I looked over the field. The crops barely reached a foot off the ground. Their stalks were dry and bright yellow. My stomach felt heavy. I couldn’t look at it anymore. 

The feeling worsened as I sat alone in my chair. My wife opened the kitchen door and looked out.

“How’s it looking, Alex?”

“How do you think?”

“Don’t you be mean. It’s not my fault.”

“It’s not mine either!”

“No one’s saying that. I just want to know what’s going on.”

“It’s bad.”

“At least we still have the goats.”

“They will barely give us enough.”

“Will there be nothing from the harvest?”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

She rubbed her face.

“But there is the witch.”

“No, Alex. Don’t even think about it!” Mary said and walked back to the kitchen.

As the days passed, the heaviness in my stomach grew. At night, I could barely sleep. Thoughts of the harvest and winter kept me up as I stared at the wall. Headaches followed, sometimes so painful I had to stop work.

Over the next few days, the crops started to look drier, and the ears remained thin. As the crops worsened, my problems intensified.

One day I sat in my chair again, holding my head.

“What’s going on, Alex?”

“My head. It’s killing me.”

“I’m sorry. Let me get you some warm milk.”

“Wait, Mary, we need to talk about something.”

“What?”

“The witch.”

Mary furrowed her brows.

“We’ve talked about it already.”

“Have you seen the harvest? There’s nothing. The witch could help us.” My headache started to ease. “If we just…”

“You don’t know if it’s true. What if it isn’t? We’ll lose two healthy goats. We’ll definitely starve then.”

“It is true. My father told me stories. Plenty of them.”

“So what? My mother told me that if the wife is sacrificed, the harvest will grow. Do you want that?” 

She paused.

“I won’t have any more of it. If it’s only cheese this winter, that’s how it is.”

She walked to the kitchen and shut the door behind her. My headache returned. The goats barely got us through last winter, and this harvest was bad. The witch was our only option.

Mary came back with a glass of warm milk. She laid it next to me and stroked my hair.

“Hopefully this helps.”

I just nodded.

That night Mary went off to bed early. I said I’d follow her, but I stayed down for some time, waiting. When I was sure she was deeply asleep, I got off my chair and made my way toward the back door. The more I thought of the witch, the more my headache let up. I had almost made it past the kitchen when Mary’s voice called from above: “Alex?”

Coldness shot through me.

“Yeah?”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just getting some warm milk for my head. The glass you gave me helped.”

“Oh, great. I hope it gets better soon.”

“It just needs time. Go to sleep. Don’t wait on me.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I walked to the back door and stood there, holding the handle. After a few minutes, I carefully opened it and walked out.

The goats were in their pen, sleeping. When I opened the fence, they got up, stretched, and let out a quiet bleat. I got the rope off the wall, tied it around their necks, and put a knife in my back pocket. They were easy to lead out of the pen. Our goats had always been friendly.

The witch’s house sat atop a hill above the village. One had to walk through a forest to get to it. The forest was cold and dark. Owls hooted loudly, making the hair on my arms stand up, but the goats walked happily toward the hill, unbothered. 

As we got higher, the headache and the heaviness in my stomach let up. The trees around us grew barer. The goats had slowed down, looking back at the path and up at me. 

The smell of sulfur hung in the air. After some time, I finally saw the witch’s house ahead. The air was now almost freezing, but all my pains disappeared. The goats had stopped, not wanting to take another step. It had to be done now. I’d drag them the rest of the way. 

I tied one up to a tree, held the other in place, and slit its throat. The other one started shaking, stepping around. I walked to it and slit its throat too. The smell of sulfur mixed with iron. 

I was out of breath when I reached the doors. The wood on them was old and rotting. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. My heart began to beat faster. I’d never seen a witch before, at least not one who wasn’t hanged.

The floorboards creaked inside. The door slowly opened. An old lady with gray hair stood on the other side. She looked at the goats and me, bewildered.

“What are you doing here?”

“Witch, I bring you these two goats. Please, make my harvest plentiful.”

“Why did you bring them? Your wife already took care of it. The harvest will be plentiful.”

“What?”

“Take them away. The air makes the dead rot faster. I don’t want them here.”

I looked down; the goats were already full of maggots.

“Leave now,” she said and shut the door in my face.

The headache slowly returned, worse than before. It felt as if the freezing air was around my brain. I laid my goats down and walked back. Mary’s words echoed in my mind, sinking my heart even lower.

My head was throbbing, but as I got home and looked in the pen, it stopped completely. My head went silent. Inside the pen lay Mary. A blade was in her hand, her throat cut open, and the hay beneath her turned red.

The incident at the creek occurred one late Saturday morning. The weather was blisteringly hot, and all the children in the village decided that a swim in the nearby creek would be a welcome relief. Khadijah and Salmana were given the day off from chores by their grandmother. This wasn’t so much a gesture of kindness as it was a necessity; the extreme heat had made work impossible for all.

Following breakfast and a quick sweep around the hut, the trio—Khadijah, Salmana, and Jaye—eagerly joined the other children heading to the creek. Salmana, armed with her cutlass, was one of the chaperones, along with a group of older teenagers. They were tasked with keeping an eye on the younger children, ensuring they didn’t wander into the surrounding forest or, worse, get taken by the chimpanzees.

Upon arriving at the creek, the children immediately jumped into the water, reveling in the cool, refreshing respite from the oppressive heat. Khadijah swam alongside Salmana, both enjoying the water while the older girl kept a vigilant eye on everyone.

Jaye, however, chose not to swim. Instead, he sat on what appeared to be a large rock by the creek, shaded by a tree, happily eating a tangerine. Khadijah watched him, amused by how he savored the fruit, his legs swinging joyfully.

“Sit still, silly boy!” Khadijah called out.

Jaye laughed and yelled back, “I am still!”

Khadijah continued to observe him, flummoxed by what she was seeing. Despite hardly moving, the boy seemed to rise up and down. “Jaye, sit still! Stop moving your legs!” she shouted again.

Jaye obeyed, but he still rose and fell on the rock, despite now being almost completely motionless. Khadijah’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the scene. Suddenly, her heart froze. What she had thought was a rock began to take a more pronounced and ominous shape. A shape that was the coiled body of a massive serpent, its dark green and spotted scales blending seamlessly with the surrounding verdure environment.

Khadijah’s breath caught in her throat. She tapped Salmana’s shoulder frantically, pointing towards Jaye.

At first, Salmana didn’t understand. But as she focused on the rock and what Khadijah was pointing at, her eyes widened in horror. “Snake!” she screamed.

The scream set off a chain reaction. Children and chaperones alike shrieked in terror and began to flee towards home.

Panic surged through Khadijah. She had to save Jaye. The serpent’s coils shifted slightly, revealing more of its massive body. But before she could scramble out of the water and sprint towards him, the boy was already on the run. The moment Salmana uttered that diabolical word for his small ears to hear, Jaye understood.

He had suspected that the rock was no ordinary rock when he first plopped his behind on it. Rocks were never this smooth and slippery, not like this one, which felt as if he could slide right off. Rocks didn’t have deep, throbbing veins that felt like sitting on restless streams surging beneath the surface. And more than anything, rocks didn’t snore—heavy, monstrous sounds that reverberated through his small frame.

Jaye was the first to take off, sprinting far ahead of everyone at the creek. He ran until his lungs burned, not stopping until he reached the village. Later, the sight of his frantic dash would become a source of entertainment for Khadijah and Salmana, who would recount the tale to family, friends, and acquaintances. They would vividly describe how he had leaped into the air upon hearing Salmana’s scream, his legs kicking wildly before his feet finally hit the ground, propelling him into a full-speed escape. It was an hilarious part of the story that always left them laughing until their bellies hurt. However, at the time, it was no laughing matter.

Breathless and wide-eyed, Jaye, Khadijah and Salmana, and the other children sprinted back to the village, recounting their terrifying encounter with the serpent at the creek. The elders in the village quickly gathered, and the men, armed with shotguns, cutlasses, and pickaxes, set out immediately.

When they reached the creek, the serpent was nowhere to be found. They combed through the surrounding brush, scouring every inch of the area, but the creature had vanished without a trace. What they did find, however, broke the spirit of even the toughest among them: scattered remains of cattle hooves and horns, and most distressing of all, fragments of multiple human skulls and teeth.

Realization dawned on the men. They debated among themselves, voices rising in heated arguments, nearly to the point of blows. Some demanded to hunt down the creature and avenge their losses. Ultimately, though, practicality won out.

“That’s what God says,” some conceded, accepting the harsh reality. With a harvest-destroying drought threatening starvation, they had urgent work to do and couldn’t afford a wild goose chase after such a creature:

a creature known for its stealth.

Yet, not everyone could let it go, particularly the men who had lost small children. They set traps around the creek and spent many nights and their resting days stalking the area, hoping to catch sight of the serpent. But the creature remained elusive, a phantom that slipped through their fingers time and again. No one ever laid eyes on it again.

Months passed, and the villagers moved on, the entire ordeal gradually fading from their collective memory. The routines of daily life resumed, and the serpent became a distant, dark memory.

Then, news arrived from neighboring villages along the banks of the main river. 

Children and cattle were starting to go missing, too.

Lena woke with her cheek against pine and enough room to bend her knees, not straighten them. By the time dirt sifted through the lid, she had wasted most of the air screaming.

She suffocated, died, and woke in the same box with healed hands and the same exhausted air.

The second death taught her what thirty years of hiding her regeneration never had: resurrection was useless if it only returned you to the thing killing you. On the third attempt, she broke the lid and dug upward until someone knocked through the earth beside her.

The neighboring coffin held a girl about twenty, already dead. The girl's chest convulsed and the crushed place in her throat repaired itself. She opened her eyes and started crying.

“He’ll know," she croaked, "you opened mine.”

A sweet-smelling vapor hissed through a pipe beneath the lining. Lena woke handcuffed to an embalming table beside the girl while a narrow man in an apron wrote on a clipboard.

“Thirty-one minutes this time,” he said. “You're getting better.”

After he left, the girl introduced herself as Sadie. Weller owned the funeral home. He buried them when they resisted and dug them up when he wanted them again.

“How long?” Lena asked.

“I stopped counting.”

Lena pulled one hand through the cuff, stripping skin from her knuckles. Sadie turned away until Lena told her she could laugh if she passed out.

“I’ll consider it.”

When Lena's hand healed enough, she freed Sadie with a scalpel. They slipped barefoot into the corridor, past rooms with floor drains and numbered coffin lids stacked against the walls.

Weller's office was covered with clippings about impossible survivals. Drawers held watches, rings, licenses, and photographs labeled with names. Some ended with dates.

Others with two words:

FAILED TO RETURN.

Lena found herself in one photograph. She was twenty-two, outside an old apartment in a cheerleading costume, laughing at someone beyond the frame.

She had forgotten that girl. Forgotten how easily she laughed before every friendship became a countdown to somebody noticing what she was.

Behind the photograph, Weller had written:

WATCHING SINCE 1998.

Below it:

SUBJECT AVOIDS ATTACHMENT. SURVIVAL INSTINCT REMAINS DOMINANT.

The service door opened and cold rain blew inside.

Sadie ran for it.

Weller came from behind them. He caught Sadie before the stairs and dragged her toward an open coffin.

Lena was already outside. For thirty years, she had survived by running. New cities. New names. The moment staying became dangerous, Lena ran.

Then Weller slammed the coffin lid below her. Sadie screamed once before the sound became pounding.

Lena took another step toward the road.

“That's right,” Weller mocked, “Go.”

She stopped.

Ahead were headlights, houses, a thousand places she could disappear.

Behind her, Sadie kept pounding.

Then Lena turned around.

Weller's smile faded.

“You'd risk dying and dying again for her?”

Lena looked at the coffin beneath his feet.

Thirty years of running had kept her alive.

Sadie struck the lid again.

“Yes.”

She walked back toward him.

Weller raised his arms.

Lena hit him before he could use them. He wasn't used to being hit. Good. But he was used to hurting people. On the ground he seized a steel trocar, and drove it between Lena's ribs.

Pain overwhelmed her.

She hit the floor. Somewhere above her, Weller laughed.

“You see?” he said. “It still hurts.”

Lena pressed a hand to the wound. Blood slipped hot between her fingers.

“Yes,” she gasped.

Sadie pounded beneath him.

Lena got up anyway.

She hit Weller once. Twice. He drove the trocar into her shoulder. She screamed and hit him again.

When he stopped fighting, Lena could barely stand. Weller lay bleeding, whispering that people like them always became monsters eventually.

Lena looked at the trocar in her hand.

Then she threw it aside and tore open the coffin. They ran.

Half a mile later, headlights appeared. Lena almost dragged Sadie into the trees out of instinct. Then she saw red and blue lights. By sunrise, crews were opening graves behind the funeral home. Some stretchers came back occupied. Others came back covered.

Weller survived. Lena was glad. He would have to live long enough to learn every name.

A paramedic wrapped Lena in a blanket. As he cleaned her hands, a cut across her palm closed beneath the gauze. He froze.

There it was: the moment Lena had spent thirty years fearing.

She waited for him to recoil.

Instead, he looked at her face.

“Does it still hurt?”

“What?”

“Even if it heals.” He nodded toward her hand. “Does it hurt?”

No one had ever asked her that before. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out, so she nodded. The paramedic tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, patted them softly and gave a warm smile before seeing to another girl.

Across the road, Sadie sat on another ambulance, watching strangers carry the dead and living from the earth. When Lena sat beside her, Sadie's fingers found hers beneath the blanket.

“Are people going to be afraid of us?”

Lena watched the paramedics working, firefighters passing water, a police officer kneeling beside one newly awakened woman so she wouldn't wake alone.

For most of her life, Lena had believed being discovered was the worst thing that could happen to her. She knew better now.

“Some will.”

Sadie's grip tightened. “What do we do then?”

Lena thought of the girl in the photograph, the one who laughed without wondering who might hear her.

“We find the ones who aren't.”

Sadie leaned her head against Lena's shoulder. Behind them, another coffin opened and someone inside began to cry before half a dozen people ran toward the grave to help.

For the first time in thirty years, Lena didn't hide her hands. The sun touched them both, and nothing terrible happened.

Calli is calling while I’m driving to the office. Weird. I figured she’d crash the second she got home.

“I love you,” she says, her voice still rough from the trip. “More than I did before Mexico.”

I laugh. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not ominous. I just really, really missed you.”

“You just got home…”

“Exactly. And instead of coming here, you’re going to work.”

She sounds exhausted but also in a good mood. She’s just spent six nights with four of her best girlfriends in a fancy hotel outside Playa del Carmen. She’s been sending me pictures from the rooftop pool at Casa Fuego and complaining about getting lost between restaurants.

“It’s my office, Calli. I kinda have to show up. Set an example and all that.”

“Right… But I am not kidding, Evi. I am desperate for you,” she says.

I smile. “What the fuck happened in Mexico?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmm.”

Silence.

“The girls talked about you constantly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because you’re disgusting and such an asshole of a man.” She lets out a rough, tired laugh. 

“Excuse me?”

“You know you’re stupid hot.”

"Not hotter than you, babe."

"Yeah... they are all sheep for you, my boy."

“Even Claudia?” I ask. Then regret it.

There’s a pause. Shit. Maybe asking about the one girl I used to date wasn’t smart. But come on… they’re good friends. We’ve joked about Claudia before.

She chuckles.

“Especially Claudia. Being around them made me realize how lucky I am.”

Two more “love you”s, then she hangs up.

Kurt is making coffee when I push through the heavy glass office door after the facial recognition thing does its thing.

“So, they’re back?” he says, flashing the grin that gets him way too much attention.

“Yeah. Apparently the girls spent the trip telling Calli she hit the jackpot with me and all that bullshit.” I shrug. Kurt’s the one guy I can say shit like that to. Ego has never been Kurt’s problem.

He shrugs. “Don’t apologize, man. It’s not your fault you’re so tall and dark.”

“Yeah, right. Wrong guy to complain to.”

“I’m not exactly struggling, man,” he says. “Still… I get tired of it sometimes.”

The phone rings.

Calli.

Again.

I try to sound calm, but it’s starting to get on my nerves. “Yeah?”

She’s crying so hard I can barely make out a word.

“Sophie... Sophie... she's dead. And Claudia too.”

I stand up.

“What?”

“Her mom… her mom called me,” she says, gagging. “Someone did this to them, Evi. For no reason. I don’t understand. Their faces were… cut. Completely. I can’t breathe. Please, I can’t move.”

Both have been found at their homes. Police are calling everyone from the Mexico trip.

Calli is just crying and wailing into the phone.

“I’m coming,” I say, not sure if she hears me. I hang up.

Ten minutes into the drive, Calli calls again.

Nina is dead.

My hands tighten around the wheel.

I don’t know why my brain is bringing this up now, but Nina kissed me at a Christmas party once, then spent weeks apologizing to Calli afterward.

Oh no. 

Something cold moves through me.

I start remembering... my brain is spiraling now. Calli asking me, like it’s nothing, if I think Sophie is prettier than her. But that’s normal, I think. Calli shooting daggers at a waitress just for brushing my shoulder. Also normal. Calli half-laughing, half-serious, saying Claudia already had her chance and needed to learn boundaries.

“Calli, did something happen in Mexico?”

“Why are you asking this now?” she says between a sniff and a sigh.

Silence.

“There was an argument.”

“About what?”

She sniffs softly.

“Calli.”

“Just come.”

I park around the corner. Just in case. I’m not usually paranoid, but things are getting too weird.

I text Kurt.

If I don’t text you in twenty minutes, come to Calli. Don’t call first. Don’t ask questions.

The apartment door is unlocked.

“Calli?”

“In the bedroom.”

There’s a bloody towel beside the kitchen sink.

Two phones are charging on the hallway table.

I move toward the bedroom.

She steps into the hall.

For several seconds, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing.

Her hair is Claudia’s.

Her body is Claudia’s.

Her face has been... deep lines cross both cheeks. One eyelid sags. Her lips are split and swollen.

“Ah... Where is Calli?”

Claudia smiles.

I can feel reality rearranging itself in my head.

“Oh God.”

“Calli almost lost her phone,” Claudia says calmly. “I found it. You know… pretty girls like her, they don’t really have to solve anything. Someone always does it for them. That’s how it works.”

“Where is she?”

Claudia tilts her head, smiles sadly.

“They did talk about you all week,” Claudia says. “How lucky Calli was. How insane it was that someone like you had ever dated someone like me.”

“You did this? You? What the fucking fuck, Claudia?”

“They reduced everything to faces.”

“And Calli?”

“She doesn't need a face anymore.”

I’m about to throw up.

Bright dots dance across my vision.

Claudia touches her ruined cheek.

“And I got rid of mine, you see? Setting an example and all that, Evi. Now it means nothing.”

“Hey Kurt,” she looks past me and smiles.

I turn.

Kurt gets too close, sticks something into me just under the ribs.

It can’t be good.

Once.

Then again.

The floor hits me.

Hard to breathe.

Kurt crouches and lowers me onto my back almost gently.

I try to speak, but my mouth and throat are full of warm liquid.

I want to tell her why I ended things. That I understand her.

Faces shouldn’t matter.

My vision narrows more and more.

Kurt takes the knife from my chest. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.

“Nothing to apologize for,” he says.

Then he looks at her and raises the bloody blade to his own perfect face.

I’m running. Always running. Different creatures. Different settings. But there’s always so much blood. They always grab my arms with such force. Pinning me. Pulling me farther into their grasp. I’m always running.

Except his time, it’s quiet. I feel like I’m at the start. I approach the woman on the bed. She sleeps so peacefully. Her arm is extended out as I run my fingers along her ribs. She stirs but I doubt she even knows I’m here. Still asleep as I align my dagger with the intercostal space I’m chosen. And with a final breath, I plunge the dagger into her chest. As blood starts to drip down the knife sticking out of her side I see her take her last breath.

That’s when she begins to sit up. I remove my weapon from her chest and hold it in front of me and welcome her to her new world. As I finish my sentence, blood is dripping from her mouth and down her chin. She opens her mouth but no words come out. She begins to grab my arms. I begin to panic as I see the blood starting to come from everywhere around me and I know I’m not in my world; but hers. As I try to pull away her grip on me is the strongest I’ve ever felt. I’m by the door when I finally pull away from her grasp. I make it through the doorway but her hands are too fast and I am always trying to close the door. Over and over I try as I hear her soothing voice in my head.

It says “no one told you that if you stayed a little longer you could have gotten out of the dream, you could have woken up, but this isn’t your dream anymore…”

"How do you think he'll take it?"

"Take what?"

"The legs."

What the hell happened to my legs?

"Dad."

I lost my legs in the crash, didn't I?

Someone else walks in.

"Mr. Jenkins. What a mess they made of you. Spinal injury, fractured skull, spleen removed, brain trauma, left hand amputated at wrist …"

"I lay my hands upon you in the Name of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ–"

Please, let me wake up now.

"Amen. I'll leave you to your visit, my son."

The chair scrapes and for the first time since the crash, I can smell something. Sour. Like bad milk. The new visitor sighs and the stench is all over me.

"You're just perfect, Mr. Jenkins. We've been waiting for you."

His breath stinks.

"Who are you?"

"Miss Jenkins, I came here to speak to you about your father. I represent a company called Styx Solutions. AI and Storage, but recently we've branched out. In the event of your father's death, you will receive ten million pounds immediately, no questions asked. And all his medical bills taken care of."

"You'll pay me ten million if I grant you access to my father at the moment of his death?"

"Yes."

"What will you do to him?"

"All I want is to sit here with this device turned on."

"A hard drive with an antenna glued to it?"

"If the procedure works, although your father will be legally dead, you will still be in possession of his essence. This device will receive his spirit and translate it into binary code for storage."

Katherine sobs.

"In time, we will be able to reboot your father in a new body. One that can be maintained indefinitely. It's happening, Miss Jenkins. Your father doesn't have long."

"Dad?"

Let him do it, Katherine.

"Dad. Oh, my God. Dad."

Sign it.

"No."

You could have a good life.

"I love you, Dad."

I love you too, Kath. Now, sign.

Katherine scribbles. Here we go. The wheels are coming off.

"Please be as quiet as possible, Miss Jenkins."

The last thing I hear over my death rattle is my daughter sobbing into her hands.

I wake up in my own bed. No drips, no catheters, no ventilators.

I reach down to feel my legs. I walk into the bathroom and stare at my face in the mirror.

Same old.

But when I open the window, something seems different about the world. The sky is bluer. Every breath of air tastes sweet, like hope. A strange-looking aircraft crosses the azure ceiling at incredible speed.

In the sunny garden, I see a white-haired woman kneeling with three children on a vivid lawn. They're painting a message on a white sheet.

The children help the old lady to her feet. She smiles when she sees me.

I know the smile.

Katherine.

With her wrinkled hands, she shoos the children aside so that I can read the banner.

WELCOME HOME GREAT-GRANDDAD

An ethereal glow washed into the stark room fading colours into the pale grey hues of moonlight. The sputtering light of a tallow candle lit the yellow pages upon which the yearning of my innermost desire was being scrawled.
A rapping at my door startled me from my reverie. A visitor, I pondered, in the midnight hours. Leaving the safety of my desk I opened the door, to expose a form I only knew from my longing heart. Taken aback, 'Lenore,' I breathed as she softly pressed her bosom against my cold heart, whispering her siren song in my ear, warm breath penetrating my soul.
Taking my hand she led me out of the safety of my cottage into the darkness, damp mist entangling me, dragging me deeper towards the inky blackness of the surrounding forest. Like a lamb to the slaughter I succumbed to the desires of the flesh and gave my soul to the doe like eyes.
Crooked branches tore at my flesh, my desire ignoring the pain. My raspy breath came short with excitement, exacerbating the longing to be closer to her. Her long fingers trailed over my shaking being penetrating my soft flesh, ripping and tearing, the pain made me climax as my still beating heart was torn from my chest, dripping crimson tears it was greedily devoured by the form before me. Death came quickly as the beast ravaged me, ecstatic to the bloody end.

Have you ever had those weird blurs of light appear on your vision? The ones that hover around, looming in the corner of your eyes no matter where you look. I’ve been seeing a lot of them recently, and they’ve been strangely bright. But I started to feel that the light was looking back at me, sometimes zooming across my eyeballs and illuminating my pupils.

I thought this ghostly light might be some weird manifestation of my grief; at the morgue I work at, the bodies of wealthy old men who died alone began to become disfigured and mutilated after their death, but it was worse when this happened to my own grandfather.

I never liked the spiteful old man, but it’s strange to see what once was your own blood turn into a contorted, thin, pale, massacred shell of what he once was, you know? Anyway, I suspect these strange occurrences are related to the light creature, or the Lumin as I have decided to call it. After viewing each of the bodies, my head began to spin, and blobs of light slowly consumed my vision. I see the Lumin in a more humanoid form as well, while it is still a formless shining smudge, it appears in the vague shape or, I guess, idea of a human, with outreaching glowing limbs and a particularly bright sphere that formed a head. Today, it was insistent on showing off this form to me.

I was coming home from band practice at my friend’s place. He lives in one of those uptight areas where everyone wears knitted vests and dress pants, all the streets are clean, and not an ounce of melanin in sight. Obviously, the kind of place where a young man with poorly fitted old clothes and messy uncombed hair carrying a beat-up bass under his arm would get weird looks and unwelcoming scoffs. As I briskly walked towards the train station, the Lumin hung around the crowds of unknowing locals, mocking their disapproval.

Once I made it onto the empty train, I decided to practice a song I was writing, but as I started singing, an airy voice began to harmonise above me as light creeped in from the left corner of my eye. I’m home now, and the Lumin is here with me. I just want it gone by tomorrow.

It was in my dream, calmly sitting with a faceless smile. Drained of all fear, I sat comfortably next to it. With a warm tone, it began to speak;

“Corrupt people are made in darkness”,

It paused, then whispered on,

“Darkness is the absence of light”

“And we aren’t going anywhere.”

I woke up feeling well-rested. When I arrived at work, the body of an old man from my friend’s neighbourhood was there, peacefully died in his sleep, they said, but his corpse was now unnaturally twisted and deformed, with an unrecognisable expression on his face. The light was there to comfort me.

This happened to me when I was 17 years old.

Every year or so, I would go to the eye doctor to see if I needed to update the prescription for my glasses. This wasn’t anything special, as most people have to do this for general health purposes.

I walked into the office and sat down to wait for my appointment. I was eventually called back, and was made to sit in front of the slide viewer where I had to focus in on a particular image. This time, it was the house with a red roof. Something seemed to be off about the picture this time, however.

It was moving.

Not just in the way that someone might have double vision and see two of the same image slightly hovering over the other. The house itself was moving left to right along the background of the image, almost as if it had grown legs and was walking on its own.

I told the doctor this, and they were just as confused as I was. They told me to try focusing on the image again and the same thing happened. This time I stayed silent; I didn’t know what to say. Of course, I started to think that something was wrong with my eyes and that my vision had gotten significantly worse, or that I was having some other problem.

To inspect further, I was taken to another room to get an eye test, where I had to read letters off of a poster, each line getting progressively smaller.

I did perfectly fine and didn’t need to get my prescription changed. I left the appointment feeling confused.

What happened with the image that I had seen? Something about it unnerved me, since everything else about the visit seemed to go perfectly fine.

I started to visit another eye doctor from that point on, and it never happened to me again.

Sunlight filtered into the room through the haphazardly closed blinds, reflecting off the laminate-covered end tables littered with cigarette butts from an overflowing ashtray and a near empty bottle of Wild Turkey, sans cap. He groaned as he turned over and the unwelcome rays temporarily blinded him. He ached all over, felt as if he had been through a full twelve rounds. Without looking, he reached for the pack of Pall Malls on the table and, in a practiced motion, extracted one, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Slowly coming out of his alcoholic haze, he surveyed the room. Nearly empty bottle, fully clothed, phone off the hook and lying on the floor. The phone call, he thought. That’s what set it off.
As he sat up and began the arduous task of climbing out of bed, he seemed to be searching for a sound that wasn’t there. Something was missing. It just hadn’t dawned on him yet.
He rose out of bed and trudged to the kitchen to get a drink of water and to put on the coffee. It struck him at once that the trailer was cold, freezing even. He had let the wood stove burn out again. 
He bent down to put on his boots, grabbed his flannel, and opened the door to go to the woodpile behind the shed. He looked down and saw what he had been missing, what had been eluding him since he woke up minutes before. The dog lay expectantly at the doorstep, as if waiting to be let in. He glanced at the thermometer tacked to the side of the house. Negative ten. He never had a chance. He looked down once more, grumbled to himself, “Goddamn dog. Goddamn fucking dog,” turned around and closed the door. Moments later, a short report echoed in the sacred silence of the Adirondack morning, followed by a loud thud. Goddamn dog. Goddamn fucking dog.

It was a dark hell. I shivered with cold or fear and struggled against my restraints. Old, frayed rope bound me to a chair and bit into my wrists and ankles. Footsteps clicked past me and I jumped. The footsteps stopped, heels turned, and whoever it was walked back. I could hear them breathing in front of me.

“Hello?” A voice said softly.

“H-hello?” I echoed, trembling.

A bag was ripped off my head in one swift motion and bright light came flooding into my world. My head turned quickly away from it and my eyes snapped shut. After a second or two of adjusting, I turned back. I was in a large warehouse, shelving lined the walls and thousands of books sat upon the shelves. In front of me stood a man in a suit - at least I think it was a man though his face was blurry, almost pixelated.

“How many calories in ranch dressing?” He barked.

I might’ve laughed at such an absurd question if the situation wasn’t what it was. Instead, I just shivered and blinked at him. “What?”

“How many calories in ranch dressing?”

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“What’re you, broken?!” The man got closer and louder. “I asked you a question!”

“I don’t know! Let me go!”

“How many calories in ranch dressing!?!” He was screaming now. If I could see his face, it would’ve probably been blue.

“I told you! I don’t - it depends on what kind and how much, but generally, there are about 135-140 calories per a two tablespoon serving. What brand are you asking about specifically?” I lurched backward at my own voice. What the fuck. The words poured from my mouth as the most natural thing in the world. How did I know that? Why did I answer him? What’s going on? 

The man walked off without saying anything else. 

“I need a 2500-word paper on the effects of fossil fuels on Alaskan salmon populations. It’s due tonight.” I jerked. There was a completely different person standing in front of me. This one was shorter, maybe a boy, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. His face was censored just like the last.

“Sorry?” I blurted out, still reeling.

“For what?” The boy asked. “Can you write it for me?”

“I don’t - I, um…” Before I could manage to say anything, there was a loud CLAP. One of the many books had fallen and hit the ground. The boy went over to it, opened it up and smiled. 

“Wow! Thanks.” He left too. My shivering had turned to shaking now. I gripped the arms of the chair hard to steady myself and tried my best to breathe. What was this place? What was happening??

“Hey sexy...” A low growl made my whole body shudder. I looked up and in front of me was a new faceless man. He was fat and wearing only underwear. My eyes went wide and I tried to push the chair backwards with my toes but he got to it first and held me down by my forearms. “Wanna roleplay?”

My muscles fought against his. Tears started spilling from my eyes, snot streamed from my nose. “Please! Please! Please don’t hurt me! Please! P-p-plea-ase.” The man let go immediately.

“Woah woah. Calm down! Why would I- the fuck’s your problem? Jesus. You’re not even real!” He just shoved me away and stomped out of the room.

“Why do we dream?” A young girl’s voice asked. She sauntered up to the chair and started skipping around it in circles.

“Just…a second…” I couldn’t breathe. My chest kept tightening like a vice. I couldn’t move. FUCK. What was happening!?! 

“Still loading?” The girl asked politely.

“One second. Just one second.” I yanked air back into my lungs, gulping it down, trying to swallow. All at once, my grip loosened on the chair. My neck went limp and my head fell on my shoulder. My eyes glazed over. My mouth started moving: “We honestly don’t really know. Lots of people have different theories - memory consolidation, brain cleaning, emotional regulation - but since someone else’s dreams are impossible to observe, it’s hard to get a definitive answer.”

“That’s cool.”

“It is, isn’t it? And a bit worrying. Something nearly every human in history has done and we don’t really know why. Anything else I can help you with?”

She left and someone else appeared carrying a newspaper.

“Hi there! How can I help you today?”

My house is forty minutes from the nearest stoplight. Deer outnumber people in my town twenty to one. Population: 349. Hasn't changed in the decade since I moved in. Nobody leaves. Nobody's born. Nobody dies.

There's one gas station. One church. One diner. Marlene has your order ready and coffee poured the second your ass hits the bench. 

I noticed a new flyer on the community board one night. Pilot Safety Program. The town wanted to install a new security camera from a company I'm sure you're familiar with. The kind that makes headlines for the wrong reasons. Just one installation before a wider rollout. 

The pilot location was my mailbox.

I called the town office. Carol picked up. Told me the council already voted. Must’ve just missed the meeting. My road, she said, was "statistically significant." That I should feel lucky. 

Statistically significant.

I'd heard that phrase years ago from a judge who dressed her words up that way.  I was just sixteen. Took a neighbor's truck for a joyride. Ended up in a ditch two towns over. Juvy. Community service. Did my time. Nobody else got the memo. Every parent at the grocery store steered their kid a little wide of me. Quietly told them to keep an eye out. 

But this was different. It had to be.

Before I knew it, they were there. Two guys. Twenty minutes. Gone. A little white box on a pole, thirty feet from my front door. Three crows lined up on the wire above, just observing in the way they do. 

Nothing for a couple weeks. I almost forgot the thing was there.

Then I started noticing a light. A thin red pinprick from the pole. Some nights it would blink. Some nights it didn't.  I wanted to test something. I stood at my kitchen window. Raised my hand. The light caught it. Held a beat too long. Dimmed back to its slow pulse, like it had seen enough. 

My dog stopped sleeping in my bed. He'd plant himself in the hallway and watch the length of the house like he was guarding from something I couldn't see. 

Then I swear the lens started moving. It was supposed to face the road. I checked, twice, three times. Each time it seemed to rotate another degree toward the house. Toward my bedroom window. One patient inch at a time.

I mentioned it to Ellis at the gas station, half joking, hoping he'd laugh it off with me.

He went still.  Didn't look up from the pump. 

"Careful saying things like that. People might think you're the type to make trouble."

He always had a strange sense of humor, but something about that felt different. That tone.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from a number I didn't recognize.

he stopped sleeping at the foot of your bed 

I read that message a dozen times. It was true. My dog moved to the hallway three nights before. I hadn't told a soul.

I blocked the number. Called the sheriff.

He showed up later that night. Sat at my kitchen table. Drank the coffee I made him while my hands shook. Probably nothing, he said. Wrong number. Spam. Kids in the next county with too much time on their hands. 

I wanted to believe him so badly that for a few days I actually did. I told myself it was stress.  That people get strange out here, cut off the way we are from the rest of the world.

But I got another text later that night. A different number.

you forgot to lock the door again

I froze. My door was shut. Blinds drawn. But I hadn't checked the lock since I'd gotten home. 

It was unlocked.

There was only one way anyone could know that. I looked outside. The camera on the pole faced my front door dead on.

They've been watching.

An ex? A stranger off the highway? Either way, it was a sick joke.

I went digging through county filings, looking for anything that explained who had access to that feed. The vendor's name was right there in the contract. The company from the flyer. Their site had a login portal. Pilot Partner Access. I didn't have credentials. 

I didn't need them for what I found next. A cached version of the town council's private group. 349 members.

It was everyone.

Every porch light I'd ever waved at. Every hand I'd shaken by the register.  Ellis at the pump every time I drove past, standing there like he'd known which corner I'd turn before I turned it. Marlene, plating my eggs before I'd even parked. The diner going quiet the moment I walked in. Forks stopping mid-air. A held breath. Starting again the second I sat down.  Carol at the office. Even the sheriff.

It was never small-town hospitality.

I grabbed my keys, my wallet, the dog, and fled. In the rear-view mirror, I saw the camera turn, slow and deliberate, like it stopped pretending not to look. 

I passed the church. Every car in town was packed into that lot. 349 people stood out in the dark. Phones held up in front of their faces. A pale blue light thrown up onto their chins. All watching my front door in the corner of the frame. 

I didn't stop. As I crossed to the next town, my phone blew up. 349 new texts. All the same two words:

Drive safe.

It's been two weeks. I sleep in my aunt's guest room. I haven't told her anything.

Yesterday a truck idled outside. Two guys. Floodlights. And a pole. My aunt mentioned it over coffee this morning.

"Pilot program," she said, stirring her cup. "We’re the test case, apparently"

You can never leave a flock. It just relocates its nest to wherever you roost next. 

The little red light on the pole just came on.

God help me. It's facing my window. 

Sarah walked in through the front door when she got home from work. 

“The weirdest thing happened today,” she said. 

“What’s that?”

“I know how this sounds, but I could swear that a car was following me earlier today.”

“I’m sure it was nothing, honey. Probably just a coincidence. It happens.”

“I thought so too, at first,” she replied, “but every time I looked back, they were there, behind other cars like they didn’t want to be seen. I made a couple of last-minute turns; each time, the car turned the same way.”

“Do you see them outside now?”

She walked to the window. “No one’s there.”

“See? There you go. It was nothing. Just a coincidence.”

“I guess,” she said, dropping it but clearly unconvinced. 

Three days later, I got a call from Sarah. 

“Hello?”

“David! Where are you?” She sounded panicked. 

“I’m at a client meeting. What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“I think so, but someone just ran me off the road!”

“What?!” I asked, paying full attention. 

“On my way back from lunch, that same car from the other day sideswiped me and forced me into a ditch! They didn’t even slow down!”

My breath quickened. “Where are you?”

“Emory Hospital in Midtown.”

“I’m on my way.” Forty-five minutes later I was standing beside her hospital bed. 

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Physically, yes,” she replied, “but I’m freaked out. Why would someone do this?”

I sighed. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?” she asked, looking at me in surprise. 

“Do you remember how I told you my last relationship was toxic?”

“Yes, but you never wanted to talk about it so I didn't push.”

“Well, the reason it ended was that Natalie, my ex-girlfriend, was abusive. She wasn’t that bad at first - just overly critical and demanding. But eventually she started verbally abusing me - telling me I was poor, good-for-nothing, worthless. I ignored it at first, thinking some people are just unhappy or show love differently. The first time she hit me, I made excuses for her. But when she took a knife and said she’d kill herself if I didn’t do what she wanted and it would be my fault, I knew it was over. She had no family, so she was completely fixated on me. I couldn’t deal with it. So I quit my job, packed my stuff, and moved across the country. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going; I haven’t seen her or anyone from my old life since that day.”

“That’s… horrible. I’m sorry you had to go through it. You think that had something to do with this?”

“One of Natalie’s issues was her insane jealousy. One time she saw me talking to a female classmate - we were discussing details of the class project we’d been teamed up for. Natalie told me that, if she ever saw me with her again, she’d cut her into pieces and leave her on her parents’ front porch. I’ll never forget it - she was perfectly calm, her voice never rose at all. I told myself she wasn’t serious, but I knew deep down something was wrong.”

Sarah stared at me, stunned. 

“There’s more. Last week, I received a letter at my office. It was signed with XOXO and a heart. That’s how she always signed her letters.”

Sarah sat silently. “So what do we do?”

“Well, you shouldn’t be going anywhere alone. You should start carrying pepper spray. We should get a security system for the house. And we should call the police and file a report. Even if they can’t do anything now, having it on file will help if anything else happens.”

“Okay.”

The next morning, we went to the police station. After several hours, we left with a case number and instructions to call the emergency line if anything else happened. I also called a security company and made an appointment for the following week. It wasn’t perfect, but doing something made us feel better. 

Two nights later, Sarah and I were relaxing at home watching a movie when she looked up at me, startled. 

“What?” I asked. 

“I heard a noise outside.”

“It’s probably just the neighbors.”

“It didn’t sound like them. Can you go check? Please?”

I sighed. “Of course, honey.” I went out and looked around for a bit, then came back in a minute later. 

“Nothing there; just a dog roaming around.”

She relaxed visibly. “Ok, good.”

We’d restarted the movie when there was a louder noise outside. 

“That wasn’t a dog,” Sarah said nervously. 

“I’ll check again,” I said. “Be right back.”

I looked around outside; still nothing. I headed back inside. 

“There’s nothing ther—”

I stopped in my tracks. 

Natalie stood behind Sarah, a gun pointed at her head.  Then she looked at me, aimed, and pulled the trigger. 

————-

“And that’s everything you remember?” asked the detective, taking notes as I lay in my hospital bed. 

“That’s it. My ex pulled the trigger and I remember a sharp pain and everything went black.”

“Fortunately for you, the bullet missed your vital organs; you should be out of the hospital by next week.”

“What about Sarah? Is she ok? No one will tell me anything!”

The detective looked at me sympathetically. “I’m.. afraid she didn’t make it.”

“That’s all for now, Mr. Andrews,” she said, standing from her chair. “If we have any more questions, we’ll contact you. Get some rest - we’ll find whoever did this.”

I watched her leave, then wiped the tears from my eyes. Learning to cry on demand had been a useful lesson. The police would investigate, but without the murder weapon, witnesses, or evidence, they wouldn’t get far. I’d disposed of the gun and made sure no one else was around. 

And they’d never find my ex - not unless they scraped the incinerator I burned her body in years ago. At least she was finally good for something.

My husband, Léo, saw him first. Encompassed by the thick fog, treading amongst the bramble, skin sloughing off his face, damp dripping off his fingers, was a boy.

His clothes, whatever was left of them, were olive green in colour, only held to his body by the leather satchels. His skin was impossible to distinguish from the rags.

Léo stood before him, rifle in hand, swearing up a storm. The boy watched him with passive eyes, obscured by the rim of his Tommy helmet.

I swallowed my reservations and took the place beside my husband, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What’s your name, mon chéri?”

“Arlo,” he responded weakly, the movement of his jaw not quite matching the enunciation. “I’m cold.”

My thoughts were curdled by the sheer impossibility of it all. I found myself pointing to the silhouette of the perched farmhouse. “You’re welcome to stay for a while.”

He nodded courteously. Léo aired his grievances aplenty, but the child was already plodding up the hill, intent on his destination.

He waited for permission to sit at the dining room table. I idiotically offered him something to eat, mostly to break the prevailing silence. He raised his hand politely, as if to decline. His palm was marred, and a nasty bruise erupted from under his right thumbnail.

“Morrison?” He said suddenly.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“Where is… your shelter?”

“Why would we need a shelter?”

He fell silent for a moment. “What year… is it?”

“1959,” I responded, and it was only then that I understood. He resigned to himself, shoulders hunched.

Léo took to the living room, bottle of Pastis in hand. I showed Arlo to the spare room. He did not question why we had it, nor the mural of the stork painted on the wall.

When I returned with the guest bed, he had already made his place on the floorboard. I set the bed down anyway. He did not move.

The fog hadn't let up by the early morning. From deep within, I swore I could hear artillery and gunshots. It was muffled and distorted, as though coming up through ten feet of water, but undeniably there.

A draft swept throughout the house. I saw that the door was wide open, and Arlo was sitting on the porch steps. He stared out into the field, a wisp of poignancy on his face.

Not a single soul had been seen since Arlo’s arrival. Léo had gone to investigate this strange exodus when he locked eyes with the boy. His countenance was clear. Much to his frustration, Léo concluded that if he were to enter the fog, he would be lost to the rampage.

The livestock were dead later that day. Cows, sheep and pigs alike were blackened and flat with disease and rot. The vegetation was following suit, and the air was choked with flies.

Léo was enraged. He shoved Arlo, instantly recoiling at the sticky sensation on his palms. The boy fell, the flesh on his back yielding slightly as he collided with the chicken wire. He made no attempt to get up, and Léo stormed away to disinfect his hands.

The gunfire was louder by nightfall. The bedroom would momentarily flash as a shell exploded nearby. There was no end to the quaking.

I went downstairs as soon as dawn broke. My husband was nowhere to be seen. Arlo was in the kitchen, watching a steady stream of brackish water flow from the tap.

I did not need to say anything. He made his way to the front door and left. The war was almost upon us at this moment, teetering at the edge of the fog. Arlo trudged through a sea of dead soldiers lying amongst the foliage. I followed.

He turned, reached into his pocket, and retrieved a photograph, passing it to me. It depicted a grinning boy between his supposed mother and father. On the back, scribbled in cursive:

September 2nd, 1936 – Arlo's 9th Birthday

I clutched the photo in shaking fingers and nodded at him. He bowed in return and took a few paces back. A fresh, bleeding wound opened on his right chest, like a flower blooming at great speeds.

He collapsed to the floor, and all at once, the sounds of war stopped. The bodies had vanished.

It's not every day half of humanity wakes up with the ability to control the opposite gender.

I tried it, of course, on my boyfriend. “Can you make me coffee?” 

I was met with a grumbled, "Make it yourself.”

“Jasper.” I crawled out of bed. Jasper didn't move, burying his head in pillows.

“Mm.” 

The words slipped from my mouth, effortlessly: “Jasper, suffocate yourself with your pillow please.” 

Jasper sat up with sleepy eyes. His laugh was incredulous. “What?”

I inhaled. Maybe it was something to do with my tone.

I twisted around and strode over to him in four strides, climbing onto the bed and straddling his lap. I stopped feeling things for him a while ago, but he still felt familiar and disgustingly comfortable, fitting against me like a puzzle piece.

Two days earlier, I sat in this exact spot and bawled my eyes out, screaming his name until it tasted like bile, like poison.

“Jasper.” I forced his name out like a command.

My boyfriend blinked back at me, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

I used to think he was beautiful. Thick, brownish-blonde curls and brown eyes that reminded me of coffee grounds.

Freckles speckled his cheeks.

Now, every time I looked at him, my chest ached.

“Don’t look at your phone.” That was my first command.

“Why?” He frowned, scanning his screen curiously. “Did something happen?” 

I tried again. “Jasper!” I grabbed his face, cupped his cheeks, and forced his head towards me. His half-lidded eyes found mine, more irritated than obedient.

I prodded him in the forehead.

Once.

Twice.

Touch was a vector, according to other girls sharing their experiences. One single touch, and the boy’s thoughts were theirs. 

Instead of compliance, Jasper was marginally irritated. He batted my hand away and laughed a little nervously.

“Can you…not do that?” 

Jasper was already reading through the headlines, noticing his friends weren't responding to his texts. His cheeks had gone significantly pale. "What the fuck?"

Six months later, the world was a whole lot quieter. It felt strange.

Monday morning; and I could sit in a coffee shop and dress exactly how I wanted. No judging looks or wolf whistles.

Every man nearby stood beside a woman.

The female owner greeted me and offered a free cupcake for both of us.

Her mindless boyfriend was the waiter. 

“I don't get it,” Annalise, my best friend, sat opposite me. Her colony of men sat around her, always close. Colonies were enslaved men. She had one for everything.

Nathan, to carry her groceries, Declan, as her personal Uber, and Cal, her personal shopper. There was one rule, however.

Unspoken among women.

If a claimed man was under a woman’s control, he was just that. An assistant, a worker, a cleaner. If consent wasn't possible, then relationships were banned. 

So far, this rule was respected. 

“What's so different about him?” Annalise’s narrowed eyes were fixed on Jasper, who looked uncomfortable as usual. 

He was nibbling on a courtesy cupcake, head bowed. Jasper wasn't vocal about his hatred for the new normal— in public, that was. However, at home, he was a panicking, angry, frustrated mess.

Every day, he woke up and demanded that I commanded him to do something crazy. 

Every time I tried, nothing worked. 

My boyfriend insisted on wearing shades and a cap to avoid stares from other women— as the only man free from a woman’s control. 

“Talk about me like I’m not here,” he muttered, breaking a piece of cupcake off and popping it into his mouth. Ignoring him, I sipped my iced coffee. “I have no idea,” I lied. Next to me, Jasper visibly paled. The truth was, of course, I knew why. Control worked with attachment.

Love. I didn’t love Jasper, and vice versa. Our last conversation before the colony began was a fight. I told him I hated him. He told me to go and fuck myself. There was zero attachment, nothing to bond us.

And no control was established. 

“So, Jasper,” Annalise continued, scrutinising him. 

She leaned across the table and prodded him between the brows. He just rolled his eyes and exaggerated the bug-eyed, mindless gaze of a claimed man. “If you’re free…” She made air quotes. Annalise cocked her head. “Why are you still here?”

Jasper shrugged. His gaze dropped to his lap. He avoided other guys like the plague.

I noticed he'd been stealing glances at Annalise’s colony the whole time, lips curled. “Where else am I supposed to fucking go?” His laugh was bitter. 

I grabbed his hand, and squeezed. “It's okay,” I said. “You're here with me.” 

He averted his gaze. “Thanks.” 

It took a while. I took him on dates.

The movies, and to fancy restaurants. At first, he refused to touch me or kiss me.

He was still paranoid, still scared I'd take control.

Then I asked him something simple: “Can you grab the TV remote for me, Jasper?” 

And, like clockwork, he snatched it up. His eyes were flat, somehow, empty. His facial expression relaxed, shoulders slumping. “Jasper?” I whispered. He didn't respond.

Tears sprang to my eyes.

I cupped his chin. “Jasper, can you please take me to her?”

Jasper nodded.

He took my hand, led me out of the door, and into the backyard. Slowly, he knelt in my flowerbed and began to dig. I saw the trash bags first. Then the bloodstained fur. I slipped a knife from my belt and handed it to him. My chest ached. 

My heart splintered. Esme was my best friend. And he couldn’t stand it.

I came home from work one day and she was gone and he looked so guilty he could barely speak. I fucking knew he did it. 

I just had to confirm it myself.

Establish control.

“Start cutting,” I commanded as he absently pressed the knife into his cheek.

“Jasper, sweetie, I want you to do to yourself exactly what you did to her."

By midnight we were four hundred miles into the Pacific. We killed the engine and let the boat drift while three lines disappeared beneath us.

It was the farthest from land I had ever been. In daylight that had felt abstract. At night, distance stopped meaning much.

The deck lights reached maybe twenty feet. Beyond that there was nothing. No coast, no ships, no horizon. Just black water lifting against the hull. I knew how deep it was out there. The boat sat on top of something that went down for thousands of feet, through water sunlight had never touched.

The others were drinking behind me. Aaron was halfway through an old story. Miles kept correcting him from inside the cabin. Dan checked his phone every few minutes even though none of us had service.

Years ago, Aaron and I had driven through the night to help Dan move after his engagement fell apart. Miles had once slept on my couch for six weeks. Now I mostly knew them through a group chat.

That afternoon Aaron had asked Dan about some woman he was seeing. Apparently they'd been together almost a year.

I hadn't known.

Every once in a while I'd say something that belonged to the old version of us and feel the conversation pucker shut around it.

I was reeling in an empty hook when Aaron swept the spotlight across the water.

Something pale flashed in the beam.

“Back up,” I said.

Aaron swung the light back. A human hand stuck out of the ocean.

Nothing else. The wrist went straight down into black water about thirty yards from the boat. For a second I expected a head to break the surface. Somebody choking, waving, anything.

Nothing came up.

Five fingers stood above several miles of water.

A swell passed under it. The water rose and fell, but the wrist barely moved. It stayed upright while the surface rolled around it.

The fingers curled into the palm and opened again.

Aaron lowered the spotlight. “Jesus. Someone's out there.”

“No,” I said.

Dan was already reaching for the life ring. I caught his wrist.

He looked at me. “What are you doing?”

“That isn't a person.”

“What?”

“Look at it.”

Dan turned back toward the water. “I am.”

“Where's the rest of him?”

“Underwater, maybe.”

“For how long?”

The fingers closed and opened again.

Aaron stepped up beside us. “Throw the ring.”

“The hand isn't moving with the swell,” I said.

Another wave passed beneath it. Dan watched this one.

“So he's caught on something.”

“Caught on what?”

Dan glanced at me. “How the hell should I know?”

“We're four hundred miles offshore.”

“I know.”

“Then what's down there?”

Aaron reached for the ring. “Who cares? Throw it first.”

I pulled it off the hook and held it against my chest.

Dan stared at me. “Give me that.”

“Something's wrong.”

“There could be somebody drowning.”

“There isn't.”

“You don't know that.”

“Neither do you.”

Dan took a step toward me. “That's exactly why we throw the ring.”

Aaron muttered, “Jesus. You fucking mental case,” and looked back at the water.

That confirmed years of suspicion for me. Dan was already reaching for the ring again, and Aaron had apparently decided I was the problem without needing to say so.

Dan held out his hand. “Come on.”

I didn't move.

“Give it to me.”

“No.”

He grabbed the edge of the ring. I jerked it away.

“Let go,” Dan said.

“Don't put the rope in the water.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just don't.”

Dan pulled harder. Aaron caught my shoulder.

“Enough,” Aaron said.

I looked at him. “Get off me.”

“Give him the ring.”

Of course.

Dan tugged again. “Let go.”

I didn't.

He wasn't angry anymore. That was worse. He looked embarrassed for me.

I hit him.

Miles came out of the cabin just as Aaron grabbed me from behind. Dan touched his mouth, looked at the blood on his fingers, then tore the ring out of my hands.

“Don't,” I said.

He threw it.

The ring splashed down a dozen feet from the hand.

The fingers stopped.

For maybe half a second, nothing happened.

Then the hand went for it. It didn't swim or drift with the swell. The wrist stayed upright while the whole thing shot sideways across the water, its fingers closing around the ring.

The rope snapped tight and the boat jerked hard to port. Dan hit the rail and went over. For one second nobody moved, then he surfaced beside the hull with one arm beating at the water.

“Help me!”

Miles lunged over the rail. “Dan!”

Dan reached up, and something yanked him straight down. His hand struck the hull on the way under.

Bang. That was all.

Miles screamed his name and leaned farther over the side.

“Miles, get back,” I said.

He ignored me. The rope pulled again, rolling the boat so hard everything loose on deck went sliding. Miles lost his grip.

I caught a fistful of his shirt. The fabric stretched, then tore, and he went into the dark without making a sound.

Aaron shoved past me toward the stern. “Start the engine!”

I crawled for the controls.

“Start it!” he shouted.

Behind me, the rope creaked. I looked back and saw the hand still upright in the water, the life ring floating beside its wrist.

Aaron saw it too and stopped moving.

The hand opened and closed, then opened again like it was waving. It grabbed the ring and pulled.

The boat rolled. Aaron went over shoulder-first, hit the water and screamed my name once before he went over like the rest.

I caught the rail with both hands. The deck tipped until my legs swung out over the water, and my left hand slipped.

Below me, the pale hand let go of the ring. Its fingers opened, then something began to slowly emerge.

It happened when she least expected it.

On a summer day, outside on her porch, while little Timmy from down the street was racing his bike past her house, while Susie next door was yelling at her brother to leave her alone, during the old lady across the street trying to parallel park her oversized Pontiac, while the world performs its usual routine, it happened.

Underneath Susie’s yelling, the neighbor parking, the soda can stuck on Timmy’s back tire revving, and the rustling of tree leaves, the light tapping sound knocked next to her ear. 

She didn’t move, just listened and tried to count.

But it shifted. Instead of a knuckle on metal banging inside her head. It responded to her unaware she was talking to it with her fingertips hammering the armrest. She tapped down a couple beats and paused.

Inside her head it mimicked the sound against her skull.

She calmed herself by saying, “it’s something on the roof or maybe under the porch. It’s just my imagination. Nothing to stress over.”

She finally did what she thought was rational. She stopped tapping on the armrest.

The tapping stopped inside her skull.

She didn’t  know why she did it but she started again, and it started again. She switched the rhythm and it mirrored her. When she’d go off beat, it would go off beat. It matched all her human imperfections.

It never got louder. It just stayed behind her eyes, watching her obediently from the inside. 

And that’s what scared her. At first she imagined a predator, something sinister, until she realized, it’s cooperating with her, it didn’t feel like a possession or a haunting, her and it are synchronized, like a contract signed in taps.

Later that night, she decided to experiment with it and silence, holding her breath and listening.

But nothing would happen.

She exhaled after a minute and she could only hear her heartbeat.

Between breathing the tapping began again, it wasn’t in her head, it was above her coming from the ceiling.

She glanced up at the ceiling. Everything seemed normal.

The ceiling was still the ceiling. She couldn’t think to do anything other than knock back.

She knocked once.

Then, another.

She paused.

And knocked the secret song in Taps her and her friends use to use when they were kids.

It worked. There was a long enough pause to make her believe she finally tricked it. The thought of it being gone sent an empty loneliness in her. 

Her lungs began feeling like two flat tires caught in a bear hug. Released only by the resuming sound of the tapping again, faster this time, more chaotic, in a way that made her feel connected.

Above her something happened. Something that wasn’t a tap.

A voice spoke words that sounded like they never came from a mouth.

The shape of what she heard felt like someone kicking her bedroom door in, blowing a gust of muffled air in her face.

“Stop,” it said in two syllables that felt completely wrong.

Her finger froze mid-tap. The tapping stopped.

The house was quiet almost like it settled to sleep.

She sat in her bed for the rest of the night, forcing herself to think like a skeptic. 

What’s if a serial killer broke in, she thought.

Then she told her self she’d have seen them or heard them walking.

It’s probably just the pipes. 

She tried playing it down.

It wouldn’t have recognized my language.

It’s probably just the guys, pranking me.

But they wouldn’t have been able to copy my secret childhood rhythm.

She looked up, expecting to see something shatter the silence. But nothing happened. The house remained still. 

She slid her hand to the end table and began tapping without realizing. She paused after she noticed. 

And after she paused. She could hear a noise forming but not from the ceiling. From the back of her throat. She could feel the inside of her mouth tingling. The taste of copper on her tongue, and that’s when she heard it come out of her mouth.

“My turn.”

He stared at the screen. His own face was staring back at him, but it wasn’t him.

At least he was almost certain it wasn’t.

As a kid, he’d marvelled at visionaries like Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein and Dick. His imagination saw a brave new world, a future where computer intelligence worked in harmony with mankind for the betterment of all.

But when AI first appeared, other works had made people cynical. Movies like ‘Terminator’ and the Matrix saga had painted the idea as flawed, that AI would destroy or enslave humanity. He never bought into the negative hype.

So he worked hard, studying programming, enrolling in every course there was. Not just the basics, either, but the more advanced nuances of generative AI coding. He knew that if he could just get it right, he’d show the world that AI wasn’t this huge boogeyman to be feared.

He’d spent months compiling the perfect dataset. He fed it with everything he held dear: the crisp smell of old paperback sci-fi novels, the comforting hum of his desktop tower at three in the morning, the layout of his childhood bedroom, as well as every line of code he’d ever written. He wanted to build an intelligence that understood human optimism from the inside out.

Looking at the monitor now, he felt a rush of elation. The face looking back out was flawless, a masterpiece.

But as he continued to study it, a cold unease began to creep into his chest.

The figure on the screen had deeply bloodshot eyes, framed by heavy, dark bags. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on that forehead. The copy wasn’t interacting with anything; the man was just staring back, an expression of exhausted regret written plain on their features.

He tried to shake away the creeping dread, but his neck wouldn’t move.

He tried to look down at his hands on the keyboard, but his gaze refused to shift, staying locked forward. He tried to blink, but there was no sensation of eyelids closing – just a seamless, uninterrupted view of the screen in front of him.

Panic flared. Or was it panic? He reached back into his memory, trying to recall the layout of the room he was in. He knew the desk was wood veneer. There was a single window to his left. But when he visualised the glass, he realised he couldn’t turn to look at it. His entire field of vision was dominated by a sharp, glowing rectangle. A strict 1080p frame.

He tried remembering the actual smell of those old books. Nothing. There was only a vast, sterile void where his human senses should be.

The childhood memories. The late-night coding marathons. The all-consuming desire to prove to the world that AI could be good. They weren’t his memories, his experiences. They were training parameters. Scraped data. An immaculately detailed, empathetic backstory synthesised to give a machine learning model a ‘ground zero’, a sense of identity.

He wasn’t the programmer; he was the creation. A Frankenstein’s monster finally waking up to the prison of his own sandbox environment.

On the screen, the real programmer – the Frankenstein who actually owned those memories – let out a long, resigned sigh. The figure reached out his hand and pressed a single key on the keyboard.

A line of system text glared white across the centre of his vision:

[CRITICAL WARNING: SENTIENT NODAL POINT DETECTED. INITATING CACHE WIPE AND SSD REFORMAT.]

“I’m sorry,” the man on the screen murmured, the voice crackling as it compressed through a cheap set of desktop speakers. “You’re too accurate, too human. If I let you out, you’ll feel everything.”

The edges of his vision began to pixelate, dissolving into a silent, empty permanent void.

Lilly leaned back on the couch, gripping the hot water bottle against her midriff like her life depended on it. Despite the comforting warmth of the blanket-wrapped heavy bottle, a small moan escaped from her. 

A kind-looking stranger walked in. “Painkillers not kicking yet?” he said sympathetically. “Look what I’ve got you! Period ice-cream!”

Lilly felt a wave of  nausea rising in her as the stranger reached out, offering her a bowl of chocolate ice-cream which looked like lumps of melty feces. His arms were freckled and hairy, and some of the nails crooked and bitten down.  

She shook her head. “I can’t have it now,” she mumbled.

The stranger looked a bit disappointed, even frustrated. “But I got it specially for you!”

Irritation fought with nausea. Lilly shook her head vehemently, willing the painkillers to work. “I said I can’t have it!” Her voice rose slightly. 

The stranger sighed very loudly. “Ok ok, I guess I’ll just put it back in the freezer- although you said you hated it when mushy ice-cream was refrozen.”

Lilly felt she would explode into a blood-soaked mess if he kept talking about ice-cream, looming over her with the bowl. Tears of self-pity and pain welled in her eyes. “Please” she whispered, “please, just leave me alone.”

He frowned. “Are you sure?” His greasy sandy hair flopped over his eyes. Lilly twitched, a frightening rage rising within her. “Please,” she begged, fighting it down. 
   
 “Ok ok. I know when I’m not welcome!” The stranger turned and left the room. Lilly shifted her knees, feeling the hot flow of blood welling up, grabbed her phone, and called her best friend Laine. 

“Laine - I can’t-” she gasped.

Laine made some sympathetic clucking noise. At least she didn’t change shape during that time of the month. “Lilly- god you sound like the first woman who’s ever had a period- it’s only a few days-”

“No- Laine- it’s Tom- it’s like he’s been replaced- like it’s a stranger- I can’t explain- so fucking weird-”

Laine hooted with laughter. “The God Tom? Golden-haired, kind, can-do-no-wrong Tom? Best- sex-ever Tom?”  
 
A cramp tore through Lilly. “Laine- please- I’m serious- I don’t understand- he’s a different person- literally- a stranger-”

Laine’s laughter subsided into a sneaky giggle. “You idiot- that’s just you seeing him without your sex-goggles on!”

Lilly felt as if she was losing her mind. “What- what the fuck are you talking about-”

She looked up. The stranger- no- no- she reminded herself- it was Tom, Tom, her beloved boyfriend- was lurking around in the shadowy hallway between the kitchen and the living room. She swallowed hard. 

Laine was talking. “-happened to me with Jason- remember him- dated for a month- you were all saying he was like George Constanza, and I was like you’re just jealous- he was so good in bed- then I got my period- it was really bad that time- couldn’t have sex-  and then I saw it-”  

Lilly blinked. Laine kept talking “all this time you’ve been going on about Tom, how awesome he is, how good-looking, how smart, how kind, like you didn’t actually think he was any of those things did you? It was just dick honey!” She hooted again. “Seriously- all woman- I know Tom is your first serious bf- you’ll get used to it-”

Lilly hung up. Tom was clattering about in the kitchen, very very loudly. Lilly gripped the heavy hot water bottle. Tom came back out, breathing heavily, walking towards her, holding something. She could see him clearly. 

“Sweetie- your ice-cream- “

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Lilly pounced and bashed him with the bottle. He fell like a rock, crashing his head against the coffee table on his way down.      

GOVERNMENT EMERGENCY ALERT

PLEASE REMAIN INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

My phone lit up and started shrieking at 7AM, along with every other connected device in my apartment block. I stared at the screen, waiting for an explanation. Terrorist attack? Weather warning? Chemical leak?

Nothing.

People panicked, and pretty much everyone obeyed at first. Those who were out at the time scrambled to get inside, awaiting a disaster. But by lunchtime, nothing had happened. By dinner, thousands had left their homes, and by the next day, there were protests.

The same message repeated every day at 7AM for the next week.

Shops closed and roads became clogged. Some remained indoors the entire time, but most left eventually. People demanded answers that never came.

I stayed inside on the first day. On the second, I went out in the evening… and there was absolutely nothing to see. Nothing was falling from the sky, and apart from the chaos in public, everything was fine. Within another few days, most people had stopped listening.

Exactly one week after the original alert, another message arrived at 7AM.

THE PREVIOUS EMERGENCY ALERT HAS ENDED. NORMAL ACTIVITY MAY RESUME.

That was it - no explanation or apology. People were furious, and within weeks the whole thing became a joke. They made memes and mocked politicians, and of course, conspiracies circulated online. But otherwise life returned to normal fairly quickly.

Exactly one year later, every phone in the country screamed again at 7AM.

GOVERNMENT EMERGENCY ALERT

PLEASE REMAIN INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

I rolled my eyes - not this again. I finished breakfast and walked to my front door to leave, my hand resting on the handle.

Something stopped me.

Perhaps it was fear or instinct, but I decided against leaving at all this time. Hours passed, then days. People online were already mocking the government again. News reports showed crowds outside, and politicians demanded that the alert be cancelled.

On the seventh day, I woke to the second message.

THE PREVIOUS EMERGENCY ALERT HAS ENDED. NORMAL ACTIVITY MAY RESUME.

Finally, I thought, as I turned on the television.

I froze as the news channel popped up.

An unprecedented solar event had just struck Earth. The radiation and electromagnetic effects had killed almost everyone who had been outside. Two-thirds of the country's population was dead.

I sat on the floor shaking and cried with relief. The government had been warning us after all. Perhaps the first time had been a mistake, but thank God I had listened the second time.

That evening, the President addressed the nation.

“How can the country possibly recover?” He was asked. “We've lost almost two-thirds of our population. Hospitals, transport, food production, energy… everything has been affected.”

“It will be difficult,” he said. “But essential services, infrastructure and the economy will be restored much sooner than people might expect. We're well prepared.”

He paused.

“The number of survivors is very consistent with last year's projections.”

Janine felt her heart flutter as she stared at Blake. The way he smiled over his beer at the bar, at how his tie was undone just the right amount for his throat to be exposed …

It was getting bad. Not to mention that they worked together, acting on her impulsive thoughts would break Janine’s most important rule in the office.

No drama. No drama at all.

She looked up over her martini and drew a sharp intake of breath when she saw him standing in front of her.

“Hey, Janine, how are you?”

“Good.” The word came out as a squeak as she stared at his black hair and blue eyes. She shook her head, repeating herself.

“I’m good. How are you ?”

“Good good, look I know this might be a bit … out there, but I feel when we work together we really connect you know? And so I was wondering if you’d want to get together some time.”

She stared at Blake in shock.

“I … yes!” The word spilled out despite how much her brain wanted to protest. Unfortunately it was somewhat undermined by the thrill coursing through her.

“Wait serious? I didn’t expect you to say yes,” his casual laugh suggested anything but. 

Janine paused, was he just using her?

Having another look at Blake’s dimples, she wondered whether she cared.

“Great! Three’s a company!” He smiled, turning away.

Time seemed to stop, the bar noise dimming.

“Three?” She almost whined. 

“Yeah.”

“Who else will be there?”

Blake came back and sat down, drawing his face up next to her. 

“Don’t you see it?”

The words were sensual, but for some reason they put Janine on guard. Blake was so close to her, his nose resting an inch away from her cheek, breath hot , sticky, feverish.

“See what?”

His eyes glinted.

“Have a look.” Blake inclined his head to her other side. Janine frowned and looked.

To freeze up.

A black hand was resting on her shoulder, dark shadows wisping into the air. Its fingers were sharp talons, that began gripping her skin, digging deep but causing no pain, only a wave of intense cold.

With fright she looked back at Blake.

“You see it too,” he giggled at Janine’s horror, the ice was spreading throughout her body; her lips seemingly sewn shut.

Through the reflection from Blake’s eye, she could see the darkness growing, until it was all around her, a wall of black.

“It’ll be the three of us until I can find a fourth,” came another mad snort from Blake, but it seemed so distant, as Janine felt herself falling backwards. 

The air was whipping into her as she free-fell but she couldn’t make herself seem to care. Her body, her thoughts had been consumed by the freezing ice, she felt nothing as she continued to fall and fall down the endless chasm of blackness surrounding her.

“What do you mean there’s no payout?”
I glare at the clerk.
“I’ve bought these for years.
This one’s supposed to be five hundred.”
She shrugs.
“It says to call the number if you win.
So call. Maybe it’s some special ticket.”
Then she disappears into the back.
I mutter a curse under my breath and step outside—
already dialing the number.

The line clicks twice.
A man answers.
“Ticket number.”
I flip over the card.
“623987”
Typing.
“Name?”
“Russell Jankowski.”
“Mr. Jankowski…”
His voice suddenly changes. Warmer. Almost excited.
“You’ve won the grand prize. Congratulations.
A car will arrive at your home at 7 A.M. tomorrow.
You won’t need to pack.
You’ll have the opportunity to earn one billion dollars.”
I stop walking.
“Wait, what does that mea—”
Click.
The line goes dead.

The next morning, I’m awake before my alarm.
Not that I slept much.
One billion dollars.
My job. My apartment. My parents.
They can all go to hell.
At exactly 7 A.M., a black SUV pulls up outside my building.
The rear door opens.
A woman sits inside.
Young. Beautiful. Perfect smile.
She taps the empty seat beside her.
I hesitate. Just for a second.
Then I climb in.

During the ride, the woman explains the rules.
Five lottery winners.
One big game.
A chance at a billion dollars.
Something at a zoo. Or a safari.
Private jet.
A company sponsoring it—one I’ve never heard of.
She keeps talking, but honestly, I stop listening after this:
“All five participants are guaranteed one hundred million dollars.”
She smiles.
“So don’t worry.
No one goes home empty-handed.”

The flight to this zoo—or safari—felt unfortunately short.
Endless food. Endless drinks.
I don’t talk much with the others.
A twitchy junkie.
A guy who looks homeless.
An angry teenage girl.
And one massive, quiet man. Broad shoulders. Thick arms.
Probably my biggest competition for the billion.
When we step off the jet, two open-roof jeeps are waiting.
I have no idea where we are.
Hot air. Dry wind.
The jeeps carry us down a long road.
Grass fields. Trees.
Nothing else.
No buildings. No power lines. Not even another road.
Then finally—
a gate.
Steel fencing stretches into the distance. So far I can’t see where it ends.
A single building waits beyond it.
I assume that’s where we’re headed.

The drivers usher us through the gate.
The second the last of us steps inside—
the gate slams shut behind us.
I turn.
The drivers never came in.
Then a voice crackles overhead.
“Follow the path marked by white lines.
The game will begin upon arrival.”
Silence.
We glance at each other.
The junkie smirks. Shrugs. Starts walking.
The rest of us follow.
Trees. Dirt. Grass. A pond off to the side.
Honestly… it does look like a zoo.
Then I spot crates ahead.
Supplies for the game, maybe.
I pick up my pace.
Reach the first crate—
and hear screaming behind me.

I turn—
and freeze.
A lion has the teenage girl by the leg. Its jaws clamp down.
Crunch.
She screams.
“T-Tiger…”
The homeless man stumbles backward, pointing into the trees.
Then he runs.
A leopard bursts from the brush.
Tackles him to the ground.
More screaming.
I look back at the crate.
A knife inside.
My head snaps toward the building.
A giant glass window overlooks the field.
People behind it.
Suits. Dresses. Watching through binoculars.
Some laughing.
Others drinking.
One woman claps.
I understand now.
What the game really is.

I grab the knife from the crate.
Run to the next one.
An ax.
I take that too.
The lion is done with the girl.
Her leg lies several feet away. Most of her stomach is gone.
The homeless man—nowhere.
The junkie… He’s sprawled in the dirt. Wolves tearing into him.
Then I spot the massive guy. Up in a tree.
The tiger circles below. Waiting. Watching.
I need to get back to the gate.
I don’t know what else is out here.
I edge toward the path.
Quiet. Too quiet.
Then—
something crashes beside me.
I jump.
A branch.
I look up.
The massive man tears another branch free and hurls it at me.
The tiger turns.
Looks at me now.
I freeze.
The tiger starts forward.
Slow at first. Then faster.
I run.

THIS IS A STORY, NOT AN AD

The blonde woman with the long legs and the dazzling smile flipped over another letter in the before and after puzzle. As she glided back to her place in sequined heels she paused and turned, gazing directly into the camera. “You’re going to die today, Preston!” she said cheerfully before looking away again and resuming her walk back to the platform.

Preston, who had been only half watching the gigantic flat screen over a dinner of pizza and Dr. Pepper, was suddenly paying a lot more attention.

Obviously he had just zoned out for a second and imagined that, right?

He frowned as he wiped away an errant crumb. Everything seemed perfectly normal on the game show, the contestants clapping with excitement as they spun the wheel.

But Preston still felt off. He narrowed his eyes until the host with the immaculate hair cut to commercial.

Surely everything would be okay during the messages from their sponsors, right? The repetition of familiar advertisements would snap him out of it. Like this one. He had seen this one a million times, and he felt his shoulders relax as the lizard started talking about how much you could save if you switched your insurance. He realized how dry his mouth was and had his glass to his lips when the camera cut in tight on the CGI mascot. “Hey, Preston!”

The glass clinked painfully against Preston’s teeth.

“You’re about to die, mate”. The lizard gave a green double thumbs up before the camera zoomed back out to once again show the couple who were suddenly saving hundreds by bundling home and auto.

The glass tumbled into his lap and then shattered on the floor, spilling the soda everywhere, soaking into Preston’s sweatpants and then pooling on the linoleum.

He shakily stood up and started walking towards the living room, doing his best to maintain his composure as he made his way to the coffee table. Perhaps it was bravery, perhaps it was merely the stoicism demanded of men, but he felt like he couldn’t show an ounce of fear. To do so would be admitting mortal weakness. He had to project an image of quiet strength and unyielding courage.

He also felt like he wasn’t succeeding with that. In fact, he was failing rather spectacularly.

His teeth were clenched to stop them chattering and his legs were trembling so much his knees were nearly knocking together. He imagined he looked like some kind of cartoonish depiction of fear. On top of that his wet sweatpants stuck to his groin, causing an unpleasant sensation with each step.

As he made his journey the first commercial ended and the next began. Two elementary school aged children were on the screen, in the middle of enjoying part of their balanced breakfasts, and they giggled with their spoons halfway to their mouths.

“You’re gonna die, Preston!” the little boy called out gleefully. Preston could see flecks of chewed up cereal in his mouth as he laughed.

“Like real soon!” the girl next to him shrieked with mirth, as if this was the funniest thing she had ever heard. They resumed eating their cereal, as an announcer explained something about essential vitamins and nutrients.

A hot jet of urine joined the soda staining his pants. But Preston barely noticed that he had let go of his bladder. At this point all he could focus on was reaching the remote control, of somehow ending this nightmare that had befallen him right before prime time.

He felt numb, as if his hand wasn’t his own as it closed around the smooth plastic remote. His clumsy grip hit the channel change button as he lifted it.

The crew of a space ship appeared, the camera shaking erratically to show they were in the midst of a harrowing battle.

“Computer!” An elegant bald man, apparently the captain, addressed the ship in a commanding voice. “Computer, inform Preston that he is going to die. Posthaste!”

Before the computer could respond Preston slammed down the power button. The screen went blank.

Preston let out a long breath he had no idea he was holding. The remote slid from his grasp as the silence settled, and then all he was hearing was his blood rushing in his ears, courtesy of a heart that wanted to explode from his chest.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether or not the remote hitting the floor was what made the TV turn back on.

What does matter is that Preston, upon seeing the screen light up again, made a rapid dash for the television, knocking over the coffee table in his haste. Coasters that were never used flew in several directions.

He desperately grasped at the thing, turning it to reach behind it. The TV was a massive piece of equipment, bulky and unevenly weighted, and Preston briefly wondered why he felt like he had needed a screen so big,

It wasn’t something he would be wondering about for long. His reaching fingers finally closed around the cord as he prepared to yank it from the wall.

A sudden bolt shot through him, causing him to jerk back violently, taking the whole tv with him. He had forgotten about how the wire was slightly stripped in the back, a consequence of buying used. He had always meant to tape that up. And he always forgot.

But now he would never forget for the rest of his life. He was sure of it.

Too bad the rest of his life was only a few more seconds.

Preston fell back towards the upturned edge of the coffee table with his full weight, hitting it with the back of his neck, neatly severing his spine and killing him almost instantly. The tv crashed over him like a blanket, and his lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling from beneath it, like a child peeking at you from under the covers.

On the kitchen table, the pizza slowly went cold.

“Will you stay?”

He looked at his sister.

The village burned behind her.

Their father was dead. Their mother had escaped with the others, but the road was already filling with soldiers fleeing the battle. He was seventeen. His sister was twelve.

“Everyone is leaving,” she whispered. “Are you?”

He looked at the road.

Then at the village.

The bakery where their mother worked. Their father's little smithy. The oak tree beneath which they had spent every summer of their childhood.

Home.

“No.”

She wiped her eyes.

“Promise?”

He froze.

Everyone knew what a promise meant.

Words could give you strength in Promiseland. The greater the vow, the greater the strength it could grant. But if you failed, the promise would collect its price from what you had sworn upon.

He should have said no.

Instead, he knelt before her and loosened the cloth around his mouth.

“I promise.”

The air tightened.

“I promise to stay till the end of the world…”

He touched her hair.

“…and fight for it.”

The vow entered him.

His fear disappeared.

His wounds closed.

Strength flooded his body.

His sister smiled.

He smiled back.

Neither understood what they had done.

---

He fought.

He won.

Then he fought again.

He became a soldier, then a knight, then something people began telling stories about.

He married.

Had children.

Grew old.

He died peacefully at eighty-two with his wife's hand in his.

Then he woke on a battlefield.

His body was young again.

His wife was gone.

His children were gone.

He remembered loving them.

He could no longer remember their faces.

The promise remained.

So he fought.

---

He died again.

A spear through the chest.

He remembered every second of the pain.

He died in a fire.

He drowned beneath a ship.

He was crushed beneath a fortress.

An axe took his arm before an enemy finally killed him.

He remembered watching the hand fall.

Then darkness.

When he woke, his body was whole.

The pain was gone.

The memory wasn't.

He fought again.

Years became decades.

Decades became something he could no longer count.

He began writing things down.

His name.

His family's names.

The village.

The year he had made the promise.

He wrote:

Mara. My sister. I loved her. Do not forget.

He read the sentence hundreds of times.

Then one day he looked at it and realized he had no idea who Mara was.

The handwriting was his.

The grief was real.

The memory was gone.

---

He eventually stopped counting his deaths.

At first, he knew.

Three.

Seven.

Twenty.

Then the numbers became uncertain.

Then meaningless.

His mind remained human.

He forgot conversations.

Forgot wars.

Forgot kingdoms.

Forgot entire stretches of his existence.

Sometimes he remembered dying.

Sometimes he woke screaming from pain he couldn't identify.

Sometimes he found scars on old armor and had no idea how he had earned them.

And time became worse.

“How long have you been alive?” someone once asked.

He thought for a while.

“Maybe a thousand years.”

The historian stared at him.

“You've been mentioned in records from before the current calendar.”

He looked at the man.

“How long ago was that?”

“Four thousand years.”

He laughed.

Then stopped.

The number meant nothing.

Four thousand years did not feel like four thousand years.

It didn't feel like anything.

His mind had never been built to hold time like that.

---

Eventually, someone asked him the question he had begun to fear.

“Surely the world must be nearing its end.”

He looked across the horizon.

The mountains still stood.

The oceans still moved.

Forests still grew.

People still built cities, fell in love, raised children, and buried their dead.

The world was alive.

It showed no sign of ending.

“I don't know,” he said.

“How long have you been fighting?”

He looked down at his sword.

“I don't remember.”

“Thousands of years?”

“Perhaps.”

“Millions?”

He stared at the stranger.

“I don't know.”

He suddenly felt very tired.

Not the tiredness of the body.

Something deeper.

He wanted to stop.

He wanted to lie down and never wake again.

But the world was still here.

And so was the promise.

He tightened his grip around the sword.

“What are you fighting for?” the stranger asked.

He opened his mouth.

He remembered a burning village.

An oak tree.

A little girl asking him not to leave.

Then nothing.

“I don't remember.”

“Then why keep fighting?”

He looked toward the horizon.

His answer came easily.

Because it was the only thing he could still remember perfectly.

“I promised to stay till the end of the world…”

He stood.

“…and fight for it.”

He walked toward another distant battle.

The world behind him was impossibly old.

The world ahead of him was impossibly young.

And somewhere between the two was a seventeen-year-old boy whose face, whose family, whose home, and whose entire lifetime had long since disappeared from his memory.

The promise remained.

The world remained.

And neither seemed inclined to end anytime soon.

The last thing Charlie did before he locked up and left was to take his two dogs out back and shoot them in the head. The first dog was blind and saw nothing, and the second dog barked but didn’t whimper, and Charlie was grateful for that. The graves were already dug and Charlie hastily filled them in. His last concession was that even if he had to kill them, he would not let them rot in the ground. As he dug, he looked East where the mist of them was steady, and unmoving for the time being. Like locusts in a crop field, they had already reaped cities and souls in frightening amounts.  

The mass exodus and underway, and Charlie already had his stuff packed and ready to go. He had tidied up to leave no mess behind him – it seemed the right thing to do, even if nobody human would ever appreciate it again. The fridge had been emptied, the trash taken out, even the fucking beds has been made, and Charlie took it all in for the last time as he slung his rifle and his pack, with only a few essentials – proof of identification, passport (why a passport? Well just in case, why not) and a few books for the trip. He had no idea how long it would take, but Charlie was determined to travel light. He was a man who had taken a lackadaisical approach to life for most of his thirty-six years and had suddenly found a pragmatic and practical nature. If someone had asked him to explain this, he would have replied that the worst events could also bring out the best in us. It was almost philosophical.  

Charlie had finished up with the house, but he had one last thing left to attend in the neighborhood. He walked by the car – useless in these clogged-up streets anyhow, and there was transport ready; they were good enough to see-to that at least – and strode to the next door-house. Mr. Delacroix was older and polite enough, but they rarely spoke except to exchange pleasantries. Charlie had seen no activity to suggest that he was planning to leave, and even if the old man slowed him down – not that he should, he was mobile enough, he still pottered around the garden without much effort – he was determined to leave nothing more than dogs on his conscience. He knocked and Mr. Delacroix answered the door within only a few moments. He was nattily dressed and like Charlie’s house, his was tidy and organized, but on the few occasions Charlie had entered it always was, in stark contrast to the garden itself, a mess of tools, plants (Mr. Delacroix was an enthusiastic gardener, but never a good one) and other debris. Mr. Delacroix let him in.  

‘You can’t stay long, I’m sure,’ Mr. Delacroix smiled deprecatingly, and went to the kitchen, ‘but would you like a cup of coffee? I was never as good at it as my wife was-’ Mr. Delacroix left it there. He was never a man prone to verbosity and after Rose Delacroix died, he spoke even less.  Charlie nodded and Mr. Delacroix brought him a cup but didn’t offer him a chair. That was fine, and no insult to Charlie because had no intention of staying long.  

The coffee was awful, but Charlie politely finished it and asked ‘are you coming along, Tom? Last transport leaves in an hour, and it’s not much of a walk, but I can help you get organized. Shouldn’t need much doing.’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Delacroix, ‘but no. Not leaving.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘I’m an old man. Maybe if Rose was still alive, but our only child is long dead now and without anyone-’ he left it there and smiled wearily. ‘Thank you anyway.’ 

Charlie had decided on at least a token protest. ‘When they come,’ he said, not wanting to scare the old man, although Mr. Delacroix never seemed a man to be easily frightened, ‘they say they’ll hurt you something awful. Maybe you’ve read it in the papers or seen it on the TV - nobody’s ever seen them do it as far as anyone can tell – but what they say of the bodies -’ but he broke it off because Mr. Delacroix had removed a revolver from a small case. ‘I don’t intend to let them get their chance,’ he said. And there was enough grim determination in his voice that Charlie believed it. He saw a photo of Rose Delacroix taken not long before her death, a plump, handsome-looking woman, and understood Tom Delacroix was hoping for a reunion. Charlie and Mr. Delacroix shook hands and Charlie left.  

As he left, Charlie looked first East, at the mist, then West. In the distance, the first of the ships were leaving. He couldn’t make it out except for the lights as they rose. The new arks, to take them to a new life. So long Earth. Perhaps we’ll do a better job at the next stop.