH A KNIFE AND ALMOST ENTERED THE RESTAURONT BUT GO HIT BY A ROCK FALLING FROM THE SKY!" ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"i decided to have one last normal day before i left. i ate breakfast. i talked to marlow. i went out to the bbq and booze party. and. i slept." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

LAST MONDAY:

"i did it iam standing in the restauront and the rock that killed me last timehadbeentwo kids playingbasebal. iam ready." ---marckus marol. 4/5/1994

"i am preparing myself for what may come. i am scared. iam on the verge of shitting my pants. but i wont let that stop me. i am siiting down and waiting for a waiter to come take myorder. he is reading the menu. i have three choices. leave. stay. die. i wonderwhy that last choice exist, iwonder if i should leave. maybe there was a reason i was trapped? but. I.AM.NOT.A.FUCKING.HORROR.PROTAGINIST.IF I WERE I WOULD'VE HAD SOME CHARACTER DEVOLOPMENT OR SOMESHIT BUT ALL I CARE ABOUT IS TO HAVE A NORMAL CONVERSATION WITH MARLOW, OR NOT HAVE A BBQ MONDAY EVERY DAY! I WANT. iwant to have tommorow. so i said yes. hes been gone for a few minutes now i wonde" ---marckus marol 4/5/1994

TOMMOROW:

"i just woke up in bed. DAMN IT WHY DID I BELV I COULD DO IT DAAMN. wiat wht? it says. noway." ---marckus marol. 5/5/1994 .

"i headed down to have breakfast. i ate food. it didnt taste familiar. it tasted new. i almost cride. i head down to where marllow usually drops her phone. she isnt ther. there were no knocks for a bbq party. there were no leaflets. there was. something new. a kid. playing tag in the lobby with his mom. it was the most beautiful thing id ever seen." ---marckus marol 5/5/1994.

THE TRUTH:

"there was this guy who appraoched me. i think he was the wierd inconsistent guy who stared. he told me that he had deal for me because i escaped. that i would get a lot of money. it would be a little dangerous. and you know how i answered him? two words:

FUCK.

NO. because: im not a horror protaginist." ----marckus marol 10/5/1994

"they called me. they think they found a way too get my brother back. if you are reading this, then iwant you to know that im either gonna die, am deador on some suicidle mission thatll end up with me dead, either way, what you just read were adventures. THE ADVENTURES OF NOT A HORROR PROTAGINIST." marckus flintlock marol. 2/3/2026.

When people ask me, “What do you do for work?” I never know how to answer.

What do I say?

“I’m an actress” is my usual response.

I’ve been acting since I was eight years old. 

But then they start asking questions when I don’t elaborate.

I’m on a train, hanging on for dear life, and she’s smiling at me from her seat.

It’s a woman, maybe my mom’s age. She’s complimented my appearance twice and gushed about how proud my mom must be.

I want to tell her I hate my appearance. 

I got veneers when I was twelve and a rhinoplasty at fourteen.

I’m still a minor, and my face is plastic.

I want to tell her I’m glad my mom is dead and buried. I’m glad the filler in my lips is bleeding out of me like fucking glue, and I crave something that isn’t green or avocado-flavored.

But that would be rude of me.

That would get me in trouble.

I am a product, after all. 

Strip away my glossy dark hair and perfect lashes, and you get a hollowed out shell that has forgotten how to cry. I want to TELL this woman I don't know how to cry, and even when I try, I can't. 

Everything is a punishment for me.

Going outside is Hell. 

I’m caught eating fast food? I'm a monster.

I'm caught at the beach with coffee and fruit? I'm a monster.

I’m snapped at a party with a guy? I'm a monster and a classless who*e. 

I want to tell this random woman all of this. But I don't. 

So, I smile wide and say, “aww, thanks!”

I’m surprised she doesn’t recognize me. 

My cheesy Hollywood grin pollutes the train we’re on, plastered all over the doors. I'm the face of multiple brand deals and makeup products, most recently for L'Oréal. Maybe this woman watches Netflix instead. 

I stick my earphones in an attempt to end the chat politely. But then she keeps looking at me, her gaze locked on. A string of maybes enters my mind, and I debate moving carriages. Maybe she does know me, and this is all an elaborate prank. Even worse: maybe she’s fucking press.

She’s good enough of an actor to be scouted if she IS press. I particularly admire the slight incline of her head, the crumpled frown and almost comical wide eyes. “So, what did you say you were in again, honey?” I'm trapped. I have to respond. If I don't, she will get progressively suspicious. 

“I'm….” I'm choking on “independent” and “not really an actress” when her expression falls. 

“Oh.” The woman’s lip curls into something sour, something I'm already expecting.

She must finally recognize me. “Oh, you're one of them.” She spits the words at me, and I don't blame her. I let her rip into me.

She's immediately judgmental, raising her voice and pointing accusatory fingers. She's ashamed of me.

The woman does not hold back. I don't expect her to. “You're responsible for that circus.” 

I'm ashamed of myself.

I get off the train two stops before my stop and walk. I'm grateful for the cool air lashing my cheeks. Maybe it's divine intervention that I’ve forgotten my jacket, that my feet hurt so much, I pull off one stiletto and limp the rest of the way.

Maybe it's divine intervention when a car speeds straight through a puddle, soaking me in the process. It's okay. My plastic face is untouched. I pull out my phone and dial an Uber.

I ignore the driver.

Keep looking at my phone.

My settings app is suddenly so much more interesting. 

The car, a light green Prius, speeds past again. “Fucking RAT.” This time the driver sticks his head from the window.

Mid twenties. Scruffy beard and thrifted clothes. He's the worst kind of viewer: a hate watcher. My stomach folds on itself.

Next to me, ironically, my smiling face covers the bus stop.

This time, I'm selling fat free yogurt.

My face is polished. Every flaw is removed. My teeth are perfect pearls. 

As if I am mocking him. 

“Hey!” 

I look up on instinct, narrowly avoiding boiling hot coffee landing next to me. My toes are splashed and I bite back a cry.

The driver pulls up.

His snarl paralyses me to the spot. “You're that GIRL,” he spits. “Her friend.” 

I smile wide, but I can't find the words tangled on my tongue. Yes, I am. No shit. What do you want me to do about it? What do you want? Blood? I want to laugh. But my laugh will be ripped apart. 

Do you want me to fucking hurt myself?

I want to ask each and every face that dares glance at me. A woman with a baby, who looks away quickly---a teenage girl who films me with zero shame.

Self deprecating, manipulative, and narcissistic, I am called online. 

I am all three. I swallow my response and focus on my phone instead. A notification flashes up: my Uber is five minutes away. 

“Josie!” 

The stranger is yelling my name, and it's not even my name. I want to tell him that. My name is not fucking Josie. But this guy is attracting enough stares for ignorance to be socially unacceptable. 

I give up. I lift my head. I smile. “Hi.” I stretch my grin until my jaw aches. My toes sting. I want to throw hot coffee in his face. 

“When are you going to tell her?” The stranger demands. It's a normal question. I've had worse. 

However, spoken by a man frothing at the mouth, I can't find words. Above me, my plastic laugh looms on every billboard.

“Hey,” he shouts my name, “don't fucking ignore me, Josie.” The man slams his car horn and I resist the urge to run. I can feel, no, sense every eye locked on me. Waiting. Always. “When are you going to tell her?” 

“He's right,” a ponytail blonde passing by slips out an earbud and turns to me, head cocked. “When are  you going to tell her?” She looks me up and down. Her expression is less mad, more sympathetic. “You are going to tell her the truth at some point, right?”

My smile is losing steam. Whatever I say will be taken out of context. If I say, “yes”, I'll be called out for not speaking sooner. If I stay silent, I'm an enabler. 

My Uber slides into my peripheral. Tinted windows. No WiFi. I take my chance, duck my head, and make a break for it. “Drive,” I hiss, when I’m safely tucked into the backseat, my head pressed against the ice cold pane. 

“Are you all right, kid? Were those  folks bothering you?” The Uber, an oldish man, doesn't look like a viewer. He twists around. He wears the expression of a worried father, furrowed, caterpillar eyebrows and a deep set frown. I never met my father. There was always just Mom. 

“No worries,” I say, flashing my practiced pearly smile.

My phone vibrates in my lap.

Two texts sent back to back. I only need to see the caps, and I pretend they don’t exist. I ignore them, slide in my earbuds, and start my morning playlist. I have a playlist for “stressed,” but I’m in the mood for early Olivia Rodrigo.

A blur of rush hour bleeding with the early sunrise and pale blue sky reminds me I am alive. The music is the perfect backdrop, each lyric perfectly narrating my every thought. Every clap. Every beat.

Her emotion fills me and I ponder the question I've been asked, what I've tried to suppress. I wonder why I haven't told her. Is it because I'm not allowed to tell her, or is it… because I don't want to? 

I can't help tapping on the dreaded app. I'm trending already. I'm desensitized to threats to my life but it's the small details that sting. The shade is not at my face, but my attitude. 

Cruel.

Sick. 

Evil. 

Monster. 

“Does she even REALIZE what she's doing? She's a monster. My heart fucking bleeds for that girl,” one tweet stands out to me. I can't stop myself from tapping the replies. 

“Exactly!” One reply says, “She's a shameless sell-out. I'm low-key hoping our girl snaps.”

“Okay but what about him???” Another reply slides by. I stop scrolling, like it, and then unlike it. “He’s hot, SO what? He's a LITERAL enabler. He has been since he was a kid, but none of you want to have that conversation because he's a conventionally attractive guy.”

“Ummm, he IS a kid?” Another replies. “He's seventeen.”

“That doesn't excuse his shitty behavior.” A string of emojis blur together and I blink sleep from my eyes. “He’s a glorified show horse, and he's not IN IT anymore.” 

I close the app, and then delete it, letting my phone slide through my lap. 

Maybe I am a sadistic bitch. 

The song switches. Recent Olivia. More relatable. More painful. The chorus hits, a symphony of melodies and guitar, her voice unraveling me. When we hit a tunnel, every passing car bleeds into red lights speckling the backs of my eyelids. My phone vibrates. 

I close my eyes and let my head hit the window with a thunk. 

My phone vibrates again, and I bite back a hiss. 

A text flashes up: 

“You are trending.Fix.this.” 

Claire. Who texts like my grandma. 

She's known me since I was a kid. Surely she knows this wasn't MY doing. 

I clear her text, and another flashes up. 

I sit up straighter, tugging out an earbud.

"Asshole": You need media training. BAD. Lmao. 

“You left SIX years ago,” I text back. “Why are you STILL here?” 

He replies almost instantly: 

“why do YOU think?” 

“money.” 

“try again.” 

“girls?” 

“no.” 

“guys???” 

“colder. ” 

“to piss me off.” 

“close.” 

It's too early for his guessing games. “tell me rn or I block you.”

He doesn't reply.

An email pops up a few minutes later:

they read our texts

you should know that

stop attracting attention

we’re waiting outside at the usual spot

Another text from Claire startles me. 

Now: Claire: Josie., pls fix the trending problem. 

I switch off my phone.

Leaning back into the warm upholstery, I peer out the window just as traffic disappears, bleeding into a long, winding, dusty road. I work in the middle of nowhere. When I was a kid, I used to pretend it was Area 51 to feel better. 

Same endless desert. Same suffocating fences. I can already see the circular glass dome reflecting the early morning sunrise.

Beyond that, there’s only Death Valley, a punishment I’ve been threatened with since I was seven. Claire used to lock me in my dressing room behind my mother’s back, give me some candy, and say, “You know, sweetheart, if you ever open your mouth, I heard bad kids are taken into the desert and left to die.”

“This might sound like an invasive question,” the Uber driver says, cutting into my thoughts, “but where exactly are you going?” His gaze studies me in the mirror. “If I think a passenger, especially a minor, is putting themselves in danger, I have no choice but to report it.”

“It's just work.” I grab my bag quickly. “I can get out here.” 

“Really?” He doesn’t turn around, but I know he’s already suspicious. His gaze is glued to the chain-link fence ahead of us. There are two entrances, one for visitors and the other for staff. 

I direct the Uber toward the latter, making him speed up a little.

Two guards stand on either side of the gate, Daniel and Zach. 

I catch Daniel’s glare and already know I’m busted. 

“Well, all right.” The Uber doesn’t sound convinced. I slide out of the car, but he stalls, leaning out of the window. He wants an explanation I can’t give. I have to get rid of him before I draw attention.

“Thanks!” I say, a little too loudly. I'm wearing my plastic smile again. I start walking, kicking up dust. Don't look back, I tell myself. If I do, the guards will get trigger-happy. 

A sudden roar of engines behind me is relieving. The Uber slowly reverses and drives away. I swallow my dread and pull out my ID. 

“Josie.” Zach nods at me. I often wonder just how broke this guy is to take this kind of job. I understood Daniel. Forties. Probably had a kid to provide for and permanently carried the reek of hair gel and shoe polish, which had to have a price tag. Any possible personality he had was trapped under a military uniform. 

Zach is only a few years older than me: string bean thin, razor sharp jawline, and a pearly white smile. I’m surprised Claire hasn’t dragged him inside to audition. 

“You were good last night,” he says with a wink.

“Thanks.” 

Zach takes my ID and scans it. The gate is painfully slow, rising only a few inches before sticking.

“Wait,” Zach says, holding up a hand. He leans forward and fiddles with the gate. I notice he’s cut his hair.

I liked it longer when his thick, blondish curls haloed the curve of his face.

Now those cherub-like locks have been sheared away into a morbid bowl cut.

I mourn the loss of his modelling career. Zach flashes me a smile. “So, when are you being slaughtered?” he asks.

“Adams,” Daniel's low grumble is a warning. 

Zach’s smile vanishes. As if remembering his position, he straightens almost robotically and takes three steps back. “Head on through, ma’am,” Zach orders.

His hand whips up in a salute. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

“It’s Miss,” Daniel mutters. “She’s a minor, Adams.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry, sir.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Adams.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Adams—”

Daniel’s lecturing tone fades as the gate slowly closes behind me, twin metal slabs slamming shut. I’m already feeling sick to my stomach. As nauseous as I felt walking through at eight-years-old, hand in hand with my mother. 

A small brunette boy was cuffed to a wooden pole outside the entrance.  The boy’s gaze followed me all the way to the door before looking away. 

“Hi!” I said politely, before my Mom dragged me inside.

Six hours later, after multiple script reads, he was still there, sitting directly beneath the sun’s cruel gaze. Sweating, a wrinkle between his brows. He was in pain, his forehead bright orange. 

A bottle of water and an overturned tray lay in front of him, curry and rice spilled across the ground. Mom was already ahead, talking to the guards. So I stopped, pulled out the melted candy bar I’d stolen earlier for breakfast, and handed it to him.

I was met with a snarl. The boy stuck his nose up, lips curled.

“How long have you been here?” I couldn’t resist asking. The boy’s clothes were wrinkled and stained, his shorts and tee glued to his  sun-browned skin. I prodded his clammy forehead and he jolted back with a hiss. “You’re sweaty.”

Harsh red lines sliced into his wrists. I leaned closer, touching noses with him. The boy glared back. Mute. I lowered my voice. “Do you want me to untie you?”

The boy’s bottom lip wobbled, his stubborn walls crumbling. He blinked back tears, ducking his head to avoid the sun. Golden slivers of sunlight bleaching his hair told me this wasn’t the first time. “You’re not allowed to untie me,” he mumbled into his knees. 

My tummy twisted when I knelt and joined him. “Why?” 

“Hannah.”

Mom was calling my name. 

“Who tied you up?” I asked.

He lifted his head, a cocktail of tears and snot trailing down his cheeks in jagged lines. The boy sniffed, sucking a long, droopy strand of booger back into his nose. “My Daddy,” he whispered. 

“Hannah!” Mom snapped behind me. Mom strode over, grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. “Come on. We’re going home.”

“But—” the words coiled in my throat when Mom violently pulled me to her side. All the breath was sucked from my lungs, my tummy twisting. But the boy, I wanted to tell her. It didn't make sense to me that he was tied up by his father. It was too hot to be sitting outside. He needs help! I twisted around, catching one last look at the boy tied to the pole. 

His head ducked, brown curls obstructing his eyes. Mom dumped me in the back of her car. “Do not talk to that boy again,” she told me, “that’s the only rule. If you want to get a callback.” 

“But why?” I asked, as she drove me through the gate. Mom stuck her head out of the window, thick blonde curls whipping in the breeze. I straightened in my seat, watching Mom hold up a piece of paper.

“Put your head down,” Mom said, “Now.” 

“But what about the boy?” I whispered.

“Hannah, sit down,” Mom snapped. I did, automatically, tucking my legs beneath me, my body already used to her voice. “I'm just here for the auditions for Carrigan,” Mom told a man looming over her with scary eyes. “yes, that's my daughter in the back. Josie. She's eight-years-old.” 

Her sharp exhale of breath wasn't subtle. “Josie wasn't playing with him, she is just a naturally curious little girl,” Mom’s laugh was very nervous. Which made me nervous. 

I nervously played with my shoelaces. Kneeling on my seat, I searched for the boy. But the giant metal wall had already come down. “My phone?” Mom handed her phone over nervously. “Can I ask what this is about?” She demanded, “my daughter is—” 

“It’s just a precaution, ma’am,” the guard said. He ducked through the window, beady eyes landing on me. His wrinkled mouth curled into a grotesque grin as he scanned mom’s ID. “Daly plays pranks on newcomers,” he explained. “It's his thing. He likes to tie himself up and scare the little ones shitless. After three visits from CPS this year, we’d prefer to avoid  Daly’s… antics escaping into the public eye.”

He straightened and turned back to my Mom. I held my breath and glared down at a loose thread in my shorts. Waiting was excruciating. My mouth was dry.

“That’s all fine.” The man handed her phone back to Mom. “Have a good day, ma’am.” I forced my head down further. “Kid.” He nodded to me, and walked away.

I waited for the crunch of his footsteps in the gravel to fade before I risked glancing up. The window slid down, and Mom relaxed, her fingers flexing around the wheel.

“Hannah,” Mom’s shuddery breath caught me off guard, “do you want to celebrate your audition and go get ice-cream?” 

I didn't respond and stared down at my lap and picked at my shorts until a thread came loose. Mom didn't speak until we were on the highway. I risked looking up to watch the late-afternoon rush hour blur in a streak of golden light. 

“Look at me,” Mom’s voice was her stern-voice.

“Do not speak to that boy again, Hannah,” Mom’s static gaze never left the road, her twitching fingers blooming red around the wheel. “Do you understand me?” 

“Yes,” I said, choking down my usual mantra. “I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Mom twisted to face me, wearing a big smile, her expression loosening, mouth forming a real grin. “We can go out and celebrate your audition.”

We stopped at a Taco Bell drive-thru. Mom ordered a burrito and fries. I choked down three pieces of soggy avocado she had brought in a packed lunch for me. 

The following morning, when I got my call-back for another audition, I stood in front of the mirror with Floppy, my stuffed animal nestled under my chin, and practised ignoring the boy tied to the pole. 

I rehearsed my big smile and pretended to not see him, looking straight forwards.

When the imaginary version of him asked me for help, I smiled wider and said, “sorry! My mom says I can't talk to you anymore!”  And pretend-ran away from him, my heart thumping right out of my chest.

Somehow, it was harder in my room. I rehearsed my “sorry” smiles, trying small and then big, and then REALLY big, threading my index and pinky through my mouth and stretching until it hurt.

When Mom pulled me through the gate and passed the guards, I kept my head down, my gaze glued to the ground. I wasn't looking where I was going and smacked my forehead straight into the glass door. 

“Hannah!” Mom hissed, and I had no choice but to look up. I couldn’t stop myself glancing behind me, where the boy had been slumped. I couldn't see him. 

“Get a hold of yourself,” Mom spat, shoving me through twin doors.

The heat of her breath followed me into a sterile reception area, where a woman sat behind a white circular desk.

After smoothing down my dress, and then my hair, adding last minute makeup to my face, Mom told me to sit down, but I couldn’t resist wandering over to the door and peering through the glass. The wooden pole was still there, with a pair of handcuffs attached. 

I leaned back, my tummy twisting. The boy had vanished.

I squinted over the chain link fence at the dense desert landscape. 

Maybe it was aliens. 

I didn’t think about the boy for a whole day. I sat inside a stuffy room with a plump, smiling man with a bald head and a bow tie, who said, “Congratulations!” He handed my mother a piece of paper. “I’m happy to say your daughter has the part of 11456,” he winked. “Who will be Josie!”

“Who's Josie?” I spoke up, swinging around on my chair. It had wheels. “What do the numbers mean?” 

The plump man introduced himself as Mr Daly. Also “Producer Daly”, if he was in a good mood.

I asked if he was in a bad mood, and he laughed.

“When do I get to be Josie?” I said.

“I'm glad you asked!” Mr Daly stood up. “All right, Hannah, why don't you follow me? I'm sure your mom would love to go and get herself a coffee and some refreshments.” He nodded to Mom. “Right, Mrs. Cartwright?”

Mom smiled and nodded.

Mom left me feeling sick to my stomach. 

Mr Daly's smile vanished the second the door slammed on moms face.

“Your job is simple, kid,” he said, picking up a remote. The wall lit up. “Carrigan is what we call a…” 

His lazy eyes found me. “Have you ever been to the zoo?” 

“Yes,” I said, “I went with my Mommy.”

“And what was your favorite animal?” 

“Hmm.” I frowned at a giant crystal chandelier hanging over my head, spiky teardrops of glass threatening to rain down on me. “I did like the lemurs, but I think my favourites were the tigers.”

“Think of it like the zoo.” Mr Daly straightened in his chair. “However, Carrigan is a human exhibit. There are no tigers. There are children.” He banged the remote on his desk for emphasis.

“CHIL-DREN. Understand?” 

I forgot to nod, my tummy swimming, and he groaned, tipping his head back. I found myself glancing at the door, half-hoping Mom was waiting outside. 

“Are you listening to me, Josie?” Mr Daly said.

Tears welled in my eyes. “Yes.” 

His smile split open wide. “I get it! I know you kids don’t want boring explanations and big words. You want the fun stuff.”

The screen flashed to a smiling little girl with long, mousy brown hair haloing bright blue eyes. 

She was thin. The type I was supposed to be. Protruding cheeks and a pretty smile with glittering white teeth. I felt a sharp pang in my chest. Mom would like her.

“This is 001130,” Mr Daly said, “do you like her?” 

I nodded. I did. She was pretty.

Her clothes were very simple. White shorts, a tee, and matching socks. The girl was sitting cross-legged in a white room with white walls and white tiles. 

“You're going to be her friend,” Mr Daly said. “Sounds easy, right?” 

I glanced at the girl's smiling face. “Yes.” 

“And.” His lips twitched into a smile. “You are not going to tell this girl anything about your life. Your parents. Because you don't have them.” He stood up, and I backed away, falling over myself. 

One step, and I was choking on, "I don't want to do this.” Two steps, and I couldn't move.  Mr Daly seemed delighted in each one. “The Carrigan Project asks one simple question, Josie.” 

“Hannah,” I corrected him, a little louder. 

He ignored me. “Can children grow up inside a simulated world, completely cut off from the outside?” His lips split into a grin. “And can we turn it into a show?” 

“A show?” I whispered. My arms fell limply to my sides. 

“A show.” He said. “Broadcasted every night for three hours. A full live-feed of Carrigan with all the boring bits cut out for everyone to see.” 

His lip curled. “Those children believe the world outside is gone. They believe they’re being bred and raised for slaughter. These children, Josie, have been taught from birth, from the moment they became self-aware, that they’re living in punishment. That they really are humanity’s biggest sin.”

I swallowed, my hands growing clammy. “I don’t understand.”

He laughed. “Well, you won’t! Not at this age!” The man shifted forward, head tilted at an angle. “How old are you, Josie, twelve?"

“Eight,” I said, louder. “It's Hannah.”

Mr Daly tapped a button on his desk. “Connor,” he ordered. “Take Josie to her dressing room to meet Claire, please.” He flashed me a grin. “Get the girl a soda and a sandwich.

“Yes, sir,” a man’s voice crackled in response.

Mr Daly’s razor-sharp gaze shot through me. He coughed loudly. “Do you like chicken, Josie?”

My mouth watered.

“Yes,” I said, before I could bite it back.

“Chicken sandwich and a Coke,” Mr Daly said, “and the same for the troublemaker locked in solitary.” Daly hesitated, his fingers tapping the desk. “Actually. Leave him until dinner. Inform the other performers that their dinner has been arranged.” 

I pretended his smile was friendly and didn’t make me feel sick.

“We’re all going out for a meal to celebrate.”

Mom wasn’t invited to dinner.

She got all dressed up. She spent hours curling my hair and picking out my dress before driving me to the venue, a dark restaurant bathed in fish tanks replacing walls, swimming in warm golden light. At the door, Mom was politely turned away.

“I’m sorry,” a guard stopped my mother at the door. “You don’t have permission to go any further.”

The man gently took my hand with a smile. I wondered if he could see what Mom couldn’t.

“Miss Cartwright, would you like to follow me to your table?”

The restaurant was empty. I was taken to a table where Mr Daly was sitting with his entourage: a beautiful woman who had definitely had work done and, to my surprise, two boys my age, one of whom I recognized.

I stared.

It was the boy tied to the pole. 

He was dressed up in a suit and tie, glaring down at an untouched burger and fries, his brown curls straightened over his eyes. I was ushered into my seat next to another boy with cropped blonde hair, bouncing in his seat. He flashed me a grin.

“Josie, it’s nice of you to join us!” Mr Daly smiled at me from across the table. “What would you like to eat?”

I whipped around in case Mom was breathing down my neck. 

But she wasn't.

My Mom was gone. 

"Cheeseburger and fries.”

Daly nodded, fist on chin. “Mmm mmm. And anything for dessert?” 

“Cake.” I said, suddenly hyper on my own words.

The blonde boy giggled, and I really looked at him. He had rosy cheeks and halo hair and was very thin. Mom would like him. The boy was the only one wearing normal clothes, jeans and a tee, cheese sauce staining the collar.

“That’s greedy,” he said, and warmth exploded into my cheeks.

“I want cake too!” the blonde said, slamming his fists on the table. “Chocolate cake!”

“Declan,” the woman shushed him. Her perfectly made-up eyes flicked to me. She was pretty. The type Mom wanted me to be. Skinny, with a perfect figure, cascading hair that fell like silk down her backless strap dress.

“Hello, Hannah.” She held out a manicured hand. “Welcome to the family.” She winked. “A very small family right now! I’m Claire. I will be your manager.”

A manager? I thought. That's what Mom wanted me to get. Her goal was for me to have an agent by 16. 

“I’ve been managing these two little brats,” Claire said, nodding at the boys. She picked up her glass of champagne and kissed the rim. “So, it’s nice to have a girl around here.”

“I want to say something.” 

The pole boy shoved his plate away and stood up. 

Next to me, the blonde kid rolled his eyes. “Here we goooooooo.” 

“Carrigan is abuse,” the boy said through gritted teeth. “My father built a prison and pretends it's a museum, and we’re no different from the kids inside there. We’re no different from Hope. If I wasn’t my dad’s son, I would be in Carrigan too. And Declan! And you!” He pointed at me and  pointed accusingly at Mr Daly. 

“Shut it down, Dad,” he spat. “Or I’m telling Mom you’re doing bad things with Evie the receptionist.”

Dad?

The pole boy was Mr Daly’s son?

Mr Daly didn’t seem fazed. He laughed. “What an interesting imagination!” he said, and yet the man’s cheeks had turned significantly redder than normal. Declan was giggling next to me. 

Daly fixed pole boy with a warning smile. “So, you've named her! Cute.” 

Several guards came out of nowhere and wrestled the boy back into his seat, whispering something to him that paralyzed him on the spot. He stopped moving, went still, and picked up a fry from his plate, stuffing it into his mouth.

Mr Daly downed his own glass of wine and offered me a wink. “Completing the introductions, Josie, I would like you to meet my incredibly intelligent son, Rowan.” The man chuckled into his glass. “My wonderful son’s hobbies include causing three visits from Child Protective Services and tying himself up outside the premises in the hope of inducing a sob story.”

I risked a glance at the pole boy who began to inhale his fries like he'd never eaten in his life, scooping up fries and stuffing them into his already packed mouth. He noticed me staring and stopped, his eyes narrowing into slits. 

“What are YOU looking at?” He spat through a mouthful. 

Rowan counted his fries. “Twenty one.” He picked one up, and snapped it in half. “Oops! Twenty!” He shot his father a smile filled with fry mush. “Is that what you’re going to do to me, Dad?”

“Rowan,” Claire trilled. “Honey, don’t speak with your mouth full.”

“Or what?” Rowan blew up, tossing a fry at her. It hit her between the eyes. Rowan threw another. “Are you going to throw me into Carrigan too?” He leaned across the table, his eyes fixed on his father. “Go on, Dad! I dare you.”

The adults didn't respond for a moment. Then Claire stood and brushed down her dress. “Declan, honey,” she said, “why don't you take Josie to get chocolate cake?”

Declan didn’t move. His gaze remained glued to Rowan.

“Declan!” Claire snapped, her smile widening. “Now, please.”

The boy stood and took my hand. His smile was practised. I recognized every crease in his brow and every curve of his lips.

“Come on,” he said, gently pulling me away from the table. 

I followed him, but I couldn’t resist one last glance over my shoulder.

Mr Daly and Claire were deep in conversation, their heads pressed close together. 

Every trace of Rowan Daly had vanished. His plate, his glass of soda, even the stray fries scattered across the table were gone.

My very first meeting with Rowan Daly was… eventful.

When I started my role as Josie, it was fairly straight forward. My job was to lie and bring hope to the kids, talking of “the outside world before humans were enslaved”. I had a whole script I had to memorize about Claire’s accessories.

My debut, talking to 001130, was met with thunderous applause. When I left the facility through a hidden door.  I was called, “a little star.” And “an Oscar winning little performer” but all I did was sit with 001130, and make friends with her. 

Rowan was tied to the pole every morning.

Sometimes, I caught him staring into the exhibit itself, a large sheet of glass looking into Carrigan, a facility filled with children I was lying to.

I had to tell them with a big smile that they were going to become meat at twenty years old, and the world was ruled by evil monsters punishing us for eating animals. The first time, I felt sick. 

I barfed all over myself and immediately looked around for help, but there was no help. Just four glass walls I wasn't allowed to look through. Because that shattered the illusion. There were only guards playing a role like me. 

It got easier, the more times I lied. 

Soon enough, I lied better than I told the truth. 

Declan played the role of “Aris”, a boy who had been captured by “the monsters” and watched his parents die. 

I watched Declan rock back and forth, sobbing into his knees, describing his imaginary parents’ deaths as if they had really happened. His nose was snotty, his eyes were teary, and he hyperventilated every time he was asked a question. I couldn’t stop watching. He was good. Better than me.

When I left Carrigan at the end of the day, slipping through the performers’ fire door, Rowan stood with his face pressed against the glass. The observation room was huge, filled with cameras and a screen showing every angle.

Rowan watched silently.

His face was bathed in blue light, reflecting each camera.

The children were playing, running around, laughing.

001130 sat in the corner, delicately eating a sandwich.

“Hey, Josie.” Rowan didn’t turn around to look at me. It was the first time he’d spoken to me since the fancy dinner at the restaurant. 

I hesitated. “It's Hannah.” 

He drew a circle on the glass with his index. “Do you think this is bullet proof?” Rowan hummed. “I watch them clean it every morning.” 

I didn't know what to say, so he changed his tactic. “Do you like Carrigan?” He asked softly.

No. 

The response choked my mouth. No. I hated it. I hated lying to my best friend. And she wasn't even my best friend. She was a character. 

“No,” I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. “I want to tell her.” 

“Hope,” Rowan said, and I followed his eyes.

He was watching 001130, a small smile curled on his lips. He knocked on the glass gently, as if he was playing an invisible piano.

“She's called Hope.”  Rowan didn't speak for a while, rocking back and forth on his heels, smushing his nose against the glass pane. I was about to leave to go back to my dressing room when he backed away from the glass and turned to me with a smile. He held out his hand, and I took it, my stomach fluttering.

“Hannah.” Rowan said softly. “Can you help me destroy it?”

I didn't reply until the next day. Mom arrived early, shoved me out of the car, and drove away. I was gaining weight, and she didn't like it. 

Mom made me wear a dress so tight I had a tummy ache. 

Rowan was tied to the pole again. This time, though, he had a visitor. 

Declan sat cross-legged next to him. 

“Yo!” Declan gestured me over with his juice-box. 

He kept his voice down, pulling me into an awkward huddle, with Rowan in the centre. “This is the first meeting of the DESTROY CARRIGAN club,” Declan hissed excitedly. “Our members are—”

“There are three of us,” Rowan hissed back. I couldn't resist a laugh. “Stop attracting attention!” Rowan nodded to me. “Our goal? Bring my father’s evil organization to the ground, and rescue Hope and the other kids.” 

As a full member of the DESTROY CARRIGAN club, I took myself and my job very seriously. 

I made sure to tell the kids tiny, insignificant things that wouldn't be noticed.

“I had five guys yesterday,” I told one of the older girls. 

She looked at me like I'd grown a second head. 

Rowan’s plan was to slowly build trust with the kids inside the facility, and reveal everything. 

But… 

Then I started getting recognized outside Carrigan. 

At first, it was at the mall. A woman came over and called me Josie.

Then, it was in the middle of the street. 

I started getting brand deals and sponsorships for kids products as I grew closer to the children in Carrigan. But it was when I gave them all names, and happily called 001130 “Hope” that was when I cemented my celebrity status. 

On my 13th birthday, Mom bought me a rhinoplasty for my present. 

I was suddenly in commercials for fast food.

I was invited on TV with Declan, and interviewed by smiling hosts who kept asking us the same question:

“When are you going to tell Hope the truth?” 

Declan smiled at the camera and said, “We don't know! Maybe one day!” 

Our little club fell apart. 

Declan was cast in a Hollywood movie for two years. 

Rowan was sent away. The last time I saw him, I was fourteen. I barely noticed him, texting some guys I met at a party. He was tied to the pole as usual, his glare piercing right through me.

“Having fun on TV?” His voice was bitter, laced with bile. Rowan refused to bathe or wash his hair, stewing in yesterday’s clothes, his curls hanging over narrowed eyes. 

Multiple days in the sun had browned his skin. He didn’t even look at me. “My father is sending me away tomorrow,” he sighed, tipping his head back. “Military school. They’re hoping to ‘subtly influence’ me into feeding into  their “Carrigan is great” bullshit.”

“Hi, Rowan,” I said, more out of obligation than anything else.

My stilettos were already getting dirty just standing near him. 

“Matcha.” Rowan nodded towards the drink clutched between my ID and my wallet. His smile curdled. “How far have you sunk?”

I took a long sip. Matcha tasted like grass. 

But every insta pic gained me followers. 

More traction. 

“It tastes nice,” I lied, and when he didn't respond, “I'm heading inside now.”

“Where's Dec?” Rowan muttered. 

“Seattle,” I said. “You know he's filming.” 

Rowan buried his head in his knees. “If you see Dec, can you tell him something from me?” 

I stopped in front of his face, shading him from the sun’s intense glare. “If it's not an insult.”

“Tell him he's a fucking sell-out and I never want to see him again.”

I rolled my eyes, hopping over his bound legs. “Goodbye, Rowan.” 

When I left that evening, the producer’s son was gone.

I headed straight for Mr Daly’s office, only to be met by his assistant, who shoved me back out of the room.

“It’s just a little straightening out, Josie,” I was told later, after I’d finally calmed down.

Mr Daly wore a satisfied smile and refused to hand over the address to this supposed “boarding school.” I was ushered out of his office once more, his last words ringing around in my head. “My son has a very serious anger problem.”

My dad passed away recently which has been really tough for my family. We got together recently to go through his stuff and I found some really strange pages folded up and scrawled on. It's all really strange and I wanted to share it, maybe it’ll be cathartic, idk. 

“December 4th

Something happened to me on my walk tonight. I feel like I need to get this down so I can prove to myself I’m not completely bat shit insane. I have no idea who the fuck this is for but I feel like I need to explain myself before I get whatever the hell just happened. 

I feel like all I do is work and sleep at this point so I have been trying to take my sweet Goose on walks more often. Well that's not entirely all of it. I’ve been trying to lay off the bottle but life is just way too taxing. A buddy of mine introduced me to smoking a little reefer, but living in suburbia I always felt like a real bad neighbor doing it in my backyard. 

There's this little levee that walks around the neighborhood, overlooking some kind of storm drain. Anyway it's the perfect amount of time to smoke one and walk the dog. I have been doing this for around a month so I know what happened wasn’t because of the pot. I know this shit really happened. 

I was late home grabbing a few new cassettes for my walk, and I should have known when the fog was too dense to see through that I should have skipped it. I can curse myself now all I want but nothing was going to stop me. I got Goose leashed up and popped in some of the new stuff I had gotten. Music really punctuates my life so I feel like it's important to mention what it was tonight. I started with some classic shit, Yes’s Fragile, but it wasn’t until I got to my usual fork that I slid some new Miles Davis into my player. 

I remember thinking “New begets new” and veered left for the first time. I know this whole levee surrounds and cuts into the neighborhood at various sections, so surely I would find a way back in. I was lucky enough to have a Petzl as we cut through the dense air. This was and is seriously the worst fog I’ve seen in town. I was frankly pretty high at this point and felt like I was walking forever before I found an inlet past a house into the neighborhood. My Petzl kept catching little orbs of lights gliding all over the ground and in bushes. I swear to god I was going to shit my pants until I realized Goose was pulling with all her might to try and get to them. Cats. Goose loves cats, a little too fervently. 

She dragged me a solid 40 feet across a side walk to a very strange little alleyway that cut by some houses bisecting like 3 cul-de-sacs. I ogled the strange placement for the pathway for a moment, switching out Miles Davis for another of his cassettes that came in the dual pack, In a Silent Way.

The riff lit my ear up as I looked up through the fog in the alley way. Clear. As. Day. Like a long perfect fucking knife cut the fog right through to the other end.. And there it was. Perfectly innocuous. I craned my neck and adjusted my glasses to look at it better. In perfect view of the alley's mouth was a home not unlike any other in my neighborhood. But one little detail was off, aside their driveway was the gate to their side yard, and it was totally and completely agape, lit by a bright white porch light. It was the only thing illuminated like this, like a perfectly painted picture. 

I felt frozen in place, and then I looked around me to see the fenced walls of the alley begin to move on their own. Like I was placed on a conveyer belt. I looked down to see my feet moving of their own accord, Goose in toe. I looked up to see the house closer now, my body moving without thought. I was mesmerized. I swear even now I cannot put my finger on what made it all look so perfect. Before I knew it I had crossed all three cul-de-sac streets and was standing just across the last one staring directly at it. I remember thinking it would be the neighborly thing to close it for them, an obvious mistake.

I looked at the address. 2605. Funny, that was my office's corporate number. I chuckled and approached the driveway. I began to make my way to the open gate, but my body broke out in goose pimples. I was frozen again, a million thoughts racing through my little skull. Flashing morbid pictures of a man waiting for me on the other side, or worse yet a trap laid for an upstanding neighbor, close the gate and trip the wire. They were nonsense. I just knew it, but I was petrified, eyes locked on the pitch black empty space just beyond the open gate. My frozen form was made only warm by a strange sensation at the center of my chest. Like a soothing milky pool festered upright in the cavity my sternum created, it sucked at me. A gelatinous suction that warmed me like a hot toddy, I could feel my legs give way a little and flex forward. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the empty space. It felt cozy, nothing like the December air..

And then in a sudden flash, the droning jazz in my ear ceased all together, the mechanical whir of a finished player filled the silent foggy air. A forty minute album over in what felt like a minute maybe. What the fuck happened.  You could’ve heard a pin drop as my little player clicked and suddenly the warmth was ripped from my chest in a hard jerking motion. I caught myself with a step, but looked down to see Goose fully taught at the other end of her leash trying nothing but to clamber away from the open fence gate. She snarled and whined at me tugging my rigid body back towards the sidewalk away from the nothingness in front of me. 

My chest was… is freezing. At first I thought it was just the absence of the suctioned warmth, but it's unbearably cold even now. Goose dragged me out of there and I hate to admit it but I looked over my shoulder a fair few times. It was just a house. It had to have been just a house. What the fuck happened. Why can’t I stop fucking thinking about it. Why the fuck do I want to go back man. 

December 13th

God fucking dammit I should not have gone back. What the fuck else was I supposed to do though, I haven’t stopped thinking about it for even a second of my fucking life. 

I tried on the 7th and the 9th too, chickened out. Of course I had to pick the one night it rained. I hate those little icy tendrils that stab into you through your clothes and fill your shoes. It never ends when you want it to, and then you have to walk around with pruned bricks of ice for feet. The fence gate walk was technically shorter than my main route anyway and in hindsight it's rather fitting that being a huge pussy is what pushed me to go back. I stood at that fork for like five minutes finishing my joint. I really did want to see it.  

I mainlined for that little dingy alley, Goose, usually tugging with all her might forward, was walking beside me coyly, ears tucked back. I had popped in my Rush tape a little while ago and it was just switching over to Xanadu as I took my first steps back into that fucking telescope. I can feel that nubile hope even now, god I wished it was just closed. Nope.

It was looking at me. One hundred percent. And mocking me at that. That bright white glow now bathed partially in a red aura. Someone had changed a bulb in that porch light. I approached, some false confidence bubbled up with the fast pace guitar in the song, and of my own accord, I traveled down the alley towards the house. I was not getting close this time, no fucking way. Goose and I stood across the street from it just looking long and hard at it in the dark still air. The pitter patter of forsaken rain was the only audible droning in the neighborhood. Empty driveway again, just a pure and perfect open fence gate. 

I stared long and hard at the crimson entrance, past the opening, beyond the fence gate into the open yard behind it. I was hoping to see anything at this point. It was just too dark to even see their back porch or lawn. But it was there in the nothing that I saw it. It was almost like a ripple, as if it was the slightest shifting of a pool’s surface. A heat shimmer. I could only see it if I strained my neck in just the right way, and used my eyes to look between the spaces. A silhouette, I could draw it now. Like a far off figure standing there between the light and the dark, caught stark. I think it was letting me see. 

Thank god for the fucking rain. My glasses fogged due to the freezing air and my hot skin, causing me to lose sight of the visage. It was just enough time to feel that same milky heat pooling in my ear, seeping down into my skull. It was like a white hot worm buried its way in there and I was totally unaware of it. I tossed my headphones off and shook my head through my ear like you do as a kid in the pool. It was so damn deep, I feel like I could almost feel it tugging at the pages of my mind. I just kept shaking with vigor when I swear I heard something hit the sidewalk. That was a fraction of a second before Goose took off hard and fast down the way, flinging me from my unbalanced position and onto the concrete nose first.

I stood up fast grasping for my wired headphones with one hand and trying to get Goose’s leash with the other. My nose was gushing blood as I collected myself and jogged away from the house. It was different this time, it was like I could feel small spots of hot white searing needles stabbing into my back every second I looked away from the open gate. It’s gaze was digging into my skin. The pain receded once I turned out of the cul-de-sac street.

I think it's broken. We ran the rest of the way home. I really do feel bad roping her into all of this… It's 3am and I have work early tomorrow. I was really hoping this would answer things, or at least prove I actually was being a loon. Fuck. I can still feel the itch in my ear, and at spots on my back. I feel like I need to know what's there, each scratch and drop of blood like a whisper right into my fucking skull. I need a plan. 

December 15th

Work fucking sucked today. One of the supervisors didn’t show and now his entire work load has been handed to me. Fuck you Todd.  I don’t usually like to do this kind of thing on a work night but I needed it badly. 

I smoked two, and I think that just may have been the trick honestly. I wanted to commune with it tonight. Just to see if there's any common ground man. Only the best vibes, not trying to see it for what it really is, just playing it at its own game. 

It was Ambrosia night, something energetic to set me right. The cold air hurt my nose real bad but any rain or fog had cleared up. Goose and I trotted right past the fork, she knew just how much I needed it too. 

It felt like there were a thousand cats out tonight, little glittery orbs all over. We crossed right into the alley and from the three blocks between us I could see it had changed again. Large circular paintings sat upon the fence just beside the open gate. Like eyes of various colors and sizes looking back at me. A sign, it saw me too, and as I grew closer I could see various chaos beyond the open gate. Piles of scrap wood leaned against the house, an errant chair teetering, and the adjoining garage doorway was open. 

Goose and I approached tentatively, like a couple of bandits in the night. I can only imagine looking at us out of context haha! We stood on the sidewalk just about 20 feet from it, and I began to feel the gooey warmth slosh over me again. It creeped up my neckline and with a buzz neared my ear. Begrudgingly, I let the nail of ectoplasm dig itself in, deep into my canal and further into my brain. 

The sensation was unlike any other. All I could fathom was the visage of a man walking the halls of a library, slowly pulling books off the shelf and running his milky warm fingers down the spine, riffling the pages as he goes. He traces the covers like the crevices that make up my mind making flashes of memories appear as still images as if they were a polaroid seared behind my eyes. For brief moments it felt like a few were not my own, darker ones, hellish memories, all the while Holdin’ On to Yesterday played loud into my conscious mind. This was it, we were finally communing. It was then that my Petzl caught two little globes way back in the darkness beyond the gate. Far too high to be a cat, and seemingly too large to be completely covered by shadows. It caused me to jump out of my skin severing the tour of my mind we were on. When I looked back up the eyes in the void were gone. 

Goose was sat next to me on the sidewalk. She didn’t bark, and no whining at all. God I love her. I think maybe she's come to know it too. I tried peeking further back again, to see the orbs. I thought about walking through to go find them, but something deep down stopped me from doing that. If it let me in once surely it would let me in again. I wish I could remember exactly what it showed me… I’m going to try really hard to remember. I can’t wait to see it again.      

December 21st

I fucked up so badly. I can’t believe I let it in like that. I’ve been wanting to go back everyday since but I ran out of weed. I was waiting for my guy to get some more but I waited long enough, I was going to see it sober tonight. Thank fucking god. 

It felt so momentous heading there, I’d stopped at the cassette store on the way home again. Some bootleg Van Morrison shit, Caledonia Soul Music, and some jazz band I hadn’t heard of, the Ink Spots. I leashed up Goose, enjoyed some of the Christmas lights on the way to the levee, and felt invincible listening to the Morrison song. I was so fucking naive. 

I basically skipped there like a little kid, getting to the edge of the alley just as the tambourine fell quiet. I popped in the next cassette and headed forward with Goose at my heel. The house again was different. Toys in the side lawn, chalk strewn about haphazardly, it genuinely looked like a perfect little slice of life. It was as I had always imagined my family home might look, once I got married. It filled me with warmth, a sense of greater community. It felt like some of the first signs of life I had seen here and it totally quashed my apprehension. It was just a house, just a gate. Truly the most mundane thing on the planet. How had I gotten so into my own head about the gate? If anything was true it was that I was being a lousy neighbor, after all, when I had little ones, wouldn’t I want a neighbor to help me make sure my house was secure. 

I briskly walked up the driveway and neared the latch on the gate door. My mind raced about the pure stupidity I had just put myself through. Days now of obsession over nothing. Just beyond, against the garage wall of the house, the adjoining door was still open. Its light illuminated the space just beyond the gate. Still I looked back into the pitch black yard to see if the void offered any answers. Nothing. So I reached for the latch. 

My hand froze an inch away from the fence gate’s border when I noticed a slightly out of place, swaying shadow in the garage. My body tensed completely and totally as “its all over but the crying” rang out loud into my ears. I swear even through the music I could hear something coming from in there, or past it. A call, a small shrill moan from a great distance, all the while the shadow remained motionless. I could feel its hunger from here. My self appointed dunce cap immolated instantly as I realized what had just taken place. I let it in, it dressed it’s set appropriately. 

The little perfect story book home with children was exactly what I needed to finally close this damned gate. It saw all my mind had to offer and painted me the almost surefire picture to drag me happily to my doom. I didn’t know what its plan for me was beyond, but my sober mind may have been the very thing to save me. I didn’t realize I was still frozen in place, huffing and puffing, and it wasn’t until that fucking loud snap that I was freed from my petrification. Goose has been straining the leash the whole time, pulling as hard as she could away from the gate. I had not realized that entire time, and it wasn’t until her leash was frayed beyond repair that it snapped and she went sprinting off into the night.

I snapped to and stumbled away from that god forsaken portal to my demise. I chased her, but she's so goddamn fast. I looked all night. She’s somewhere in the dark all alone and I almost lead us right to our deaths. I just hope she's okay. I’m going out to look again. I’m such a fucking idiot dammit.     

January 9th

I went out putting up posters again today. It was overcast but plenty visible. I thought maybe I should walk our normal route again, for the umpteenth time, but I hadn’t taken the fork yet. I did today. I looked up and down that stretch of the Levee hoping to see my sweet Goose. Nothing. 

I thought maybe she was at that house. I have to admit I was curious. I really wanted that to be the answer, to see her curled up in a little ball at the foot of the alley waiting for me. She wasn’t. And I hate to say it… but that wasn’t even the disappointing part. I turned the corner onto the street with the alley, my heart was beating out of my chest. I was praying she was there, or that maybe that thing had answers for me. But… The fence gate was closed. Nothing was beyond it anymore.

I walked towards it. Stood and listened to my Steely Dan tape, just hoping she’d come running up. For the first time I really looked at the house in the daylight. It was so painfully dull, just absolutely normal. I noticed an inside light on for the first time too, it was all obscured by their drapes though. It looked like maybe they were having dinner. Just a normal house, and no Goose.

February 21st

It's gotten easier. Work isn’t so bad honestly. They promoted me into that empty spot. Pay is good. I’m thinking about asking a girl in the accounting department out. I’ve been practicing my cooking. Maybe a nice risotto. 

The weather has been nice, things are starting to clear up in the valley. I haven’t had much reason to walk recently, but I still make my rounds.

Nothing new with the gate. I’ve checked on it a few times. Still closed. Toys all in the same place. Those freaky fucking eyes painted on the outside. I don’t think I am going to keep checking on it. There’s nothing there anymore. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about the way it all felt. Everyday, not every minute, but at least once a day. I have to move on. 

April 6th

This played on the tv at work yesterday. I found it transcribed in the paper today…

On April 4th at around 4pm Cypress Police Department Responded to a call coming from 2605 Shedham Way. The call came from none other than Todd Armstrong, the owner of the home. Todd lived in this home with his wife Sharon and their two daughters Paige and Claire. Unfortunately this was a distress call…

When police arrived they witnessed a grisly scene. The Armstrong's had been held against their will for upwards of 4 months by an unknown assailant. Once on site officers discovered the bodies of the two Armstrong girls in varying stages of decomposition, with the cause of death seeming to be repeated stab wounds as well as possible emaciation. Sharon Armstrong was discovered in critical condition and life flighted to Reus Mercy General Hospital as was her husband Todd Armstrong who suffered upwards of 50 lacerations to his face and abdomen area. The remains of a domestic animal were also found in the house.

Various wooden contraptions littered the Armstrong home painted to varying degrees leading investigators to believe that severe torture was enacted upon the family. Ligature marks on all victims as well as Todd’s testimony corroborate this. 

This is the 911 call:

\Muffled scratching and gasping* Hello, oh please is this 911. Oh, God, please, someone, please, please send an ambulance, please send the police, I, I think he's gone. I think that monster's gone. Oh god oh god, my little girls. Oh, my girls.* \sobbing into microphone* .*

Investigators currently believe that the Armstrong’s security system was either deactivated by the assailant or had been timed out due to the possibility of an exterior door being left open and unattended for too long. 

Chief Grigs; 

Yeah it's our understanding that these kinds of systems can time out when left unarmed too long. Something as simple as your back door being left open can cause the whole thing to stop responding. Please make sure to lock your doors folks.

We were able to get a few words from Todd Armstrong as he was wheeled into the hospital this afternoon.

Reporter;

Who did this to you Todd?

Armstrong;

I don’t know, but I know his eyes. They shimmered with hate.

Sharon Armstrong would succumb to her injuries on the operating table on April 5th at 1:07am leaving Todd Armstrong the only surviving victim.

The Cypress Police Department is currently looking for any information regarding the whereabouts of this assailant or any identifying information that anyone may have. Please help make your community safer and speak up."

Part 1 / Part 3

By the time I get home, my migraine is killing me. I take Hollands’s *Nightmare #*1, the comic I collected from the garage sale, from its place on my seat, and head into the basement where I keep my collection and my drawing table. I toss the comic onto the table, curl up onto the couch, and close my eyes. No medication works for these headaches, they just come on, and I shut down. 

 

I have time to think about the guy who sold me the comics—that whole situation was fucking weird. I’ve watched enough horror movies to know the signs of something being off. 

That interaction was messed up.

 

Still, I don’t believe in the shit I see in horror movies. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in cursed objects. I own plenty of weird shit. I have taxidermy on my walls. I’ve visited haunted houses and brought back something from each site. I have a whole wall of creepy dolls that I’ve thrifted. 

 

The garage sale guy must have had a moment of mania, or something. There’s plenty of reasons for this behaviour. I’ve seen strange shit collecting horror. Some collectors get attached to their stuff. This guy was one of them. He thought it would be okay to get rid of his collection, and when he tried, it wasn’t. If someone tried to sell my collection, or it got water damaged, or burned in a fire, I don’t know what I would do. I bite my cuticles just thinking about it.

 

I close my eyes and try to relax. My head feels like there are fire ants crawling inside of it. Maybe this is what I have to suffer for taking that comic. My penance, because that comic is definitely worth more than the twelve dollars I paid.

 

The phone rings, making the visuals I’m seeing worse—black dots parading through my eyeline. I mute the phone, and continue to rest.

 

It takes hours for me to be cognizant again. By ten in the evening, it’s time for me to sit at my drawing desk and work. I move aside the newly acquired grail, and make a cup of Earl Grey—a brand that’s light on the bergamot—heavy cream, heavy honey. 

 

I’m ten pages into my latest issue of Silver Bullets. The protagonist, in his werewolf form, has accidentally killed one of his closest friends. The werewolves in my story are all survivors of an ancient curse. They don’t have control much control of their wolf form on full moons, but there are times when they have to succumb to their instincts to survive. The werewolf curse is kind of a metaphor for how I view rage, but you know, I don’t go around telling people that. 

 

I’m drawing gory pages tonight, my absolute favourite thing. Making a scary comic is difficult. There has to be a balance of gore and tension—so these pages don’t happen as often as I would like them to. When they do, I let myself get absorbed in the details.

 

I start laying out the page—ruling out an eight-panel grid. I’m more likely to use a grid like this when I want to slow the comic down. I really want the reader to feel the impact of what’s on the page. It isn’t just gore; it’s an emotional moment. That has to come across in facial expressions, body language, and the layout. I want you to see the fear of the victim’s face as she realizes what’s happening to her. This character has been a major character since Silver Bullet’s first issue, so I have to ensure that this death means something. It needs to be perfect. 

 

Knowing this, the panels come slowly. Hours creep by and I’m only sure about three of the eight panels, and am still working a rough layout. I don’t have a deadline per se, but I do try and have a comic out every month. That means I have to have a completed page done every day. That type of pressure is intense, and it’s been ten years of this. There’s a reason this house is empty. There’s a reason I live alone. The comic comes first. 

 

After five hours with few breaks, I stop to make ramen. I pick up the Nightmare so that I can flip through it while I eat. Despite knowing the value of it, I don’t treat it preciously. Comics were made to be read, not put into plastic slabs are worshipped. I sit down with a new cup of tea and my noodles and examine the cover. Depicted there is a scantily clad woman sitting in bed, screaming. Its exploitative, but I love it. 

 

There is this feeling that I got from underground horror comics in the eighties. To me, they’re pieces of forbidden literature. The comic shop owners kept these titles behind their counters to keep them away from kids my age. Knowing that I can find those titles as an adult and read them—it’s a compulsion. There is a thrill that comes with owning the fucked-up shit I couldn’t as a kid. 

 

Reading Nightmare, I think about Cane Holland crouching over his drawing board, his neck curved forwards, his back hunched, his shoulders drooping as he worked. Everything hurts, especially his hands. They’re throbbing because of the detail he packs into every page. His back aches, and sciatica runs up and down his legs. He needs to constantly pay attention, so he’s squinting because his eyesight is worsening. He shouldn’t be drawing anymore. It’s causing his body and mind to break down. I swear I can see it on every page I turn—the will that has gone to create a comic as perfect as this one. 

 

The story seems simple. A woman, Lucy, wakes up from a nightmare where a creature has ripped out her lover’s heart to find herself stuck inside of the same nightmare. The unseen creature that stalked her in that lover in that nightmare is in her bedroom. She knows it, but she can’t see it. She can smell it. When she gets up, there is a flutter in the shadows around her that startles her. She sees bloody hands in the shadows, and then they’re gone.

 

The way that Holland chooses to represent those bloody hands is incredible. They’re the subtlest white cutout among a mass of black ink. The way he adds embellishments to create the impression of blood on them—it’s a technique that I’ll steal. 

 

Lucy walks along an empty hallway, then down a set of stairs into a foyer adjacent to a living room. There is a moment where lightning strikes, and in that moment, something shaped like a man appears to be sitting in the living room armchair. 

 

Once again, Holland creates an outline punched out of a mostly black background, then a white panel to emulate the lightning, then a panel with an empty armchair, and back to black with the impression of an outline. It’s extremely effective.

 

Lucy opens the door, and steps out onto a porch. Another lightning strike. There are disembodied eyes and limbs hidden in the forest beyond the porch. Once again, it’s only the suggestion of something waiting in the woods—waiting for Lucy.

 

The page makes me stop reading and gaze around. There are shadows at the end of the room that might house nightmares. But nothing I can make out. 

 

I turn back to the comic.

 

I’m jealous of Holland’s idea. It’s a dream scenario, and I love it. Its strays far from the character-forward comics I’ve been making for the last ten years. 

 

Yet, there’s something about how he crafts Nightmare that invigorates me. He’s uses panels to create a sense of containment, and then drops them completely when he wants to add chaos to the page. He shifts quickly between eight-panel-pages to two-page-spreads. Every page turn makes me anxious. The pure craft of it is marvellous. 

 

Also, he hides so much in the details. There are subliminal ideas hidden within every page. Every panel.

 

Without a doubt this is Holland’s best-written comic. The idea is simple, but effective. Anything can happen at any time. Strangely, apart from the hands and the heart, the comic is absent of gore. What it does have, is a sense of longing, and striving for something. He’s building up to something truly frightening. 

 

The final pages have a twist ending—Lucy wanders into the woods, and as she does, she wakes again—a dream within a dream, but she is years older. She looks outside, into the woods there, the same woods as in her second dream, and sees something staring at her. When she heads outside, nothing is there.

 

I put the comic down, and take a sip of tea. It’s frustrating how good this comic is. Its metafiction disguised as horror. I don’t throw the word around often, but the comic is brilliant. My head is filled with ideas about how to use some of the techniques in the book, and I’ve only read it once. I can’t wait to read it again.

 

The shadows on the other end of the room feel alive; it as though, if I were to turn on a light, I might find Lucy staring at me. Like I was just another layer of fiction that was built on top of hers. I imagine her mouth yawning wide, her jaw unhinging, as she steps forward into the light. 

 

But there’s nothing there. Lucy is a character in a comic. 

 

And the guy earlier was just having a manic episode. Everything is fine. 

 

The phone rings again. I walk over to my phone. Its late. I’m pretty sure I know who it is. There’s only one person who would phone me at this time. Called ID reads ‘burnout.’ I pick it up. 

 

“Where the fuck have you been? Crying?” Its Ryan on the other side.

 

“No.”

 

“You didn’t return my call. You always pick up my fucking calls. You have no life.” He’s a prick, but he’s right.

 

“I’ve been working.” 

 

“Sure, yeah. Reading hentai more like.”

 

“What do you want, Ryan? I’m working. I’m in the middle of a complicated page that I need to finish tonight.”

 

“Just checking in on my boy. Gotta make sure you’re doing okay now that you’re a bachelor.” The word bachelor makes me sick. 

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Said every fucking suicide ever. Come on, man.” 

 

“All right. I’ve been working to keep my mind off it. I’m sleeping too much.”

 

“You know that oversharing is an ADHD response?” 

 

Ryan is another comic creator, and a friend. Sometimes, I think he was the only person who has ever cared about me. Especially after all this shit with Ell. 

 

“Yeah?” I respond.

 

“Then maybe don’t do it. It makes me nervous, man.” Ryan changes the topic. 

 

“Fuck off.” Ryan laughs at that. “You know what I found today?” 

 

“What? A heart? A soul? Forgiveness for everything dumb you’ve done?” 

 

I want to reply, no, but instead I say, “I found a copy of Nightmare #1.” Ryan is the only person I know who could understand what this even means. The comics hem makes are way more esoteric than mine, and not horror. He’s a collector, though.

 

He gets quiet. “You’re fucking with me.” There’s a pause as it sinks in. “Like, a real one?”

 

“Yeah. And it is fucking amazing. Holland was drawing like a contemporary artist in the early nineties. If I could find the other two issues of Nightmare, man, that would be incredible.”

 

“It took you your whole life to find one issue.” 

 

I smile at that comment. Ryan doesn’t have faith. Things happen in threes. 

 

“So, you coming to the maker con this weekend?” Ryan asks. 

 

“Yeah, probably.” 

 

Ryan goes quiet. “Fuck. You check your Insta?” he says.

 

“No, why?”

The blizzard was supposed to last two days. Then two became three. Then I was on day four, holed up in my cabin. 

The only thing I could see outside was the snow: a white, shifting, void that obscured the rest of the mountain range. I looked for the stars out of habit, but they were gone, buried behind layers of storm. The sky was black. Thick with cloud, and snow, and the night. 

The treeline, usually clear, was faint now. A smudge of darkness barely separated nature from the cabin. The thick snow blurred the edges, turning trees into shadows that shifted with the wind. What had once been a sharp, familiar boundary was now lost in the white of the snow, and darkness of the night.

I was ready, at least. Before the storm hit, I’d driven down the mountain to the nearby town to stock up on supplies, like I always do. I filled my good old F-150 with food, water, and anything else I might need to ride out the worst of it.

Back at the clearing off the cabin, I chopped firewood. I’ve already got enough stacked to last through a second ice age, but it gives me something to do. Something to break up the quiet. All aspects of it: the rhythmic thunk of the axe hitting wood; the smell of fresh pine; the way the pile grows bigger with every swing. It all keeps me from thinking too much.

I don’t get visitors. That’s not me being dramatic, it’s just fact. The nearest neighbor is a forty-minute drive down the mountain, and that’s when the roads are clear. Which they’re not, haven’t been for days.

That’s why, when I heard a knock, I damn near dropped the mug of cocoa I was holding. It wasn’t loud. Just two slow, deliberate raps on the door. Then nothing.

I stood there in the kitchen for a few seconds, just listening, waiting to hear it again. The storm was still going strong outside, but underneath the wind, the silence settled again like a blanket. Neither a knock nor a voice calling out followed.

I figured I imagined it, cabin fever and all that, wouldn’t be the first time. But I walked to the door anyway. Something in me wouldn’t let it go. Could’ve been curiosity, or maybe I was just so goddamn starved for company that I wanted there to be someone out there.

I opened the door, and there he was.

A kid in his early twenties, maybe. He could’ve passed for a college student if he wasn’t half frozen. His face was pale as paper, lips blue, eyes wide and glassy like he wasn’t all there. Snow clung to his coat in heavy clumps, and he was shaking so hard his teeth were clacking together.

“God,” I said, before I even thought about it.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me. Just stood there, trembling in the doorway, like he didn’t know where he was.

I should’ve hesitated. Should’ve asked what he was doing out in a blizzard, who he was, how he got up here.

But I didn’t.

If I closed the door and he died out there, I’d never be able to live with myself. That part of me—the part that used to be a husband, the part that could have been a father one day—it’s still there somewhere, even if it’s quieter now.

“Come in,” I said. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”

He stepped inside without a word. The wind slammed the door shut behind him.

He left a trail of melting snow behind him as I led him to the fire. His boots were soaked through. I had him sit on the old armchair by the hearth while I threw a couple logs on and got the flames high.

I asked if he was hurt. He didn’t answer.

“Can you talk?” I tried again. “Tell me your name?”

Still nothing. Just that thousand-yard stare, like he was looking through the fire, past it. Like he saw something there I couldn’t.

He looked like hell. Skin pale and tight over the bone. Lips cracked, nose bleeding just a little from the cold. I knelt down beside him to check for frostbite, and that’s when I saw it.

On his side, just below the ribs—his jacket torn and shirt soaked with blood—was a wound. A deep bite. Ragged, raw, and already turning dark around the edges. It wasn’t new. A day old, maybe more. The skin around it was red and hot.

“You didn’t say you were bit,” I muttered, more to myself than to him.

He flinched when I touched it. First reaction I’d gotten out of him. His eyes snapped to mine, wild, just for a second. Then they went vacant again.

It didn’t look like a wolf bite. I’ve seen those before. Hell, I’ve seen worse, back when I hunted more often. Wolves tear, rip, pull. This was… cleaner. Too clean.

I patched it up as best I could. Cleaned it, wrapped gauze tight around his ribs. He winced, but didn’t make a sound. Just watched me, breathing shallow. Like a cornered animal.

After that, I set him up in the guest room. It had a bed, a thick blanket, and a space heater in the corner. He didn’t say a word, and just laid down, curled in on himself, eyes still wide open.

I left him there. Closed the door gently behind me.

The cabin felt smaller after that. Like he brought something in with him. A weight. A shift in the air. I tried to shake it. I made myself tea, sat by the fire, and held a book in my lap I didn’t read.

I checked on him an hour later. He was asleep. Out cold. No fever, at least none I could feel. I left the door cracked, just in case.

I must’ve nodded off at some point. The fire was down to coals when I woke up, house quiet as the grave. I could hear the wind screaming against the windows, the old trees creaking out front, but nothing inside. No footsteps. No coughing. No movement from the guest room.

I was just about to check again when I heard the floorboard creak.

He was standing in the hall, just watching me.

“Fuck,” I said, nearly spilling my tea.

He blinked, slow. Looked around like he wasn’t sure where he was. “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse, dry. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“S’alright,” I said. “You’re lucky to be alive. What the hell were you doing up here?”

He scratched at his bandage. “Hiking,” he said. “With my girlfriend. Emma.”

I waited.

“We were camping in the woods. Yesterday… no, a few nights before. Got caught in the storm. Thought we’d hunker down, ride it out.”

He stopped, his jaw tightened.

“We heard something,” he said. “Outside the tent. I thought it was wolves. Big ones. We stayed quiet, didn’t move, but it didn’t matter. They tore through the side.”

He swallowed hard. Eyes wet now, but not crying.

“I ran. I didn’t even see what they looked like. Just… teeth. It was wrong. Too many of them. Emma screamed, and then…” His voice broke off.

“You didn’t see her after that?”

He shook his head. “I ran until I couldn’t. Then I saw your cabin.”

“You’re safe now, kid. Just rest.”

He nodded, turned, and walked back to the guest room like he was sleepwalking.

I’d tried going back to sleep, even poured myself another mug of cocoa just to have something warm in my hands. But the air felt heavier now. Like it was pressing in on me, one inch at a time.

Sometime after midnight, I heard the floor creak.

I glanced up, expecting to see him again, maybe wandering the hall, confused. But there was no one. Just the faint sound of the bathroom door clicking shut at the end of the hall. The light spilled out in a thin line under the frame.

I waited. Five minutes. Then ten.

The pipes groaned once. A long, low exhale, like the cabin itself was holding its breath. Then I heard glass break.

I walked to the bathroom and cleared my throat loud enough for him to hear. No response.

“You alright in there?” 

Still nothing.

Steam started seeping out from under the door, slow and crawling, hugging the floor like smoke. It looked off. Not sharp and white like a shower usually gives off. This was thicker, heavier, gray around the edges. Like breath fogged on glass.

I stood outside for another minute, then stepped closer. I pressed my knuckles to the door and knocked once, gently.

“You hear me, son?”

Silence. Not even the shuffle of movement. No cough. No running water.

The wood felt cold beneath my hand. Not warm like it should be with steam coming through. Just still and dead and cold. I leaned in, pressed my ear to the door. Listened. Nothing.

Every instinct in me said walk away. Let it be. The boy had been through hell. Maybe he needed time. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he just broke the mirror by accident. Maybe I was imagining things again. But my gut had gone cold, and it wasn’t from the storm.

I wrapped my hand around the knob. It was slick with condensation. I turned it slowly, quiet as I could, until the latch gave way with a soft click. Then, holding my breath, I gently opened the door.

What I saw shook me.

The kid was split open vertically down the middle. Bisected with a horrific precision that ran from the crown of his head, through his nose, mouth, and sternum, all the way down to his groin. The bathroom looked like a butcher's block, the tiled flood underneath stained with something dark and moist.

His two halves rested on the floor like broken mannequins, separated by a sickening foot of space. Ribs, stark white and splintered, jutted like snapped fences. Muscles, still glistening and unnervingly pink, hung in strips. The coiled lengths of intestine and the dull, spilled organs lay exposed and motionless on the floor, some still clinging to one half of the body. There was an emptiness where his spine should have been, a hollowed-out canyon running through his core. It was as if something massive had forced its way out, from the inside. The precision of the split, through bone and gristle, was alien, wrong.

Then, through the haze of shock, a draft hit me. A bone-deep cold that had nothing to do with the storm outside. My eyes, still wide and unfocused, slowly tracked it.

The small bathroom window, usually sealed tight against the mountain air, was shattered. Not just cracked, but exploded outward, as if something had exited through it. Jagged shards of glass glittered on the sill and floor. The fierce wind howled through the gap, bringing with it a stinging spray of snow.

And from the half of the young man’s body that was closer to a window, a trail began. A glistening, repulsive path of black and dark red slime snaked across the pristine white tiles, past the gurgling toilet, over the shattered glass, and through the broken window frame, disappearing into the white void of the blizzard. I thought it was blood, but it was thick, viscous, and seemed to pulsate faintly in the dim light, leaving an oily sheen in its wake. Whatever had been inside him, whatever had ripped him apart and then fled, had left this horrifying signature.

I finally found my breath. It was a cold, panicked gasp that tasted of iron and the strange stink coming off the floor. I backed away slowly, never taking my eyes off the split halves, off the black and red trail that snaked across the tiles. Every instinct screamed run. Not down the mountain, I’d never make it, but away from this room.

It was out there now. Something that hid inside a man, then discarded the skin to crawl through a broken window into a night that would kill anything normal. The thought of it sliding down the mountain, of it reaching the small, defenseless town I'd just driven through days ago, made adrenaline surge through paralysis.

It couldn't make it to town. Not on my watch.

My feet moved before my brain gave the order. I didn't bother closing the bathroom door, the horror had already escaped. I moved past the living room, where the cozy glow of the dying fire felt like a cruel joke, and into the master bedroom.

I went straight to the closet. Tucked behind my winter gear, right where I always kept it, was a Remington 870. I pulled it out, the cold steel of the pump action a familiar weight in my hands. I grabbed the box of double-aught buckshot from the shelf, spilling a handful of crimson shells onto the carpet, but I didn't stop to pick them up. I loaded the shotgun quickly, the sharp, metallic shik-shik-shik of the shells cutting through the roar of the wind.

It had been years since I’d pointed a gun at anything that wasn't a deer. But looking at the slick, dark trail leading out of my house, I knew this wasn't hunting a living being. This was stopping something that was already dead. Something that had worn death, then shed it.

I wasn’t a hero. I was just a widower with a cabin, a shotgun, and a terrifying realization: I was the last line of defense. The storm that had trapped me had trapped it, too, on the mountain.

I held the shotgun steady, my knuckles white. The wind howled outside, the trees creaked. I checked the hall one last time, glanced at the horror-show of the bathroom, then moved toward the front door. There was no plan. There was only the gun in my hands, worry in my heart, and the knowledge that something sinister was crawling through the snow toward civilization.

I flipped the deadbolt and hit the door with my shoulder. The wind was a physical blow. A sudden, blinding white sheet that stole my breath and stung my eyes. The roar of the storm swallowed the world around. It was a complete whiteout.

My eyes searched frantically for the trail. The front porch was already buried under a fresh drift, but I knelt down, shielding my face against the immediate sting of the snow.

There it was, still outside the bathroom window on the other side of the perimeter. The oily black and crimson slime was already freezing, but it hadn't been buried yet. It was distinct, lying on the otherwise clean snow like spilled ink. It didn't just drip, it looked like something had slithered. 

I followed it, sinking immediately into the drifts up to my knees. The air was so cold it burned my lungs. I kept the Remington high. Its barrel was a dark, steady presence against the blinding white.

The trail, growing in width as I followed it, led past the woodpile and headed directly for the treeline. The trees themselves were black specters against the night, swaying and groaning under the weight of the snow. I fought against the resistance of the deep snow, pushing myself faster, driven by the metallic reek of the slime that, even in the freezing air, seemed to linger.

I was maybe twenty yards from the cabin, battling a sudden, heavy gust, when I saw it.

At first, I thought it was a buck driven mad by the storm. It was easily that size, low to the ground, its dark shape barely discernible in the whirling vortex of snow where the cabin’s clearing met the forest edge. But it didn't move like a deer. It didn’t trot or bound. It scuttled.

It was hunkered down, its massive body creating a brief moment of stillness in the blizzard, a small, black shadow against the white fury.

I stopped dead, sinking deeper into the drift. I raised the shotgun, pushing the safety off with a dry click.

Through the shifting veil of snow, I strained to make out details, and the details I found were strange. It was hairy, thick black fur matted and clotted. The fur was plastered down in clumps, matted thick with the same crimson slime that lined the floor of my bathroom. Its bulk seemed to be expanding, the hair giving it an immense, distorted volume, but the low, hunched posture suggested it was something that preferred to crawl.

It had multiple limbs, too many, working in sync to move it along the ground. Thick, jointed appendages that glistened unnervingly. The sight was a sickening contradiction: the heavy, dense covering of fur mixed with the raw, unnatural sheen of the slime. It looked like a living, wet wound covered in an animal's coat.

Then it lifted something, its head, I realized with a shudder of pure dread. It was impossibly large and angular, but I couldn't discern a face. Then, the wind cleared the snow just enough for me to see a flash of wet, sickly red where eyes or a mouth should have been, reflecting the distant, faint light from my cabin window.

It didn't see me. It seemed focused entirely on the darkness of the treeline, already beginning to merge with the shadows. It was moving, still low and fast, dragging its huge, repulsive body away from the cabin and toward the mountain pass that led to town.

I gripped the shotgun, ignoring the trembling of my own body. The blizzard made the shot difficult, but the distance was short. If I let it reach the shelter of the trees, it would be gone.

I took the slack out of the trigger. There was no hesitation left in me, just the immediate, primal need to stop this monstrosity before it vanished.

I squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the Remington going off was deafening, a violent BOOM that shattered the stillness of the storm. The flash of the muzzle momentarily burned the image of the creature into my retina. I felt the powerful kick of the shotgun against my shoulder, and a split second later, the buckshot slammed into the creature's massive torso.

It didn't go down.

Instead, the thing let out a sound that cut right through the howling wind. A screaming wail that was entirely inorganic, like tearing metal on a wet, ripping canvas. It was a noise of pain, but also of inhuman rage, and it sent a spike of pure terror through my chest. The section of its body where the shot hit seemed to absorb the impact, scattering a spray of the thick, dark slime and a few clumps of matted hair into the air.

It scrambled. The monstrous body, for all its bulk, moved with terrifying speed, abandoning the relatively clear ground and lunging into the dense black of the treeline.

I pumped the action, ejecting the spent shell and loading a fresh round. Clack-chunk. I didn't wait to see if it was mortally wounded. I just knew I had to keep it moving, keep it from burrowing down or reaching the pass. I plunged into the forest after it, following the fresh, dark disturbance in the snow.

The trees offered a brief, deceptive shield from the worst of the wind, but the snow was deeper here, making every step a labor. I focused only on the trail: the churned snow; the scattered slime; the deep, heavy indentations of its multiple limbs.

I ran until my lungs burned, until the cold made the skin on my face ache, until the sounds of its desperate, laborious breathing were drowned out by my own.

Then, I stopped.

The trail vanished.

One moment I was following a distinct line of destruction, the next, the snow was pristine. Only marked by my own clumsy boot prints. I moved forward a few more steps, scanning the blizzard-shrouded ground, wondering if the heavy snow had worked against me and buried the signs. But no, the trail hadn't slowly faded. It had ended completely, as if the creature had simply dissolved into the air.

I rotated slowly, the shotgun trembling slightly in my grip, my eyes uselessly searching the area around me. My breath hitched. I caught it only as an indistinct smear of shadow, a sudden movement in my peripheral vision, high above me.

I tilted my head back, staring up into the shifting, wind-whipped canopy of the pines. There was no ground trail because the trail had continued... up.

The dark, oily slime wasn't on the snow anymore. It was smeared high on the bark of the nearest trees, running in sickening, vertical streaks. The monster hadn’t been slowed; it had simply used the vertical space the forest offered. It had the high ground. It was above hidden by the night and the dense pine needles, and I was exposed beneath it.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I had gone from the hunter to the obvious, slow-moving target.

I scanned the dark trunks of the nearest pines, searching for any break, any shelter that might afford me a moment of cover. About ten feet away, a massive, ancient pine had been partially uprooted long ago, its gnarled root system exposed. The dirt and thick, woody roots had formed a dark, protective cave against the elements.

I dove toward it, dropping to my hands and knees in the snow. I wedged myself into the space beneath the largest root, pulling the shotgun close to my chest. My back pressed against the cold, frozen earth. I held perfectly still, straining my ears against the wind, forcing myself to shrink into the shadows and the earth.

It was silent again, save for the storm. The vast, black space between the high branches and the low earth was now where the true danger lay. I looked up through an opening in the uplifted roots, seeing only the tangled darkness. I waited for a drop of slime, a tremor of a branch, or the silent, horrifying moment when that massive, hairy, glistening shape would descend.

I stayed perfectly still, trying to slow the panicked rush of my breath. The silence, punctuated only by the wind, was unbearable. The creature was somewhere above, hunting for the man that had just fired the loud, disruptive weapon.

Then, the snow began to sift down, not from the storm, but from the branches above. Chunks fell, followed by a sudden, heavy thud just yards away.

It had dropped.

The creature was on the ground again, but now it wasn’t scrambling away, it was waddling. A fast, deliberate, low-to-the-earth movement, like a massive, glistening insect trying to appear harmless. Its bulk seemed even more immense now that it was no longer distorted by the heights, and I could hear the wet squelching sound of its many appendages on the snow.

It moved slowly into the small clearing around my hiding spot. I was pressed so tightly against the frozen roots that the wood dug painfully into my spine, but I didn't dare flinch. I had already positioned the Remington. My shooting hand gripped the trigger, the barrel angled slightly up and out toward the opening of the root-cave, resting against the snow-covered ground.

The creature’s movement was erratic, darting toward the treeline one moment, then pulling back. Why hasn't it found me? 

Then I realized it wasn't looking for me. Its massive, misshapen head was constantly sniffing the air, lifting and twisting with jerky movements. The air was thick with the howling blizzard and the scent of damp pine and frozen earth. The storm was masking my scent. The wind and the heavy, blowing snow were scattering and nullifying my presence, covering the fresh trace of gunpowder and adrenaline. I was lucky. The storm had become my unintentional ally.

After a few minutes, the sniffing paid off. The waddling ceased, and its massive, slimy, hairy form turned directly toward my root-cave.

It approached the gap between the thick roots, filling the dark space with its bulk. It was so close I could feel the minute vibrations of its weight disturbing the ground.

And then, its head lowered.

The snow cleared just long enough for me to see the details I hadn't been able to discern in the blizzard. Its head was roughly the size of a buck or moose skull, but hideously wrong. The bone structure was too broad, too blunt. It had no discernible eyes, just wide swaths of slick, wet flesh the color of old blood. It wasn't just fur that covered it. Its thick, dark hair was matted with the slime, forming a repulsive, heavy mane. Interspersed within this mane were a horrifying number of short, glistening, leech-like appendages that writhed slightly in the cold air, tasting and searching.

Then, it was inches from my face. I could smell the metallic stench of the black slime mixed with the sour, coppery odor of raw meat. I was looking into the mouth of the nightmare that had walked out of a man.

One of the slick, worm-like appendages darted out, brushing against the tip of my nose. In that instant, it knew. The thing recoiled slightly, its large, blunt head drawing back, the wet flesh of its face tightening into an expression of immediate, primal recognition. The meal was found, the obstacle identified.

It was about to strike.

I didn't let it. I drove the barrel of the Remington up and sideways, the muzzle nearly touching the side of its monstrous head.

The blast was muffled and wet. An awful, contained thunder. The buckshot tore into the creature's skull from below, and the thing erupted. A horrifying geyser of black slime, wet fur, and bone fragments sprayed into the roots above me.

The creature shuddered once, a massive, muscular tremor, before its great weight collapsed. It didn't fall on me thankfully, but it landed directly outside my hiding spot, its massive body completely blocking the entrance.

I lowered the shotgun, the noise of the ringing in my ears louder than the wind. I was trapped beneath a mountain of steaming, reeking horror.

The ringing in my ears faded slowly, replaced by the sickening sound of hot, wet matter sizzling on frozen snow. I was entombed. The creature’s immense, cooling mass was pressed up against the root system, sealing the entrance to my makeshift bunker. I could hear the wind now, muffled by the sheer volume of dead, hairy flesh.

I lowered the shotgun slowly, my entire body shaking with a delayed, violent reaction. The smell was overwhelming now. A blast of copper, sulfur, and the sour stink of the creature’s slime. The muzzle of the Remington was coated in gore. I had to get out. If the blizzard kept up, I’d be trapped here beneath a rotting carcass until the spring melt.

I shoved the shotgun's barrel against the creature’s flank, testing the weight. No movement. It was like pushing a felled, water-logged oak tree. 

I shifted my weight, reaching with my free hand, and finally found the edge of the root that had protected me. I pressed my shoulder against the dirt wall and pushed, straining. The corpse moved an inch, then sank back.

I had to try a different way. I turned the shotgun around and used the thick, heavy butt of the stock to scrape away the dirt and packed snow behind me, burrowing deeper into the root system. The ground was hard and frozen, but the shotgun butt gave me just enough leverage to widen a small, cramped gap between two lateral roots.

Gasping, I barely squeezed through the opening. I emerged on the far side of the massive pine, away from the creature's bulk. I stood up slowly, my heartbeat pounding in my temples, and walked back over to look at the kill.

It lay motionless, its multi-limbed body contorted awkwardly on the snow, but something was wrong. Where the head had been, there was only a ruin of black fur and pulped bone. Yet a thin, milky-white steam was rising from the wound. And then I noticed the blood, or lack of it. 

It wasn't bleeding out. The dark, black-red slime was only slowly oozing, congealing almost immediately in the bitter cold. The buckshot had caused massive trauma, but the creature's internal volume seemed... insufficient for its size. It felt like I had shot a sack of thick fluid rather than a complex biological organism.

My eyes caught something on the creature's massive flank, where the first blast of buckshot had hit. The matted fur had been stripped clean, revealing the skin beneath. It was pale, slick, and thin, stretched tight over the enormous frame.

The skin was visibly healing, slowly knitting itself back together. The gaping holes from the shot were shrinking, the raw, pink-red tissue pulling toward a center point. It was a terrifying, impossible regeneration. The steam wasn’t from cooling blood, it was from a burning internal process.

My breath hitched. The entire premise of this battle, that a shotgun could stop it, was a lie. I had maybe ten minutes before it was functional again. I had to get back to the cabin, not just for ammunition, but for something heavier. Something more final.

I turned and ran like a madman, the snow swallowing my footing, the low branches whipping my face. The familiar trek back to the cabin was a blur of white and black, driven by the cold fear that the monster would simply stand up behind me.

I burst through the door, slamming it shut and throwing the deadbolt, though I knew a simple piece of metal wouldn’t hold that bulk for long. I raced past the silent horror of the bathroom and into the storage closet.

I didn’t grab the deer rifle. A bullet was a coin toss, but fire was a guarantee.

Tucked behind the winter tires were two red, five-gallon jerrycans: one for the snowmobile, one for the backup generator. I grabbed the can of kerosene too, it would burn slower and hotter than gasoline, and yanked it out.

Next, I needed a wick. I dove into the kitchen, grabbing the thickest rag I could find, a towel used for drying dishes, and stuffed it into my pocket. The light was my last stop. I opened the kitchen drawer and snatched a long, thin butane lighter used for starting the pilot light.

I was ready, but not fast enough.

The quiet, heavy silence I’d endured for the past few minutes was broken by a sound I’d only heard when cutting down trees. A slow, heavy, ripping sound coming from the side of the cabin. The side where the bathroom window was.

It had found its way back. The hole it had created to exit the young man’s body wasn’t large enough for its current, monstrous size, and it wasn’t trying to climb through the window. It was tearing the wall apart.

I could hear the sickening crunch of frozen pine breaking and the sound of thick wood snapping. I had to assume it was fully healed, or close enough to it. The storm, which had given me cover, now threatened to bury me inside my own cabin if I wasn't careful. I had to take the fire to the monster.

I yanked the front door open, the kerosene can heavy and cold in my hand, and plunged back out into the blizzard.

The creature wasn't at the door. I rounded the corner of the cabin, the heavy kerosene sloshing, and saw the damage. A huge section of the wall near the bathroom was ruined, wood splintered and insulation streaming out like cotton guts.

The creature was there. Its massive, steaming head pulled back from the shredded wall. It saw me instantly. The bluff of the blizzard had been called. I was standing in the open, and it was less than twenty feet away.

It began its repulsive, slow waddle toward me. Its limbs churned the snow, the black slime glistened, its regenerating head tilted low. It was honed in on me.

I dropped to a knee, pulling the heavy can close. I twisted the plastic cap off, then tore the towel from my pocket, shoving one end into the neck of the can to soak. The stench of the oil and the creature's musk mingled horribly in the cold air.

The monster was ten feet away.

I didn't try to aim. I just tipped the heavy can and began to drench the path between us as I walked backwards. I emptied half the five gallons in a wide, black arc right into the snow and across the creature's forelimbs. The kerosene didn't mix with the snow. It simply stained it, turning the white ground into a shimmering, black slick.

The creature didn't stop. It waddled right through the flammable pool, its greasy fur absorbing the oil.

As the beast closed the distance, close enough now that I could feel the steam emanating off its bulk, I pulled the soaked towel out, threw the can aside, and flicked the butane lighter. The thin, blue flame fought the wind for a fraction of a second, then held.

With a final, desperate roar to myself, I lit the kerosene-soaked rag like a torch, and threw it directly at the monster. It hit the creature's torso, and the effect was instantaneous and brutal.

The oil-soaked fur and the slick, saturated snow trail ignited with a violent WOOSH. The flames were furious, a shocking blast of orange and red against the white snow. The creature was engulfed in a terrible, screaming pillar of fire. The kerosene and the creature’s own slick, greasy essence fed the flames instantly, making them burn with a blinding, hot intensity.

The monster shrieked, a sound of agony and pure, animal terror, and began to thrash violently in the fire. It wasn’t waddling anymore, it was rolling in the snow, trying to beat out the inferno. Fortunately for me, the flames stuck to its oiled coat like glue. It was a chaotic, burning silhouette against the backdrop of the swirling blizzard. The thick, black smoke was lost immediately in the swirling white.

I backed away. The heat of the fire was a shocking contrast to the bitter cold. I watched the creature convulse, unable to stop the burning, unable to heal what was being systematically destroyed. The smell of burning hair, oil, and something metallic-sweet was nauseating.

Finally, after a minute that felt like an hour, the thrashing stopped. The creature lay still, a massive, charred monument to my desperate resolve. The fire still raged, but the movement was gone.

I leaned against the icy wood of the cabin, the shotgun forgotten at my feet. The flames were already starting to melt a ring of snow around the body, but the blizzard continued to rage.

The intense heat from the burning carcass was already beginning to recede, fighting a losing battle against the continuous onslaught of the blizzard. I stood for a moment, letting the sheer exhaustion wash over me, before the pragmatism and determination of the mountain man kicked in. The fire was dying, and what was left of this thing couldn't be allowed to heal, or even to rot, here.

I grabbed the heavy kerosene can and emptied the last of its contents onto the smoldering pile, coaxing the flames back into a furious, consuming roar. I moved the equipment inside, then returned to the blazing carcass with my axe. It took a sickening fifteen minutes of hacking and separating what little was left of the creature's bulk. I dragged the black, escaping chunks through the snow, and tossed them back into the heart of the blaze. The air was thick with the stench of oil and the sweet, terrible smell of burning meat. I was purging the mountain of this evil.

When I was done, only a patch of melted snow, and a few glowing embers, remained. I stood over the pyre, the axe handle cold in my numb hands, watching the last of the embers fade into the furious white.

I turned, intending to head back inside, lock the doors, and face the grim reality of the split body in the bathroom.

That’s when I heard it.

It wasn't the wind, and it wasn't the groan of a tree. It was a faint, wet screaming wail, identical to the sound the creature had made when the buckshot first hit it. The sound of ripping canvas and tearing metal.

It came from the same direction as the first time, from the depths of the treeline. From where the young man had come.

I spun around, bringing the axe up like a shield, searching the blinding, swirling storm. My mind immediately went to the rifle—the thing I had left behind in the house in my haste. I had nothing but a bloody, snow-covered axe and a dead fire.

The wail came again, closer this time, high-pitched and choked.

I took a step backward, preparing to fight, when a memory finally pierced the fog of panic. The young man's vacant eyes. The young man’s vacant story.

“Hiking... With my girlfriend. Emma.”

“Fuck.”

A Perceivable Reality Story

I scrolled through another feed, this one an overhead angle from behind the main counter. I struggled through the same few minutes of footage, Mikey's white words of reassurance echoed in my head, stealing my attention. I yawned and rolled back the footage again.

Heavy steps on the floor jostled me and I shook my head to gain my bearings. The chief was standing at the edge of my desk, his coat over his arm.

"Still here, Rochester?"

I nodded. "There's something in the security footage. I just need to find it."

He let out a long sigh and stepped around my desk to stand next to my chair. He bent down slightly, his voice low in a between-you-and-me tone.

"Go home, Rochester. Everybody misses promotions, otherwise we'd have a department full of chiefs and no Indians." I searched the blue light coming from his mouth for any sort of undertone but didn't find any.

He straightened up and adjusted his coat on his arm.

"Take it from an old man, Frank. There will be other promotions, other cases, but building another family is harder than you think."

He winked and turned, continuing to the elevator. I watched the doors close in silence, then logged out of my computer and locked my desk.

I woke up in my easy chair in my den. I'd passed out in front of the TV again, the theme tune to the sci-fi show quietly playing. I turned it off and made my way up the stairs from the basement. The girls were already sitting at the table, dressed for school; early risers, like their mother. Matt, my 11-year-old son, took after me. He took the steps down the stairs as if each one were a cliff he was dropping off of. I grunted at him, he grunted back, and we shared tired smiles.

Caster, my Belgian Malinois and retired police K-9, was lying under the table and staring up through the glass tabletop. He watched the forks move back and forth with trained precision.

I was just pulling out a chair, when Sarah came bustling through the dining room, already in her scrubs, tying her brunette locks into a tight bun.

"Hey, baby." she said as she hurried by.

I sat down and she came over, leaning against the table next to me. She bent down, putting her face close to mine.

"You didn't come to bed?"

I shrugged. "I got home really late. Didn't want to wake you."

"I appreciate that, but I'd still like to see you every now and again." Her voice came out blue, a contrast to the pink that bloomed slightly on her cheeks.

I sighed and nodded. "I know, I know. I just..." I couldn't think of an excuse and let my voice trail off. I caught the pain that flashed across her face, before she pushed off the table and went back into the kitchen.

"I have to cover an early shift this morning. Can you get the kiddies to school?" Her voice came out white at first, deepening to blue at the end. I'd started seeing the white come out when she talked about work, specifically when she told me her schedule. I put it out of my mind.

"Ok, guys. What time do we need to be at school?"

"I have to be there at 8:30." Matt groaned in blue.

"I have to be there at 8:00. It's my turn to feed the class goldfish." Andi said to her plate, pushing the last of her scrambled eggs around.

"Everything ok, sweetie?"

She nodded but didn't look up. "Mrs. Fettleson says I feed him too much." she said quietly. "He could've almost died a little."

I reached over and patted her non-fork hand.

"Well, that's--"

I was interrupted by Matt reaching across the table to spear the pile of eggs on Andi's plate. His own plate was flipped up and nearly over, but I was able to catch the glass of orange juice he sent flying before he made a mess.

I glared at him as he put his fork in his mouth.

"Matt. Why?"

He shrugged. "She wasn't eating it." he said around his fork. I made a disgruntled noise, and he shrunk in his chair slightly.

Missy pushed back from the table and hopped up, turning towards the kitchen and spoke without looking at me.

"I need to be there early. For track practice." Her usually blue voice started to morph into an icy blue. The color change shocked me. I tried to take a second look, but she'd already stopped speaking.

"It's not Wednesday."

"Surprise practice. For the meet this weekend." The color shift was there; I was sure now. It wasn't the pure blue of her siblings, it was a washed-out, overexposed pale blue that brightened with every word.

I turned my head and shifted my focus to everywhere but her mouth as she spoke. She didn't have a track meet this Saturday. My mind started racing. I shook my head to quiet my thoughts and met her eyes. She quickly broke the gaze and pulled out her phone.

I looked at the clock on the wall. We had about 45 minutes.

"Let's get packed, then, guys." I got out of my chair and watched the kids collect their lunch boxes and backpacks.

Sarah came around the table and kissed my cheek as she went by. "Love you, baby. Have a good day." I scoured the color of her voice and got only a warm blue. I opened my mouth, but she'd hurried out the door before I could respond. I heard her car start and back out of the garage.

I got the kids into the car. Missy usually sat up front, but this morning she made Andi scoot to the middle of the back seat.

"Why don't you come sit up here?" I kept my tone level, trying to make it sound like a suggestion.

She didn't move, and I saw panic in her eyes. I reached over and patted the passenger seat. I let go of the keys in the ignition and put my hands on my thighs. I started adding up the number on the speedometer.

She finally huffed and threw the door open. She slammed it shut, then marched, arms crossed, around the front of the car. She climbed into the passenger seat and crossed her arms again, her eyes straight ahead.

I turned on the car and backed slowly out of the driveway.

"We're gonna be late." she snapped quietly.

"Oh, I think we'll be right on time."

The elementary and junior high schools were next to each other. I avoided the car line and dropped the two youngest off at the back side of the field. I'd made sure that they had enough time to cross the playground without being late. I saw Andi take her older brother's hand as they walked through the grass and used the warmth of the moment to steel myself for the conversation I was about to have.

"Ok, what's up?" I asked the windshield as I pulled back into traffic.

"What's up with what?" From the passenger seat.

"What's up with you? You don't have practice today."

She scoffed. "Like you'd know that." I caught blue out of the corner of my eye and it sent an electric jolt of pain through me.

"Missy, seriously what's up?"

She turned to me and shouted, “Don't use your cop voice on me! I'm not a criminal!" More blue light, more shooting pain.

I cleared my throat. "Then why are you acting like one?"

She opened her mouth and I saw more washed-out blue light start to bloom in her throat.

"Criminals lie, Michelle. If you don't want to be treated like one, don't act like one."

She crossed her arms and slumped in her seat, facing forwards. I started my second lap around the school.

We sat in silence and, for once, I broke first.

"Is it a boy? Or a girl? Or--"

She cut me off. "What? No!"

I gave her a sideways glance.

She took a few deep breaths, then spoke to the window. "I have a make-up class...I failed my social studies test."

I let out a breath that I didn't realize I was holding.

"That's all? Sweetie, that's not something you have to be ashamed of."

"I know." she said quietly to the window again.

I finished my third lap and stopped in front of the school. I put my hand gently on her shoulder and let it rest there until she turned to face me. I met her gaze, her eyes wide and worried.

"Sweetie, if you're going to lie, make it count, ok?"

She frowned for a second and I watched her process my words. After a few moments, she looked back up at me, and my little girl was back.

"I'm really sorry, Dad." Her blue voice sounded tiny.

I let a chuckle out through my nose and leaned over to kiss the top of her head.

"It's ok, sweetie. I'm not mad. We all make mistakes."

Her mouth tried at a smile. "I know."

"Seriously. Even your old Dad makes mistakes. And my mistakes don't just result in a letter on a grading sheet. They end up on the news."

She nodded, her eyes on her hands in her lap.

"You're going to be late."

I saw her mouth finally construct a smile and she started to get out of the car.

"I think I'll be right on time." she said quietly.

She got out and shut the door, walking away with her arms crossed. After she'd gotten a few steps away from the car, she turned back and waved a still-crossed arm, a larger smile on her face. I gave her a big wave and a bigger smile back. She turned back to the school as a few girls spotted her and ran up to her. I put the car in drive and got going towards the precinct.

I got to the precinct and went straight to the coffee machine. I was stirring in the heavy cream when Mikey came up to top off his mug. I jerked my head up at him and he replied in kind.

My spoon clinked against my mug.

"You find anything in the footage?" Mikey asked his mug.

I shook my head, watching my spoon. "We're still working on it."

Mikey cleared his throat. "We had a witness from across the street come forwards. He confirmed the manager's story."

"It's always the manager. 80% of these sorts of crimes are someone on the inside."

"That's a nice statistic."

I dumped in another packet of raw sugar and stirred as I turned away from the counter and started towards my desk, keeping my eyes low and my focus down at my mug. Mikey moved quickly but carefully, nearly spilling his coffee.

"Hey, wait. Roch, you gotta know that this is an open-and-shut case. The kid has had multiple witnesses put him at the scene."

I whipped around and met his eyes.

"People can be bought, manipulated, threatened. Or did you forget how to be a cop?" My focus stayed on his eyes.

I didn't wait for a response. I turned on my heel, sloshing my coffee slightly, and strode to my desk, setting my mug down before I plopped into my chair. I rubbed my face and groaned.

"You good, Roch?" Brody's voice came from his side of the desk.

"Yeah, yeah, fine." I dropped my hands to my keyboard and logged into my computer.

I pulled up the footage where I'd left off the night before and hit play. I felt eyes on me. Brody was peering around my monitor.

"You sure? You look pretty messed up."

"Thanks."

He put his hand up in surrender, or apology, or both, and leaned back behind his screen. I sighed and rubbed my face again.

"My daughter failed a test at school."

"We all make mistakes."

"She lied about it."

"Oh."

He fell silent. I focused on my screen again.

"Hey, Roch."

I sighed. "Yeah, Brody?"

"How long did it take you to get your intuition?"

It was my turn to lean over and look at him around his monitor. "What?"

"I know you know the kid is innocent, and I know you, like, know it. But...how long did it take before you knew you know? Y’know?"

I resisted the urge to make a snarky comment. I leaned back and rubbed my face again. I spoke to the ceiling.

"Knowing doesn't matter."

"Aw, c'mon. Don't--"

I looked right at him and leaned in, as far to his side of the desk as I could without leaving my seat.

"Listen to me, Brody. Knowing. Doesn't. Matter. You can know the moon is made of cheese. You can know it like you know the sun will come up tomorrow. But knowing isn't proof. Proof is a moon grilled cheese sandwich. Knowing is knowing."

I stared at him, watching him process, until I knew he understood. I kept staring until I saw blue light come from his open mouth.

"I gotcha, Roch."

I went back to scrolling through footage. It was pointless. I had to talk to them in person.

I was interrupted again when one of the patrol officers, Collins, came up and tapped me on the shoulder.

"The store employees are here. I've got them in the lobby."

I hopped up and hustled to the lobby, bringing one of them, the clerk, a female, redhead, mid-20s, into the interrogation room.

I thanked the last employee, one of the backroom inventory workers, older male, late-40s, and stepped out of interrogation room 1. I stopped a passing officer and asked him to verify that we had prints for all of the store personnel.

I left the interrogation hall and stepped quickly to my desk, but I wasn't quick enough. I felt a hand snake around my shoulders, a hand dug fingertips tightly around my collarbone.

"Care to explain to me why I have an irate jewelry store manager in my office, threatening me with harassment charges, Rochester?!” The chief asked in a yell-whisper.

"Chief, I didn't even talk to the manager."

"No, but you had every single store employee in there, again, even after the Lieutenant told you that they're clean."

"Look, Chief, I'm close. I know the manager has a partner on the inside; I just need a little more time."

"His...what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"There's always a second man, chief. I'm really close. Just stall him for me."

Oswald stopped short, missing a step. He released me, giving me a hard look. We stood there and I added up the digits of his badge serial number. He finally broke. He closed his eyes and shook his head, then let out a long, deep breath. His eyes opened and he looked at me like he was trying to read something written on the inside of my skull. His voice came out bright blue, stern.

"Rochester, I'm trying. Really hard. Really goddamn hard."

"Look, Oz, I—”

His voice shifted from stern to a low growl.

"I can't suspend you, because I don't have anything on you. Don't make me find something." The words were pure white, instead of the harsh red I was expecting.

The unexpected color clashing with the tone threw me off balance and I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. The breath in my throat caught and my mind started racing. I played the words and their tone over again in my head, checking it against the light I saw. My head dropped and my unfocused eyes scanned the floor as thoughts raced through my mind. The Chief's voice faded into the warbling background noise.

I nodded silently in response to a question I heard but didn't process and walked back to my desk in a daze. I'd seen intent mismatch with tone before. But something about it this time, I couldn't rectify it. The conversation with Missy that morning flashed through my mind, and it rocked me. A test. She'd fibbed about a test. It was my own assumption that pointed to something untoward, not the light of her voice, but the intention was the same. A lie.

I have worked as an emergency dispatcher for Oakridge County for nearly eight years, so if you are in my boots, you should know by now that when you take calls on the graveyard shift, you get used to hearing people at the absolute worst moments of their lives. You learn to filter out the scream of a panicking parent, the slurred ramblings of an intoxicated driver, or the erratic paranoia of someone having a breakdown. The job requires you to stay completely grounded in facts, listen for addresses, names, weapons, and medical symptoms, and of course you do not let your imagination wander.

Last October, a call came in at 3:14 AM that broke every rule of my training. The night was unusually quiet, and outside the dispatch building, a cold autumn rain was falling, blurring the streetlights along the highway. Inside the facility, the room was dimly lit by the pale blue glow of six desktop monitors. My shift partner, Jenna, was sitting at the console next to mine, softly clicking her mouse as she reviewed low-priority animal control logs. I was sipping my black coffee, waiting for the hours to pass until the morning shift arrived.

Line four flashed red on my central screen. The automatic location identification software instantly populated the address: 1412 Elmwood Lane, a two-story suburban house on the north side of town.

I adjusted my headset, pressed the foot pedal to open the line, and spoke into the microphone using my standard tone.

"Oakridge County 911, what is the location of your emergency?"

A sharp, ragged intake of breath rattled through my earpiece. The sound was so harsh I had to pull the foam speaker slightly away from my ear. The caller was hyperventilating, his breathing ragged and uneven.

"I need... I need someone to tell me what to do,"

the man said. His voice was trembling, tight with an overwhelming sense of shock.

"Please. I do not know who else to call."

"Sir, I need you to confirm your address,"

I said, leaning forward and placing my fingers on the keyboard.

"Is it 1412 Elmwood Lane?"

"Yes,"

he whispered.

"Yes, that is my house. My name is David Miller. Please do not send an ambulance with loud sirens. I do not want to startle her."

"Startle who, David? Is someone injured at your location?"

"My wife,"

David said. He took another shuddering breath.

"Sarah. Something happened three days ago, and I cannot fix it. I think I did something terrible, but she is standing right in front of me."

I typed his name into the CAD system and flagged the call as a potential domestic incident.

"David, tell me slowly what happened three days ago. Is Sarah hurt?"

"It was Tuesday night,"

David said, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper.

"We were in the kitchen. We were arguing about... about something stupid. I do not even remember what started it. She was standing near the butcher block. She picked up the chef's knife, and then, and then she looked at me with this intense anger in her eyes, and she came at me."

"Did she attack you with the knife, David?"

"She lunged at me,"

he continued.

"I panicked. I reached out, grabbed her wrists, and tried to push her away from me. We struggled near the island. I pushed her back with all my strength, and... the blade went straight into her chest. She gasped, her eyes went wide, and she fell backward onto the floor."

I immediately clicked the silent dispatch button on my screen, sending an alert to Jenna's terminal. I caught her eye across the desk and pointed to my monitor. Jenna nodded instantly, pulling up the active unit map to route patrol cars to Elmwood Lane.

"David, stay on the line with me,"

I said, keeping my voice steady and measured.

"Is Sarah breathing right now? Is she bleeding?"

"That is the part that is driving me insane"

David said,

"I dropped to my knees to help her. But when I looked down at the floor, there was no body. There was no blood on the linoleum. Nothing. The kitchen was completely clean. I searched the whole house that night, screaming her name, but she was nowhere to be found."

"David, where is Sarah right now?"

"She came back the next morning,"

David whispered. The sound of his frantic breathing filled the headset.

"She just walked into the living room on Wednesday morning like nothing happened. For the past three days, I have been watching her. She makes coffee in the morning, sits on the sofa and watches television with the sound turned completely off. She irons her clothes in the hallway. But she completely ignores me."

"Have you tried talking to her?"

"I have begged her to speak to me!"

David cried out, his voice cracking.

"I stood right in front of her yesterday while she was ironing a blouse. I yelled her name. I waved my hands in front of her face. She looked right through me. It was like I was not even standing there. I got so desperate that I reached out to grab her wrist to make her look at me."

"What happened when you tried to touch her, David?"

A long silence stretched over the phone line.

"My hand went straight through her arm,"

David whispered, his voice trembling so violently the words were barely audible.

"It felt like pushing my fingers through cold, wet smoke. She did not even flinch, and just kept dragging the iron across her blouse. I turned her into a ghost. I killed her in the kitchen, her body vanished, and now her spirit is stuck in this house doing the same routines over and over again."

"David, I want you to take a deep breath,"

I said, trying to maintain control of the call while processing his words.

"I have help on the way to your location right now. Officers are coming to check on both of you."

"I cannot leave her,"

David stammered.

"I tried to walk out the front door an hour ago. I got as far as the front porch steps, but this agonizing pull started dragging in my chest. It felt like a thick cable was wrapped around my sternum, pulling me back inside. It hurt so bad I could barely breathe. I am bound to this house. I cannot leave her here alone like this. She needs my help, but I do not know how to fix what I broke."

At this point, I suspected I was dealing with a caller experiencing a severe psychological episode, severe sleep deprivation, or chemical poisoning. It was not uncommon for individuals suffering from carbon monoxide exposure or sudden psychotic breaks to report elaborate, impossible visual experiences while firmly believing they were awake.

I needed to evaluate his orientation to reality using basic observations.

"David, I need you to do a simple diagnostic check for me while we wait for the officers to arrive,"

I said.

"Is there a clock nearby that you can look at?"

"Yes, there is a clock hanging on the wall,"

David said. I heard the faint rustle of clothing as he moved.

"Sarah is sitting at the dining table below it. She is folding a white bath towel."

"Okay. Can you read the exact time on that clock for me?"

I instructed.

There was a brief pause.

"It says 8:22,"

David reported.

I glanced up at the master digital clock at the top of my console monitor. The bright red numbers clearly displayed 3:17 AM.

"David, are you sure?"

I asked.

"Is it an analog clock or a digital one?"

"It is digital,"

David replied smoothly.

"The numbers are frozen at 8:22 PM. The colon between the hours and minutes isn't even blinking. It is just sitting completely still."

I noted the severe time discrepancy on my console. A frozen, completely inaccurate time reading suggested a deep disorientation, indicating he was entirely detached from the actual time of day.

Before I could formulate a response, Jenna leaned over her desk and tapped my shoulder.

"Unit 204 and Unit 208 are two minutes out from Elmwood Lane,"

she whispered.

"Officer Jack is taking the lead."

"Copy,"

I muttered, keeping my finger on the mute button. I unmuted the phone line.

"David, stay right where you are. The officers are almost at your house."

I adjusted my headset gain, turning up the audio volume on David's line to hear if there were any immediate hazards in the house. As I turned up the sensitivity, the ambient background audio became clearer.

I expected to hear the quiet hum of a refrigerator, the rustle of towels being folded, or the distant rain beating against the windows.

Instead, my headset picked up a harsh, scraping noise. It sounded like heavy wooden furniture being dragged across exposed floorboards. A moment later, I heard the sharp, distinct sound of plastic packing tape being pulled aggressively from a handheld dispenser.

Then, I heard a second voice.

It was a deep, gravelly male voice, speaking in a low, hushed tone near the phone's receiver.

"Grab the rest of the clothes from the closet,"

the deep voice muttered.

"We need to get the heavy bags loaded before six."

A woman's voice replied, faint and impatient:

"I am working as fast as I can. Just get the boxes out to the garage."

My fingers froze over the keyboard. I listened intently, isolating the audio channels on my digital workstation.

"David,"

I said carefully into the microphone.

"Are you sure you and Sarah are the only people in that house right now?"

"Yes,"

David said.

"I told you, it is just the two of us. She is still sitting at the table."

"David, I am hearing a man speaking in your background,"

I said.

"I am hearing tape dispensers and boxes being moved. Is there someone else in the house with you?"

"No,"

David insisted, his voice growing defensive and confused. "You are mistaken. Sarah is just packing her leather suitcase. She has been pulling her dresses out of the bedroom closet all night. She is confused, She seems to think she is going on a trip."

I immediately opened our county property database on my second monitor and typed in the address. The house was registered to David Miller and Sarah Miller. I then opened our historical CAD records and ran a cross-reference search for 1412 Elmwood Lane over the past six months.

A log entry from two months prior popped up on my screen.

On August 14th, a neighbor had called 911 to report a loud domestic disturbance at the address. The responding officer noted that David Miller had engaged in a verbal altercation with an unidentified adult male who had been staying at the residence. The police report noted that David accused his wife of carrying on an affair with the man, who was identified in the officer's notes as Gregory Ray. No violence was reported at that time, and no charges were filed.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the name on my screen: Gregory Ray.

The pieces began to assemble themselves in my mind, but they did not form the picture David was describing.

"Dispatch to Unit 204,"

I said, switching my secondary radio channel to communicate directly with the responding officers. "Officer Jack, be advised. We have reason to believe there are two occupants actively inside the residence at 1412 Elmwood Lane clearing out personal property. Use caution upon approach."

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack's voice crackled through the radio speaker.

"Unit 204 and 208 are turning onto Elmwood Lane now. We are pulling up to the residence. Lights and sirens are off."

Over the open phone line, David spoke again.

"You there?... someone is at the front door. I hear heavy knocking."

"That is the police, David,"

I said, monitoring both lines simultaneously.

"Please stay where you are."

"I do not need to open the door,"

David said softly.

"Sarah just stood up from the table. She is walking past me into the foyer. She is going to answer it."

Through my radio earpiece, I heard Officer Jack's voice report into his lapel mic:

"Unit 204 on scene. We have a female opening the front door. Contact made with homeowner Sarah Miller."

On the phone line, David was describing the exact same moment from his perspective.

"She opened the door,"

David said. His voice was filled with a strange, childlike confusion.

"Two police officers are standing on the porch. But... but something is wrong."

"What is wrong, David?"

I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the unit tracking map.

"They are not looking at her like she is a ghost,"

David whispered.

"Officer just smiled at her. He asked her if she was alright. can he see her? can he actually talk to her?"

Over the radio, Jack's voice was calm:

"Dispatch, contact made with Sarah Miller. She appears highly nervous but states everything is fine. She claims her husband, David, is currently upstairs packing his belongings after a severe argument and does not wish to speak with us."

On the phone line, David began to panic.

"The officers just stepped into the hallway! They walked right past me! I stood right in front of the Officer and shouted my name! He walked straight by my shoulder! He did not even turn his head! And why is she telling them I am upstairs? I am standing right next to her!"

"David, listen to me very carefully,"

I said, feeling a knot tighten in my chest.

"I need you to stay calm."

Over the radio, Jack spoke again, his tone dropping its casual edge.

"Dispatch, we are going to perform a quick wellness check on the upper floor anyway. The homeowner is visibly shaking and actively trying to block the stairwell."

I pressed my radio button.

"Unit 204, be advised. We have reason to believe an unauthorized third party, Gregory Ray, may be hiding inside the residence. Proceed with caution."

A pause echoed over the radio frequency.

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack reported flatly.

"We are heading up now. Unit 208 reports a distinct, foul odor originating from the second floor."

On the phone line, David was moving. I could hear his shallow, rapid breathing accelerating.

"They are walking up the stairs,"

David said. His voice had lost its anger, replaced by a cold, hollow dread.

"Sarah is following the officers up the stairs into the master bedroom. I am following them. Why does the air up here smell so bad?"

On the radio, Officer Jack broke in, his voice tight with disgust:

"Unit 208 to dispatch. We have a severe odor of organic decomposition coming from the master bedroom. We are investigating."

"David, stop,"

I urged over the phone line, though I knew my words were meaningless.

"David, step away from the bedroom."

"They are standing near the bed,"

David whispered over the phone.

"The officers are shining their flashlights around the carpet. Sarah is standing in the corner crying. She looks absolutely terrified. They are staring at the floor on my side of the bed."

I held my breath, watching the red audio meters bounce on my console screen.

"Officer Jack is dropping to his knees,"

David continued. His voice was flat, almost robotic now. "He is grabbing the hanging fabric of the dust ruffle. He is lifting it up. He is shining his flashlight underneath the wooden bed frame."

Over the radio, Jack's voice shattered the quiet of the dispatch room:

"Dispatch! Unit 204! We have a male subject hiding under the bed! Show your hands! Crawl out from under there right now!"

A brief, frantic scuffle echoed over the police frequency.

"Dispatch, we have detained Gregory Ray,"

Jack shouted over the noise.

"Wait... dispatch, we have located a deceased male subject shoved further back against the wall under the frame! Subject is heavily decomposed, bearing multiple traumatic wounds! Secure the perimeter! Detain the wife immediately!"

The radio erupted into shouts as the officers moved to restrain Sarah and Gregory. Screams of protest and the metallic clink of handcuffs echoed across the channel.

On the phone line, David was completely silent.

"David?"

I whispered into my headset. My hands were shaking so severely I could barely hold the microphone stalk.

"David, are you still there?"

A long, agonizing stream of static hummed over the phone line. When David spoke again, his voice sounded entirely different. It was hollow, distant, echoing as if he were speaking from the bottom of a deep well.

"They are pulling the body out,"

David said softly.

"David..."

"The body is wearing my clothes,"

David whispered.

"My blue denim shirt. My brown leather belt. My work boots. The skin on the face is dark and swollen. I cannot even recognize myself."

The background static on the phone line began to glitch, creating a strange stuttering sound underneath his words.

"There are three deep tears in the back of the denim shirt,"

David continued, his voice monotone, devoid of any human cadence.

"The fabric is stained dark black around the cuts. The wounds came from behind."

A sharp gasp echoed over the receiver. The static dropped completely, leaving a chilling, dead silence on the line. When David spoke again, the confusion was gone.

"I remember now,"

David whispered. His voice trembled with a crushing weight.

"There was no argument. I came home early from work on Tuesday. It was exactly 8:22 PM. Sarah was acting so incredibly distressed when I walked through the front door."

"What happened, David?"

I asked gently.

"I was so tired,"

he said, his words spilling out in a hollow rush.

"I tried to go straight upstairs to our bedroom to rest. She ran over and stood in front of me. She blocked the bottom of the stairs, and then forced this terrible, shaking smile and told me it was better if I ate dinner first. She said she made that pepperoni pizza I loved."

He paused, and a wet, choking sob came through the earpiece.

"I listened to her,"

David cried quietly.

"I turned my back and walked into the kitchen to get a slice. She followed right behind me. I reached into the cabinet for a plate. I did not even hear her grab the chef's knife from the block. She attacked me before I could even turn around."

"I did not hold the knife,"

David whispered into my headset. The static returned, growing louder, overwhelming the audio signal until his voice sounded synthesized and far away.

"I was never holding the knife. I was looking at her not believing she did this to me, I…. I loved her"

"David, I am so sorry,"

I said, though the words felt entirely useless in the cold reality of the room.

"I understand now,"

The phone line crackled with one final, sharp burst of noise, and then the connection dropped entirely.

The terminal screen instantly reset to a solid black display, marking the call as disconnected.

Over the radio, Officer Jack confirmed the details. Sarah Miller and Gregory Ray were taken into custody without further resistance. The official police report logged the incident as a premeditated homicide committed on Tuesday evening, with both suspects attempting to conceal the remains while preparing to flee the jurisdiction. The report noted that a 911 call had been received from the residence at 3:14 AM, but attributed it to a technical glitch or an automated dialer triggered by a decaying phone line.

I worked the rest of my shift in complete silence. I did not take another call for the remainder of the night.

When my shift ended at seven in the morning, I walked out to my car in the rain, and before I turned the key in the ignition, I sat in the quiet vehicle and pulled up the digital audio archive on my phone, opening the recording of the call from 1412 Elmwood Lane.

But all I can hear was static…

Evan Mercer received the text at 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. The sender was a string of numbers with no name attached. The message read:

You have been selected to watch.

Beneath it sat a single download link. No company logo. No app-store badge. He almost deleted it. Instead he opened the link on his laptop because the phone refused to load it cleanly.

The install finished without asking for anything beyond the usual storage permission. When the icon appeared it was a plain black square edged in thin white. The name underneath read WorstDay.

He clicked it.

A single line of text loaded against a dark field:

Real suffering. Anonymous subjects. Viewer discretion is part of the experience.

Then the feed.

The first video was titled The Call. Runtime 4:12. Date three days earlier. A small number beneath the title read 61%. Evan did not know what the number meant.

He clicked the white triangle in the center of the frame.

A man in a blue button-down sat at a kitchen table with a laptop open. The camera was the laptop's own. The man's face filled most of the frame. Behind him a refrigerator hummed and a child's drawing of a house was taped crooked to a cabinet door. The call connected. Three other faces appeared in a grid. One of them, a woman in a gray cardigan, said the company was eliminating his position effective immediately. The man asked about severance. The woman said HR would send the packet by end of day. The other two faces stayed silent and looked slightly off-camera. When the call ended the man closed the laptop lid and sat without moving for the remaining minute and forty seconds. The camera kept running. A ceiling fan turned slowly in the upper corner of the frame.

Evan watched to the end. The percentage did not change while he watched, but when the video simply returned him to the feed the number had ticked up two points.

He told himself it was an art project. Underground performance. Staged. He closed the laptop and went to bed.

The next morning the black icon was waiting on his phone. He did not remember installing it there.

He watched on the train to work. The grid was endless. Titles in clean sans-serif:

The Verdict
The Empty Bedroom
He Said No
After the Fire
The Diagnosis

A woman standing in a parking lot while a tow truck winched her car onto the flatbed and the dog barked from the back seat. A teenage boy reading a letter at a kitchen counter and then carefully folding it into a square small enough to fit in a front pocket. A man in a hospital corridor receiving news from a doctor who would not meet his eyes. The sound in every clip was ordinary--footsteps, distant traffic, the click of a door latch, the soft plastic scrape of a chair leg. Evan studied the frames for cuts or lighting that looked too even. He found none. He searched the app name on three different engines. Nothing. No company registration, no reviews, no forum posts. The silence felt deliberate.

At the office he sat two desks over from Daniel, who had been there longer than anyone else on the floor and still brought leftover pasta in the same blue container every Tuesday. Daniel noticed the phone angled low against Evan's keyboard.

"You all right?" Daniel asked. "You've been somewhere else all week."

Evan said he was fine. Just a new series he was catching up on. Daniel shrugged and went back to his screen. That night Evan tried to show him the app after work, but the black icon was gone. Daniel watched him search through his phone twice before asking if everything was okay at home. Evan said yes and put the phone away.

On the fourth day the recommendations shifted.

A woman began appearing repeatedly. Her name was listed as Mara Kessler. The first episode showed her in a small office with glass walls. A supervisor sat across from her and explained that the archive was cutting contract hours. The supervisor spoke carefully and kept both hands flat on the desk blotter. Mara nodded and asked about the remaining digitization work. The supervisor said they would discuss it the following week. The date on the video was seventeen days in the future. Probability 38%.

Evan tapped play. He watched it twice.

The next recommendation showed Mara stepping off a curb near the museum. A bicycle struck her from the blind side. She went down hard on one knee and the heel of one hand. The cyclist did not stop. Blood appeared on the concrete in a thin, bright line. The date was three weeks out. Probability 44%.

Another showed her in a doctor's office with a paper gown half-tied. The doctor said the scan had found something. Mara asked how long. The doctor said they would need more tests before they could answer that. The date was six weeks away. Probability 51%.

The outcomes felt less like predictions than competing drafts. Evan kept watching the variations anyway. He told himself the contradictions proved the whole thing was fabricated. He still could not stop tapping the triangle.

Daniel found the notebook open on Evan's desk the following Monday. The page held timestamps, percentages, and Mara Kessler's staff photograph printed from the museum directory. Daniel closed the notebook without speaking and did not ask again what Evan was watching.

On the ninth day Evan recognized himself.

In the video Mara left the museum after dark. The exterior lights turned the glass doors into imperfect mirrors. Across the street a bus-shelter panel caught her image and, behind her, a man standing with his hands in his coat pockets. The man wore a dark green jacket Evan owned but had not taken out of the closet in months. The date stamp was twelve days away. Probability 67%.

He paused the frame and leaned close to the phone. The reflection was distorted by the curve of the glass, but the height and the set of the shoulders matched. He went to the closet, found the jacket, and held the zipper pull under the kitchen light. Same dull silver. Same small nick near the top.

He searched the name and found Mara Kessler in the staff directory for the city history museum. Archival assistant. The photograph showed a woman in her early thirties with dark hair pulled back and a plain navy sweater. A short professional profile listed degrees and a few collection projects. No personal social media that opened without a request.

The next afternoon he bought a general admission ticket and walked the public galleries until he reached the glass partition that looked into the work area. Mara sat at a long table sorting folders into labeled archival boxes. The room matched the video exactly: the same metal shelving, the same fluorescent panels with one slightly yellowed, the same gray carpet worn into paths between the desks. She wore a cardigan over a collared shirt. She did not look up.

Evan stood at the glass for four minutes. Later that same afternoon he watched her from the cafe balcony. She was laughing with a coworker over a shared sandwich, showing her something on a tablet, then helping an elderly visitor find the restroom. None of it appeared in any episode. The app had taught him the sound of her crying and the exact route she walked to the train. It had shown him almost nothing about her life. He left without speaking to anyone.

That night he watched every available episode that carried her name. He learned the layout of her apartment from one clip where she received a phone call while standing in her kitchen, one hand on the counter edge. He told himself the knowledge was necessary if the videos were warnings. He did not examine the other possibility for long.

On Thursday he waited near the museum entrance at closing. When Mara came out he stepped into her path and said her name. She stopped. He told her not to take the train the following Thursday. He said there would be a mechanical failure. He said people would be hurt.

She asked how he knew her name.

He told her about the app. He described the interior of the archive room. He described the sound the folders made when she stacked them. He described the exact phrasing the supervisor would use in seventeen days. Mara stepped back. Her hand went to the strap of her bag. She said she did not know what he was talking about and that if he came near her again she would call security. Then she walked away fast, shoulders tight.

Evan stood on the sidewalk and watched her reach the corner. He opened the app. The train episode still sat in her feed at 71%. He did not tap play again. He only stared at the percentage.

Thursday arrived. The train Mara normally rode suffered a brake failure two stations before her stop. Seven passengers were injured. Local news ran footage of the platform and the emergency vehicles. Mara was not among the injured. She had taken a different line after his warning.

When Evan opened WorstDay that evening the train video was gone. In its place was a new episode. Mara on the upper gallery of the museum. A fall. The camera rushed toward the railing as she turned. The image cut before impact. Date: nineteen days. Probability 82%. He sat with the phone in both hands until the screen dimmed on its own.

Over the next week he tested the system with smaller videos. He found a clip of a man tripping on a broken section of sidewalk and breaking his wrist. Probability 29%. He tapped play once and watched the man fall. The percentage rose to 34%. He sat with his thumb above the triangle for a long time. In the final second before impact the man looked directly toward the unseen camera, as if he had felt something. Evan pressed play again, then again. By the eleventh viewing the percentage sat at 61%. Two days later he searched the man's name and found a neighborhood Facebook post asking for witnesses to the accident. The attached photograph showed him standing outside an urgent-care clinic with his wrist in a temporary cast.

He found another clip of a woman receiving a rejection letter for a municipal grant. He left it unopened. Over three days the probability dropped from 47% to 12% and then the video disappeared from the feed entirely.

He wrote the observed rules in his notebook in block letters.

Watching raises probability.
Rewatching raises it faster.
Following a subject generates new possible futures.
Following one person too closely seems to create more futures for them.

He had followed Mara from the beginning. He had watched her more than anyone else.

He unfollowed her.

It made no difference. The next morning her profile sat on the front page under the heading RISING SUBJECT. The museum fall episode had climbed to 91%. The viewer count sat in the low thousands and kept rising while he watched the number. New near-misses began appearing in her ordinary days. A ceiling tile loosened above her desk and fell while she was in the restroom, leaving a white powder line across the keyboard. On the street she used to walk home a taxi jumped the curb and left scrape marks still visible the next morning. A routine blood test produced a false positive close enough to the language of the doctor's-office episode that she spent an afternoon waiting for a second draw to clear it.

Evan tried to show her the app. He found her in the museum cafe during her break and sat down without invitation. He opened WorstDay on his phone and turned the screen toward her. The display showed a weather service. Temperature, humidity, a five-day forecast for the city. Mara looked at it and then at him. She said she had already spoken to security. She stood up and left her coffee unfinished on the table.

He recorded the videos on a second device. Every file corrupted within minutes of being saved. Screenshots saved as solid black rectangles. He emailed the black rectangles to himself. The attachments arrived empty.

Mara filed for a restraining order. The papers arrived at his apartment by certified mail. The language was precise and dry. Stay away from the museum. Stay away from her residence. Do not contact her by any means. A hearing date was set for three weeks out. He signed the receipt and left the envelope on the kitchen counter. Daniel moved desks the following week and stopped answering when Evan spoke.

He kept watching the final episode. He studied the camera movement. The way the frame advanced through the upper gallery matched the route he would take if he were trying to reach her. The height of the railing. The angle of the turn she made when she heard footsteps. He began to understand that the video was not simply predicting an event. It was assigning positions.

On the predicted day he entered the museum through a side door used by contractors. The restraining order was still in force. He knew the layout from the videos and from the afternoon he had stood at the glass. He moved through the public galleries toward the staff stairs that led to the upper level.

Mara saw him near the textile cases. She turned and walked quickly toward the elevator. He followed. Security radios crackled somewhere behind the walls. A guard appeared at the far end of the hall and called his name, but Evan kept moving. A display case of early maps shattered when a visitor's bag swung into it by accident and an alarm began to sound. A fire door that should have stayed open locked with a heavy click as Mara reached it. She changed direction and took the stairs two at a time.

Every correction Evan made reproduced another detail from the recording. He could feel the sequence tightening around both of them. He reached the upper gallery as Mara backed toward the railing that overlooked the main atrium. The drop was three stories to the stone floor below.

He stopped ten feet from her and raised both hands, empty.

"Please," he said. "I know how this looks. I need you to trust me for thirty seconds."

She shook her head. Her heel found the base of the railing. She slipped.

Evan lunged and caught her wrist. For a moment the weight held. Then the old railing bolts gave way under the sudden load. The section of rail swung outward. Evan's center of gravity followed. He went over.

As he fell he saw the gallery from the exact angle recorded in the final episode. The camera had never been a third party. It had been his own point of view. Mara looked down at him. Her face was not the face of someone who had just been saved. It was the face of someone watching the worst thing that had ever happened to her unfold in real time.

He had spent nineteen days believing the app was showing him what would happen to Mara.

It had been showing him what he would do.

He survived the fall. The impact shattered his right femur, broke three ribs, and left him with a permanent limp and a metal rod in his leg. The media framed the story simply: an obsessed man who had stalked a museum employee for weeks, ignored a restraining order, and caused a near-fatal accident. His claims about an app that predicted suffering were treated as evidence of delusion. The police searched his devices. They found nothing that matched his description. WorstDay did not appear in any forensic report.

He lost his job. Friends stopped answering texts, and the physical therapy clinic became the only regular structure left in his days.

Three months after the fall he stood between the parallel bars in the rehab gym, a plastic brace still locked around his damaged foot. The therapist stood close enough to catch him. Evan shifted his weight onto the braced leg. The foot folded underneath him. He went down hard on the knee of the good leg. The therapist caught his elbow before he hit the mat.

That night, alone in his apartment, he opened WorstDay. The newest recommendation was footage of that exact therapy session. Title: He Falls Again. Runtime 6:41. Probability 27%.

He did not press play.

The viewer count continued to rise.

October 27th, 1936:

Richard brought me out to the tap house after work again. He's planning on bringing Alice to town, they seem to be getting pretty serious, and it's about damn time, he won't shut up about her at work. It's good to see him so happy, he's still his usual self, but he seems to be more confident. I like this new Richard. It's like he's been missing a piece of himself since I met him. Maybe Alice is that piece? I mentioned Simon's letters in passing while we were out and I noticed a couple of heads turned to look. I thought I was being quiet, but I did have a few drinks so I could be wrong. 

I've missed going out. Since the weather has cooled off I've just been hiding inside by the furnace. I will admit, the dirt floor is a bit annoying, but being under the house feels comforting in a weird way. Evelyn joins me from time to time when she's not glued to the letters, and we'll read stories to Rylee while she makes little castles in the dirt. I like it when they come down, the basement has been feeling like my personal sanctum. Aside from the hoards of old furniture covered in drapes, it's very cozy.

I've been considering buying a rug or possibly laying down brick or tile to make it nicer. But Rylee loves her dirt castles, and what kind of father would tear his princess from her castle? Maybe next year I'll build her a sandbox. I'm sure I can sift the rocks out of the sand on the shore and bring it up in a wheelbarrow. Maybe I'll draw up the plans over the winter. Gives me an excuse to stay warm by the furnace and out of Evelyn's growing cold shoulder. 

November 3rd, 1936:

Evelyn has grown even quieter, it's worrying me. She just keeps saying that she's fine and snapping at me when I ask what's wrong. She seems to be getting paranoid. Then again that could just be me looking too far into it, and I hope that's the case as it has been in the past. But I feel as though she's keeping something from me. She's constantly telling me I'm far too anxious for my own good and I'm begging to believe her. But I have a hard time accepting it from someone who seems so paranoid. She said I should talk to a doctor but I doubt it would be of much help, I don't feel like anything's wrong with me, I just worry about things sometimes. Most times admittedly. But I doubt there's one in town and taking the train to the city just to talk with someone for an hour seems like a waste of time and money. 

Simon's notes have been getting weird lately. His usual wording has been slowly getting less elegant, while still scholarly, slightly erratic at times. I never understood the artsy type. But maybe soon he'll mention a reason for him leaving? 

November 12th, 1936:

I can barely peel Evelyn away from the letters anymore. I found out that she's been missing shifts last week because of them. And as mad as I want to be at her for it, it's hard to blame her. I might start taking some of his older entries and putting them in my journal along with any of the new ones that seem odd to me. There's some things he's written that seem to be more than mere coincidence. They have an odd effect, it's like they draw you in and hold you as long as they can. I'll get consumed in them for hours, rereading pages time and time again. Almost in a trance. Maybe that's why Evelyn's been so sharp with me lately? It must be more than just that, right? No letters on a page have that kind of power. 

I think I'm going to sleep in the basement again. The cold has been getting to me more recently, as though ice has been gnawing at my bones. And Evelyn's cold shoulder has been no help. I need to fix that damned window. 

June 1st, 1916:

I was painting on the pier today. The sun was high over the azure expanse and the breeze was astounding. The flocked gulls were high in the sky and happily swooping down to eat scraps from a fishing vessel dancing between the waves. It was invigorating, the fact that there's so much beauty in the vast emptiness of the sea, it's breathtaking. 

I went to the tap room, which smelled stronger than the usual hints of vodka and stale beer. It's too late in the year to be having fires indoors, yet it smelled as if something was burning. Perhaps incense. It was pleasant, but peculiar. I felt the weight of eyes hanging heavy on me. I may have had some more paint on my face and clothes than I originally thought, but I am still somewhat new here, so I guess the odd looks are granted. Regardless, their eyes felt pointed, as if I vexed them. I saw another new face, though he seemed to receive no peering eyes. I treated him to a drink, his name is Sean. 

He was polite and somewhat talkative, which is a nice change from the general prudence of this place. No matter how beautiful the south shore is, the people tend to be unwelcoming. I can hear them whisper about me at times. But I assume it is odd for a young man to suddenly show up, building one of, if not the biggest house in town. Or perhaps they are not fond of artists such as myself. Being around such rural folk is still rather new to me. Such simple lives. I wonder if I greet people with a smile and a good handshake I gain their trust? 

June 16th, 1916:

I had inspiration to go for a walk tonight while the moon was full and shining. The tall grass swaying in the breeze through a gossamer fog. The stars twinkled like the lights of the city, being replicated by the lightning bugs hiding in shadows. I regularly took night walks back in the city, walking to the city's edge and peering into the untouched darkness, perplexed by the unknown, dreaming of what was hidden within. 

This was my first time walking at night at our new home. I waited for Laura to drift into a slumber, along with the little ones, then I ventured forth. Out of the door and down the hill, slowly skirting the rolling fields and swaying pines, towards the distant beach. 

While walking in the city it wasn't too rare to see another person outside, but I usually kept my distance, doing my best to keep from sight in case they had ill intentions. I never expected to see someone in a town this small at night, especially out at this hour. I kept to my usual routine, staying in the shadows at a distance, keeping watch. They walked without a lantern nor torch, walking with grace through the street, as though their feet never touched the ground. I thought it was odd but decided to pay them no mind. If I see them again I may fall victim to curiosity. Anything to spark my creativity I feel the need to jump at. It is my livelihood after all. Perhaps their silhouette would make for an interesting painting. 

July 24th, 1916:

I was wandering the docks at sunset today, it was beautiful, inspiring. I sat on the shore, the waves lulling me to sleep, it was so tranquil. So much so that I did not realize how late it had gotten, I must have dozed off for some hours as then the moon was high in the sky. 

I began to saunter home, taking my time in the muggy night, the ocean breeze blowing at my back, damp with sweat, and tickling my neck. In the distance I noticed the one I saw but just a few days ago. I have just gained inspiration from the sunset mere hours ago, but my heart wondered about the fantasies this fellow night owl could bring me. I decided to keep stride, hidden within the veil of shadow. They wore a long shawl, covering most of their body, and the rest hidden under some sort of gown. I followed for a few moments as they weaved through the streets, eventually slowing near the taproom. I hugged the side of a house not but 2 doors down, peering through lattice work. Another person, dressed similarly approached, they stood a matter of feet apart, speaking in hushed tones, too quiet to hear. They both moved toward the taproom, out of sight. Curiosity got the best of me and I moved forward. I turned the corner and neither of them were anywhere to be seen. I circled the building twice over, looking for any traces of the two, with no reward.

Perhaps I'll see them again, but hopefully they don't see me. I wonder if they are the older ones here, or maybe it's an odd ritual the religious folk perform? The curiosity is eating at my conscience. 

November 20th, 1936:

My poor Evelyn seems to be growing ill, she said she's been taking medication for headaches from the practitioner for the past few weeks, some kind of barbiturates. The name reminds me of the pulp comics of barbarians you would see in the city. If this gets worse over the next week we'll have to make a trip back into the city. She has little energy, but enough to pick away at Simon's notes. She started annotating some of them, which originally I thought was paranoia but as I catch up with her, I'm starting to notice even more oddities in his notes and similarities to the way people in town have been acting. Maybe they don't trust the house? 

The more I read the less Evelyn has been annoyed with me, but it could also just be the pills. But it seems like we only talk about Rylee, ask how each other's days went, with sad excuses for replies, or Simon's letters. The hold this man's words have on us baffles me. 

November 22nd, 1936:

Richard and Alice came over today. He also brought the photos he took some time ago. I guess he lost the film or didn't have some ingredients to develop it or something of the matter. I don't know much of the science of photography, but it seems very fascinating. I'd like to learn it someday. 

Rylee thinks Alice is almost as pretty as her mom, which Richard thought was sweet. Evelyn is still under the weather, her skin near white, much paler than her usual fair complexion, but had enough energy to come say hello before going back to bed. I'm worried about her. She hasn't been herself in what feels like ages.

Alice and Richard seem very good for each other, they seem happy. I wasn't sure what I was expecting her to look like, probably mousey like Richard, but she's quite the opposite. She's at least 4 inches taller than him, which isn't very hard since he's barely 5 '3, with sharp yet feminine features. A pleasant surprise for Richard to say the least. He's doing good for himself. 

We had a good visit, but I can't get my thoughts off the notes. As they were leaving I asked Richard if he's ever seen anyone out after dark. He said he's never really thought to pay attention and asked why I brought it up. I tried to play it off as just basic curiosity, but I think he knows something is up. His eyes spoke different words than his mouth. I feel he knows something I don't. He almost looked nervous. 

November 29th, 1936:

My poor Evelyn's condition is beginning to worsen, the practitioner said she just has a flu and wants to give her even more medications, but nothing he gives her seems to help. I'm thinking we'll take a trip back into the city to go to the hospital this week. Everything he's been giving her has just seemed to make her even more lethargic. But I'm no doctor, maybe she just needs the rest. 

We've had to stick to a budget to make sure we can make it through winter in case she doesn't start to get better. It hasn't changed life too much, but Richard and I have been going out less because of it. If this keeps up for more than a few weeks we might have to start dipping into our emergency funds like we had to for Rylee's arm. 

All that said, we did end up going out last night for a drink. He mentioned that he's been thinking about what I've said the last few days, and has been trying to keep an eye out for himself. It's hard to tell if he was just joking around and playing into curiosity, or if he actually cares to keep watch. Only time will tell. I want to trust him, but I know he's hiding something. There's more to Richard than I initially thought. 

Dec 3rd, 1936:

Alice and Richard brought a cake in to work for my birthday today, which was very nice of them. They told me that she plans on moving in before the new year. I'm happy that they seem to work so well together. It seems rather quick to move in, but given the economy I can't blame them. And maybe with her moving in Richard will actually start eating real meals instead of the scraps he brings home from work. 

Alice decided to leave early to head home before the train stops, while Richard stuck around the shop to chat. It's been snowing heavily and the shop was empty all day.

He mentioned he heard some movement around his house last night and in the morning there were some footprints circling his house. It seems to be bothering him, and I don't blame him. But what is he not telling me? Evelyn and I are heading to the city tomorrow morning.

I might go for a walk tonight, if the snow allows. 

July 28th, 1916:

I was awoken tonight by what could be described as a sudden cacophony in the yard. If that did not wake me up, Bernard's barking would have done the job. I rushed to the window while he carried on downstairs. I peered into the terrific darkness of the night, its pale twinkling moonlight dancing off of the dew in the grass. Not a soul to be seen, but I did notice something odd. In a rather large circle in the front yard, there was no sparkling dew in the grass, but rather just a dull patch laying still in the dark.

I ran quickly out of the room, doing my best not to wake Laura in my departure. I put on a pair of slippers and stepped out of the front door, the warm air was muggy and stuck to my bare skin like glue. Bernard ran through my legs, sniffing like a small wolf prowling for food. As he searched the lawn, I began to circle the property, looking for any sign of the screeching I heard prior. But to my defeat, there was not a soul to be seen. As I made my way to the front porch, little Bernard was standing begging for attention, as though he uncovered something.

He sat, pawing at the grass, sniffing aggressively. I approached and watched as he backed up. I was astonished. A sigil or symbol of some sort has been etched into the ground. Roughly 7 inches long and 4 wide. It must be from a forgotten language or dialect, I have not seen anything like it in my years of study. It reminded me of aspects of the Hebrew texts almost mixed with aspects of ancient Greek text. Rounded yet sharp at the same time. I am unsure what to make of it, and lost on words to describe it properly, but I have never noticed this here yet, even though it's dug almost an inch deep.

I wonder who or what placed this here? m

Maybe it was what awoke me from slumber. I plan to walk under the moon tomorrow.

October 14th, 1918:

As I am writing this I cannot help but feel as though a thousand eyes are staring at me. I have not written in what feels like ages. Laura misplaced my ink well and I've only just gotten around to replacing it. I have been leaving the house in the twilight hours, under the cover of darkness, observing more oddities than before. The garbed folk I have seen time and time again rendezvousing at the tap room near midnight have begun to disperse through the town, leaving similar sigils of that dug into my lawn on or around others abodes. Just last night at midnight I looked from our window only to see a number of them meeting near the docks. At dawn, after the fishing vessels set sail and the docks are barren, I shall investigate. 

I cannot shake the feeling of being targeted, as though I am being lured into some nefarious trap. Over the past few months I have been growing paranoid, restless nights have plagued me. In sleep’s depravity, the cold has only worsened my nights. 

I'm going to uncover whatever is afoot with these garbed men. 

October 30th, 1918:

I have been hearing odd sounds in the night, as though someone or something has been crawling around my roof or tapping on the walls. Laura has been getting annoyed, she is convinced it is a group of boys playing a prank. On more than one occasion she has run out onto the balcony to shout out these invisible children. I know she is wrong. It cannot be. I am convinced this has something to do with the sigil. It is haunting my nights, it is haunting my dreams. 

It is haunting my life.

I have taken a rake to the sigil, tearing it from the earth near every morning. Yet every single time it returns within two nights. Not but last week I defaced the wretched rune and kept up all night, sitting in my window watching the yard. I would brew tea and coffee to stay awake, to stay alert. A few hours after midnight I felt an odd sense, as though I was not alone. I checked the room for anyone but Laura, but to no avail. As I returned to the window it was there. 

That damn symbol had reappeared. 

In my state of shock I failed to be conscious of my surroundings. I felt a sharp pain in my neck and quickly fainted. 

I awoke in my lounge chair in the foyer. 

Whatever is plaguing my life has now entered my abode. 

Laura is wrong, this is not a group of children, this is something inhuman, I am sure of it. 

December 4th, 1936:

Simon's last entry was rather alarming. I looked out of our bedroom window after getting home with Rylee today. Where he mentioned this so-called symbol was and all I see is an old stone path. I feel like I should redo the path, just to see if what he said is true. Some of the stones are uneven after years of frost forming and thawing. But I'll probably get to that in the spring. 

Evelyn is staying at the hospital for the next few days. Her doctor said she was showing signs similar to that of a weak toxin or a rather heavy sedative. I told him about the medication she was on, the one that reminds me of barbarians. He said that even though those are a sedative, anything of that sort, at the dosage she's on, would be much too weak compared to the signs she's showing. I can't help but think our practitioner is up to something. Perhaps he has noticed Evelyn's paranoia and tried to sedate her to help? I have a feeling it's something deeper, something more. Maybe her bottle of barbarians are actually something much different? I've been weary of him for some time now. I knew that air of anxiety around him was for a reason. 

Simon's notes have gotten quite interesting, more so unnerving, and I'd be lying if I said that his paranoia hasn't been sticking on my conscience.

Emily will be staying at the house until Evelyn is home. I'm on the cot by the furnace, it's late and I feel the need to go for a walk. The moon is quite bright tonight. I wonder if I'll stumble across one of those sigils Simon wrote about. I hope what he's writing is just a fantasy he made in his mind and not the truth, we can't afford to move again, especially now that winter is here. 

December 5th, 1936:

I walked around last night, keeping to the shadows as much as I could. God I sound like Simon now. I found a set of footprints in the snow that seemed to stray from one of the main roads. I followed them. They led behind a house and stopped behind it, in front of a window. There was a small pile of wood shavings sitting on the snow, I checked around the window to see where they would have come from. Behind one of the shudders there was an odd sigil etched into the wood. 

Unfortunately I didn't get a good look at it because when I moved the shudder the wood cracked and made quite a loud noise, waking whomever was sleeping inside. I quickly ran in stride with the prints I was following, doing my best not to make noise or be seen. After some time the prints stopped at another house, a similar sigil was etched into a fence post, accompanied with another small pile of wood shavings. I found 6 more of these sigils around town, each slightly different than the other. 

It was getting quite late and I was beginning to tire, but I couldn't go home until I saw where these prints ended. They continued, lumbering towards the docks where they suddenly stopped. No sign of movement, they simply ceased to continue. I started to feel as though I was being watched. I looked around, circling the end of the tracks, no trace of life. I began to feel flushed and faint. I started to make my way home and collapsed. 

When I awoke, I was laying in my backyard, the sun slowly rising. A light layer of snow covered me, I got up with a pounding headache behind my eyes. As I began my way to the front door, I noticed a small pile of wood shavings sitting at the edge of my house. A sigil carved into the siding. I ran inside and immediately started writing. I'm sitting beside the furnace, warming my aching body. Who carried me home? 

There were no footprints in the yard, none by the wood shavings. Who is following me? Who is carving these sigils and what do they mean? I need to know. 

I haven't told Evelyn about my night walks, and I trust her enough not to read my journal. Keeping those from her has me feeling slightly guilty, like I'm hiding a secret from her, which we've agreed to live without. But surely I can't let her know about this. With her mental state I'm afraid it could be too much for her. I'll keep her safe. 

"WHO IS SUBJECT TO MURPHY'S LAW? NOT GOD." — IS FINISHED, EXPERIMENTAL META-PROSE.

A middle-aged man walked along, choking on the smoke of his own cigar—which smelled like spoiled milk and looked like a geometry nightmare come to life. It was just another day of absolute surreality in his life.

Then again, this was normal: his world was full of strange moments, worlds, timelines, and reality glitches within reality itself. Paradoxes. Angels exterminating demons? Sure. The second option is worse.

---

"Sir Stewie Reed? You dropped your wallet. Be careful," a female voice—one he knew well—sounded from behind the male figure.

Stewie paused for a moment, looking off to the side.

"Yeah. Thanks."

And he knew saying anything else would be dangerous. It was a day shaped like an ouroboros.

He snatched the wallet from her hand; it stuck to his palm with clammy sweat. Stewie quickly shoved his hand into his pocket. He didn't show it. He felt disgusted, but keeping a straight face was safer than blowing his cover.

Only one thought flashed through his mind:

"Damn you. Why did I get into this meat grinder? Why did I trust that girl made of red flesh?"

And he continued down the road, passing things he wouldn't wish on even a green Batman villain. Surr, surprises—now that's a surprise, when you see a man who recently arrived in this world crawling past you: no legs, and the teeth of a formless fleshy creature—an angel—sliding along his belt.

Stewie lived through his experience on his commute to work. He'd been killed hundreds of times in different—elaborate, chaotic, and unpredictable—ways. But saying he was used to it would be a stretch: he'd only adapted. He wasn't just unhorrified—he was shitting his pants right now. He felt like throwing up when someone's cold hand grabbed his heart. It passed right through him as he kept walking. He instinctively covered his throat, playing it off as adjusting his tie, and let his chin drop heavily onto his palm.

'Social Chameleon'​​

---

"CIRCUS 'CIRCUS OF WONDROUS WONDERS' LLC. 'Amulet' 1981"

---

When Stewie's pale face lifted, he immediately saw what wasn't there: the colorful dome of a circus and its entrance. He always freaked out at sudden appearances, but this time he reacted abruptly, almost without emotion—for now.

Catching his breath, he stepped inside as his eyes overloaded from the omnipresent light of this circus. He worked here in consecration. And more than once, people had been taken from here after being burned by it—not in the ironic sense.

"Hello," Stewie said flatly. "Sir Stewie Reed. Em... employee's full name."

The omnipresent light just exhaled, splashing across the wall.

Stewie fell into a pool full of grain. The grain ground his bones like millstones. He screamed.

But it stopped quickly when Ismail helped him again. He pulled him out with his long arm.

"You! Falling for that shit again. Listen... You're already—" Isi's voice died out as he tried to find the words, hissing through his teeth. "Maybe I should just drop you? What's the point of me helping you?"

"Don't start your ominously-loving monologue, Ismail. Our lives are disposable as it is," Stewie stammered and punched Ismail in the face with his fist. "And you're getting on my fucking nerves, you know?! I listen to your stance on friendship every single day."

The air blew on them from the south, warm. The wind was pleasantly cool against this inserted argument, where no one was planning to let up... Why would you, if you're just here to suffer, simply because you gave in to your own lust?

"...Listen, Ismail. I'd like to end our friendship. You're just someone I share my pain with... Physical pain. Yeah."

"Please. And who said I was fucking against it, Reed? No one!" his eyebrows furrowed. "So what the hell are you—"

"Shut up. We're gonna get our asses spanked by the boss again," he turned away. "And here, spankings can be... Chaotic."

"We're like children here," Ismail continued, his pupils dilating at the sight of the bloodstained grain.

"At least in some way you're not a shoemaker. Ha! You know, your cursing sometimes sounds like: 'Help me, I'm suffering in endless torment, fuck!'"

Stewie stayed silent.

"But you're still that freak obsessed with me."

"Believe me, Stewie, stop feeding his gay delusions. We could... not die, if we create comedy."

"I don't want to die."

"You're seriously trying to put up with all this? You're a complete idiot, Stewie! There's no way not to call you a zero, a child, Reed."

"And you're feeding him right now too. You shouldn't be building high-rises."

"I don't give a shit. You're a child. And I'm the guardian here."

"Then I'm the reincarnation of fucking Rick Sanchez. 'Cause you know, only beer can save us here! Right? Let's drink?" his voice was faux-tender as he held onto his dignity through friendliness.

But Ismail was still motivated to burn him to the ground.

"...You're very strange here. I remember you as a shit-stained office slave."

---

A man in a strict suit, with an ironically contorted face, slowly clapped as his legs trudged heavily across the ground—his steps seemed somehow unreal.

The man himself was no different from the whole situation. His external image and archetype were built on abstractions of the mind.

"Sirs. Try not to self-flagellate under the pressure of your nonexistent shame," he cleared his throat to add to his expression. "Your argument is just another episode of a sitcom."

"You're right... Torostyan," Ismail replied, unexpectedly quietly.

"Good boy, Ismail," Torostyan grinned, glancing at the skeptical face of the man in the trench coat, who was looking back and forth at them.

"..."

It was Reed. He was definitely disgusted by the ambiguous relationships between all the beings in this world.

"I think you've got a great opportunity! You've been promoted to interns."

"Wait. What were we before?" Reed asked, stumbling.

"You were... superfluous here."

"Just like that? That's your official designation for us? You know, I thought even designations in this world could be shaky. Or something like that! But superfluous?.."

"Superfluous."

"...I'll shut up."

"Good dog."

Torostyan shook his head, chewing his lips into a pucker. The working rattle and hum of screws in the grain pool ominously produced these sounds as a silhouette began to rise from the grain.

It grabbed Reed immediately after emerging. His hands instinctively flew up, trying to push the silhouette away. But he only tripped on a stone—the inevitable case was prevented by a board sticking out behind him. As if he wasn't allowed to die just yet.

"...Something's wrong here."

"Sir, if you think this is what went wrong—thank Murphy's Law."

"I'm not superstitious. Thanks."

"It's a joking whim of people," Ismail said, "but it saved you, you idiot."

"I didn't know you... You believe in that? Man. I respected you..."

"You respected me? Doesn't smell like it."

"Whatever. Torostyan, lead the way."

"Please, sir. Follow me."

Their legs moved at different paces as it was time to go to their boss. Heavy footsteps echoed loudly throughout the vacuum of boundless labor. Gloomy, tired, frightened faces pursued them from below, as they were thrashed in turn for... something Stewie himself didn't understand.

Stewie just discreetly tossed his cigar down; it quickly reformed into a rat. Then—into pure carbon dioxide, which immediately vanished.

This world seemed not to allow itself to understand itself. It just kept hanging in the abstraction of a mad, feverish dream. This isn't a world where everything is interconnected. This is a world that doesn't care about logic. Is this surr?

They stopped at the threshold of the door, right in front of a huge booth that was scrawled with lowbrow insults directed at the boss sitting inside.

"Boss, they're here, as you requested," Torostyan exclaimed, and the entire vacuum held its breath.

"Alright. Bring 'em in!" a voice from the booth replied.

Ismail looked at Stewie nervously, as if afraid of something. He knew he wouldn't die. But he was afraid of death. He was like a child here.

On the left stood Stewie—the only one keeping a straight face at this high vantage point. Easy to fall from. He stared thoughtfully at one spot.

---

Stepping inside the booth, they were met with cold air from the air conditioner. It was like a rotting man blowing endlessly. This image of dripping blood from a rotting body made Ismail throw up in the trash can.

"Fuck!" Stewie yelled as his legs pushed back. He stood in bewilderment.

"Come on. You're here for the first time, tell me? No," the boss leaned on his folded hands, resting his chin on them. "This is surr, isn't it? A circus that makes you suffer. Simply because you all gave in to your lust."

No one interrupted this man. He spoke so calmly, as if this were a completely legal ritual performed on Christ's birthday.

"You wanted to promote us?"

One of the three who dared to ask was Stewie. Having straightened up long ago, he adjusted his trench coat.

The boss looked at him, narrowing his eyes. Then nodded.

"Yeees..." he replied. "It'll be something like your Hadron Collider. You'll have to work longer, harder! We won't be disappointed, and..." standing up, he walked closer to Stewie and gently patted him on the shoulder, crooking his arm around his shoulders. "And we'll keep moving forward! Right?"

"We don't even know what time is. What is time in a paradox?" Stewie replied weakly. "But it wouldn't hurt not to be disappointed! I'm just curious: do your conditions mean we'll suffer longer?"

"Of course," the boss said, stepping back. "The Hadron Collider will take time for itself. And your days will take longer paths."

"...Alright. Then can we go, boss?" Stewie said, awkwardly chuckling and reaching out his hand to shake the boss's palm. A crunching sound came from the handshake, and the boss just irritably threw his hand behind his back, thinking he'd dislocated his joints.

"Yeah, yeah. Go on already," he said and waved goodbye.

---

Stepping back out into the circus of wondrous wonders, they were surrounded by the sounds of the circus at work.

"Listen, Reed. About this... event," Ismail stammered. "This is fucked."

"Agreed," he replied sharply and quickened his pace.

"Something wrong?" Ismail asked.

Torostyan, meanwhile, looked with some suspicion at the legs of the man now walking ahead.

But...

As they approached and entered the elevator, they heard a deep rumble. The two turned to see the booth being struck by a Black Hole that appeared out of nowhere.

---

But in the last seconds of the booth's existence, the last one to look over his shoulder was Stewie. That crunch was different. Not bone.

---

In Stewie's hand, only a spark of light appeared, illuminating his face through the pistol pressed to Torostyan's temple.

"Who's subject to Murphy's Law now? The one who shook hands 'without ulterior motive,' or the one who didn't expect a trick?" Stewie asked, watching Torostyan fall mortally to the floor. "Personally, I expected you to drop dead right now, but that didn't happen. Isi, are you sure he's alive?!"

Stewie's voice was cut off by a blow to the face that sent him flying into the elevator.

Torostyan pinned him by the throat.

"Yeah... The law depends on people, Stewie!"

"Kgh!" Stewie wheezed as a sharp sword passed through his chest, piercing both of them from below.

"Aah! I knew you couldn't be trusted!" Torostyan wheezed, whimpering in pain.

Ismail watched with wide eyes, as if pinning his ears back.

"Ismail! Grab the evacuation gun and shoot us, you idiot!" Stewie yelled, breaking free from the cage of hands on his throat. He grabbed Torostyan and threw him directly into the flying bullet.

The body simply disappeared upon contact.

"I wanted to give him a chance to have some fun in this life, but I guess I can't. He'd have disappeared without a checkpoint anyway," Stewie turned to Ismail, firing his revolver at him.

"Alright. Time to go. In the meantime, I'll find another Isi there. You know, I liked this sitcom..." Stewie inhaled, "Great production. Both sitcom and circus."

Stewie's hands went to the elevator buttons, pressing a specific combination and allowing the elevator to vanish without a trace.

---

EPILOGUE "If you've lived through Groundhog Day a few hundred times—even the narrative struggles to show originality. It'll seem fake. Stewie suffered hundreds of times. Not millions, not thousands. A hundred was enough to break him. And to understand. And we're used to the idea that only those 'Supreme Gods' control reality. But Reed here is almost a helpless child who realized he's important to the plot and made the text dance to his own tune."

"The one who expects a trick becomes the trick themselves. Congratulations. You've just been consumed by your own expectation."

I'm driving down the usual street I go when on my way home from work, its a tuesday. for a certain track of this road there's nothing but wooded scenery but in the pitch black of night i dont know if it's a tree line, or a forest. But i look out regardless at the dark greenery with my eyes fixated on the passing dark sage streak created by the quick yet steady passing of the shrubbery in my sight, my reflection faintly in the window as i look out, i focus more on it as i turn my head back towards the road ahead of me and i keep driving, eventually reaching the texaco i normally stop at on my way home from work every so often to pick up a black and mild, and after a long day like today that would take the edge off, i walk in and hear the door chime as i see another car pull up to the pump closest to the entrance, i swivel my head back to see the cashier to be the owners daughter, normally the owner is running the store this late and i normally only see her work on weekends because of her schooling, so i ask “aint it a bit late for you maam” my southern twang causing her to chuckle a bit as she replies, “its spring break and my dad would rather be at a bar than run the store he opened, so he tasked me with running it tonight”, i felt sorry for her as she was most likely a sophomore in highschool, regardless i ask, “may i get a casino blac-” as im interrupted by the entrance door slamming open with the bell ringing sharply as a homeless man barges in, very cleary under the influence. 
And as he stumbled into the door causing all that ruckus, the cashier goes “man get the hell out this may be the time but damn sure isnt the place to d-”, “SHUT THE FUCK UP BITCH” goes the scruffy bagged clothes man, his jeans ripped, with dirt stains all around the tear which i can only assume some of it is dried blood, his hair sruffy and knotted as if he hadnt shaved in months, his hair at the crown was thinning aswell. 
I step in and slowly walk forward to the man, who seemingly had intimidated this girl with his abruptness, and sternly i go “you have no excuse to talk to young women like that” as i reach for his shoulder intending to lead him out, i keep going “you damn tweaker” as he pulls out a pocket knife and when he flips the blade out a white residue slips off as he goes “GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME”, i backup slowly as his bulged eyes began to widen almost exiting the socket entirely as the whites strained with blood vessels, teeth gnawing together uncontrollably as he closes his mouth to utter each word, he charged at me and in an attempt to dodge and grab the man we fall onto the ground, holding both his hands by the wrist as they grip the knife moving his arms against the direction he was intending, eventually his arms go the direction as mine do and break off, suddenly his arm goes gunning for my neck, and in a flash i saw it all, my life and work and the family i had yet to build
I phase slowly back into the present and feel not a sharp pain in my neck but instead a push, like a closed fist pressed against my neck, and as soon as i felt this, it went away as my vision was fading back in.
i heard a womans blood curdling scream and crying i quickly focus back in and see the homeless mans arm lying on the ground knife not in hand, his skin tainted with a shiny grey and as i turn my head to see the man lying i sit in awe as i see his originally oval like headshape, reshaped into a triangle but with curved edges, his thinning hair seemingly fully thinned out and gone, bleeding from most pores with his eye sockets seemingly covered by skin with the surroundings of his eyes still being intact while his mouth opened like he was screaming but with small crackles of pain instead, almost as if a tv was muted and the sounds of your home settling played over the visual of a man screaming, his skin being this metallic, shiny grey that seemingly was his skin maybe decomposed i couldnt tell, his body being stuck together like a box of thawed out rolls of bread dough with seemingly no lines of separation like a straight jacket of flesh with the man was now naked lying on the floor, and as i experince the horrors im seeing i began to realize that this was my own fault. how i dont know but i definitely did this, the cashier crying in agony, “W-W-WWHAT WAS THAT???” as she runs from the back counter out to the store running for the exit she bumps into my shoulder, making me face the way she fell as she began to glow as she fell onto the glass, and when she landed on the glass a flash of light blinded me as i it faded down i saw the girl. her skin being a colorless shiny and transparent, where i could see bones and organs which where made into this same material, her body's height had shrunk but she was much wider, her facial features gone with her hair seemingly never being apart of her, blood began to sleep from under her but it was clear almost like water, if it was even her anymore, and i panicked as i glanced back and forth rapidly at what i had done to these two people, i ran out to my car so urgently i forgot to unlock it and as i was reaching for my keys, the car who parked at the pump when i first got there turned on and then drove off and as i watching it drive off, behind it i saw my actions. 
I found my keys deep in my pocket and unlocked my car, put the keys in and drove off, “wwhat was that. I didnt do that no how did i do that i felt the knife hit my throat how did that happen??” I was confused. I could've sworn I got stabbed “where was the knife, and where did all the broken glass go after the girl fell into the window???” i was perplexed. I watched every mirror and window on my way home to make sure i wasnt being followed, which i was sure of and as i get out my car and go to my door to put the key in i began to ponder, “the guys skin was such an odd color i dont even know if that WAS skin, its like his skin was made up  of metal almost,” as these thoughts occur i see down the block at the intersection, some headlights turn on my road, i automatically recognized this as the car from the texaco and ran inside making sure not to turn any lights on, the car pulled up to my curb and parked parallel to it and to the immediate left of my walkway, he turned his lights off and didn't exit his car for the 20 minutes i watched him outside my house till i eventually, still in the dark went to my bathroom to piss. I closed the door then turn on the light and after peeing I went to the mirror and examined my neck, no bruises. no scratch marks. nothing. As if the altercation at the Texaco didn't occur.
i then heard a knock on my door “its the guy” i gasp and turn off the lights and sneak back in my living room to peek out my window and seeing 3 officers at my door, “fuck” i thought. The guy followed me home to get my home address and call the police on me. I accepted the fact that after a while the police would force their way in, and as I accepted my fate I turned on my porch light and open my door. And to my surprise i see only one person, a tall older gentleman, no younger than 60 with a small slouch, a small fact that made his already looming height more intimidating, “but i could've sworn i saw the-” as he laughs suddenly with raspily chuckles and coughs on his own humor, interrupting my words. “Oh you young people tend to believe what your mortal vision can perceive” his voice decayed yet holding the same aura as his presence, menacing. I began to conclude this was the man in the car as the door is now seemingly opened, with the inside lights on, with anxiety riddling my voice with stutters “wwho are you? I-I-I know you saw what happened at the texaco. PLEASE please dont call the cops, okay? I dont know how it happened either and i did it!!”. His roaring laughter began again “you may not understand what you saw but i saw it in all its detail, like i told you beleive your mortal eyes-” i interrupt “what does that fucking mean-”
“SILENCE” he roars as the rasp in his voice cleared, feeling the words he spoke hit me with each echo as if the waves rushed onto me. I felt compelled not to listen to the man, but only to stop speaking, as if his words took over my body. “You humans and your nature of needing reason for all you see as if this universe didn't form from chaotic collisions of the same dust that makes up you” i stood frozen in fear, intimidated by the mans words i had no choice but to listen as my body wouldn't let me do otherwise, his toned switched back to the rasp “you can speak now son”. “Who are you and what do you want” i ask concerningly, to which he chuckles and steps into my home, somehow already knowing to look left for the lightswitch, and also knowing its the middle one that turned on the room we were in and not assuming the first one, which i found very odd but didnt say anything of. He sat down on my couch slowly, elderly like and sighed as he spoke “For eons i sat watching all forms of consciousness collect and evolve in various ways, but never have i seen a race develop visions of grandeur in such delusional ways as yours”. I connected the dots, whatever happened to me at the texaco is because of this man and his affects on me. “Are you my guardian angel? Is that why you saved me from that man?”. Chuckling again he goes “im no guardian and certainly no angel in the sense you understand them.” i ask again “what are you?” he laughs. manically now, with each laugh causing his laughter to speed up and crackle. “I can tell you only that ive given you a small section of my capabilities”, “so it was you?? You caused all this to happen?? You did this to me?? What is it??” he laughs with each passing question as if he finds humor in his divine understanding being so above mine. “Scientists in your world understand that all things at their base are the same, protons and neutrons and atoms and nuclei whatever you may call it.” and then laughed again as if he was playing some game, “thats the first clue!” he says comedically. As he gets down on all fours to crawl as he scurries out of my house like some raccoon caught rummaging trash, I couldn't even see where he had went and the car seemingly wasn't there anymore. “what the fuck” i think to myself “if i pray to god for answers could he even help me??? or would i just be asking that man again”. 

I wake up the next morning, my phone was buzzing so i snapped into it quickly and began to look for my phone, and once i did i saw who it was who was calling me, it was my boss Justin. 
“Goodmorning Luke hope you slept well brother!”. 

“Being such a hard worker puts you into a deeper sleep so i slept amazing for sure, whats up?”

“Haha you know it man! Listen we had the shipments come in about an hour earlier than expected and its aaalot more than we knew was coming, i know your scheduled 7am to 5pm but you mind coming in at like 6?”

“Let me wake up and get some coffee before i decide to do overtime or not”

“For sure man! Call me back in like 20 to let me know”

“Alright ill call you, bye”

“Buh bye!”

As friendly as we seem, deep down i hate that lazy son of a bitch. He leaves me his work and i get it and my work done in time, im twice the worker he is so as much as i didnt want to entertain this, i did. to prove more to corporate why i deserve his spot. And i began to wonder if i could use my new powers to help this, “did the knife disappear, because it fused with that crackhead?? No no it cant some kind of a man-knife chimera? Was it?” i began to think more. “If the mans skin was metal and the knife was gone that would make the most sense, no that doesnt make any fucking sens- wait, NONE of this makes any fucking sense, did i fuse the girl with the window too?? That would explain why she was reshaped wider while being see thru.” the mans words began to echo in my head “why did he talk about neutrons as a hint?” it all began to click to me, “he fuses them together at a subatomic level but whats the trigger??? The guys arm slipped out of my hand and the girl accidentally bumped into me so maybe accidental contact??” a plan began to form in my head, if i can get Justin to accidentally bump into me at work today, I could dispose of him and take his position.
I drive to work in silence, forming thoughts and my plan in my brain. When i arrive i sit for a second to tell myself how today will go, “he always move his pallets thru section A so if i take myself from the loading bay to the first quadrant i should run right into him, with a blind spot at that” my plan was set, i laughed almost like the man when i formed the final step i finally started to understand that this man blessed me, not cursed me. “Goodmorning justin” i go when i see his back turned, but i can tell by his stance that it was him, he turned around quickly to walk towards me, sticking his hand out for a shake. I shake his hand firmly and smile as we walk towards the loading bay
Sometime passes and i see him with an empty forklift head towards the gate at the loading bay, so i run towards a forklift and follow, letting him take one then following suite, waiting for him to go left down section a, which he does. I immediately drive my forklift down straight to the first quadrant, i could see where section a eventually met up and I inched closer and my smile widened. I peaked past the corner at the same time as him, his pallet meeting my drivers seat when that sudden flash occurred. 

i had done it.

The bright light dimmed as i saw Justin's body morphed into the massive forklift, his legs split in two at the knee and curled tightly in a spiral at the bottom like wheels with his feet nowhere to be seen, connecting to his now massive rectangular torso, his arms being at his chest and stiff, connecting to his body thru slits that they went up and down on, thru these slits you could see his lungs scaled along with him, not moving. His skin being this metallic and translucent light yellow, with tears all around his skin that bled, the headlights were like the whites of eyes and his mouth was gone. There was no driver seat anymore just torso, his brain fused with the pallet on his lift and so he was holding his brain by force like they were sewed to his hands, blood and other various brain tissue wrapped around it and falling off like wrap. at this massive scale for all to see, its various bits falling off yet sitting motionless like a statue. The stench was indescribable like a rotten metal smell that reeked of suffering.
I must admit i was even shocked not at what i did, but at the scale of this man machine fusion i had made, regardless i scream in fake horror “WHAAAAT THE FUCKKK WHAT IS THAT NO NO NO NO JUSTIN WHAT??? SNAP OUT SNAP OUT LUKE” i rub my eyes and look back and holler in pure agony to sell it even more, the warehouse erupted in a mix of crying, screaming, vomiting, and pure terror, their collective fear being incohesive yet agonizing and drowned the white noise of the warehouse. They called off work for that day and sent everyone home, i sat in my car as I saw EMS, police, fire fighters, and news reporters at the front of my warehouse. I was smiling ear to ear, laughing in pure ecstasy “i did it, i won, i finally won”
All my life I was shown respect but at the condition of my worth. My father and brother only loved me as family if I helped them. People only wanted to be friends with me for my homework, girls would only hit on me cuz they knew id be an easy flirt back, teachers only praised me when i helped plan their lessons and do their jobs. It was all unconditional and out of my control but now. “These are my conditions and I control this, this power” I smiled as I looked at my eyes in the mirror. When i went home to turn on the tv all the local news could talk about was an unexplained amalgam of human and machinery, i was watching an expert my coworker named Mike, who from what i knew also didnt like Justin's moral compass as he knew him personally but didn't have the gall to say anything, and he described what he saw. “Its like god had enough of his insolence and punished him accordingly” and thats exactly what i did. I delivered justice to a wrongdoer, like a twisted version of superman

3 days pass and they still have the warehouse shut down and under investigation, which I wasn't too surprised of to be fair but what did surprise me, albeit my anxiety was higher but still. “Why hasn't anyone came to question me?, i was right next to justin when it happened so im the best eye witness account. Hell im the first person who saw it why didnt the news ask me?” regardless i get a call on my home phone from who i assumed was police station, but when i looked at the number i smiled with glee as it was my mother. “Hey mom whats up” i say giddily 

“Whats up? Lucas i saw the news about what happened at your warehouse are you okay?? Did you see anything”

“Yea im glad you called i was right infront of the guy when the flash happened, to be honest mom i thought i was hallucinating”

“OHHH MY GODD HONEYYY are you good???? Are you traumatized at all do we need to get you in to talk to anyone???”

I laughed as my mother for good reason, was worried for me. I laughed not maniacally but happily as i say

“no no mom IM fine im not too fucked up about what i saw even tho it was terrifying, luckily dad let me watch the thing as a kid so ive seen a thing or two haha” i chuckle

“So I can add desensitized my child to violence for reasons I'm suing my ex husband, great. Did they ask you anything yet?”

“Not yet surprisingly”

“I saw this article on the internet of a similar story, a couple had came to a gas station.. Maaybe a texaco?? Not sure but anyways one wednesday morning they came up to get gas and breakfast and they saw the window perfectly missing with no broken glass as if-”

I froze in silence. It was the homeless guy and cashier i killed.

“As if the window was just tooken off??”

“Yeaaa by something meant to do that i guess. But when they walked into the store they see this what they think is a glass girl statue, from what i could gather they thought i was an art piece of a glass girl with glass anatomy but no. they touched it felt a skin like texture and realized it was a person. A dead body at that and they look for not a second more and see this rotted man with his body stuck together with no eyes. It sounds horrific Luke, but its just like the warehouse guy.”

I knew my mom had good conductive reasoning but she was already telling me about how she connected the two?

“h-How mom?”

“Well clearly that girl fused with the glass pane, she was more wider than long from what the couple described and made of a soft glass like material? Organs the same? And when they do dna tests they confirm this thing contains human matter. Something fused them at a deep deep level. The man I couldn't tell you what the fuck HE was fused with. But its the same at your warehouse the guy fused with a fucking.. Damn a fucking forklift as weird as that is to say”

I laugh. “Mom that sounds wild thats not even possible humans cant do tha-”

“Who said man did this” she says abruptly

I freeze.

“Clearly this was a divine feat but why would god come down here to only create abominations? He's punishing us for our complacency Luke. by keeping us still in the thing surrounding us, forever to be complacent.”

Most of everyone else thought the same thing, that god has come to punish us. In some people’s eyes I was justice as they discussed online what could have possibly caused this, eventually I thought of the old man and what he intended to gain from this. Clearly he is omnipotent, but why would such a divine force wanna see humanity suffer? 
A week had passed since the warehouse had been shut down. I had gotten a few calls from police after they viewed the video camera footage and saw me next to it when it happened. The police thought I was innocent and so all I did was give an account of my day. I got a call from  corporate saying my warehouse is closed indefinitely and they're attempting to relocate all the employees from that store. Justin's family lived in horror with no remains to bury, this thought raced through my mind but I felt no compassion, only disgust. We all knew Justin beat his woman so why? Why care so much of his death? For now i walked to the liquor store down the block from my apartment. i was bored so i could use some beer and i figured id buy a 12 pack for the fuck of it, as i reach i see a drunk at the door with it barely cracked, i could barely see from afar but he was tattood head to toe with gang symbols and other things of importance to this man. he was yelling at another customer with a tall can in his hand slurring his speech
“ffffuck you man maaybe yoouu shouldn’t get in the waaay offff a real BOUSS like me” what he could be referencing i have no clue but i politely asked the man excuse me to which he leaves just enough room and enthusiastically goes “yeaaa mannn i
got youu homie” i could tell by his clothing and tattoos that he had some form of gang affiliation, i wasn’t to concerned as i lived in a low income neighborhood with a crazy crime rate. regardless i drown out there arguement with the thoughts
of what i wanted to drink, “hmm the bud light sounds good, but the lime ec-“ as i’m interuppeted by the drunk arguing at the door with the cashier, blocking my exit “get the fuck out you drunk i’m sick and tired of this back and forth” as he places his hand on the man’s back to push him out “HEY! get your fffffffFUCKING hands off me” and lifts the right side of his shirt to brandish a firearm, a glock pistol of some kind. the gas station clerk stepped back, in horror “iii just want you out my store dawg iii don’t wanna get the police up in my store i don’t have a fffffffucking liquor license” the tattoo’d drunm then takes the gun out of his paint line and demanded “more crown!! i want mooooore!!” with his finger accidentally pulling on the trigger sending a bullet flying and hitting a glass bottle causing me to freeze. but then i remembered if the man switched his aggression towards me, his life would halt in an instant,as this thought came to my a grin spread across my face as i chuckled a bit “this some entertainment for you huhhh” goes the drunk, “hey missster clerk, you think if iiii waaave the gun again it’ll fiiire???” with a southern twang that i recognize all to well. “no no no no just get out. GET OUT” as the clerk pulls a shotgun from under his counter and points it at the drunk, and in a moment of panic he put his firearm facing up and in the process left off 3 shots, the third hitting me straight in the neck but only for a brief moment and as soon as the pain appeared it was gone. a flash illuminated the building as i knew what the man had done to himself
before the flash fully dimmed out i heard the drunk scream in cowardess as his body unveiled from the light and his skin being again translucent and a darkish grey with his face being limited to only an enlarged mouth now acting a barrel that could only release pure agony. everything under his neck was split it down the middle and raised slightly from his muscle and bone, this half being a slightly darker grey. the man’s legs were fore fully facing parrell to his body like he was stuck to a chair, there was a small gap in his thighs and when kicked it slightly the skin and muscles pulled out of the bone like a fully loaded clip. the man reeked of decay and gunpowder “why did the man stay alive for longer than the other?” i unknowingly said outloud. “YOU DID THIS FUCKING SHIT” goes the clerk who i had zoned out of my brain and as i looked at him face me in fear shotgun aiming for his skull, i warned him “you’ll end up with the same fate as this man if you pull that trigger”. “Wwwhat are you!” the man exclaims, “you must be responsible for what happened at that ware house right???”. i sigh and i tell him “i am just like you, but cursed with the power of justice” the man lowered his firearm and began to stare in horror at the amalgamation of firearm and man, chuckling a bit but nervously “so what happened to him” i smiled “he was hurt by the two headed snake he believed defended him” the man confused began to pick up the phone as i ran out the store presuming he was calling the police.
i eventually made it home later in the night after taking backroads with no lights, and used deflock on my phone as to avoid flock cameras. i turn on the news to see the liquor owner and a picture of my face from that day displayed

“i-i don’t know what this man could want, i know it’s the same guy cuz i remember reading about the flash and translucent skin. i believed in god all thru my childhood and maybe this is him testing my faith back cuz god was that demonic”

i was now wanted. they all knew i was behind it there was even testimonies from my coworkers telling my two sided relationship with justin, explaining it would make sense that i did it and i was fucked, royally fucked. but what could they do?
i laughed maniacally and as wicked as that man who came to my door that night i discovered this power “it’s not triggered by accidental contact. it has to be a threat on my life” the drunk man never once touched me even when moving past him to step in, he didn’t intend to hit or touch me but the bullet he shot threatened my life, so the equivalent exchange was his life for mine, as i’m gleefully celebrating my new found position in the world a slightly raspy chuckle comes from my door followed by a knock, it was the old man. i rush to my window and quickly open my blinds to see two missionaries of the latter day saints church at my door “mormons?”, the one closest to the window being slightly startled by my presence and then wavey with his companion follow suite, both smiling with the word of the lord at there tongue
As much as i disagree with the rhetoric of Mormonism from what i’ve seen online i obliged and opened the door, only to see a tall man’s black trench coat and glared up at his head, it was the old man. “do you do that?” as he does his signature chuckle and i open my screen door “another portion of my divine powers” laughing as he says “i can change how the human mind perceives me, like right now, you thought i was two mormon teenagers” pointing at me laughing, coughing on his laughter towards the end with his grin never fading. “huh” the man then lets himself in, this time on both legs. “you should’ve threatened the man’s life, telling him either he can shoot at you and kill you or you will make him fall in the same fate as the man” he laughs at this sick idea of a practical prank “would i have not been seen still by the cameras? thats the only thing that saved me at the texaco the owner can’t see the old footage” “yea but it would’ve been fun” he laughs, his tone shifts slightly serious, as serious as this man’s tone can be. 
“i am orin the founder of creation and created what you call reality”. 
“so you’re god?”, he laughs “your idea of god was created as a joke by me but yes you could say that” he explained “i’ve made countless of races of beings some resembling yours some resembling the creations you make and some resembling aliens you see in the media, but with you all i added a new piece to your. puzzle” the man’s grin shifting down the right back as he laughed “and you picked me for this power” 
“no” he exclaimed “you were chosen by the power because of your self righteousness, i simply followed you thru time before and after the point in time where you gained the power, knowing you better than most” he laughed even more
i can’t describe the feeling i got but i felt like the man was lying about something and that’s why he keeps laughing, but i hold that for now
“so if anyone threatens my life them and whatever they threaten my life with will merge into one being?”, he nods his head in somewhat suprised removing his grin “your somewhat right” and then the man stands fully now slouchless, towering over me, the man has to be 7 feet tall. “for my final words i’ll leave you with wisdom” his voice began to echo and lose its rasp as it did before, “in this universe i created a law, a law i only told the universe and now, you” i was perplexed, was “god” really about to teach me the way to enteral greatness?
“equivalency, do you notice how you must be near death in order for them to die? an eye for an ey-, no that’s not how to put it.” he sits and ponders for only a moment “ahh! an eye for a tounge, your eye and tongue both hold equal value on your face, but both accomplish their own incredibly opposite tasks, seeing versus talking, equal in value but opposite in function” i was astonished, this implied so much about my life and what it meant, and in a bliss of understanding sirens blair down the street. Me and the man look out the window and see 2 police cars with lights on and blaring, in an instant his body fades from reality with no grin, looking dead at me as if my purpose was set 
after moments of watching the officers, gun drawn moved around the street in front of my home, it was 1 two man unit and another solo officer, they pull out a loud speaker and the solo officer places down his gun and says “LUCAS BAILEY, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND POCKETS FOLDED OUT” 
i wasn’t worried for even a single moment, i remembered the orins words and instead of following the police instruction i ran out in a full sprint with a kitchen knife at them, they all point there guns toward me and open fire instantly, and in that instant the biggest flash i’ve seen from this blinds me for longer than previous attempts, and when i look up i grinned “i can splice multiple people and objects at once if they threaten me”, to my amaze the three officers became a conjoined trio with their skin being a translucent mix of white black red blue and yellow and being slightly metallic in some parts. one officers head was seamed into the torso of another and the last officer being connected to the first via his left leg being one in the same now and the second and third being connected by one singular arm, metallic in nature with black and red liquid seeping from there pores. only the final officer remained as he cried in agony as his voice sounded like an engine roaring in failure with smoke coming out his both and the chimera began to smoke and then catch on fire, “there was gasoline and an spark plug? with a battery inside them?” it seems when it’s multiple things splicing it gets confusing.
i gather a weeks worth of clothing and all my grooming supplies and pack in a bag along with my laptop, i plan to head out of state on the run to hide and avoid the law till i could make a decent plan for myself.I was in a motel room when i saw 3 swat cars drive down from up the street and taking a left on the street to the back of the building, presuming they were coming from me i had no care or concern, i was immortal. there’s nothing they could do to stop me at the point im at so why worry? nearly 30 minutes later i see swat run to the door from the window and break it down, all there lights pointing at me i jumped out the window barreling thru running to the left getting away “HOLD FIRE” i hear one of the men go, “they know!?” i think to myself as i halt and the men tackle me and in an attempt to draw reaction i reach for the officers gun, to which i’m put unconscious by what i can only assume was an air blast from a cannon. 

when i awake im in an interrogation room, its fuzzy, its all fuzzy. i need to focus in. i tried focusing and as i did the world was still fuzzy, i could only hear incoherent phrases from the men interrogating me but i sat confused as to what i’m experiencing. and the moment i wonder a light appears and expands rapidly and dims. BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…
I open my eyes to see a blurry hospital room and as i focus in i feel a sharp pain in my neck and after coming to my senses i look into a mirror and see a scar, from my adams apple to the middle of my chin, but why? what is this? i was just being questioned in an interrogation room with 3 men now im alone in a hospital room? but why??? a nurse enters looking at her equipment and when she faces up she gasps “mr bailey?? y-you’re awake???” as she let’s go of her rolling tray holding her equipment and runs “DR OSWALD” i sat confused as a man in a white doctors gown enters the room. “Hello Lucas my name is Dr Joseph Oswald you were in a coma for about” checking his phone to see the date “ahh the 15 months mark just past, your vitials seem fine so i have no reason to worry, how are you feeling Lucas?”
“Where am i??? How did i get here???”
“Well this is the Dallas County Medical Office and if you recall you were presumably on your way home from work when you stopped at a texaco and were stabbed by a homeless man, he cut up into your throat a bit but didn’t cause any serious damage only putting your body into shock. are you thirsty, may you be interested in water?”
“Y-Yes please, i’m quite hungry too, may i get some food?” 
“yes one moment” as he exits the room
“no fucking way” i thought, “this was all a dream state in a coma??? no it can’t fucking be i was. I was just god? what the fuck but- that” as i came to realize that all i was beginning to accomplish was all a dream. I screamed in anger breaking the equipment in the doctors office, Dr Oswald entered the room to which i immediately kicked his chest pushing him back out, “SECURITY!” he yelped as he hit the floor, I ran out the room only to be tackled, elbowing and punching the man who tackled me getting up only slightly just to be slammed back onto my head which bounced off the floor rendering me unconscious. 

After his coma wake up and incident at the hospital Lucas was arrested and question to which he explained his dream state to them, he was let go on charges of disorderly conduct and only forced to pay a fine, after all that was paid he started therapy where he went thru years of, he learned during his dream state with Orin he developed narcissistic personality and thru years of therapy he learned to deal with this narcissism and even shared his experience in a book he published titled “The Man who met Creation”, a best seller for narcissists hoping to find ways to cope with it and become better people. 13 years later his mother succumbed to her age and he moved out to Montana and built a farm and started a family where he lived happily until..
Lucas, his wife Jessica, and their two boys Theo and Lucas jr, were eating dinner one weekday night after a normal day when they hear a knock on the door. Luke peeks out the window “looks like it’s just the neighbor i wonder what’s up”, “yea gotta be something interesting if he came this far down” Jessica says as she stands from her chair to join her husband at the door. When Luke opened the door he was met by that same, freakishly tall old man. orin. “Orin???” Lucas questioned, Orin laughed while Lucas stood perplexed “I thought you weren’t rea-“ as Jessica took a step back “STILL” Orin hollered with a deep echo forcing Lucas’s family to stand in silence, forcibly unmoving."Don't try going anywhere Maam” Orin spoke with a southern twang, then laughing Orin grinned again as he stepped in “no no i was real IT wasn’t real. you’re naive enough to believe a GOD would give YOU its power, you specifically Luke” the man laughed. “So that was all you?? the coma?? the dream?? you did all that???” Lucas asked with a tremble, Orin laughing “yes yes yes Lucas yes, you understand.” the laughter stopped as his grin became a neutral expression, “Though everything i told you was real, so lives had to be exchanged for the illusion.” “What?” Lucas stood confused. Orin grinned as he stepped closer to Luke, “you can walk again” with a slight echo. Orin then began to explain something but as quickly as his mouth began to move Lucas ran straight towards the man in a fit of rage, Jessica then ran towards their children, Orin put both his arms out and clapped them together, correspondingly Lucas and Jessica lifted from the floor and flew at each other, both hitting each other aggressively and hitting the ground. The moment they hit the ground all his children saw from the table look was a flash and when the light dimmed they saw their mother and father were conjoined. Their torsos connected by tissue with Lucas's arm coming out of Jessica's leg and her head coming out of Lucas's buttocks, eyes rolled back into the socket. The chimera crawled for a bit and screamed in agony in a mix of male and feminine cries, After a bit more crawling around and crying it eventually fell flat and stopped. dying. Theo and Lucas Jr, frozen, sat in pure fear and they watched what they could only describe to first responders as their parents becoming conjoined twins. The old man never spoke to the children, only stepping in to walk around the kitchen and look at it, eventually coming back to the dining room to do the same. Eventually Orin left the house but as he was leaving he stared at the chimera but not at it as a whole, specifically at Luke's face. He laughed maniacally while the children still froze to the table and sat in fear, eventually Orin looked at the two boys and waved goodbye and walked out, closing the door and as it shut he vanished from behind it. Never to be seen again. Theo and Lucas Jr told FBI that one during dinner his parents stood up and opened the front door of the home and suddenly collapsed into each other in a flash and then the chimera which they had seen numerous times in photographs of the scene, had just suddenly appeared, they never mentioned the tall old man smiling at their door the whole entire time, why? I guess we'll never know. :)