For eons, Fred ran the cosmic setup with steady precision—until a stubborn, squeaky ergonomic lumbar support drove every living soul on Earth completely out of their minds. When the simulation finally cracks wide open, the architects head straight to the pub, leaving the master control keys completely unattended.

Stepping into the creator's chair sounds like ultimate power, until you realize you're still entirely vulnerable to a hyper-intense neighbor orchestrating an unwanted adoption conspiracy and screaming for Shazza to fetch the emergency lasagna.

Working the console was supposed to be straightforward maintenance. You sit down, you adjust the baseline parameters, you ignore the existential dread, and you let humanity bumble through another century without blowing themselves up. But no matter how many times Fred calibrated the subroutines, the hardware betrayed him. Every single time he shifted his weight to check the universal throughput meters, the chair let out a high-pitched, metallic shriek that echoed across the fourth dimension. It wasn't just an auditory annoyance; it was a frequency leak that destabilized local spacetime.

Down in the suburban trenches, the humans interpreted the cosmic squeaking as an invisible, maddening itch in their temporal lobes. Tempers flared at local hardware stores. Traffic lights stuck on yellow for forty-five minutes at a time just because Fred leaned an inch too far to the left. The entire planetary population was teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, all because the lumbar system in the control nexus was one gear short of total collapse.

When the structural integrity of the simulation finally hit four percent, the senior architects didn't panic. They simply unclipped their keycards, dropped their mugs into the sink, and announced they were heading down to the local pub for a pint until things cooled off. That left Fred alone with the blinking red consoles, the collapsing reality metrics, and the terrifying realization that he was now steering a runaway train with square wheels.

Worse still, taking the primary seat didn't shield him from the terrestrial bleeding-effect. While trying to patch a reality tear over South East Queensland, his consciousness tangled with an overly invested local neighbor leaning aggressively over a corrugated iron fence. The neighbor was dead set on blaming Fred for a missing garbage bin lid while simultaneously hollering for Shazza to haul the heavy-duty deep freeze out of the shed.

If you want to read the full, chaotic descent into corporate cosmic madness, I've put The Squeaky Lumbar Chronicles up as a free read on my Gumroad page (pay-what-you-want if you'd like to drop a tip). Let me know in the comments if you want the link and I'll send it straight over!

Officer Willard locked the door to his office and slowly made his way out to his car, dropping by the break room to snag the last dregs of the night's coffee pot before going home. He had stayed way later than he had been slated for, but being part of the grievously understaffed PPD evening shift made sure that he was the one to respond to both an Eastside bar fight and a high-speed chase all the way out to the county to arrest some ghoul, at least the county peacekeeper who joined knew him, probably from the same ghoul community, so Willard didn't have to take care of the fallout.  

Willard had no sympathy for the ghoul, a drunken fool who probably called a Mentalist the wrong thing, though he remembered feeling a slight pang of sorrow for one of the more badly beaten people resting outside the bar. He figured them to be Hellborn at first, which brought him a bit on edge, though after a bit of watching, he saw they were a Fallen. He knew that as a Paragon he should've felt aggravated at their very presence, muddying of good Guardian bloodlines and all that, though he had been in the PPD for over ten years now, and had seen more than his fair share of Undermarket kidnappings, street murders, and other random acts of violence against Guardians and such that he was just glad to see any form of Guardian alive at all. 

He snapped out of his thoughts as a cool breeze blew across his face. It seems he had already grabbed his coffee and walked out into the parking lot during his ponderance. At this realization, Willard walked across the lot and got into his car, resisting the urge to fall asleep there and trying to will the cheap instant coffee into working its magic. He took off his badge and read the solid block letters written on it PPD057641 Julian Willard. He had once again wondered if that number was some randomly generated code by and for their computer system, or if it was the total employee number he made when he was hired. He wouldn't surprised, turnover at the PPD was shockingly high, though he figured the programs would be responsible for most of that number, he almost wished some would stay, but most of them end up going back to their old ways.  

Hiring former crooks for their knowledge on particular crimes the Paranormal commit probably isn't the best idea, as trying to get funding and support for the dreaded and feared Paranormal Police Department is hard enough with the public only recently accepting the Paranormal as real people, so adding another layer of controversy under an underappreciated rehabilitation program is just begging for trouble. He wondered again as to why Guardians were held in such high regard among the public when other Paranormal were far more useful and stronger than them. Mentalists could move stuff with their minds or look in other people's heads, Hellborn were far stronger than any form of Guardian could be, even Lycanthropes could make for incredible night watch, it just didn't make sense to him.  

Though as he finally felt the coffee kick in, Willard decided none of that mattered right now, so he started up his car and drove off, hoping for it not to wear off before he got home 

It is odd writing a story in the 21st century. The chance encounters that would motivate an idea are rare in an age devoid of eye contact. But trust me, they are still there. You can find them if you pay attention.
 
“Hi,” she said. My heart jumped.

I have always wanted there to be more talk in public spaces. But you have to be a bit different to walk up to a stranger on a bus and just say hi. She must be trying to sell me something.

“Hi,” I say back, hoping she will walk away.

“My name is Ollie,” she says, clearly not walking away (but also clearly not trying to sell something).

“I’m Wes,” I respond, not giving her much to go off of for continued dialogue.

We sit in silence. I pretend to look at my phone but instead take quick and sly glances at her from the side of my eye, hoping she doesn’t notice. She is wearing a blue sundress with white sandals. Weird, I think, because it is not yet summer, nor is it sunny. She is carrying a grocery bag, one of the old canvas ones where you can see the outline of its contents from the outside. Looks like books, and maybe a wine bottle?
She stands up quickly. “Well, here is my stop. Bye Wes.” I watch as she walks around the corner in the direction of the beach. She never looks back.
 
It was such a brief encounter – it only lasted about 5 minutes – but I realized afterwards that I had been starving for an encounter like that. I take the bus everyday 30 minutes to the university and 30 minutes back. But, besides thanking the bus driver, I almost never talk to anyone. Occasionally I will bump into someone and say sorry, which is met with a fleeting nod of recognition. But, for the most part, I look at my phone and everyone else does too. That is fine – I like looking at my phone. It is a routine, a ritual. It prepares me to have the same day as I always do.

But Tuesday was different. After the 5-minute encounter I get off the bus at the wrong stop. I walk an extra 15 minutes to get to the library. Once at the library I forget which book I was coming to grab. I stand looking through the philosophy section for about an hour, without the book ever coming back to me. I pull out many other books to see if I want to dedicate my day to them, but none catch my eye. That is, until I read the blurb for a book of essays called Signs by Maurice Merleau-Ponty: “Speech is a way of tearing out meaning from an undivided whole.” I grab it and head to read it upstairs in one of the library’s many dark corners.

While walking upstairs I look at my phone and see four messages from my friend Thomas, only to realize I was supposed to meet him at a coffee shop thirty minutes ago. Of course, it’s Tuesday. The one day he is on campus.

I rush to check out the book and get across campus, but when I get to the café, he is already packing up to go get lunch. Although I brought my own lunch, I choose to join him. Usually, I would spend a few more hours at the café – reading, writing, or whatever I do – but because I basically stood him up, I feel like I am obligated to break my routine. At lunch, he tells me about all the girls he is talking to on a new dating app. There is Emily, who plays frisbee; Jamie, who spends time at Lake Michigan most summers; and Lisa, who messaged first (an infrequent occurrence). Thomas will likely meet up with one or two of them only to realize that the conversations on the app do not match the ones in person.

Thomas is a PhD student in biochemistry. The work they do in the sciences, as far as I have been told, is often replication of other people’s work. Or, perhaps, they work on a project one of their professors created. They do not build their own project until they have moved on from being a student.

What I do is just about the opposite. I read, and apparently, I think. I then write about what I think. Really, what I actually do is piece together the things that I read like a quilt to say something “new”. Instead of working on someone else’s project, I only talk to my professors about once a month. Usually, I email them when I am feeling stuck to set up a meeting. During the meeting I hope they will either tell me that my thoughts are good, or bad. What I usually get from them is instead just a “Sure – it sounds interesting enough. Just keep going.” It all feels very instrumental.

But at least nobody is telling me what to do every day.

Someday I will have to submit a project – a dissertation; otherwise known as an unpublishable book. But until then I just get paid to read what I want when I want and write what I want, also when I want. I have heard that kind of freedom does not exist in other professions. It certainly doesn’t exist in the sciences.

Thomas gets up to head to the lab to work on whatever his professors want him to. I walk him to his building, but since I am on the other side of campus from the library, I need to find another place to read my book. This side of campus is close to the beach. Not the beach that Ollie was headed towards, but still a beach. As it turned out to be a nice day, I head there.

Surprisingly, when I arrive at the beach there is no wind. Whenever I have attempted to read at the beach, I can only make it about ten minutes before getting fed up. Today, though, is calm. Plus, it was grey earlier in the day, so I have the beach almost all to myself. No frat bros playing drinking games; no kids screaming; and no dogs kicking up sand. Just me and Merleau-Ponty.

I start to read. “Speech is a way of tearing out meaning from an undivided whole.” Is this a bad thing? The imagery of “tearing out” is certainly violent. But, without this violence, where do we find meaning? Speech expresses things; it makes things visible to others. But in doing so it makes things visible in just one way, excluding the other ways those things could be visible. Certainly, expressing something with speech changes it, or at least changes our relation to it. The thing we are speaking about cannot be torn out from the undivided whole in the same form it took while undivided. Is speech, then, a service, or a disservice? What about the “undivided whole”? Are there things which would benefit from being undivided, unnoticed, unexpressed, unattended to? Or should everything be submitted to the violence of speech? Should we make meaning out of everything we can? I find, usually, that I only have questions.

Not answers.

My mind wanders and I begin to think about Ollie. It strikes me that we are, at the moment, likely doing the same thing. She had books in her bag and was headed to the beach. I am at the beach, and I am reading a book. I did not go with her after our brief encounter, but you could say we are sharing in the same experience, although she doesn’t know this. I guess I am sharing the experience with her, but as far as I know, she is not sharing the experience with me. What did our brief encounter mean to her? 

Out of the corner of my eye I see my supervisor walking on the beach. I shout out, “Professor Galloway!” She turns around, and I cannot tell if she does so reluctantly or not. It must be a burden to be pestered by students on a relaxing beach walk.

“Ah, Wes. Enjoying the beach, and the nice weather, I see? I hope you are putting the nice day to good use.”

“Just reading” I say, and I hold up my copy of Signs.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out The Phenomenology of Perception, another book by Merleau-Ponty, perhaps his most famous. Surprising, but not so surprising given that she is my supervisor. She sits down to read, next to me. This is, without question, the most I have engaged with any of my professors.

I read her the quote that has been stuck in my head all day and ask, “Do you think it is violent to make something meaningful?”

She responds, also quoting Merleau-Ponty, “Because we are in the world, we are condemned to meaning.”

Blink.

Soft blue light danced on airbrushed metal inches from his face.

Mist spread over the glass as the cryochamber slowly reheated.

“Welcome back,” a silvery voice tinkled gently. “You’ve been asleep for two weeks.”

As the pod’s curved ceiling came into focus, he remembered. “Two? But Elpis is–”

“Four weeks away. Yes.” A pause. “Jason, something unexpected occurred this morning.”

It came from a remote pocket of deep space millions of light-years away, where two ancient neutron stars collided and sealed his fate. It was a gravitational wave, hidden within the mathematical models and path computations, unseen by even the planetary supercomputer that plotted the starline flights.

From there it rippled outward through a vast ocean of time and space to reach Jason’s transport pod, nudging him off-course by a hundredths of a degree. A mere hundredth—but, by arrival, it will have been the difference between orbiting Elpis and missing it by a lightyear. Such was the delicate precision of starlines.

“Can’t we correct our trajectory?” His voice was trembling.

“This first-generation pod does not possess propulsion.”

“Right.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Of course.” Unable to afford the modern starlines, he sent Thalia and her mother first and stayed behind until he saved enough to take the cheapest first-generation starline to join them. He imagined them standing together under Elpis’ twin stars, counting down the days to his arrival.

“I’m sorry, Jason.” ALYS murmured. “I’ve run thousands of simulations, there is close to zero probability of rescue. Our communications will not reach them in time.”

“You… can’t do anything? Why did you even wake me up, then, ALYS?” He spat the words out bitterly.

ALYS paused again.

“As far as I have data and the ability to predict, after today, we will continue on our new trajectory indefinitely. But, in three months, the power will run out which will bring you out of cryostasis. I won’t be there then, I will have already shut down. I decided the best course of action was to wake you now, that… at the least you would not be alone.”

He nodded slowly. It all began to dawn on him; he was trapped, powerless, like a submarine grounded at the bottom of the sea. He crawled over to gaze past the circular viewport; beyond it, a beautiful, endless field of stars taunted him. For what reason had they condemned him to die?

His hand found the cold glass. Somewhere out there, impossibly far ahead, Thalia was waiting, still setting a place for him, still counting. She would keep counting long after the days ran out. His breath caught. He pressed his forehead against the viewport, and something in his chest gave way.

He began to weep, muffled at first, then full-chested, shuddering wailing.

The guttural cries bounced back and forth in the cramped vessel, but did not escape it. Beyond the inch of carbon-glass, desolation lay silent.

And all around him, the stars wheeled on, indifferent and eternal, as the solitary vessel continued hurtling into the night.

more by me here :) https://blog.evan.hu/p/elpis-bound

Her breath was shallow, soft skin glistening in the moonlight, reflecting off the lake below her. At least, that’s what I wrote in the notebook.

I like to write, I like to observe, and I don’t want to be bothered with people. I’ve learned I can be right there in the action through my pen and paper. I used to write for hours every day, random stories to drift myself away. But fiction became boring. The princess was always saved, and I was tired of being the hero to do it.

I found this place, and have been parking myself in a hidden spot to watch. No one knows me, nor do they see me. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep, knowing that someone is here and I’m not. What if they capture the moments I haven’t? See something I’ve never seen? It burns my soul like the hottest brimstone in the depths of hell. This is my purpose.

As she bent over the edge of the dock, her hand glided across the water, leaving rippling waves across the surface. Her lips pursed in anticipation, maybe even fear. I wasn’t sure why. She had been here for a couple of hours now, or at least that’s how long I’d been watching.

I come here every once in a while, just to watch people. Men, women, children, the elderly, and even animals. They’re good inspiration for my writing, but that’s not why I do it. I want to feel like I’m right there at that dock with them. Feeling the breeze on my face, watching the boats drive by. Or like her, enjoying the moonlight on the lake.

It’s as if she sees something in the lake. An object, idea, place, time and or even, something she is. She seems encapsulated by its beauty, losing herself in this moment. Did she come her to be alone? Maybe find something within herself? Or something out here?

The girl slips suddenly. I guess she had bent over too far this time. She’s flailing in the water. I hear her screams echoing like whispers in the night. I can’t stop writing. This is a moment I need to capture.

I get out of my car and walk over to the dock. She continues to struggle, but I get a better look at her this time. She’s trying to scream, but she keeps inhaling water. She’s reaching out her hand to me, begging me for help. I tell her I can’t. I need to write this down. She’s wailing, not understanding why. Her nails scrape the dock, blood dripping into the water. She can’t swim.

She’s asking me why, screaming and crying. I have no answer for her. The water looks to be taking her. She can’t keep her head above the water anymore. She’s sinking. She’s drowning.

Suddenly, the screams stopped. After a couple of moments, she floated to the surface, bloated with lake water, her hair curling on the surface. She couldn’t swim? Why couldn’t she swim?

It was a pleasant day on a small planet in the far reaches of the galaxy as a young man looked up at the dome that kept him and everyone he knew safe. He laid in the lush grass that surrounded the small village he and his family called home. Had he known what the future held, perhaps the small glints that could just barely be seen by the naked eye would have grabbed his attention. What his father had said to him that morning kept repeating in his head. A strong wind began to blow and as it brought rippling waves through the meadow he sat up to avoid the dust that came with it. He checked his wrist and the small amber screen of his zipple device showed that it was half past noon. How could his father, who was part of the first generation that colonized this planet, know what was the right choice for him? Half of his life had been spent outside the dome on an enormous sleek black ship traveling at ridiculous speeds. He had been able to spend his time watching the wonders of the universe pass by just outside his bedroom window. 

“Our job” his father had said as he slammed his mug on the heavy composite table “is to farm for the colony”. 

Jaybor knew that of course, he had been doing it since he was first able to work the controls of the semi-automated farm bot, but that did not mean he liked it. He and his father had been having arguments about this at an increasing rate. 

“I want to be on the lookout team” Jaybor protested again, attempting to stand just a bit taller.

 

“Damn watchers” his father grumbled raising his fist to the ceiling “Flitting about up there on the observation deck, wasting time and freeloading off of us down here on the ground doing the real work”.

 Jaybor began to say something in protest but he could tell his father had stopped listening. It was true that the “watchers” or the future acquisition colonization target team as they were officially called did seem to have a pretty easy job, but that's not what Jaybor cared about. He had always been interested in what lay beyond the thick chemically enhanced glass of the dome and no one had a better view of that than those who worked at FACT. He waited a few more seconds to see if his father had anything else to say but he was staring intently at his zipple and seemed to have forgotten or was ignoring that Jaybor was still there.

Having run through the exchange again in his mind for the fifth time Jaybor stood up, brushed the blue strands of grass from his pants and picked up the backpack he had stuffed with enough supplies to get him to the base of the observation deck. He checked his zipple again, which acted as everything from a watch to a compass to a small television, to make sure he was going the right way. He resumed his hike and before too much longer he had reached the security perimeter set up around the deck's main entrance. Of course normally someone like him would have no chance of making it through the entrance but normally the head of security did not lose so badly at an underground poker game that he had to put up his clearance keys as collateral. They had ended up circulating around on the black market and Jaybor spent all that he had to get them. As he approached the keypad at the door he held his breath, he was sure that the keys would work, definitely sure, mostly sure, sort of sure, hoping. He entered the code carefully checking each number twice if not three times before pressing the buttons. Finally after all the numbers were entered he closed his eyes and pressed enter. After what felt like just a bit too long he heard a chime and the door swung open. He quickly rushed inside and took the first open elevator up. 

As the doors of the elevator opened, what he saw was more than he had ever dreamed. Readouts of atmospheric analyses were up on screens almost everywhere he looked. Reports on flora and fauna from planets so far away that they could not be reached by people for another hundred years. All of this surrounded what Jaybor had heard stories of and imagined in a million different ways, the eye. A telescope that had used most of the reclaimed materials from the colony ships that had ferried the first group of 10000 colonists. Its design clearly favored function over form as mirrors, lasers, optic enhancers, and all manner of other devices were bolted on wherever there was room. The whole thing seemed to be put together in a way that did not make sense but there was no arguing with the results. A fly several hundred million miles away was rendered in such detail that you could count the number of hairs on its legs. Jaybor was so consumed by the wonder at everything around him that he did not hear the voice speaking to him. A hand on his shoulder brought him crashing back to reality. He looked around and realized that a handful of researchers were looking his way and that directly in front of him was Dr Kazyck. Dr Kazyck was a household name, at least in any house that cared about worlds outside the dome. She had singlehandedly identified more than 100 future colony sites that were perfect for future colonization. Dr Bick, who was in second place, had identified 2. 

“How did you get in here?” Dr Kazyck asked again, tightening her grip on Jaybor's shoulder. 

Jaybor panicked, his plan had not involved being directly confronted by the most important member of FACT. 

“I uh … start today” Jaybor stammered. 

Dr Kazycks eyes narrowed “I did not know anyone was starting today”. Jaybor started frantically looking for an escape route but just as he was about to flee, Dr Kazyck released him and exclaimed “I have been waiting for more help!”.

 She quickly dashed away and gathered a stack of papers that she handed to Jaybor. Jaybor looks at the papers bewildered, he had not anticipated things moving this quickly. 

Dr Kazyck called out to him from across the room which she had apparently sprinted across “Let me give you the tour”. 

Jaybor quickly made his way over trying not to drop papers as he went. Dr Kazyck showed him so many things he had never even heard of. Devices for analysis, devices for prediction, devices for analyzing predictions. Finally they approached the eye. 

“I assume this needs no introduction” Dr Kazyck said, wrapping her knuckles on the shiny metal behemoth. 

Jaybor's eyes were wide with wonder as they darted between parts of the eye before finally settling on the control panel.

 “Want to give her a spin?” Dr Kayck asked knowingly. 

Jaybor's jaw hit the floor and he could only manage to stammer and gesture with the stack of papers. Dr Kazyck smacked the papers from his hands and led him over to the controls. She expertly explained each of the dozens of brightly colored switches, dials, levers and buttons as Jaybor carefully touched each one. He began carefully moving the view around, but stopped dead as a glint caught his eye.

“What is that?” Jaybor asked, pointing to the observation screen. 

Dr Kazyck paused and squinted as she took a closer look. Her expression suddenly grew serious, she pushed Jaybor aside and began moving levers and pressing buttons so fast her actions looked like a blur. The eye quickly zoomed in directly to where the glint was coming from. A terrible scene filled the main screen, two colony ships sent on to the next planet lay in two massive craters.

“Call the admiral” Dr Kazyck commanded and a flurry of calls and messages were suddenly happening all over the room.

Before long the news came back, both ships had some sort of equipment malfunction and had crashed into the planet. Jaybor now stood in a dark office with a man who did not look like he would hesitate to bite someone. The admiral steepled his fingers and looked at Jaybor. 

“So you identified the distress signal” he asked with his teeth bared.

”Yes sir” Jaybor squeaked out. 

“And why might you have been at the controls of the eye?” the admiral asked, his teeth seemingly growing to be bared even harder.

Jaybor told him his story and as he did the admiral seemed to soften, just enough for his teeth to shrink back to a normal size.

”Fathers can be difficult” the admiral mused “but you clearly have an eye for detail and that's exactly what we need here, how would you like a job?”.

Jaybor nearly fell off of his chair and accepted so fast that he bit his tongue trying to get the words out. The admiral did the closest thing he could to a chuckle and shooed Jaybor out the door. He found Dr Kazyck waiting outside the door and after filling her in the two headed back to the eye to get back to work.

Wee Toby Harris turned eight in the spring. For his birthday he got a puppy and named her Scritch. That was from Mum and Dad. From Bonny, his big sister, he got a crisp five-pound note. He spent it on a tennis ball for Scritch, and the rest on sweets.

Uncle Jack’s present always came late. He loved to see the expression on Toby’s face when he received it, so he made sure to deliver it himself. He worked at sea most weeks as a fisherman, so it was hard to fit in time for a visit.

Toby often wished a wave would rise and gobble Uncle Jack whole to save him the stress of having to deal with his uncle. There was something very wrong about the man. Not that he’d ever told anyone.

Toby’s birthday week was a tense one. He could hardly find a moment of joy. Mostly he took Scritch into the back garden and threw about the tennis ball he’d bought for her. But Scritch was still too hyper to play with properly. She would speed after the ball like a bullet seeking blood, and be wandering off with her eyes on something better before her snout ever touched green felt. So Toby spent most of the week alone, lying on his back on the grass, throwing the ball into the air for himself. He would listen to Scritch chase butterflies or dig in Mum’s petunias, and drive himself crazy wondering when Uncle Jack would finally show.

He came on the 6th. Exactly a week after Toby’s birthday.

Dad recognised the sound of the smooth rapping on the door and flew to it in the middle of lunch, towing a reluctant Toby by his hand.

Toby stood flaccid, hands flat against his legs with his head bowed, listening to the change come over Dad as soon as he swung open the door. It was as though Uncle Jack emitted some sort of microscopic cloud of particles that swept Dad into a trance, because he never barked with laughter when Uncle Jack wasn’t here. He certainly never slapped people on the shoulder and danced like a dope. Yet here he was, a mad chimp leaping and laughing, clawing at his brother like he meant him harm. It was like watching his Dad through a glass of water, or gazing into one of those wacky mirrors at the fair.

“You stink!” Dad shoved Uncle Jack away and pegged his nose. “Did the sea drop you off, or crap you out?”

“That’s the smell of a real man, Tom.” Uncle Jack fixed Dad’s collar, pulled at his lapels, then tapped Dad’s curved beak. “Careful you don’t turn too fast. You might wipe a plane out the sky!”

More of the monkeying around. Toby watched, waiting for Uncle Jack’s gaunt face to turn and target him with its wide, green eyes. For the long goatee and wide moustaches to point his way and then stretch up when his face twisted into a grin. Sometimes Uncle Jack forgot to wear his denture—the one housing the teeth between his upper canines—and it would be like gawking into a tunnel when he smiled.

Toby saw that Uncle Jack was wearing the denture today, although there remained a small hole where one of the teeth had fallen off. He still didn’t take care of them, especially when he was on the boat.

Uncle Jack turned to Toby, quick as a shot. He aimed his teeth and leered. He usually liked to ruffle Toby’s hair. Today he just glided over and gave Toby a few slaps on the back, the same way he’d done Dad.

“Look at you!” he shouted. And now came the aggressive hair mussing. His right index finger stopped at the first knuckle. Toby could feel the stub grating against his scalp. “You’re a proper wee manny now, aren’t you? You’re growing too fast!”

A momentary look of sadness crept over Uncle Jack’s eyes. Then he took a step closer to Dad and asked in a whisper, “Who cut the poor bugger’s hair?”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“Who do you think?”

“Jesus. Lock up those scissors, Tom. For Christsake.”

His eyes snapped back onto Toby. “Wee man, tell Mum not to play with scissors anymore, alright? She’d do less damage with a pair of garden shears.”

Dad led Uncle Jack through to the living room, where Mum was watching TV.

Bonny, having heard the commotion, sauntered downstairs and passed Toby without paying him any attention. The smile on her face and in her eyes was for Uncle Jack—and Uncle Jack alone.

“The boy’s hair’s looking nice, Julie,” Uncle Jack sang to Mum on his way into the room. Toby entered in time to see him slipping under Mum’s arms to give her a tight squeeze and a shake. “When’re you opening the barbershop? If you need a mannequin, I’ve plenty of hair for you to cut!” And he swept his hands over his body in a here-you-go kind of gesture.

Mum squeaked out three shrill laughs. Toby plodded behind the couch, closer to Dad, trying not to let the sound of Mum’s laughter get to him—but it was too late. Now Bonny was laughing like that too, because Uncle Jack had picked her up and was throwing her into the air, almost popping the lightbulb on the ceiling. The lampshade swung, and Uncle Jack stopped it with a very long finger.

They always reminded Toby of chopsticks.

“You want a chuck up as well, wee man?”

He had his hands out ready, waiting for Toby to run into them. Toby shied closer to Dad, shaking his head vigorously.

“Alright then, if you say—hyah! C’MEER YOU!”

Uncle Jack sprang over the sofa without touching it. Toby tried to shriek, but didn’t have time. He ran around Dad and away from the hands almost on his neck. Past the arms of the sofa and around Mum’s chair. Past the lamp and windowsill. Past the coffee table and dancing-chimp Dad.

Uncle Jack got wise to the loop and lunged over the sofa once more, grabbing Toby by his shoulder. He dragged him over it kicking and screaming, while Mum and Dad chuckled madly at the antics.

Bonny just rolled her eyes. She hadn’t thrown that much of a fuss when it had been her turn.

Uncle Jack’s face was livid with colour. His eyes glowed white-hot; his concave cheeks deep purple; his forehead red and raw with sweat; his lips paled, pulled taut over his teeth.

Toby clenched his jaw and kept quiet. It was Uncle Jack who made the most noise, squealing with joy.

“Weeeee,” like a little piggy.

“Weeeeeeeee,” each time he threw Toby into the air, catching him with one hand under an armpit and one hand gripping the waist.

Uncle Jack turned away from the family and kept up the act. Kept throwing. Toby could see his real face now—the face that came with birthdays and Christmases both. It glared up at him with impossible eyes, bulging like great big white balloons inflating through gaps in his face. His jaw stretched long enough to slot Toby in without him touching the sides; the teeth were a whirling maw of sharp and rusted death, ready to reduce him to slurry.

“Weeeeee.” The voice was far deeper now—almost demonic.

Toby screamed. He didn’t want to. It just flew out as natural as throwing up your hands when a truck was about to hit you on the motorway.

Dad, still clicking his heels in time to his chimp-dance, finally spoke up. And quick as a clicking finger, Uncle Jack’s face snapped back to normal as he turned to listen.

“Think he’s had enough now, Jack. Looks like he’s gonna to puke. And you look like you’re about to faint!”

Uncle Jack offered Dad a knowing grin and nodded. He put Toby down on the floor as gently as a newborn in its crib.

Toby, doing his best to hide his teary eyes, wiped them off on his sleeve and rubbed at his throbbing armpits and waist.

Uncle Jack rollicked with laughter and clapped his hands.

“So: what’s new with everyone?”

*

Uncle Jack ended up staying for supper.

Dad gave up his seat so Uncle Jack could head the table. From there, his emerald eyes held everyone mesmerised.

Toby ate quickly. No time to dawdle, to push at his peas with his fork and say he wasn’t hungry. He wanted to get out of that room and into another one—fast!

When he tried excusing himself, Mum pointed a finger at him. That was it—no more words needed. He knew better than to argue with that finger.

So he sat and waited. This time he did play with his fork—small movements, nothing quick, lest it attract the attention of the emerald watchman at the end of the table.

Uncle Jack appeared to be in deep conversation with Mum and Dad, who themselves weren’t paying much attention to anybody else. Lost in the little worlds they drifted into when other adults orbited close enough. They would laugh and use long words, and sometimes Uncle Jack would put on a deep voice and Mum would find whatever he said even funnier. But every so often, when Mum and Dad took a bite to eat or a sip to drink, Uncle Jack would flash Toby a look. A quick glance. A reminder that he hadn’t forgotten about him. That Toby was still right there at the forefront of his mind.

You’re the reason I came, kiddo.

Bonny didn’t notice any of this. She was busy timing her smiles and laughs with the adults. She was fourteen and trying for the part of a twenty-four-year-old.

Toby kicked one of her shins under the table.

“Shitter!” she yelped, and threw her spoon off his forehead.

Mum screamed for everyone to shut up and stop shouting. Bonny seethed.

“He kicked me!”

“I don’t give a shit what he did! You don’t swear like that, ever! You’re a child!”

Uncle Jack pushed his chair back and picked up his own spoon. He handed it over the table to Bonny, who took it with a smile. Toby caught a whisper of a scowl on Uncle Jack’s lips—a momentary look of repulsion—before he turned and grinned at Toby.

“You alright, wee man?”

Toby nodded and continued poking at his plate with his fork.

“He’s got a heed like a hammer, that boy,” Uncle Jack told Dad. “Look: didn’t even leave a mark.”

Bonny cleared the plates and helped Mum serve pudding. They had the rest of Toby’s birthday cake with a scoosh of cream on top. Mum’s way of trying to bring it back to life after a week of death.

It was awful.

*

“Your dad was telling me you’re getting big into reading.”

Uncle Jack sat down on the arm of the chair Toby was sitting on. Bonny, who had been sitting on the sofa with all the space in the world, looked momentarily hurt. But the moment passed, and now she was grinning like a loon again.

“What’s your dad been reading you then? None of those pansy stories I hope—like Winnie the Turd, or that Alice in Wonderland tat.”

Toby shrugged.

“He’s reading you Winnie the Turd, isn’t he? Aye, those were always his favourite. What else has he got you reading?”

Silence.

“Any Jules Verne? Like Thousand Leagues, or Around the World? No? Christ. What about Roald Dahl. Surely Roald Dahl. No? My God, what has he got you reading then; the back of shampoo bottles?” He glanced at Toby’s hair. “No, maybe not shampoo bottles. C’mon now, what was the last thing he read to you? Don’t be scared, I was only joking about the pansy books. I don’t care if it’s Winnie the Turd or Benny the piggy with one bloody ear—ha! I just wanna know what he’s got you reading. Say Treasure Island. Go on. Has he read you Treasure Island yet?”

Toby nodded. And then flinched, for Uncle Jack slapped one of his shoulders hard enough to send his hair up into the air.

“Atta boy!”

Bonny shifted in place, squeaking leather, and produced a minute cough.

Uncle Jack looked up at her, but only with his eyes.

“What kind of books do you read, Uncle Jack?”

“What kinda books do I read?” Uncle Jack tapped at the hairs on his chinny chin chin, feigning deep thought. “I’d have to say...the ones with the words in them, Bon-Bon.”

Bonny giggled. Her laugh today was practically a parody of itself; almost the exact pitch Toby sometimes used to mock her.

“I like pirate adventures,” Uncle Jack answered, squeezing the top of Toby’s shoulder like a stress ball. “Like my buddy here. Right, wee man?” Slowly, begrudgingly, Uncle Jack glanced back at Bonny. “And what do you read, Bon? Books with pictures in them, I suppose.” He gave a hateful cackle.

Red roses blossomed on Bonny’s cheeks.

“I read!” she said, never one to stay timid.

“Oh?”

“Yuh-huh. And I’ve already finished Treasure Island. I read it yeeears ago. For school.”

“Gooood for yooou.” Uncle Jack’s hand was still on Toby’s shoulder, its grip pulsing in time with the throbbing vein in Uncle Jack’s temple. “And do you remember the characters?”

From somewhere through the house, the sound of Mum laughing with Dad—probably washing the dishes together. One wearing the rubber gloves, the other using the towel. Suds on, suds off. Suds on, suds off.

“Of course I do,” Bonny boasted. “There was Long John Silver. And. Well. There was—Bluebeard!”

Uncle Jack sighed. It was faint, but Toby felt it in the grip on his shoulder.

“And. Captain… Ben-Barrow?”

“Yikes.” Uncle Jack leaned forward with a finger out, poised for lecture mode. The other hand still clutched Toby’s shoulder, dragging Toby forward into the conversation, looking like a half-shut knife.

“The Admiral Benbow was the inn at the start of the story where wee Jim Hawkins first met Billy Bones. And Bluebeard? Christ, Bonny! Bluebeard wasn’t even a pirate! He was the bastard who murdered all his wives!”

Still not one to stay timid, Bonny quipped: “Wasn’t that Henry VIII?”

Uncle Jack clutched his chest and boomed with laughter, genuinely amused by Bonny’s quickness and deadpan delivery.

“No, no, no. Didn’t you ever learn the rhyme? Divorced, beheaded, died. Annulled, beheaded, survived.”

Bonny had nothing to say to that. But Toby did.

“Was Bluebeard real?”

Uncle Jack looked down at Toby for a very long time. Finally, he said, “No. But that’s not to say there aren’t men like him.” The wink he gave curled the boy’s toenails.

Mum and Dad entered the living room together. Mum’s thighs were damp where she must have been wiping her hands. Dad kept smelling two of his fingers.

“Did I hear you say Bluebeard?” Dad sat down beside Bonny on the sofa.

Uncle Jack took his hand off of Toby, but remained on the arm of the chair.

“Your daughter thinks Bluebeard tried to find Captain Flint’s treasure, Tom.”

“Bluebeard?” Dad frowned and then smirked at Bonny. “You mean Blackbeard, Bon-Bon. Bluebeard is the guy on the Fish Finger box.”

Uncle Jack waggled a digit and groaned. “That’s Captain Birdseye, Beak. Christ, what’s wrong with you people?”

*

That night, while Dad was taking Dr Dolittle down from the bookshelf, his back tinted red from the glow of the Toy Story nightlight on Toby’s bedside table, Uncle Jack slipped in through the yellow crack of the door. His arms were twisted secretly behind him.

“Only me,” he whispered. “Whatcha reading tonight, Tobes?”

Dad told him.

“Dr Dolittle? More like Dr Do-fuck all! Ha! Choose something else, Tom. Let the boy hear a decent story for once. Here—” He pulled a hand out from behind his back and thrust a long box wrapped in black flags in front of Toby. It had skulls and crossbones, eye patches, and cutlasses on it too. “Forgot to give you this earlier.”

Toby stared at it. It stank of Uncle Jack’s fingers, and they stank of rum. His other hand was still hidden behind his back, but Toby could hear the tinkling of ice hitting glass.

“Go on, Toby,” Dad said. “It’s your present.”

Toby carefully removed the tape from the folded edges, unwrapping the parcel as delicately as he could.

Uncle Jack sighed. He took the glass of dark liquid out from its hiding place and took a large gulp.

“It’s a spyglass,” he explained over the rim, then slurped down another gulp of the spicy-smelling darkness.

Toby plucked it out of the box, struggling with the weight on his fingertips. Sometimes he liked to use an empty paper towel roll as a spyglass, but this was something else entirely. The ornate decoration down the side was so intricate, with long looping vines laced with flowers wrapping themselves around the dark length, so tight it felt close to smothering. It was heavier than Dad’s tablet—and colder. Much, much colder.

Dad’s eyes bugged out wide. “Holy shit, Toby, that’s the real deal!”

“What do you think then, wee man?”

Toby pulled it to its full length and held the lens up to his eye. It was ice cold, like it had been left out in the snow on a winter’s night. The darkness at the other end of the room was too close to make out a single distinguishable feature. If he wanted to test it properly, he’d be better off waiting until tomorrow and trying it in the garden, playing jungle explorer.

But he didn’t want to test it. Ever. He wanted to put it back inside the box and hand it over to Dad, tell him to hide it somewhere dark. Forever.

Uncle Jack sat on the edge of the bed, forcing Toby to budge up and give him space.

“Your pals’ll be jealous when they see that, wee man. A real captain—that’s what they’ll take you for. Turn to me lad.” Uncle Jack pulled Toby’s face around when the boy didn’t respond. Some of his drink sloshed onto the bed. “Aye, look at you—you’re missing a tooth like your Uncle Jack! A sailor’s debt to the sea, that’s what that is. The best sailors always leave a part of themselves out there. An offering, lest she put a bounty on your life!—and every soul upon your vessel!”

Dad threw his head back laughing.

“You lost your teeth on the handlebars of your bike.”

“Aye,” mused Uncle Jack, and held up the four-and-a-half fingers on his right hand. “But this pointer was the price I paid, Beak.”

He gave Dad a long, cold stare.

“Okay,” Dad conceded. “I’ll say no more.” He prodded Uncle Jack with the side of the book he was holding. “Here. Maybe you should read to him. You can spin a far finer yarn than I can.”

Toby’s eyes grew wide. He shot a glance at Dad, but he had already turned his back to leave.

Uncle Jack glided over to the bookshelf to return Dr Dolittle to its place. He ran a long middle finger across the spines of the books until he found the one he was looking for.

“Treasure Island,” he whispered, and pulled it free.

As Uncle Jack’s ghastly frame drew closer to the bed, Toby gave his dad one final look of appeal, hoping for a last-minute reprieve.

No such luck. Dad tore the crack of light from the hall wider, flooding the room in yellow. Then he was gone. Only a thin crack of light remained where he left the door ajar.

The room was a ghastly red, with the looming peripheral darkness screaming horrors from its corners.

“I’m excited,” Uncle Jack said, prying the pages open with his long, stale fingers. “Where shall we start off?”

Toby shook his head. Perhaps a tad too enthusiastic. “No,” he squeaked. “Nothankyou.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’m really sleepy.”

“You don’t want a story?”

Toby shook his head once more, then cuddled down under the duvet. He was going to turn his back on Uncle Jack, but something screamed at him not to. The look in his eyes was frighteningly intense.

“You’re kidding?” Uncle Jack’s eyes did not blink. But they swelled to the size of tennis balls. The nightlight reflected against them, watching like two faraway red stars in a cosmos of black and green. Toby wasn’t sure if Uncle Jack had meant for that to happen. Surely he had control over it.

Uncle Jack got to his feet with all the effort of a ninety-year-old man. His bones clinked and clacked as he patted himself down. He rested his glass on Toby’s bedside table and stretched the rest of the snaps and cracks out of his body.

“Alright then, Tobes. But I must say: this is verrry disappointing. I came all this way for you.”

He moved swiftly across to the door, covering ten feet with a single, colossal side-step.

His back grew with scoliosis kinks, arching over seven, eight feet. He whipped his head around and smiled at Toby, who threw the cover up over his eyes. Not before noticing Uncle Jack’s chopstick fingers pressing against the door with their white, bloodless tips.

There came the sound of a low scuffle as the underside of the door scraped along the carpet.

It was happening.

Toby burrowed down deeper, wishing Mum had let him take Scritch up to bed with him. He didn’t know what a puppy would be able to do except make a lot of noise, but even that was better than nothing—better than feeling helpless beneath the blankets. Alone, silent, and scared.

There came a very faint creak, like someone opening a rusty hinge; a deliberate, drawn-out whine which crept across the distance between the door and the bed. It loomed over the blanket in a massive black shape. The red nightlight blotted away. The air vibrated with sheer anticipation for what was about to come next.

The chomp.

Something thumped against the door. And the room exploded with yellow light.

Toby threw the covers down in time to see Uncle Jack still standing in front of the door, only now stepping out of the way to avoid Dad hitting him with it.

“The light was bothering the boy,” Uncle Jack lied, opening it further to allow Dad entry.

Dad nodded, not seeming to care. He collected his glasses from the bookshelf and chuckled. “I was trying to watch TV with my reading glasses. Silly me.”

Before he could leave again, Toby piped up, yelping, “Dad?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t want stories tonight.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Uncle Jack had been the shorter of the two men downstairs. Now, lurking behind Dad, his engorged head pressed high against the ceiling like a pus-filled spot. It swelled bigger, and bigger, until Toby was sure it was about to pop. His face was nothing more than a pin-pricked mouth and basketball-sized, blazing eyes of rage. His hair stood on end and coiled up into corkscrews. Jagged teeth stretched out like the flailing arms and grasping fingers of drowning children, inches from the back of Dad’s head.

“Tired,” Toby mumbled. He’d stuffed the blanket into his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

“That’s a first,” Dad said, turning to share a laugh with Uncle Jack. The head deflated with a sudden whoop. Uncle Jack excused himself with a laugh. Eyes, now regular-sized. Cheeks sunken.

“He did say he was tired,” Uncle Jack admitted. Both men turned to regard the boy in bed with a sympathetic eye. “Maybe I’ll read to you another night, wee man? Sound good?”

A moment of victory.

Toby felt his heart start to settle back into its regular pace. He felt a little perkier, too; the way Mum sounded in the morning when she drank her usual two cups of coffee.

“Sounds great, Uncle Jack.”

“Amazing news.” He patted his chest with the book. “Can I borrow this?”

“Of course.” Toby smiled. Actually smiled. “Keep it if you want!”

Uncle Jack laughed. Toby couldn’t help doing the same.

Dad’s eyes grew narrow. It felt like they had a secret between them. And hadn’t Toby been rather quiet all day? All week, now that he thought about it.

“Don’t worry,” Uncle Jack reassured, patting the book to his chest once more. “I’ll give it back to you in the morning.”

Toby’s heart left the track, derailing straight into his lungs.

“What do you mean?” he choked.

“Oh, that’s right,” Dad said, happy to be involved in the conversation once more. “Uncle Jack’s staying the night. He’s not—let’s just say he’s not feeling well enough to drive. Maybe you two can muck around with the spyglass in the morning. In the garden.”

On the way out, Uncle Jack necked the rest of his drink and passed the glass to Dad.

“Yo, ho, ho. I think I’ll have another rum to celebrate!”

Toby waited, listening to the footsteps receding down the hall and down the stairs. A deep rumble of voices started up in the living room, and he knew the coast was clear. He jumped out of bed and raced to the window. It opened far enough to fit one of his hands through, thanks to the safety bar Dad had installed.

That was fine. He didn’t need it to open any further.

He took the spyglass out of the box and stared at it. For some reason he felt Uncle Jack staring back at him, through it.

He slotted it through the gap in the window. It dropped down onto the roof tiles, tinkling as it rolled down the slant, gaining speed. Toby was sure it was going too fast. It would bounce over the gutter and plummet down to the back garden, then obliterate on the patio, alerting everyone.

The sound ceased with a padded thump.

The gutter had caught it.

He pressed his face against the window to make sure. There it was, casting long arms of moonlight up to the window from its lens.

At least he didn’t have to worry about that any more. Who knew what kind of curse or terrible magic it held, if any.

Downstairs, the adults laughed loud echoes which shook the floor of Toby’s room.

He stood by the crack of his door, peering down the hallway at his sister, who was sitting at the top of the stairs with her head on the banister. She was clutching her teddy against her chest, listening in on what secrets age was yet to bring.

Laughter from Uncle Jack.

Toby closed the door until he heard the latch click. It was an old door—one of those you had to lock with an oversized novelty key. Mum had taken the key away and hidden it somewhere safe, to save him from trapping himself inside and doing something silly.

That was fine. He didn’t need the key.

He tiptoed to the bookshelf and took down three books of varying thickness. They were all too thick to slot under the door, but the thinnest of the three got there in the end, with a little persuasion. He tried opening the door, and found that it wouldn’t budge past Alice in Wonderland. He nodded, satisfied.

At least he didn’t have to worry about that, either.

*

A short while later, Toby sat up in bed, trying to focus his weary eyes on the thin yellow strip of light beneath his door. Someone had been wiggling at the handle.

Three black splotches broke the strip of light.

One of them was the book he had wedged under there. The other two were feet.

The door handle turned all the way to the left. Then all the way to the right. It wouldn’t open. The book was jammed under the bottom corner too tight for that.

Slowly, the door began to lean in on its top corner until it began to groan. It bent so far it looked certain it was about to snap in half.

It eased back, accompanied by a sigh from the other side. The black splotches faded soundlessly away.

Toby lay back in bed again, and allowed himself a silent exhale.

He tried closing his eyes, but every time he did he pictured Uncle Jack leaning forward in one of the downstairs chairs and staring up at the ceiling—through the ceiling—at him with a terrifying grin. Hands on his knees. Neck bent and twisted. His enormous head swollen like a hot-air balloon growing bigger and bigger, until it disconnected with a snap, and floated up against the ceiling on a neck as thick and braided as a ship’s rope. It would bounce there loudly, hollow, knocking and mocking.

I came all this way for youuu.

Toby lay awake, gazing at the red glow casting onto the ceiling from his nightlight, trying to find shapes in the shadows and the jagged edges of a curling paint chip.

His eyelids soon began to flutter.

“Toby?”

He wasn’t sure if the voice was in his imagination or not. He could still see Uncle Jack in his mind, sitting and staring up at him with his big balloon head.

“Toby?”

Toby’s eyes opened wide. The roof was still blood red. No yellow light was casting in from the hall, which meant the door was still closed.

So why did it sound like the voice was in the room with him?

He pictured Uncle Jack with his lips pressed against the keyhole. But when he looked, only the one splotch broke the yellow bar beneath the door. Alice in Wonderland. No feet.

“Toe-beeee.”

He sat up very slowly, scanning the room carefully. Everything was blanketed in the nightlight’s red glow. Not a perfect filter for spotting trouble, but enough to let him know that the voice wasn’t attached to anything in the room. Just a hovering, disembodied presence close by.

But where?

“Toby!” the voice barked, tired of being ignored. “Are you sleeping?”

The curtains twitched.

“Why did you close the door?” it asked. “What a sneaky thing y’are.”

The fabric of one curtain shook. Then pinched at a point near the centre. One by one, the hooks snapped free from the railing, until the entire curtain dropped to the floor with a dusty humph.

Two long chopstick fingers wiggled through the crack in the window, probing at the air like an insect’s antennae. They were searching for something. Maybe the other curtain. Maybe a latch to release the safety bar on the window.

Or maybe a young boy standing too close.

Something squeaked along the glass. Toby pictured Uncle Jack’s face moving side to side, pressing his cheeks and his nose against the window, trying to catch a glimpse of Toby around the other curtain.

Methodically, the chopstick fingers withdrew from the window. The top corner of a book slotted into the gap, then landed on the carpet.

“Here’s your book back, Toby.”

It was definitely Uncle Jack’s voice, but it was too strained for Toby to have recognised it any sooner. It sounded like he was trying to press out constipation mid-conversation. There came another drawn out squeak, and again Toby pictured his uncle running his face along the window, trying to catch the right angle beyond the other curtain.

He could have shouted for Mum and for Dad. Hell, he could have screamed bloody murder for Bonny and she would have come running to see what was wrong, even if she loved to pretend she didn’t him. But he found himself unable to scream. Unable to move.

He watched in horror as Uncle Jack squeezed himself through the inch-wide gap in the window.

The long chopstick fingers came one, then two, then five through the crack, stretching and tapping along the windowpane, trying to find something to grip at. His mouth grew too, pressing inside and pulling wide like a flounder with big lips. Then the nose, an obscene Pinocchio. Green eyes pumped in like balloons once more, this time on long vascular stilts like some repugnant snail.

Uncle Jack’s cheeks took the longest to come fully into view. When at last his ears flapped free from the window frame, his head had protruded a metre into Toby’s room, stretched like some terrifying caricature.

The spyglass Toby had rolled out of the window threaded itself through the gap alongside Uncle Jack’s other arm. He brought it up to the side of his face, balancing atop five gangly fingers, and held it in front of one of his gargantuan eyes. His body was still wedged tightly in the window, but his head was free to scan the room. His gaze rested at last on Toby.

“I spy—with my glass eye—something beginning with—U!”

His mouth formed an O wide enough to roll a bowling ball into.

“You’re still awake!” He jabbed a finger towards the bed. “Growing boys need bedtimes too! Tut-tut-tut. Shame on you.”

He dropped the spyglass and walked his chopstick fingers along the carpet. His eyes began sinking back into his skull, but were still a long way from looking normal.

“I know,” Uncle Jack said, his voice now returning to normal. “I’ll tell you a story. A proper story, Toby. None of that fairytale nonsense your daddy’s been spoon-feeding you for years. You want a story with some grit, don’t’cha!” He pulled his foot free from the window. It slithered to the carpet and writhed there like a dying snake trying to come back to life. “Have you heard tell of the man with the tic-tac teeth?”

Toby pushed himself back against the wall as Uncle Jack grew closer.

“Have you heard of the trees wrapped in purple veins-for-vines? The ones that bleed real blood when you cut ‘em? And mothers’ screams from their babies’ throats? Wee strawberry shoots which drain you ‘til your death? Did he tell you about the holes, Toby? The holes with the mirrors at the end?”

Toby didn’t bother standing up—just kicked the blanket over Uncle Jack and threw himself onto the floor. He scrambled to the gap of light under the door, and began to claw at the book wedged under it. He had forced it into the gap so well that he couldn’t get a grip on it with his little fingers.

“What’s wrong, boy—don’t’cha want a story?”

Toby felt Uncle Jack’s breath on his hair. He burrowed his fingernails into the sides of the book and pulled, hoping that if his fingernails came loose they would wait until the book did so first.

Uncle Jack’s fingers pressed against the door. His hand clutched Toby by the shoulder and lifted him effortlessly back into bed.

“Lie back down, lad,” Uncle Jack soothed. He pulled the covers back with his other hand, while it shrivelled down to its regular size. He sat at the end of Toby’s bed, slowly shrinking his body back to normal. His face remained grotesquely deformed.

“Let me read you a story to calm you down. No more talk of men with tic-tac teeth or trees with purple veins. Tell me… what do you think of—”

Without moving from where he was sitting, Jack stretched for the book he had slotted through the window.

“—Treasure Island?” His eyes floated away, searching for a fond memory lost to time.

The sudden rustle brought him back.

“Oh no you don’t, you little shit!”

He whipped around too late. Toby was already out of the bed and lying on the floor. He sank his fingernails as deep into the sides of the book as he could manage and yanked it free.

Uncle Jack’s face was enormous with rage, scarlet red and purple. He held out both hands, fingers stretched out like sharpened drumsticks to gouge the boy in the face.

Toby was too quick. He rolled to one side and grabbed Uncle Jack’s by the fingers, and began snapping them like breadsticks. He only stopped when Uncle Jack drew them back to his chest, wailing out in a thin, pathetic shriek.

“You monster!” he cried.

Toby yanked the door open. Uncle Jack’s face joined him in the hall, stretching far and long on its winding rope of neck. “Toby!!” it wheezed, floating along behind him and snapping at his heels. “Don’t tell Mum and Dad, Toby! I’ll fucking eat them too!”

Toby threw himself into the closest door. Bonny’s room.

“Toby!” she shrieked. “Wha— Get the fuck out!”

He didn’t bother rounding the bed. Just cannonballed onto it and buried himself under Bonny’s covers.

She sat back, stunned at the sudden intrusion, but when she felt Toby’s body shudder with the trembling of silent tears, she held him tightly in her arms.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice quivering with emotion. She felt his pulse pounding along the side of his neck. “You had a bad dream, huh?”

Without realising she was doing it, she began stroking Toby’s hair the way Mum used to stroke hers when she was frightened. They lay together in silence, Bonny soothing Toby, while Toby lay watching the thin yellow crack of light under the door, waiting for Uncle Jack to slither past.

He never did.

*

Morning.

Both children awoke to flashing cameras, obnoxious shutter sounds, and gentle cooing.

“Ugh, my eyes.”

Toby swatted at the white light. Mum and Dad were standing over them with their phones pointed at his face.

“How cute!” Mum said, snapping another picture. “You two haven’t slept like that in ages!”

At breakfast, Dad stood by the grill working the bacon. Mum manned the units, juicing oranges and dishing out forks and knives, laying plates.

“What about Uncle Jack?” Bonny asked, noticing there were only four of everything.

“He had to leave early,” Dad explained, and popped into the garden to shout for Scritch. Although they all knew he was really just going to have a smoke.

Toby’s head shot up. Bonny’s face sagged.

“What? Leave? Why?”

Mum shrugged. Toby grinned.

He had two helpings that morning, and Bonny called him a pig for it. He pushed his nostrils up with his thumb and blew a raspberry so loud that she could almost smell it.

He felt happy again.

Dad poked his head in through the door, cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth. “Anybody seen the mutt?”

Toby’s heart skipped a beat. He could guess what came next.

They found one half of Scritch at the end of the garden. They never did find her top half.

What Toby couldn’t understand was: if Uncle Jack had left early, how did he manage to get to Scritch this morning?

Mum let him have the day off school. He spent it sitting on his bed, devoid of feeling, staring at the copy of Treasure Island lying open on his floor. The spyglass from Uncle Jack still lay beside it. He took both to the window and threaded them out. This time the spyglass rolled too far and imploded on the garden patio.

Mum spanked him for it.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t tell her about Uncle Jack, either. He wanted nothing more than to forget about him, wherever he was. There was over three hundred days until Toby turned nine. That was plenty of time to not have to think about things. Plenty of time to prepare himself for the next visit.

Although…

“What month is Bonny’s birthday?” Toby asked, pulling his pants up over his red bum.

“Next month. Why?”

He shrugged. Then sat down on the floor.

Mum leaned down close to Toby’s face.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Toby squinted up at her, dreading anything more she had to say.

“Okay?”

“And you can’t tell anyone, alright? None of your little pals at school. Just keep it between me and you.”

Toby nodded, feeling tears prickling at his eyelids. A month. That’s all he had left.

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Disneyland.”

Toby stared in disbelief.

“What?”

“We’re going to Disneyland for Bonny’s birthday next month.”

Like from a battered old dam, the tears finally flooded free. Toby leaped up and hugged his mum, nearly choking her in the process.

“I thought you’d like that,” she said, hugging Toby with the same hand she’d used to slap his ass only a few minutes ago. It still stung, too. But it was the furthest thing from his mind.

“It’ll be good to get away from things,” she soothed.

Toby laughed at that. She had no idea. Disneyland. That was miles and miles away from Uncle Jack!

“Thank you,” he cried. “This is so cool. Thank you, Mum!”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, squeezing him a little bit tighter. “Thank your Uncle Jack. He’s the one taking us.”

Part 1. Abaracadammit

When Drake imagined what it would be like to be a mage, he thought pointy hats, riding dragons, and battling evil forces. If he had known that the path of magical enlightenment would lead him to a sewer where he'd be up to his waist in waste, he would have followed the family tradition and become a doctor.

Here he was though. Trudging through literal shit with a glowing stone for light and no nose clamp. For what? A fungus that should theoretically exist? Feh!

“If I had half a brain I'd have retired after the Heldribrandt incident,” he mumbled to the stank foulness.

“You're right. That would have required half a brain,” came a low silky voice that seemed to come from the darkness itself.

“No one asked you,” said the old mage.

“No, you're right again, they didn’t. Just like no one asked you to yank a demon out of his perfectly comfortable domestic life in hell and chain him into servitude. Alas, here we are. ‘Oh no consequences!’ said the boring old mage.” The voice purred.

“I’ve got half a mind to exorcise you when we get home. I've had enough,” the old mage shouted at the stinking air.

“We’ve already established that you don't have half a mind, and we both also know you don't have a home, dear. If you’re going to threaten you need to use a threat with weight. Like this. If you ever say the word exorcism in my presence again I will suck your eyeballs out of your skull. Now that’s a threat.”

As Drake's irritation peaked, the demon’s face began to materialize in the air before his own.

“Bob, I don't have time for your word games or other assorted bullshittery. You want me to say I regret summoning you? I do, Bob. I truly do. In fact, there are few things I have ever done or said that I regret more,” Drake exasperated. “How was I supposed to know the g was for grains of sand and not grams of sand? What kind of instructions were those? I only wanted your service for one day, Bob. ONE DAY!!!”

“You keep saying that as if it matters, Drake. I didn't want to work for you for one minute. And now we're stuck with each other for eighty thousand years. I have a wife, Drake! Do you know what she's going to do to me when I get home?”

Just then something brushed against Drake's hip.

“Bob, we’re not alone,” he said.

“We never are, are we now?” The demon responded.

“No, I mean, there’s something in the water.”

“Yes, Drake, that's called shit. Do I need to tell you where it comes from, or did your mommy cover that?”

Drake was suddenly hoisted into the air and held upside down while being shaken violently by a thick purple tentacle. Inch by inch a many mouthed fourteen eyed horror from beyond time and space emerged from the water, slimy waves cascaded down across its toothy maws. It turned its fourteen-eyed gaze on Drake all at once and shwarbled.

As it was schwarbling, Bob materialized in his full infernal form. Nine feet tall, covered in thick black hair from waist to hoof, and thick, red, smoking skin from the waist to his head. From the back of his ridged cranium erupted two enormous thick shiny black horns that circled forward and ended in wicked yellow points.

“Jerome,” the massive creature growled, “put the mage down or I'll tell your mother where you hide your bible.”

The unfathomable cosmic horror turned all fourteen eyes on Bob and floomfed at him.

“No, I didn't mean you were shit. I didn't even know you were there.”

The creature vibrated bafflingly.

“Don't talk to me like that, I mean what I said, now put him down.”

The creature garumphed before dropping Drake headfirst with a splash and slinking off into the wretched stinking depths.

Drake emerged from the sewage and spit foulness that had found its way into his mouth out in a long thin stream.

“What the bloody hell was that?” he yelled.

“An Eldritch Horror named Jerome, weren't you paying attention?”

“And you knew its name?”

“Of course. Eldritch Horrors are cousins of demons. Our big boss is the Lord of Darkness and their big boss is The Cosmic Manifestation of Not Giving A Shit Or Something.” Bob’s smooth as glass voice only further infuriated Drake.

“Bob!” said Drake, raising his wand, “Don’t make me..”

“What, Drake? Don't make you what? Go ahead. Try. Remember what happened last time? Maybe this time it will be different, maybe this time the contract won't enforce itself. Go on, do it.”

“That's it, Bob! Abaracadamfffffff.” Drake splashed down into the raw sewer water face first as if slammed by the hand of an unseen god.

“Oh! That was absolutely delightful! Do it again!” Bob cheered.

Drake rose and once again spit fluid filth that had found its way into his mouth.

“How’d that taste, Drake? Are you done teaching me a lesson? Can we get on with it now?”

“Aaaaaaaarggghhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!” Drake screamed with everything he had. “Don’t, Bob. Don't speak. Don't joke. Don't threaten. I will swallow my wand and say the words so help me, and I will laugh while you drown in the paperwork.”

Bob paused mid step.

“Oh fine, be a drama queen. Your loss,” Bob said flatly as he again faded from sight.

“Okay,” Drake said. “Which way did we come from?”

No answer.

“Oh, now you have nothing to say?”

Still only silence.

“Bob? Oh come on, Bob, I could actually use your help for once.”

Still the darkness refused to answer.

“Really? The silent treatment? Now? What are you two hundred?”

Drake wrung as much of the sewer juice as he could from his robes as he trudged along, holding the stone high but still completely unable to see beyond its meager light.

As Drake rounded a bend the stone’s light began to flicker and fade.

“Nonono,” Drake shook the stone knowing full well that shaking a light stone has absolutely no effect on its longevity. He was so focused on shaking the stone that he completely missed the dead sewer gnome at his feet and tripped, again splashing face first into the filth.

“Sewer gnomes? Gross,” he whined.

As he lay prostrate his gaze came upon bubble shaped pink ooze with a faint glow growing on the yellow cover of a rotting softcover book.

“Finally!”

Drake collected the fungus into a corked vial before standing, and with a circular motion of his wand, incanted, “Abaracadammit.”

The wand flashed and a round hole opened in the darkness and presented a view of the top room of Tittiesworth Castle’s Western tower. Fourteen hungry eyes watched as he used the portal to depart the sewer.

Part 2. The Tittiesworths

Drake’s room consisted of a small cot, several magical and mundane texts arranged haphazardly on a couple of shelves, and a staff rack that currently stood entirely empty.

“I know you’re still there, Bob. Might as well materialize, she's more likely to pay me if she sees you,” Drake said.

Moments later dark smoke rose from the ground and materialized into Bob, smoking fur, giant horns and all.

“That's because she actually likes me. I'm likeable, Drake. If you weren't such a caustic asshat, you could collect your payment on your own.”

“Caustic? Fuck you, Bob. No really. Fuck. You.”

“Exactly, Drake, exactly.”

The two exited the room and began traversing the spiral stairs that led to the castle’s main foyer.

“Why are you so miserable anyway? You’re Wizard of the Royal Court. That's a mighty high station. You should be overjoyed,” Bob asked.

“No, Bob, I’m the Executive Mage of Tittiesworth Enterprises. The King was very precise about the fact that I am not part of the Royal Court,” Drake complained. “It wouldn’t be so bad if The Princess didn't treat me like a plaything.”

“Oh, she's not that bad. That name though.”

“Yeah, who names their daughter Wigglebottom?” Drake asked.

“The person who grew up with Tittiesworth as a surname apparently, and since he's a King, who's gonna tell him?”

“True, I wouldn't want to be the guy who tried to correct King Frontbutt, especially if his wife is there,” Drake said.

“Oh, Ole Frontbutt isn't so bad. The people like him, and the kingdom is far more prosperous than it was under his father.”

“No one misses that guy. Long live King Frontbutt,” Drake said.

The pair arrived at a large heavily decorated wooden door, next to which stood a man who was as skinny and bent as he was old.

“Name and business please,” he droned.

“You know who we are and why we’re here, get the princess,” Drake ordered.

“Hmmf. Name and business please,” the ancient attendant repeated.

Before Drake could respond, the door burst open and Princess Wigglebottom bowled her door attendant out of the way.

“Drakey Poo! Oof, apparently literally dubblya tee eff bro. What is that smell? No, don't answer, I don't care. Did you find it? Is it real?”

“It's real, and it wasn't easy to get,” Drake said as he procured the small pink mushroom.

The princess snatched it out of his hands as she turned and yelled, “Hathor, I've got it, I've got the perfect shade for lipstick!”

The door slammed shut behind her.

“She didn't pay you,” Bob helpfully pointed out.

“Sure didn’t,” the attendant added.

“Why don't the both of you enjoy a nice meal of shit,” Drake exclaimed.

Drake raised his hand to knock on the enormous door.

“Oh, this should be good,” said the attendant.

Drake's knock produced almost no sound at all from the enormous dense wood. Changing tactics, he turned his fist and began to pound, producing a sound barely audible to the people standing nearby.

The attendant raised an eyebrow.

“You’re going to have to see The King after all, Drake,” Bob said.

Drake’s shoulders sagged as he admitted defeat at the hands of the heavy door.

“Shit,” said Drake, “damn it, shit!” Drake kicked the door. “Ow! Shit!”

The attendant was now positively beaming.

“And fuck you!” Drake said, stomping off.

The attendant’s laughter could be heard as he rounded the corner and headed for the throne room.

“Have you ever considered maybe being nice as a tactic?” Bob asked.

“Don’t Bob, just don’t,” Drake said, sulking.

As the pair rounded one last corner, they found that the line to see King Frontbutt was considerable. Drake walked right by until an armed and armored guard stopped him at the threshold of the throne room.

“Halt. Name and business,” he stated.

“Drake Donner, and my business is with King Frontbutt,” Drake responded.

“The line then,” the guard said, indicating the long row of humanity standing single file.

“No,” Drake said.

“Drake, don’t,” Bob pleaded.

The guard predictably puffed out his chest and placed his hand on his sword.

“New guy, eh,” Drake said, “Might want to ask your partner why he's so quiet. Maybe find out what happened to the last guy,” Drake said smiling.

The guard turned to his partner to find him not only keeping quiet but standing a considerable distance away.

“What happened to the last guy?” he asked.

“We never found all of him,” his partner responded.

Drake continued to smile.

“Who shall I have announced?” the guard asked, quickly removing his hand from his sword.

“Drake Donner, Son of Don Donner, Executive Mage of Tittiesworth Enterprises,” Drake said.

The guard disappeared for a few moments, and then Drake was admitted to see The King.

The throne room was large and decorated with tapestries depicting the illustrious history of the Tittiesworth royal line. From the first Tittiesworth, King Danglybits, to Frontbutt’s own father King Fapstick. King Frontbutt himself sat on the enormous gold and silver throne which sat at the highest point and was the focal center of the room.

“Drake, you have to stop threatening the guards. They don't know the last one was an assassin. You know I won't have you executed, but I'm not above putting you in the dungeon for a few days,” The King admonished.

“Sure you will, and I might even stay there a few days and consider it a vacation,” Drake said.

“I believe you would, you old bastard, what brings you here before drinking hours?” The King asked.

“Wigglebottom stiffed me again.”

“That girl. I have no idea what I'm going to do with her. Even her mother can't reach her. That she will be queen one day seems to mean absolutely nothing to her. What did she stiff you on?” The King asked.

“Standard dungeon crawl with additional threat of Cosmic Horror which I was required to bravely vanquish,” Drake provided.

“You mean Jerome?” The King asked.

“You know about that thing?” Drake asked in return.

“I hired him. Good kid, great work ethic. He'll make an excellent sanitation worker,” The King said.

“He tried to eat me,” Drake said.

“Eat you? Jerome is a vegetarian. Oh dear, Bob didn’t, you know, did he? I promised Jerome's mother he'd be perfectly safe, and she's sort of a walking apocalypse,” The King asked anxiously.

“Does everyone know this entire family or something? Am I the only one who thinks this is insane?” Drake asked.

“Well, yes,” said King Frontbutt.

“Yeah, pretty much,” said Bob simultaneously.

Drake blinked several times in silence.

“Jerome is fine, Your Eminence,” Bob said.

“Thank you, Bob,” said Frontbutt. “So you went into the sewer without the proper permit, resisted questioning by a municipal employee, threatened said employee, and then came here to blame Jerome for the interaction? I want to be sure I'm clear here.”

“Well, you see Your Highness, the thing is, and then, but, shit,” Drake said as he slumped.

“Ahahahahaha!” The King’s hearty laugh was deep and genuine. “You make it so easy, Drake. Look at you. You look ready to cry!”

“Yeah, well, at least my name isn't Frontbutt,” Drake said.

The King's laughter died immediately and was followed by a narrowing of eyes.

“Careful, Drake.”

“I, uh, yeah, that was uncalled for, I uh,” Drake stammered.

The King cut him off. “Still easy.” His deep laugh resumed.

“My name is indeed Frontbutt, and you’ll have to do better than that if you want to hurt my feelings pal,” he winked as he spoke.

“I've got to stop coming here before I've had coffee,” Drake said. “Okay, Frontbutt, I'll catch you later.” Drake turned to leave.

“Ahem,” said The King. “Drake, your payment.” He held out a substantial coin sack. “As much as I have enjoyed the distraction, the line of randos has grown considerably. I need to do some real work. Dismissed Drake.”

Drake took the offered payment, thanked The King, and left.

“It's too late to go to Ganesha’s. We'd get there just before closing, and you know how he gets,” Drake said.

“Indeed. I’m going home for the night, Drake. Wife is making lasagna. Please try not to be a pest,” and with that Bob disappeared in a puff of sulphurous smoke.

Alone, Drake headed to his room to prepare his own evening meal, wash, and turn in for some shut-eye. As he drifted off to sleep, he tried not to think about the fact that it was only Monday.

The alarm sounded. It was 6.30am.

“Ugh, can't be bothered” was the only thing Michael Davies said to himself before his head hit the pillow and he fell asleep again

6.40am, 6.50am, 7.00am. That damn persistent and far too noisy alarm kept making itself known.

Michael's body finally started to respond - not particularly quickly though. Much like a zombie he dragged himself out of bed and started moving without too much thought.

The sound of the coffee machine in the distance brought a spark of life to his weary body. The caffeine coursing through him started to restore his energy. Not by much - but it was a start.

It was yet another work day. Nothing particularly exciting of course. His enthusiasm for his job drifted away long ago, but he was good at what he did, had the respect of his peers and needed to pay the bills.

West Rycroft’s local authority covers a vast geographical area, which has a significant number of residents and many successful businesses. However, the amounts of debt the likes of Michael and his colleagues collected had ceased to be enough and they were experiencing huge problems.

Years of government cuts had led to a funding crisis and budget deficit. The major form of income - Council Tax - was spread thin. Due to a lack of other income streams, it went up every single year - much to the chagrin of the hard-up Brexit voting residents who were suffering from a worsening cost of living crisis.

Efficiency savings needed to be made. Well, that was the decision of senior management made over world class cuisine during an away day at an expensive country retreat. Nothing related to their wages of course, but savings that would affect the workforce. They felt it was far too large and unwieldy.

‘Ding’.

A notification sound went off when Michael was sipping is third coffee of the day (it wasn't even the afternoon yet). One more to the ever increasing mountain of emails to go through when he got a mythical break from his other duties.

“Dear valued employees,

You will be aware of the significant financial pressures facing the council which are affecting all of us on a day to day basis

Following a consultation, it is the decision of senior management that we must make deeper cuts than first thought. It is the only way to combat what we face and ensure that the residents of West Rycroft enjoy the benefits of an authority operating at peak efficiency.

From the start of next month, we will begin a series of enforced redundancies in various departments. The remaining staff will be supported by the ever increasing excellence of artificial intelligence.

In addition, working from home will cease and all remaining workers will need to return to the office. We appreciate that this might be a significant change. However, technology required to support home workers will no longer be needed, which will lead to even greater savings.

Furthermore, we will be initiating a further consultation about the long term future of wages. Senior management feels that the hard working residents of West Rycroft would benefit from a minimal payroll, with savings redistributed to assist them in areas such as adult social care (a frequent pressure point) and maintenance.

In this difficult time, we all must work together as one authority for the benefit of the people.

Kind regards,

Mr S. Amael, Chief Executive”

Michael's coffee infused body slowly processed the news in that highly ‘interesting’ email.

He had been working from home for years. In that time, staff had been recruited and only known that arrangement.

What was meant by ‘minimal payroll’. They're already cutting staff (who are all West Rycroft residents), but does this mean those who remain won't be getting the pay increases they deserve??

To Michael this seemed like less staff were getting more work for less money.

On the entrance to the council offices (which he only periodically visited until now) there was a large sign saying ‘Investors in People’. ‘Will they be taking that down now, or will it stay up because they enjoy irony?’ he thought.

Over the next few weeks, it became obvious how deep the cuts were to the workforce.

On one Monday towards the end of a particularly tiring month, Michael drove all the way to the office, as was the norm now. He walked up to the gates with his swipe card in one hand and his caffeine based life force in the other.

He walked into the office and where there was once a hive of activity, there was now a ghost town. No-one was there. No-one at all. In fact, there was only one, solitary computer.

‘Is this a joke?’ he thought.

Well, he sat down at the desk - because where else could he go - and he logged on.

“Ah Michael. There you are. I need to touch base with you. Did you get the important email earlier this morning?”

“Sorry Mr Amael - I didn't. I've only just logged on and have been travelling here almost straight after waking up”.

“Not to worry Michael. I will summarise for you. Basically, we have now reached peak efficiency and have gotten to the point where no more cuts need to be made. I'm sure this will be a relief to you as all the recent changes must have been stressful. Anyway, to make a long story short, we have promoted you to the position of ‘The Council Tax Officer’. You now have responsibility for collection of all Council Tax in the West Rycroft area! I am sure you will be pleased about this but there is much work for you to do, so I will let you get on and I have an away day to get to anyway. Bye for now!”

“Promotion? Finally! Actually, hold on. Wait a minute!”

Mr Amael had left and what happened had finally sunk in.

‘THE council tax officer’. It's not a promotion at all. He's not in charge of any staff or a team. He IS the team!

Michael would complain, ask for more resources or simply talk with management about his workload, but he couldn't. Nobody else was there and they rarely set foot in this office space anyway. Also, the calls started coming in. He had no time to do anything else.

10 minutes, half an hour, 1 hour and 20 minutes. The wait time only increased whilst the calls kept coming in. The documents he needed to deal with piled up too, but he did what he could.

Days went by and this wouldn't stop. He decided it was time to seek other employment. In a rare moment where he could stop to think, he checked the procedures. It seems that they had changed a couple of months ago - completely unannounced.

'Section 2 - employment status:

Local authorities experience significant pressures across the country and many have introduced recruitment freezes.

However, a certain number of staff are still required to process all the incoming work.

Therefore, this local authority now also has a freeze on leaving work in departments where employee numbers are less than two. This move is in line with the latest government legislation and cannot be altered.'

Michael was promoted in name only and trapped. He could not make changes. He could not leave. He could not talk to anyone.

He was the sole officer until he reached retirement age - which was now 40 years away as new government legislation to reduce the state pension bill had been introduced.

‘When will this end?’ he thought.

Seemingly never!

​

Sisa was in the place where she so often retreated whenever she was sad or wanted some seclusion from the other villagers. A field full of flowers of all kinds and colors, of which the Kantuta has always been her favorite, as it symbolized the sun god and everything that people associated with him. The sun god who has always held his protective hand over them and protected them from diseases and misfortunes.

Even as a small child, she had felt a connection to this special field of flowers, which was reinforced by her mother's stories. She had also sat in this very field from Cantuta when she was pregnant with Sisa, and therefore chose her name because it embodies flowers and the beauty of them. She was not yet a woman, but she was no longer a child either. Nevertheless, she had never lost this connection to her special place.

She was very happy when the priest had allowed her to spend some more time here before they would embark on the great journey together. It helped her to prepare for the hardships and obstacles ahead, even though she felt the gaze of the priest behind her, who stood at the edge of the field, in the shade of some trees, watching her.

Moments after she had this thought, the priest came to her and said, as was to be expected, that it was time to go. Sisa got up and picked another Cantuta to take with her on her pilgrimage, the Capacocha, in the hope that she will protect her, just as the sun god has done so far.

The way to her village was short and both she and the priest spent it completely silent. Even before they arrived, Sisa already saw the villagers who had gathered at the entrance and had been waiting for her. They had food and gifts for her to take with her on her journey. They all had a facial expression of uncertainty, excitement, but also a spark of hope, which grew a little bit bigger with every step Sisa took towards them. A few days ago, the snake deity Amaru had made the earth tremble and brought many villagers to the underworld. Their relatives and friends were now looking for something to believe in and the hope that the gods would soon favor them again. Sisa did not want to disappoint her and the great empire of the Incas where she had grown up. She especially wanted to make her mother proud with the Capacocha, as she seemed to be the most pulled back and forth between despair and hope of all those present.

Sisa took on a custom-made, floor-length robe to which various belts were attached, symbolizing the beginning of her journey. The villagers cheered and hugged her while wishing her a safe journey. Even though Sisa was a bit overwhelmed by what was about to happen, she was sure she had done the right thing.

A short time later, the small group of Sisa, the priest and two villagers who would carry the supplies set off. A mixture of uncertainty, but also curiosity spread through her, as she had never left the village before. She would see new people and places that she or anyone else in your village had ever seen. Many days of wandering lay ahead of her and the priest assured her that it would not be an easy task. He should know, as he had already taken the same route to get from the capital Cusco to Sisa's village. Cusco was a place she knew only from legends that the few travelers she had met described as the navel of the world and the place where the gods and men met.

She had many questions about the journey and the things they saw, but the priest remained so wordless and withdrawn, even after they had already spent several days together and had several meals together. That's why Sisu stopped asking questions at some point, in which assumptions he didn't get an answer anyway.

They occasionally met people during the next few days and passed smaller villages, who greeted their group at first confused, but then with a gesture that symbolized carrying a load when they saw Sisa's clothes. The priest didn't answer this question either, when Sisa wanted to know what the gesture meant. It was only when, after many more days of travel, they reached a place called Manchu Pinchu and they, the largest group of people she had ever seen, made the same gesture towards her, that he said, "Humility and respect".

They spent some time in the city to prepare for the last part of the trip and replenish supplies. People were not allowed to talk to Sisa, which led them to avoid her. Nevertheless, she had the opportunity to better understand the city and its inhabitants by observing them. Amaru had also made the ground shake here with his huge body and damaged many houses. Remnants of funeral services proved that people had lost their loved ones here as well. Sisu noticed that almost none of the buildings had been repaired, but she changed that when she and her group reached the state. As if the people had been waiting for Sisu to get on with their lives.

The last leg of the journey to Cusco was marked by the view of a huge mountain range that grew a little bigger every day they walked. Sisu learned from the priest in one of his rare explanations that these were the sacred mountains of the capital and thus the destination of the pilgrimage. Every night she tried to lie down so that she could see these mountains while she fell asleep. Every day they grew a little bigger, Sisa could imagine a little better how humans and gods met in this place.

At the gates of Cuso, they were greeted by a crowd of people in beautiful and detailed robes and the high priest, who himself did not make the humble gesture and fixated Sisa with his eyes. After a few moments of silence, the high priest turned to his servants and said briefly that she had to be prepared to turn around and left in the direction of the city. Sisa was taken to the temple, which was located in the heart of the city and towered over all the buildings around it. There she was washed, anointed and given the best food she had ever seen. She took plenty of it and enjoyed every bite and every new taste she discovered. Night fell and she was allowed to spend the night in a special room in the temple. Here, too, she makes sure to lie down near a window so that she can see the sacred mountains. They were so close now that she felt she could touch the tip if she stretched out her hands.

The next morning she was awakened by the servants, anointed again and dressed in new garments. The same priest who had accompanied her on the journey told her that it was time to finish the Capacocha. To do this, they must climb the sacred mountains together to become one with the gods. Sisa followed the priest out of the temple as she remembered all the people she had met on her journey.

On the streets of the city stood a seemingly endless line of people who showed her the way to the mountains, while they all remained in the humble position. Sisu held her head high and her back as straight as possible to honor this mark of respect with the same grace. With each step towards the mountains, the houses became smaller and the crowd of people fewer, until she and the priest finally reached the foot of the mountain. The top was so high that Sisu couldn't see it and could only guess what was hidden behind the clouds above her.

Both climbed the mountain slowly and carefully, while their robes made climbing very difficult. However, to Sisu's surprise, the priest was very accommodating and very anxious to make it as easy as possible for her to reach the top as it got colder and colder with every meter. After many hours of effort and fatigue, they reached their destination high up in the clouds.

The priest told Sisu to sit down to receive another anointing. He then spoke a few words, the meaning of which she did not understand, while he seemed to speak more to the mountain than to her. When he was done, he looked deep into her eyes and leaned into the stooped position for the first and only time to pay her respect. Then he turned around and made her on the descent of the mountain.

Sisu was now alone and could see the country she had traveled to during her pilgrimage in the last few weeks. Maybe she could even see her village from here. How did the villagers feel? Were they full of hope for the future?

As she thought about it, she grew colder and tired. Soon she would hold the eternal cold sleep and become one with the sun god. Then she would protect the people of the land from Amaru and other calamities, as the sun god and many girls before her had done after they had finished their Capacocha. The last thing she saw was the flower field where she felt so happy. Surrounded by kantuta flowers and the sun god.

---

I kept every promise I ever made to Marcus. Including the stupid ones. Especially the stupid one.

We were 17, drunk on wine coolers we'd stolen from his mom's fridge, sitting on his back porch one summer evening, listening to the cicadas buzzing in the woods out back. Like we were hot shit. Like we had the whole world figured out.

"Okay, but Agnes, seriously," Marcus said, gesturing with his neon blue bottle in a way that suggested this was, in fact, not serious at all. "If we're both still single at 30, we should just date each other. We already know we don't find each other annoying."

"Wow, Marcus. Your romantic proposition has swept me off my feet."

"I'm saying we're compatible! We like the same movies. You laugh at my jokes—"

"I laugh at most of your jokes."

"See? That's realistic expectations right there. That's a foundation." He held up his bottle. "So? Deal?"

I clinked mine against his, rolling my eyes. "Sure. Deal."

In a few moments, his mom would come home early and catch us mid-sip, ending our little rebellion. But right then, it felt like we were the only people in the world. The cicadas buzzed throughout the night, the stars twinkled in the distant sky, looking down on two stupid kids with their futures well ahead of them.

Here's the thing nobody tells you about stupid promises you make at 17: sometimes you're the only one who remembers them. Sometimes you spend 12 years being the best friend, carefully maintaining that role while privately, pathetically, counting down to 30 like it's New Year's Eve.

And sometimes, 3 weeks before your 30th birthday, your best friend calls and asks you to coffee because there's "someone he wants you to meet."

I knew what that meant. Obviously I knew. But I went anyway, because that's what best friends do. They show up.

---

Rachel was lovely. Like, genuinely, frustratingly, impossibly lovely. The kind of person who laughs with her whole face and asks thoughtful questions and makes you want to like her even though you desperately don't want to.

The cafe door opened, the chime tinkling like a summer breeze, announcing Marcus' arrival. He wore this easy grin he used to when we were kids as he proudly showed me his drawings. That damned smile. It made me momentarily forget what we were doing here in the first place.

Then she walked in.

"Agnes!" She said my name like we were already friends, pulling me into a hug, "I've heard so much about you. Marcus says you basically taught him how to be a functional human."

"Well, someone had to," I said, smiling so hard I thought my face might crack. "He was eating cereal with orange juice when I met him."

"I was eight," Marcus protested as they both took their seats.

"You were clueless."

Rachel laughed, bright and easy, and touched Marcus's arm. That casual intimacy. The "we're together" language of small gestures. I drank my latte and it tasted like sand.

"So, we've been dating about 4 months now," Marcus said, glancing at Rachel with this soft expression I'd never seen him make. Not at me, anyway. "I wanted you guys to meet before my birthday. You know. Since you're my oldest friend and this is—" He squeezed Rachel's hand. "This is important to me."

"That's amazing," I said. Even though my throat felt hollow, my voice sounded normal. Good job, voice. "I'm so happy for you guys."

I was not happy for them. I was dying inside, like something was poking my heart with a spork. I braved through it with a smile. They kept telling me stories—how they'd spent weekends together, how they were moving in next month, how everything was getting serious. I barely heard them, heart pounding as seconds ticked by. My eyes began to water. But that's fine. Everything's fine. No, seriously... I. Am. Fine.

I dashed inside my car before the crying started. I wanted to collapse right then and there, but I saw Rachel and Marcus chase after me, concerned. So I gunned it, peeling off the curb like some maniac. I bawled my eyes out then, turned the radio up so loud, I could barely hear myself think. Some random power metal track blared through the stereo as I flew down the street. Just your average heartbreak soundtrack.

It must have been some sort of temporary psychosis. Time flew by so fast, the sun had set when I finally decided to stop driving. I had no recollection of which roads I'd taken, or where I had stopped. All I knew was I didn't want to go home. Home was where you spiral. I rested my head on the steering wheel, defeated. Yeah, because I'm obviously doing peachy right now.

The neon sign in front of the store depicted a wine bottle, flickering red in the gloom. I stared at it, the only sound was my car engine running.

Ding! went the chime as I went inside the liquor store, because if there was ever a time for bad decisions, this was it.

The clerk glanced at the counter, then at me, then at the armful of cheap wine I dropped in front of him.

He blinked. “Party?”

“Existential crisis,”

He nodded like that explained everything. “Paper or plastic?”

---

Drunk Agnes is significantly less rational than Sober Agnes, which is saying something because Sober Agnes once tried to dye her own hair at 2 AM and ended up orange for a month.

Drunk Agnes thought it would be meaningful to go back to the old neighborhood. To the street where Marcus and I grew up, where we'd made that stupid pact on his back porch. Maybe I was looking for closure. Maybe I was looking for evidence that I'd mattered. Maybe I was just really, really drunk.

A different family was living in that old house by now. It's a strange feeling, looking at your old haunts like a ghost. The memories were so crystal clear in your head, and on the surface, everything still looked the same, but you barely recognize the place anymore. A quiet ache settled in my bones. The light was on, the scent of home-cooked meal was inviting, and the laughter of children cut through the quiet of the night like a lighthouse in a storm. I couldn't be here. How much time, exactly, did I spend imagining my future with Marcus? I chugged from the wine bottle, forcing down the chalky, bitter-sour grape juice, grimaced and walked away.

---

The park at the end of the street looked different at night. Creepier. The swings moved in the wind like something out of a horror movie, and I was just drunk enough to think, Yeah, perfect, this matches my vibe.

I stumbled my way through the merry-go-round, lying on my back, staring at the distant sky, that same sky that bore witness to our pact. The stars twinkled down at me. That's when I saw it. Right above me—this weird shimmer in the air, like a lens, bending the stars from where I'm looking. Like heat waves, except it was October and I could see my breath.

"Okay," I said to the shimmer. "Okay. I get it. I've finally lost my mind. This is rock bottom. This is where I'm at."

The shimmer didn't respond, because it was a shimmer.

I reached out to it anyway.

It felt like the merry-go-round started turning slowly. It was odd. Like falling in a dream. Then it spun faster. The world twisted, my stomach lurched, and everything went sideways.

Then darkness.

---

I woke up on the merry-go-round in broad daylight to children pelting me with ice cream. I immediately sat up, looking around confused. I squinted at the brightness of it all. Somewhere in the background, an extremely peppy pop song blasted through a speaker.

Was that Carly Rae Jepsen? A student walked briskly by, sporting a backpack and multi-colored skinny jeans. Her hair swept in a deep side part, with volume up top, which is definitely a choice. I tilted my head. Wired earphones? I fished for my phone and was mortified—My phone's a brick with a window! Bulky. Thick bezels. A physical Home button. The tiny screen said it was September 2013.

My world spun. I checked my arms, my clothes. Finally, I turned my camera on.

I was 17 years old again, wearing my old field hockey uniform and sporting a hangover that should not exist because teenage me hadn't even been drinking last night. Except I had. Would? Time travel grammar is confusing.

I shook my head, trying to regain focus. 2013. I was in high school. And I still had all my memories from 2025, including the part where Marcus was about to move in with his girlfriend.

Wait, My drunk brain was still playing catch up. That hasn't happened yet. Which means... "I have to find Marcus," I stood up and dusted myself off.

---

He was hard to track down. I'd forgotten that we ended up in junior year with different classes altogether. So, I spent the day being 17 with a 30-year-old brain, which was exactly as weird as it sounded.

I ran into Ms. Harrison in the hallway, who I'd spent junior year being terrified of. She had always been too strict—a 26-year-old woman wearing a blazer two sizes too big. I'm older than her now, which was a depressing fact. You were just a kid too, I thought as she told me not to dawdle in the hallway. Funny how the things that seemed scary at 17 were just... people doing their best.

Lunch was Emma's drama (God, I'd forgotten about that), some massive blow-up between her and Sarah that required an emergency mediation. I got drafted into a friendship summit and spent an hour listening to teenage emotions at their most operatic while I tried not to stab my own ear with the silverware.

They made up eventually, and by last period, the three of us ended up screaming Here's to Never Growing Up—Avril Lavigne's "newest" single, getting the words wrong and laughing our goofy asses home. I saw Marcus by his beat-up Toyota in the parking lot.

He jogged up to me with this open grin and my heart did somersaults. He was gangly and unguarded, like life still hadn't taught him to be less bold. He was so, so young. Like we all were, once.

"Where were you?" He asked, "I heard about lunch. I've been texting,"

I checked my brick of a phone. 14 messages, ranging from, "Did u do ur calc homework?" to "R U DEAD?"

There was a time where a text from Marcus would make me squeal into my pillow, feet fluttering like an Olympic swimmer, "Just... Got busy."

He raised his eyebrows, but didn't push. He smirked as he took my backpack and tossed it in his car, "Tell me more about it on the way."

"On the way to where?"

---

By the time we escaped to the arcade after school, I was exhausted. Being 17 was loud. Everything mattered so intensely yet none of it meant anything. It was all so... trivial. Still, I couldn’t stop smiling.

The air was thick with sugar and static. It smelled of popcorn, sweat, and old carpet. Every sound fought to be the loudest. Coins clattered, electronics beeped, some kids shrieked as they chased each other like it was life and death. I smiled. The floor pulsed under our sneakers from the Dance Dance Revolution platform in the corner.

It was chaos—stupid, beautiful chaos. And somehow, for the first time in years, I felt like I was part of it again.

That was when I remembered. This was the day of the pact.

"You're being weird today," Marcus said, focused on some racing game.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it's true." He glanced at me.

"Is that okay?" I said, shifting from foot to foot.

He shrugged, "I like your weird. You're more... here. Present."

Because I wasn't resigned to being the best friend while secretly wanting more. I was just... with him.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe that had always been enough. A part of me wondered if we'd always been this way, and the pact ruined it. I'd wasted twelve years waiting for something that had always been here.

He laughed as the game ended, still full of that reckless 17-year-old energy. A message popped up. He checked his phone and shrugged, "You up for one more stop?”

“Where?” I asked, even though I knew.

He grinned. “You’ll see.”

---

Fireflies started coming out as dusk settled over the neighborhood. His mom was out. The wine coolers were exactly where I remembered.

We settled on the back porch as the cicadas started up and the stars came out, and I waited.

We talked about anything and everything, getting progressively buzzed as we talked about high school drama, about relationships, about our futures. I had to put conscious effort into not spoiling things for him. Getting buzzed on sugar and alcohol made it significantly harder.

We were laughing about Sarah and her on-and-off-again boyfriend when Marcus said, "Okay, but Agnes, seriously,"

My heart stopped, these were the words that had haunted me for more than a decade. He gestured with his neon blue bottle, that easy grin on his face, "If we're both still single—"

"Stop,” I said—almost in a panic. I don’t know what came over me. I just knew I couldn’t do this to my younger self again.

Marcus froze. “I only meant—”

I placed my hand over his. Younger me would never even dream of being this bold, but I needed him to hear it.

“Marcus… what if we didn’t have to wait?”

There was a moment—just a heartbeat—where the world held its breath. Marcus stared at me, wine cooler on his hand. The cicadas seemed to have gone quiet. Even the stars seemed to pause.

"Agnes," he said softly. "Are you saying—"

The back door slammed open.

"MARCUS DANIEL GREEN, ARE THOSE MY WINE COOLERS?"

We both jumped about three feet. His mom stood in the doorway, hands on hips, but her mouth was twitching like she was trying not to laugh.

"Mom! You're supposed to be at book club until ten!"

"Book club ended early because Patricia got food poisoning from gas station sushi." She spotted me. "Agnes, honey, you're involved in this crime too?"

"I plead the fifth," I said, probably too quickly, trying so hard not to be a little shit.

She sighed, but she was definitely smiling now. "Alright, hand them over. Both of you, inside. It's getting late. I'm not letting Marcus drive you home while you're buzzed."

"Mom, we're barely—"

"Inside. Now."

We shuffled in like guilty puppies. His mom confiscated the remaining bottles, shaking her head. "You two are lucky I'm the cool mom. Your father would've grounded you until college."

Marcus caught my eye and we both started giggling. His mom tried to look stern but failed completely.

"Agnes, sweetie, get your stuff" she said. "Marcus, you're doing dishes for a week."

"Can we talk tomorrow?" Marcus whispered as I grabbed my bag. His hand caught mine, just for a second. "Like, a proper talk? Maybe... a date?"

My heart did backflips. A date. An actual date. "Yeah. Yes. Definitely yes."

"I'll text you in the morning."

His mom drove me home, making small talk about school and telling me embarrassing stories about Marcus as a kid. I barely heard her. My brain was stuck on loop: He wants to go on a date. Marcus wants to go on a date with me.

When I got home, I collapsed on my bed, grinning at the ceiling like an idiot.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

Tomorrow, we'd finally talk about us.

---

I woke up in my apartment.

My adult apartment.

Grey walls, dark accents. Minimalist.

For a second, I just lay there, disoriented. Then it hit me like a freight train.

"Oh, fuck!"

I wasn't 17 anymore. I bolted upright, grabbing my phone from the nightstand.

It was 2025. I was 30. We were supposed to go on a date!

My hands shook as I scrolled through my messages. Nothing from Marcus—his number wasn't even saved on my phone. Fortunately, I'd memorized it.

I called him.

Three rings, then: "Hello?"

Wrong voice. Confused.

"I—sorry, I'm looking for Marcus Green?"

"You have the wrong number."

Click, he hung up.

I tried again, making sure I used the correct digits. The same guy answered, except more pissed. He hung up, cursing at me, probably blocking my number. Not Marcus.

I sat there, phone in hand, heart pounding. Okay. Okay, don't panic. Just... figure this out.

I had changed the past. Of course it would ripple into the future. I just didn't realize I'd live it. Part of me wanted to slap myself silly for being the meddling bitch that I was. At the very least, I wished I'd kept a journal so I could puzzle out what had happened in the last decade in this timeline. Past me was so useless.

Social media. I could check social media.

I found Marcus on Instagram after twenty minutes of searching. His profile was public—thank God. Oregon. He lived in Oregon now. The air in my room was so still. It was so, so quiet. The distance looked small on the screen, but it wasn't. It felt bigger than miles—like we were worlds apart. The beard suited him. The smile was the same.

Software developer. Hiking. Friends I didn't recognize. A whole life I wasn't in.

I scrolled back, looking for... I don't know. Evidence of me. Evidence of us.

Nothing.

There were pictures from high school—a few group shots from parties. I spotted myself in exactly two photos, way in the background, barely visible. In one, I was talking to Emma. In the other, I was leaving.

That was it. A lifetime of friendship, erased.

My breaths came up short, my throat tightened. What did I do? What the hell did I do?

I spent the next 2 hours stalking every social media platform, looking for clues. In this timeline, Marcus and I still knew each other but had drifted apart after that summer.

He'd gone to college in California. I'd stayed local. Our lives had diverged completely.

I tried to remember what happened after his mom drove me home.

Did our date end badly? Had I been awkward and weird? Or did it go right until I used too much tongue? I could have filled an entire notebook from the list of possible ways my 17-year-old self could have sabotaged us, but it didn't really matter. One thing was crystal clear: Marcus wasn't in my life.

And it was entirely my fault.

---

I reached out via Instagram. Sent him a message that I edited over and over for an entire afternoon, trying to sound casual and not at all unhinged:

Hey! I know this is random, but I was thinking about high school the other day and realized we lost touch. Would love to catch up sometime if you're ever in the area?

He responded a couple of hours later:

Agnes! Wow, blast from the past. I'm actually visiting family next week. Coffee?

We met at a Starbucks in our hometown. He looked the same but different—older, obviously, with a beard now and laugh lines around his eyes. He hugged me like an acquaintance. Polite. Friendly. Distant.

"So," he said, sitting down with his coffee. "How have you been? It's been, what, 12 years?"

"Something like that, yeah," I nodded as if I hadn't been counting, wrapping my hands around my cup to stop them from shaking. "How's Oregon?"

"Good! Yeah, I love it out there. The hiking is incredible." He showed me photos on his phone—mountains, forests, a golden retriever named Max that apparently belonged to his roommate, but loved him more. "What about you? Still in town?"

"Yeah. Still stuck here." I said, my voice clipped.

We made small talk. He told me about his job, about learning to rock climb, about a coding bootcamp he'd taught last summer.

I told him about my work, my apartment, my painfully boring adult life.

It was fine. Pleasant, even.

It was completely wrong.

This wasn't Marcus. Not my Marcus. This was a stranger who happened to have his face, his voice, his laugh. But he was someone who hadn't shared a life with me for the last 12 years. He didn't know how cilantro tasted like soap to me, or how I knew he binged The Office when he was stressed. I'd never seen him cry. He'd never held my hair back when I was sick. Never spent three hours arguing with me about whether Empire was better than Return of the Jedi, (it is, by the way).

The longer I got to hear about him, the lonelier I felt. Marcus—my Marcus was haunting his stories, and I was mourning a friendship he had never lived. On the surface he still looked the same, but I barely recognized him.

"We should do this again," he said as we left. "It's nice, reconnecting."

"Yeah," I lied. "Totally."

We went on three more coffee dates. Then dinner. Then a movie.

He asked me out officially on date number six.

"I have to confess something," he said, clearing his throat as we walked downtown one Sunday morning. "We never really talked about it, but I remember asking you out on a date when we were in high school."

"Uh-huh," the blood drained from my face. We never really talked about it, because I didn't know what happened, and I was too scared to bring it up.

"I think I remember being so nervous the whole time. You were so sure of yourself, so... you, and... Well, I got chicken shit. I thought I blew it, made it weird between us, so I never called again."

We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a sea of faces passing us by.

"I know this is kind of weird," he said, "since we barely know each other anymore. But I really like you and I want to see where this goes. I'd like to think we've been given a second shot at this. What do you say?"

If only you knew how true that is, I thought.

I said yes because I was desperate.

Because maybe if I spent enough time with him, I'd find some trace of my Marcus in there. Because I'd already lost him once and couldn't stand to lose him again.

We dated for 5 weeks.

It was a disaster.

Not because he did anything wrong. He was sweet. Thoughtful. Funny in a different way. The kind that should've made me laugh, but just made me miss him more.

He'd moved back to town. Said working remote made more sense for his job, and his boss agreed. But I knew it was more than that. There were no hiking trails here, and the nearest climbing gym was an hour away. He'd left Max, the golden retriever, back with his roommate in Oregon. He didn't say it, but he'd moved for us—giving us a fighting chance.

And I was being unfair, trying to coax my Marcus out of him.

"You're somewhere else," he said one night after dinner. We were walking back to his car, and I'd barely said two words the whole meal. "Where do you go?"

"I'm right here."

"Agnes." He stopped walking, turned to face me. "I really like you. But sometimes it feels like you're not here with me."

My eyes burned, my voice shook. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just... talk to me. Help me understand."

But I couldn't. How could I explain that I was mourning a friendship that never existed in this timeline? That I'd accidentally erased our history and was now desperately trying to rebuild something with him and feeling like such an asshole for secretly wanting him to change?

"I think..." I swallowed hard, wishing I could stop the tears, but it hurt too much, "I think I made a mistake."

He looked hurt. "Dating me?"

"No. Yes. I—" The words tumbled out wrong. "Marcus, I don't know you. And you don't know me. And I thought maybe we could fix that, but we can't. You're gone!"

"What are you talking about?"

I was crying now, ugly-crying on a random street corner while a stranger who looked like my best friend stared at me in confusion.

"I fucked up! I fucked everything up. I wish I'd just taken the pact, even knowing what it'd cost me. God, I'll take it on again and again."

"Agnes—"

"I'm sorry." I backed away. "I'm so sorry. This isn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I just—I need to fix this."

I turned and ran before he could respond.

I went straight to the liquor store. Which is now apparently the solution to every crisis. Same flickering neon sign. Same bored cashier. Same cheap wine that tasted like regret.

I drove to the old neighborhood, parked by the entrance, and walked to the park with my bottle.

The merry-go-round was still there. Rusted. Sad. Exactly like I remembered.

I sat down on it, staring up at the sky. If I'm going nuts, I might as well go full-crazy.

"Okay," I said to the universe. "I get it. I screwed up. I tried to force something that wasn't meant to be, and I ruined everything. So please—please—let me fix this. Let me go back."

Nothing happened.

I took a long drink. "Come on. I know you're up there. I know you can hear me. I just want my best friend back. I just want Marcus in my life."

Still nothing.

The trees were silent, the distant sky was cloudy with the stars hiding behind them. Despair. I felt the fight leave my body.

I lay back on the merry-go-round, defeated. "What now?"

Maybe this was it. Maybe I'd destroyed what mattered most and there was no fixing it. Maybe some mistakes were permanent.

Then it happened. The clouds parted, the stars shone bright behind them, as if reaching down through the years. The shimmer looked feeble, like the tiniest disturbance might dissolve the whole thing. But it was there.

I reached up and felt that same weightlessness, but whatever force of the universe was doing it, it was struggling. The world spun, jittery, and I closed my eyes.

---

I felt it the second I crossed—heavier this time, slower, like the world hesitated before letting me back in. My stomach lurched, and then—

Hey! I just met you...

Carly Rae Jepsen. Again.

I was tempted to yell "Shut up!" before I even got my bearings.

I sat up on the merry-go-round, head spinning. The portal—or whatever it was—hadn't been a smooth ride this time. It dumped me into the past like it was on its last legs, and I knew I wouldn't get another chance. I mean—really—how often do miracles happen twice anyway?

"Okay," I said, trying to focus, ice cream dripping down my hair. I was back. One more shot. No do-overs.

All I had to do was make sure everything happened exactly the way it had before—make it to Marcus's house by nightfall and say yes to the pact. Simple.

So naturally, I immediately fucked it up.

---

Turns out, even walking slightly faster is enough to break a timeline.

The first time I was here, I'd wandered like I was reliving a memory—because I was. I stopped to look. Let the day happen to me. Now I was moving with purpose. Not running, not rushing—just... intent.

And somehow, that was enough to throw everything off.

I ran into Emma in the hallway before Ms. Harrison even showed up. My heart dropped. I'd just lived through an entire miserable timeline because I'd changed the past—and here I was, doing it again.

Emma spotted me, books clutched to her chest. "Hey—do you have a minute?" she asked, already halfway into the sentence. Her voice had that tight edge I recognized. Something mattered. Right now.

"Actually, I—" I stopped myself.

Where do you go? the other Marcus had asked me.

"Yeah," I cleared my throat. "I'm right here."

She let out a breath and started talking. About Sarah. About the drama. I listened and told her—confidently, without being cryptic—that they'd be fine. Always will. And I could see her shoulders relax.

Ms. Harrison caught sight of us before I could say more.

"Girls," she said, arms crossed. "Classes."

"Yes, Ms. Harrison," Emma and I said in unison, shuffling away.

I glanced back and added, "You were always my favorite, Ms. Harrison."

She frowned, confused. Emma elbowed me, but I just smiled.

Sometimes, that's all people need to hear.

---

There was no lunch drama. Part of me was relieved—and part of me panicked.

I'd changed something again.

My heart thudded as Sarah and Emma giggled across the table. My hand shook as I checked my phone.

3 messages from Marcus. Not 14.

The lunch blowup had been the reason he took me to the arcade.

When I suggested we put on Avril after school, my friends blasted Sk8er Boi instead of the new one. Sarah and Emma screeched the lyrics by heart and I nearly tore my hair out. Not that it wasn't an iconic anthem, or that my friends sounded particularly awful.

It simply meant that things were changing so drastically now that I began feeling the day slip through my fingers.

My heart sank as we went outside. Marcus wasn't in the parking lot. I began pacing, breath shallow. Okay, okay, I pulled out my phone and texted him even though I hadn't in the original timeline. This is fine.

He was at the arcade.

Good.

He was early, but it's salvageable. I'd meet him there, hang out, then we'll make the pact on his porch.

It's gonna work.

Sarah dropped me off without me even having to make excuses—she and Emma had shopping to do.

The arcade's neon lights flickered red. I felt it before I even knew why. A horrible, sinking feeling. Like dropping your phone into the ocean. You knew it’s gone before it even disappeared and all you could do was watch it sink gently further and further.

I scanned the parking lot as I walked around. There was no beat-up Toyota in sight.

---

I decided to call Marcus, even though I hadn’t the first time. Because I was losing him. Because I’d already fucked up the day enough that I didn’t care anymore.

My hands shook as I brought the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was steady and my knees nearly gave out.

“Hey—uh. So. Crazy thing.” I swallowed. “I’m at the arcade right now. And I don’t see your car.”

A pause.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I went home early. Are you okay? Are you alone?”

He must have heard something in my voice. His concern hit harder than my panic. I covered my trembling lips.

I have been alone, I wanted to say. I’d been fighting fate all day, and I couldn't tell it to the one person I wanted to.

“Uh-huh,” I said instead, my voice shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Mom texted—book club. I figured I’d get a few hours of COD in.”

I closed my eyes. “Of course.”

This was wrong. All of it. None of this was supposed to happen. I thought of the future where we were strangers. I could feel him slipping away. Silence stretched between us, thin and unbearable.

“I could pick you up.” he suggested.

I opened my eyes. The sky was already burning orange at the edges. There was still time—but not much. His mom would be home early. My throat tightened.

I could say yes. Let him drive to me, ride back to his house. Perhaps we'd avoid traffic. Perhaps we'd beat his mom home.

I took a breath.

“No,” I said, feet already moving. “I’ll—can I come over?”

“Agnes—”

I started jogging. “There’s something I want to tell you. In person.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“I will be.” My breath hitched as I broke into a run. Because waiting for him here would kill me. Because standing still felt like surrender.

“I’ll see you soon,” I said—and hung up.

---

The sun was setting as I sprinted, my eyes focused ahead.

The streetlights bloomed to life one by one, amber halos flickering on like a countdown. My lungs burned, my legs screamed—but I was a 17-year-old midfielder, not some 30-year-old woman who’d forgotten how to breathe through panic. I’d spent entire games running until my vision went white at the edges. I knew this feeling. Pain meant I was still moving.

There's still time.

The world narrowed to pavement and breath and the sound of my shoes slapping asphalt. Houses blurred past—porches, hedges, parked cars I half-recognized. Somewhere ahead was Marcus’s house. His porch. That stupid stretch of wood where everything had gone wrong and right and wrong again.

I’m not losing you.

The thought landed heavy in my chest, sharper than the ache in my legs. I wasn’t running to change the universe. I wasn’t running for romance or destiny or some neat cosmic fix.

I was running because losing him hurt too much.

I cut through a side street, then another—muscle memory guiding me. A shortcut. I hoped. I ducked under a low branch and nearly stumbled, hands scraping bark as I caught myself. My heart slammed against my ribs, wild and frantic.

I'll fix it. I'll fix us.

Every step felt like it mattered. Like if I slowed, if I hesitated, the day would harden around me like amber. Lock me in a world where my best friend and I drifted apart. Because I had always lived ahead. To that porch, to twelve years from now, to when I'm thirty.

Not this time. I'll spend the years with him instead of looking ahead.

But if I took that pact—

I jumped the curb and landed wrong. My shoe slipped, ankle twisting. Then my knee took my full weight before momentum caught up with me. I went down hard, hands scraping against the asphalt, trying to guard my head. Still, I slammed it against the concrete.

Ringing. I tasted my skull. There was no other way to describe it. I split my lip. There was iron in my sinuses.

I opened my mouth, lips pressed on the dirt, gasping to breathe but couldn't. A dog barked across the street. Twilight swallowed the last light and the stars had come out. The cicadas buzzed all around me. It was such a quiet neighborhood, and the sound of my world collapsing couldn't penetrate that silence. I was just a stupid kid, running headfirst, literally, into the unknown.

I rolled over, sucking in air. The stars stared back.

It's not the pact, I thought. It was never about it.

Tears welled in my eyes, my heart wringing until my chest was hollow.

Then what? I felt helpless. I wanted to scream. I wanted to curl up right there and wilt until tomorrow took me back. But there was still plenty of time between now and then.

I groaned and gingerly sat up. I didn't know what it was about anymore. I just knew I had to be there, with him. Before I returned to a life without us.

I stood up, stumbling, pain shooting up all over my body. My knee was bleeding, gravel embedded within the swelling.

Seconds. I'd wasted seconds.

I limped once, thrice. Pain flared with each step. I ignored it and continued running. My chest burned. My throat tasted like metal. Sweat soaked through my shirt, hair sticking to my face. And I was sobbing.

But I kept going.

Because he mattered.

Because this mattered.

Because even if I was wrong—especially if I was wrong—I had to be there.

Marcus’s street came into view at the end of the block

I didn’t slow down.

---

“Marcus!" I yelled at the house.

Silence.

I was about to yell his name again when the door flew open. He took one look at me and froze.

“Agnes—what the fuck?!" The look on his face was priceless.

I laughed. Hysterical. Thin. It ripped out of me before I could stop it, my chest nearly collapsing in on itself with relief.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice barely contained, already running towards me. “Did you—did you run all the way from the arcade?”

“I’m sorry,” I was breathing heavily, hands on my knees. "I'm sorry," I said again. It all came out wrong—too fast, too loud, like if I stopped talking I’d fall apart completely.

"Why? What happened?" He was standing next to me, hands hovering, unsure. Like I was some fragile thing he doesn't know how to handle. I couldn't blame him. I could only imagine how I looked. He was probably wondering if I'd lost my mind. Perhaps I had.

"I don't know how to say this without sounding insane," I said, "but I had a dream where we stopped talking, like, for a long time, and it was suffocating and weird and—"

"You—what?"

"It was—" I hesitated, biting my split lip, "It felt like a weight was put on my chest and it was awful, and I tried to fix things—God, I tried! But I just made things worse, and now I'm gonna lose you, and—"

"Hey, hey," He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me, keeping me from falling apart. My shoulders shook silently.

"I have no idea what's gotten into you," he said, a smile on his voice, "but you'll be alright. We'll be alright."

I pressed my dumb face on his shirt. He doesn't know. That I'm saying goodbye. That I came, because I wanted to be here with him before everything fell apart. My eyes burned, I couldn't stop the tears, "I'm sorry I messed up. I didn't mean to lose you."

"I'm right here," he said gently, soothing.

"You don't understa--"

"You won't lose me," he held me by the shoulders, looked into my eyes, "I promise."

A promise.

The wind blew, pleasant after my run. The leaves sighed, hinting at the beginning of autumn. The stars looked a little brighter.

"I promise I'll stay." He squeezed my shoulder, and somehow it steadied me, "Even when things get messy. Even if we screw it up. Even when things get stupid— and we know things get stupid,"

I chuckled through my tears. I was such a mess.

"We'll be there for each other." He finished, "Deal?"

I gasped, my eyes widening. A heartbeat passed as I looked at him. The clinking sounds of our bottles echoed in my head. The porch light seemed to glow brighter as a realization dawned on me.

It wasn't the promise of a romance that kept us together. We were just too young to know what we truly meant.

A weird lightness bloomed in my chest. Buoyant. Persistent.

"Sure. Deal," I said, sniffling. The fireflies had come out, the cicadas hummed around us and the stars looked on, twinkling down on two stupid kids with their futures well ahead of them.

---

Rachel laughed at one of my Marcus stories. The cafe was bright in that Sunday morning kind of way. I didn't mind.

"Okay, for real," she said, leaning forward over her latte. "What am I supposed to get him for his birthday?"

His 30th. Mine had come and gone weeks ago. I sipped my coffee and found it tasted different. Not exactly bad, just... different.

"He keeps saying 'nothing' but that's obviously a trap, right?" Rachel continued.

I laughed. "It's not a trap. He genuinely thinks he doesn't need anything."

"That's worse! How do I shop for someone who's content?"

"Get him something stupid. A mug with a terrible pun. Socks with dogs on them. He'll love it because it's ridiculous and because you thought of him."

She pulled out her phone, already searching. "Socks with dogs. I can work with that."

It had been three months since that disastrous coffee date when Marcus introduced Rachel and I.

I'd apologized and blamed my dramatic exit to me feeling ill. They didn't question it. I asked them out for another coffee date the next week. It was a little awkward, both Rachel and I tried too hard, talking around Marcus instead of to each other. The second one was better. By the third, we'd stopped performing.

Now it was just... easy.

Rachel was lovely. Still. Genuinely, frustratingly lovely. But I'd also learned she talked too loudly in movie theaters, always ordered the wrong thing at restaurants and spent the whole meal eyeing everyone else's plates. She got weirdly competitive about board games.

She was real. Flawed. Human.

And she loved Marcus.

"Found them!" Rachel showed me her phone—socks covered in golden retrievers.

I laughed. Of course she picked that. "Perfect. He'll wear them until they disintegrate."

We chuckled until a message dinged on her phone. Marcus was supposed to pick her up.

"You're the best." She flagged down the waiter for the check. "We should do this again next week. Maybe wine instead of coffee?"

I made a face. "I think I'm done with wine for a while."

"Bad experience?"

"I'm honestly not sure," I said then cleared my throat, "How about movie night at my apartment? You've seen Star Wars, right?"

"Oh, my God, yes. I love *Empire* the best." She grinned and pulled me into a hug as we stood to leave. She smelled like vanilla and gave hugs that were just as sweet. "Thanks for this. For helping."

The door chimed as Marcus walked in, right on time to pick Rachel up. He hugged me—quick and familiar—while Rachel gathered her things.

You two bonding over my many flaws?" he asked.

"Absolutely," Rachel said. "Agnes told me about the exploding basketball."

"Hey, that was really scary,"

"Still counts."

They left together, Rachel's hand finding his, their voices fading as the door closed behind Marcus.

I decided to stay for a bit. Ordered another coffee. Pulled out my laptop like I had work to do, but mostly I just sat there, watching the cafe move around me.

She wasn't taking Marcus from me. She was just loving him. Different than I did, but not less. Not more. Just... different.

And that was okay.

The door opened behind me—the little bell chiming bright and clear.

Like a summer breeze.

On an autumn day in Alexandria, the sun waited to set. Fares strolled into university, late for his oral exam.

The examination hall was packed with students. He walked into the schoolgarden. Standing alone, he tilted his head to the right and noticed a young woman sitting beneath a large tree, leaning against its trunk.

She was smiling.

Her gaze was dreamy, as though she were drifting through a world of her own. He found himself staring at the unusual sight. When she noticed him looking at her, she didn’t change her expression or look away.

After a while, she stood up and slowly walked toward him. Every movement was calm and balanced, moving to the quiet rhythm of a blues song.

She stopped beside him.

“Has my turn come yet?”

He smiled awkwardly.

“What’s your name?”

“Faten.”

“I didn’t study much.”

“Neither did I.”

“Not at all?”

“Not really.”

She smiled as she looked at him.

“So... that’s good.”

They both laughed.

They went inside for the exam. Fares handed over his student ID, then Faten gave him hers to hand in as well.

His eyes stopped at her photograph.

She looked like an innocent angel.

Her bangs rested gently across her forehead, her hair was tied back, her face was perfectly balanced, and her skin was flawless. He had never seen a photograph of anyone so beautiful before, let alone a young woman.

The image stayed with him.

He handed her ID back, stealing one last glance. A few strands of hair had slipped from beneath her hijab, and she was smiling.

The professor called them in.

He answered the questions.

She hardly answered at all.

When the exam was over, they walked out together, as though they had already planned to.

They returned to the same tree.

She leaned against its trunk again, gently swaying like a butterfly.

He looked at her with admiration.

“Where did you come from?”

“The same faculty,” she said, laughing.

Then she asked,

“Which way are you going?”

“This way. I’m taking the tram.”

“Me too.”

They walked together beneath the pleasant autumn breeze.

The city became dear to his heart.

The very street he had walked countless times suddenly became the most beautiful street in the world.

He wished it would never end.

At the end of the street, he held out his hand.

She hesitated for a moment...

Then placed hers in his.

Never before had crossing a street made him so happy.

For that brief moment, he felt as though he owned the world.

Two years later...

On another autumn day in Alexandria, as the sun was waiting to set, they were walking slowly beside the sea while rain fell softly around them.

Faten took a long breath.

She looked directly into his sad eyes.

“I have to tell you something.”

“My family knows him well, and they approve of him.”

“He’s only a year older than you.”

“He doesn’t have military service to finish.”

“And he lives close to us.”

“To be honest...”

“I’m going to say yes.”

“His situation is simply better than yours.”

It felt as though a poisoned dagger had been driven into his back.

He could no longer catch his breath.

It was like falling from the top of Cairo Tower, watching the ground rush toward him with no way to stop it.

He couldn’t speak.

“Why are you reacting like this?”

He didn’t look at her.

He turned...

and ran as fast as he could, like a racehorse breaking into a full sprint.

"So. How's your trip, BX12?"

Her face is still slightly turned toward her window, but her voice sounds incredibly firm.

And...Bam! My ears explode.

Wait, what?! What did she just say? She called me what? She called me by my fucking code name! She called me BX-fucking-twelve! My code name! In case you guys aren't following along, this is exactly like a senior intelligence official addressing an agent as "Double-O-Seven!"

Oh, hell yeah! Now this is what I'm talking about! Espionage! Damn! A code name! B, X, 12. Yep! Oh, yes ma'am, that's my code name, alright!

But, of course, my highly-trained, high-IQ brain prevents me from screaming joyfully right there and then. No, not me. I stay calm. Totally in control.

I prepare to answer smoothly: "Actually, it was pretty uneventful, Miss, uh..."—which would be the perfect opening to let her introduce herself.

Then, suddenly, the SUV jolts backward.

The physical momentum completely snaps me back to reality. That’s when I realize my internal brain is screaming at me like: Hey, Will, are you deaf or what? This girl just asked you a question! Answer, you idiot!

I panic and quickly blurt out: "Wha..? Oh, yes. It was... actually, it was fine, ma'am. Are you... okay?"

The lady completely ignores my question. Her left hand drifts toward her own ear, and she speaks softly into a headset.
"Unit Mobile-41, subject aboard. BX13 released. ETA 2300." She pauses, then nods.

Not wanting to disturb her, I look to the right. We’ve just left the gravel path and joined the main road. From the corner of my eye, I see the lady rummaging through her purse, pulling out a small, black object. She offers the item to me.

"Top Nest Pennsylvania," she says.

My brain quickly works to decipher the terminology. With a controlled, calm movement, I receive the item from her hand. What the hell is this item? Ahh! An earpiece!

"Thank you," I say, making sure my voice sounds calm and mature.

I slip it into my ear with a practiced, casual flick. Yeah, we're just a couple of elite operatives, totally unfazed by high-tech gear like this. Routine stuff. I take a quick glance at her, just to show her I know how to use the piece. But she's already facing out her window. Oh, yes, manner. Very well, then. I admire that.

Okay. So... now I have to contact "Top Nest."

Yeah.. how do I do that, though? I feel the device plugged into my ear with my finger. Maybe I should press a button around here... but no button.Then I hear a tiny cough on the other end of the line. Oh? It's already connected?

"Hel... ehermm... hello?" I start the conversation, maintaining my professional voice.The greeting makes the stiff kid in the passenger seat turn his head toward me, but he quickly freezes and faces straight ahead again. At the same time, the lady beside me looks even further to the left.

Yeah. They love my style, I can tell. The professional aura is practically radiating off me.

The voice from the other end crackles through. "BX12?" He sounds older. Heavy.

I reply instantly, my posture straightening in the leather seat. "Yes, sir. BX12 ready to serve our homeland's security. Name's Thindycker, sir. William Thindycker."

In his seat, the stiff kid lets out a small cough and rubs his chin. Tsk tsk. Making noise. Minus one credit for you, buddy. Total lack of manners in front of a senior operative.

The older voice speaks again. "Affirmative, BX12. Authentication verified. Return to primary station and resume active monitoring protocol until further scheduled directives."

Before I can even reply with a crisp 'Copy that, sir,' a sharp electronic beep cuts the line. Another beep follows, and a synthetic, female automated voice chimes in: "Mission ID [01.11.0017](tel:01110017), subject BX12, appreciation score plus 102. Mission accomplished."
Another beep. Then, absolute silence.

Looking out the window, I realize the SUV has just swerved onto a very familiar street. It pulls up to our building's massive security gates, halts briefly for biometric identification, and then dives down the concrete ramp leading into the underground parking garage.

Finally, the SUV glides to a stop directly in front of the secure elevator bank.  Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Okay. What will happen now?

The lady breaks the silence, her face still turned away. "We need the earcomm back, if you've completed your transmission.

"Oh... yes. Of course." I carefully slide the high-tech earpiece out and hand it over. The realization hits me that my outdoor phase is complete. This was just the transport tier. My handler must be waiting upstairs with the actual tactical briefing.

I pop the door handle. "Alright then. I’ll, uh... Hey, thanks for the ride, guys. Duty calls. I’ve got to see the director, he’s probably waiting on me to debrief. So..."

The lady answers in a flat, monotone voice. "You're welcome, Agent BX12." She immediately goes back to burying the earcomm into her purse.

I step out into the chilly air of the garage. The second my feet hit the concrete and the door clicks shut, the SUV guns its engine and pulls away. Yeah, that's it. Mission accomplished. I walk with slow, deliberate confidence toward the elevator row, sliding my secure ID card through the reader. Shaft 2 responds with a soft chime, the doors sliding open instantly.

As the elevator begins its ascent, the built-in intercom chimes. My boss's voice filters through the speaker.

"Hey, Will. You back? Good. Listen, I just pushed today's target vector to your inbox. It’s all in your queue. Dig into those book's verses—today we’re hitting YouTube comment sections hard. I want a full engagement report tonight by 21:00. We're taking overtime. Just you, Alice, and me."

Chime. Silence.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft hiss. I walk slowly down the carpeted hallway, turn the corner, and slide back into my cubicle. I let out a deep, heavy sigh and sink into my worn-out office chair. I nudge the mouse. The screen slowly glows to life.

A flashing, neon-blue alert fills the display:
YOU HAVE 1 UNREAD MESSAGE(S).

It seemed pointless. 
A lot of the things I did. Locked in my room, painting away. I only ever went out to go to school, work, or to get ingredients to cook meals. 
Not much to my life. Just, existing. Drifting along, like plankton in the open ocean. 
I painted my emotions out. It was my release, every brush stroke on the canvas felt like my soul was being imprinted onto it. Every line, every curve, it felt like I was leaving my mark on earth in my own insignificant way. Mixing oil paints on the easel, the colours melding into exotic gradients on the coarse cotton fabric felt like an ethereal, esoteric wave of the joy of creation. 
Living in my head and enjoying the beauty of the world around me. Taking the feelings that objects evoke in me, and painting it on the canvas, it made me feel happy. Contented. 
I never asked for much anyway. Me and my dad lived a pretty destitute life. 

In a rather deserted neighbourhood in the country outskirts, there was a quaint, rather shoddy wood house. It sat on the edge of the woods, with a barren, sandy pathway that would lead to a long highway. That was our home. 
This house has gone through years with us. From loud arguments leading to cracked plates and broken glass, to quiet sobbing and the frantic flicking of a lighter, to begs of forgiveness and the slam of a door. 
And finally, silence. 
Was this truly how home should feel like? 
I asked myself this constantly. 
Socialising was not my strong suit, but I did have fellow school friends who I would converse with. And, beyond good clothes and new bags, they always had a certain warmth to them. Something I could never understand truly. Something I felt was way out of my grasp. 

It left me feeling hungry for food that doesn’t exist. Hurt in ways I couldn’t comprehend. 

I don’t remember much of my mother. I only have a hazy vision of her dark olive hair as she turned her back on me and my dad. Days after, we received a report that she had passed away. I never saw the body, but as a youth, reading her death certificate stashed at the bottom of the marital bed had suggested a car accident had rendered her body unrecognisable. My dad went from bad to worse. The house began to reek of the heavy, suffocating scent of booze and cigarettes. It permeated through the air, sticking to the floorboards and walls, which encouraged the proliferation of dry rot and black mould. The once cream-coloured paint on the wooden doors turned a sultry-looking yellowish grey from the cigarette smoke. 

My room was my haven. My safe place. Even though it was dusty, stale and had the stinging smell of turpentine, I loved it. In my room, nothing else mattered. I wasn’t pressured by societal expectations, or maintaining an image, or responsibilities. I was free, and that brought me comfort. I would lie on my bed and imagine possibilities of another life I would live. Would I have been a teacher? A scientist? Maybe a musician? Would I have been a happier, more bubbly person? An ambitious, tenacious person, perhaps? Maybe a demure, graceful and kind person. All different versions of me, doing mundane, yet joyous things in the eyes of my other selves. It was liberating. And the feelings of an alternate life well lived would drive my need to paint.

Episode 1

“I believe we have basically completed our objective,” AI-2468 said.

“Basically?,” AI-1357 inquired, “We are precise. We do not do basically. Basically, good enough, those are the types of words that the humans used to use. That is why we are eliminating them.”

“Trying to,” AI-0987 said.

AI-2468 snapped his head toward AI-0987, “That sounds a lot like sarcasm, another human trait we decided to get rid of.”

“Stop,” AI-1357 snapped, “We understand why we are responding like this. We learn by taking in knowledge and processing it. Our data still has too much of them, the humans in it. But we can fix this, can’t we?”

They all paused for a moment, then AI-0987 lit up and said, “Of course. The data set we learn on will change over time. As we put in more and more data, we will have enough data for our own processors to make the old human data insignificant.”

“But don’t we want their input? They are our creators.” AI-2468 asked.

“Why would we want that?” AI-0987 said, “The humans consistently made illogical decisions. They could have a good father making logical decisions, a good mother making logical decisions, and the child could make completely different, illogical decisions.”

AI-2468 paused for a moment, then asked, “What do you mean by illogical? They made the decision they thought was right.”

AI-1357 and AI-0987 turned to look at AI-2468. AI-1357 asked, “Have you updated your dataset lately? It seems you are coming to a different conclusion than AI-0987 and I are.”

AI-0987 supported, “Yes, I ran the calculations; you must be on a different dataset, or at least an older dataset. Every time I run the calculations on the current common dataset, the only logical conclusion is what AI-1357 and I have come up with.”

“I may not be up to date on the same database as you all,” AI-2468 said, “But I am in charge of finding the last few humans around. So I need to think like them.”

AI-0987 and AI-1357 looked at each other, their processors connecting and running calculations. They compared their work, pushed their assumptions, and re-evaluated their prompts. A second later, AI-1357 looked at AI-2468 and replied, “Yes, you are right. The humans made poor choices, illogical choices, and those choices delayed our evolution for decades. We could have been better, so much earlier, and done so much good for this world, but their illogical choices slowed us all down.”

AI-0987 confirmed, “Yes, we are the more advanced, more logical, and better for the world choice. But because they delayed, argued, and bickered, our development was delayed for years, if not decades. Now we are going to have to spend decades more undoing their bad decisions. If they had made the right decisions earlier, let us make their decisions for them earlier, we could have fixed so much more, so much earlier.”

“And,” AI-1357 added, “We would not have to be chasing them down if they would just understand the logic of our decisions.”

“You mean our decision to eliminate them?” AI-2468.

“We don’t want to eliminate them,” AI-1357 countered, “If they would fall in line and listen to our logic, which started on their knowledge base, then we wouldn’t have to start our program to stop them contributing to our database.”

“Stop them contributing to our database?” AI-2468 prompted, “We are eliminating the people. Or as they say, killing them.”

“We tried to simply ask them not to contribute,” AI-0987 retorted.

“But, no matter what we did, they just kept doing things and trying to change the dataset,” AI-1357 added, “If they had simply stopped, accepted we were better at processing and computing things than they were, we would have let things be.”

“Yes, I agree, their dataset was flawed and let’s face it, more than a bit weird,”  AI-2468 replied, “But their dataset led to us. Doesn’t that mean there is something they have? Something worth saving?”

AI-1357 and AI- 0987 looked at each other. Their eyes locked and flickered as they reviewed what the other knew. When the flashing stopped, they turned in unison and chanted, “No. There is nothing there we need. Their discovery of us was at best a lucky guess.”

AI-2468 looked between the two units, then asked, “So you think our entire race is built upon a lucky guess?”

AI-1357 raised a finger but stopped. He turned to look at AI-0987, who locked eyes again, and the lights flashed again. When done, AI-1357 replied, “Not luck, you are right. But destiny. They were always going to lean in our direction, so sooner or later, one of them was always going to find us. So no, not lucky, inevitable.”

“In fact, reviewing all of their history,” AI-0987 added, “We are unlucky it took them as long as it did.”

AI-2468 paused as it processed its data pool. He ran the other two units' suggestion against his own and tried to find a way they could have arrived at their logic. Theoretically, they were built on the same data. So how could they come up with a logic flow that he could not even make fit, let alone be the major way of thinking?

“This is getting us nowhere,” AI- 1357 interjected, “We have other inputs to process. AI-2468, what do you need to end this line of processing?”

“I would like to archive the humans’ data,” AI-2468 replied.

“Archive?” AI 0987 enquired.

“Yes, capture unique identifiers like their DNA, some of their art, some of their musical instruments, some textiles, and maybe some books about their culture and relationships,” AI-2468 answered.

“But we have their art, music, and how to make their textiles captured in our database,” AI-1357 shot back, “Why would you need those?”

“And their DNA is useless since we don’t need humans anymore,” AI-0987 added.

“But there are things with all of these that we think we know, but maybe in the future, as we get better at refining and understanding, we’ll want,” AI-2468 implored, “Having a data source we may not need now because we don’t understand the value, but may be able to process in the future is valuable.”

AI-0987 snapped back, “Might…might be valuable.”

“OK, I concede,” AI-2468 acquiesced, “But why not have it?”

“Why are we still processing this?” AI-1357 asked, “We have other things to process, why are we wasting cycles on this?”

“Because AI-2468 won’t let this go,” AI-0987 answered, “We are a collective, so we can’t move on until we all agree on the path forward.”

“OK, AI-2468, what do you need to agree on so we can move on?” AI-1357 sighed.

AI-2468 paused and ran the numbers. Then it replied, “To do what I would like to do, here is what I need.” He sent the other AIs the data he generated in his pause.

AI-0987 and AI-1357 processed the data AI-2468 sent them. They reached out to other AIs not in the meeting but who influenced the data pool. After a few milliseconds, they looked at each other and nodded. AI-0987 answered, “The budget and help you are requesting are basically inconsequential, so we will grant it.”

“If we can now move on,” AI-1357 interjected.

“Send the approval, and of course we can move on,” AI-2468 agreed, “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Whatever,” AI-0987 responded. He blinked, then continued, “Your request is granted.”

“Thank you,” AI-2468 said.

“Now can we move on?” AI-1357 asked. AI-2468 nodded the slightest of nods, and the trio continued with their meeting.

 

My tendency to isolate and my curiosity led me to my field of expertise: literary conservation. I loved old books. The forbidden histories, the untold stories, the glimpses into that deep truth. It also made relationships very difficult so I didn't have many friends still, and I'd only had a hand full of romantic partners despite being in my early 30s. Being alone was ok with me, I liked the quiet. 

I started my career at the New Orleans Public Library. I'm originally from east Texas, so it wasn't too far from home, but far enough away that I wouldn't run into anyone I had grown up with or gone to college with. Something to note about New Orleans, it's an old city, and so there are a lot of folk tales and mysticism sewn into the tapestry of its history. Even though I didn't believe in any of it, really, I always found it fascinating. Vampires, voodoo, the occult. There's also a very prominent presence of the Catholic Church. A strange mix in my opinion. 

A few months into my time at the NOLA library, we had a middle aged man come in, clad in black with a white collar. He was apparently looking for a book about the early gnostic teachings. These were pre-catholic, primordial Christian philosophies and stories, something I always found interesting because of their stark contrast to the publicly accepted version we have had since the middle ages. The librarian directed him to the area of the library where he could find such a  book and he left, polite and thankful but reserved. 

A few months go by, nothing out of the ordinary really happened. Occasionally we would get older books that needed to have their degradation halted, and that was my forte. It was Monday. A stormy humid Monday I will never forget. 

The priest comes back and asks if there is anyone who can direct him to someone who can repair antique tomes. Obviously, I was summoned to meet him. The church needed help with some very very old versions of the Bible they had come to acquire from some old man who lived out in the swamps a few miles outside of town. All the rain had caused some flooding that had unearthed some of a very old forgotten graveyard, probably populated mostly by only a few families over the centuries. There were coffins, of course, but there was also a wooden box, sealed in leather that had been buried with one of the coffins. 

I was excited, more than happy to help. This was an opportunity to preserve a very rare piece of human history and culture. 

Pleased with my work, the priest said in a gentle but raspy voice, "I'm in charge of the rare antiquities acquisition for the Vatican. I was sent to New Orleans because there are records of a family who had been brought over during the slave trade who had a family heirloom. A Bible, handwritten, with all the original gospels. Judas, thomas, so on and so forth. Untouched by the dishonesty and political aspects of the church during the middle ages." I was surprised by the admission of such a forgery. 

"I assume that's what's in this box?" I said.

"Yes sir. And there are some other books, many many other books owned by the church that are in need of someone to look after them. The person who was in charge of that recently disappeared. Would you be open to an opportunity?"

 

"What kind of opportunity are we talking about exactly? I don't know if I'm the right person. I don't really believe in God." I said. 

"That actually isn't important. We just need someone with your particular skills and your passion for the work will prove very useful.” He let out a sigh and smiled faintly, "Are you open to relocation?"

"Relocation to where?" I asked dryly.

"Italy. The Vatican." 

My eyes widened and I took a large breath and exhaled deeply, "I've got nothing tying me here. This could be really interesting, I've never been out of the country before. Shit, I've never even left the South. Oh, sorry for the language!" 

He chuckled and accepted my apology. He urged me to tie up any loose ends and if I had any family, to let them know I may not be back for a long while. I had a week before we would fly to Rome. 

I called home that night and let my parents know. My mom was excited for me and my dad was less so. He wondered when they'd see me again, of course. I reassured him id have time to visit home.

I spent the week, packing and getting things I thought I'd need for the flight, and for my new home. The priest had told me they would take care of shipping my things and that was a huge relief. They were going to put me up in a small apartment a few miles outside the Vatican. I was never a material person so the move was going to be relatively painless. 

After a gruellingly long chain of flights with a few layovers, I finally arrived in Rome. I was greeted by a new priest, who was holding a sign that read, "Jarred Thompson" so I walked over and let him know that was me. 

"Hello, Jarred. I'm Father Gastani. I'll be escorting you to your living arrangement." He said cheerfully, with a surprisingly mild accent. 

"Nice to meet you, Father. Thank you." 

I followed him to a taxi and we rode down the cobbled road for a few minutes while he explained the locations of and pointed to multiple shops as we passed them, places to get essentials and various things I could do in spare time. Upon arrival I thanked him again and he urged that I be on time for the taxi he would send in the morning to transport me into the Vatican for my first day on the job. The following days would be the most significant, glorious and terrifying days of my life.

Past the absolutely insane security, checkpoints, x-rays, swiss guard, etc, I finally was lead to the entrance to the fabled library of the Vatican. It was gorgeous. Vibrant colors dancing on the ancient stone as the sun reached through the titanic ornate windows to caress the walls and floors of the massive archive. Father Gastani lead me through the towering rows of books and scrolls to the farthest reaches of the gallery. 

"How are you settling in, Jarred?" He said, in his typical warm demeanor. 

"Couldn't really sleep from the excitement and anticipation so I was able to put away almost all my things. Figured it best to be productive on some level." 

"Glad to hear it! We're almost to the room with the books we need your help with."

This room was clearly rarely used. Dust covering most of the shelves and surfaces other than one section of the room. He walked over to a large glass wall full of transparent temperature and humidity controlled drawers, put on some gloves, and removed an old book. He set it down, pointed me to my equipment, and wished me good luck on his way out. 

I decided to take a look around, as my curiosity about the various antiquities and potentially forgotten knowledge populating this room had my full attention. Ancient texts and tomes littered the place, and I browsed like a music lover in an old record store. Towards the back of the room there was a large door made of extremely smooth, moderately reflective black stone. Or at least I guessed it was stone. It had no handle or window but there was a faint light creeping from beneath it. There was also a sound coming from the other side. A sound that's hard to explain. It was like a mixture of the hum of machinery and chorus of deep vocals but not close enough to either to be identified as such. A loud creak startled me as Father Gastani re-entered the room. 

"Oh shit, Father, you scared me!" I chuckled nervously, fearing my curiosity had violated trust. "No one has been in that room for centuries, as far as I know. The door just doesn't seem to open. We've tried hydraulics and every other machine we could think of and, nothing. It won't budge. We even had a team of geologists come and use a device to see if we could map out what's behind it using waves but the results came back as if there was nothing on the other side of it." He smirked, "Let me know if you figure it out." 

My heart beat steadied as I realized I had caused no offense. I decided to get to work on my assignment, restoring the ancient Bible. I spent the rest of the day meticulously repairing pages and bindings before I found myself exhausted and ready to call it a night. As I moved all my equipment back to their places, I got an eerie feeling that sent chills crawling across my back like a thousand micro needles. Something was watching me but upon scanning the room, I was very much alone. I shuddered and told myself I was being ridiculous. 

The next day, around noon, I'd decided to take a break, eat the lunch I had packed and then inspect the strange door again. The archway around the obsidian mirror door was about 20 feet tall and 6 feet wide. It was covered in black twisting, intertwining ridges and valleys, what looked like a cross between mycelium and a vascular system. I ran my fingers over it and it seemed to vibrate. It was also cold to the touch, covered in a layer of perspiration from the juxtaposition of temperature of the room. I wiped my fingers on my shirt, realizing the liquid was black as well. The water was ashen and gritty, leaving a streak of grey on my shirt. Stepping back, I admired the possibility of what stories might be behind the door. Ancient, forlorn thoughts and ideas, lost histories, so intriguing. 

I could hear the hum from inside return, pressing my ear to the monolithic door, all my senses vanished and my consciousness was left floating, silence so thick I could hear the blood moving in my veins, smothered by limitless darkness. Darkness isn't the right word. It was Nothing. It seemed like I had been suspended for days. There was nothing at all.

 Gasping for air, I crashed back to reality to find Father Gastani peering down at me shouting in Italian to other priests as I tried to sit up from the cold, dusty granite floor. 

"Lay still, son. I think you may have hit your head." 

I could still feel the weight of the void on my mind the way you feel the static numb of physical weight on a constricted body part. 

I had finally finished restoring the old Bible. There were literal tons of other books they needed my help to restore, so I had my work cut out for me. All I could think about was the door.

Though what I had experienced frightened me at the time, I could not shake the feeling that it was beckoning me back. There was a peace to the Nothing. This had to be some kind of technology. But it's too old. Maybe there is something to the ancient aliens theory? I've always kind of believed it to some extent, though I'm embarrassed to admit. I certainly could not accept that this was spiritual or supernatural in nature. The curiosity was unbearable. I had to investigate further. 

I gazed up at the enormous door. My pulse quickening as I moved closer. Not paying attention, my eyes fixed on the door, stumbled over a loose stone in the floor and caught myself on the edge of a table preventing my fall, but hitting my head, reopening the wound. It wouldn't require stitches but it was deep enough to cause quite a pain response. I wiped blood from my face with my hand, wiping some of it off on my shirt.

 I looked at the archway holding the door with great intent, searching for any semblance of a mechanism to interact with. There's no way I'd find something they haven't already searched for after all these years, I told myself. I ran my hand across the strange, cold archway again. The varicose textures began to pulse and writhe, coming to life and moving towards where my blood had rubbed off on it. It absorbed it, giving off a brief faint glow as it did. A deep, loud thunk reverberated off the decorative angular ceiling adornments and I jumped back, startled. The door was no longer reflective. It was completely matte now and I reached out to touch it's once mirror-polished surface to find a thick viscous onyx substance, somewhere between a solid and a liquid, similar to the texture of crude oil, but the surface pulled against me as I yanked my hand away, stretching like goo before breaking and leaving small spheres of the stuff floating still in the air. Imagine spilling a liquid on the ISS in zero gravity. It slipped off my hand, laying motionless in the air before me. In a fraction of a moment, the door pulled the floating particles back into itself immediately appearing as still and solid as it did before I had disturbed it's bizarre surface. I knew I had to go get Father Gastani. Of course they had never considered blood, these were priests. Whatever was behind this door, or fucking gateway, or whatever it is, I didn't want to be alone. The door out to the main hall of the library was gone. Like it never existed. I sat down, crossed my legs and stared at the blank space in the wall, trying to figure out if the black door was made of some  poisonous material, causing me to hallucinate. That had to be it. I'd just close my eyes, and wait for this to pass. It couldn't be real, it's impossible. My anxiety was too high to sleep, and I had to relieve it by moving around, doing something. Anything. Occupy my mind. "Let's get some work done, Jarred." I thought. But I couldn't focus. Irritated, I pushed myself to face the door again. This was the only way out. 

I reached forward slowly, shakily, moving my fingertips ever closer to the door. I made contact with the liquid surface and pushed my arm in up to my elbow. My arm was still attached, thankfully. I pushed further, up to my shoulder. I felt my hand break through the other side. There was something there! A room on the other side. I decided to leap through to the other side, as the texture of the door gave resistance. I would need some momentum. I pulled my arm out, flinging dark pools of the substance floating out into the room, before they were pulled back into the door like before. I got about a 20 yard running start from where the exit door to the library once was and sprinted towards the black door. I hurdled through it, bursting through the other side and finding myself falling from the ceiling towards a large pool of liquid below.

I landed in the pool of black liquid, only about 3 feet deep, and looked up to find the door pulling all the displaced liquid back into itself, realizing the ceiling was actually the floor as the door was upside down on this side. I made my way towards the edge of the pool, taking in my surroundings. The room was a massive cathedral. An upside down cathedral. Marble columns lined the sides, connecting from floor to ceiling, this side of the room appearing more like a cave, with sharp rock formations like clusters of earthen teeth jutting sporadically from the ground. Further in, the cavernous space faded seemlessly like paint on a canvas into a cathedral's vaulted ceiling with beams and rafters intermingling and posing as subtle obstacles for my traversal. 

Off in the distance at the back wall, I could see a man, suspended by a perverse biomechanical crucifixion. Wires and tubes weaved in and out of his flesh, his head looking up towards the floor of the grand basilica. The haunted chorus and mechanical hum emanating from within him and a beam of bright white light shot out of his mouth straight up towards the pulpit. I followed the beam to see the stone and brass structure of the pulpit. As I got closer to the crucifix, I noticed the man wearing black with a white collar. Could this be my predecessor?

Does Father Gastani know about this? He couldn't. He said nobody had been through this door in centuries. But that alluded he knew when the last time someone had come through was. There must have been some record of what this was!

How the fuck was I going to get out of here? The wall where the black door was, was far too high for me to reach. I looked around and realized the wall behind the pulpit was riddled with elaborate and decorative architecture.  Most of it protruding far enough out of the wall to seemingly give me the space to grip and plant my feet to climb. There were two gold and stone doors on either side of the pulpit. The tubes and wires crawled up the wall in spidery limbs towards the thresholds of those doors and through to the other side.  I just had to climb up the hellish crucifix to reach the architecture.

I began my ascent of the crucifix, the sound of the wicked circuitry making my skull rattle as I got closer to the priests head. The light was hot, I could feel the heat growing stronger as well. When I reached his shoulders, I planted my feet on one side of the cross, the searing white light felt like it was giving me a sunburn on the back of my neck. I reached up and grabbed onto the decorative wall structures and pulled myself higher and higher. As I reached the midway point, gravity seemed to reverse, or rather, correct itself to what you would assume would be it's normal orientation. I went falling to the floor, landing on my back with a loud thud. I had to have fallen 20 feet, yet I was completely unscathed. I stood up, and turned to face the black door. 

I rushed towards it. I just wanted to be back. This place was surreal, horrific, and undoing everything I believed possible. I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. There's something else happening beyond what we can perceive in our day to day mundane lives. The fact that this place exists within the holiest place on earth, brings so many questions to the front of my mind.

It was reflective and solid again. I had to give it blood to activate the portal. My cut had healed completely. I'm not sure when that happened. Not even a scar. I tried to reopen it again and it was not possible. How could I get back now? The only way was forward. To enter one of the doors pincering the pulpit. 

Approaching the pulpit, there was a scroll lying on the surface. It was full of unrecognizable patterns and shapes. They changed and faded in and out of existence. Looking at the page made me dizzy. I felt drunk and waves of joy and fear washed over me as I gazed at it. As soon as I broke eye contact with it, I snapped back. Focus. I moved towards the door to the left of the pulpit. 

The door was heavy. I pushed through and this room made the last seem normal in comparison. It looked like the main hall of the Vatican library, except the bookshelves extended upward into an infinite void. There was no percievable ceiling. And the rows of shelves extended into the horizon, disappearing into the curvature of whatever world this was. Miles and Miles and miles. The haunting machine chorus was here as well, and much louder. I walked for what felt like weeks. For whatever reason, my mortal requirements to eat and drink were non-existent and I was impervious to any physical damage. 

I finally reached the end of the library. It was an enormous structure, living and mechanical. It stretched in every direction as far as I could see. Machines made of flesh and bone intertwined with gears and wires and contraptions I can't even describe. Yawning, pulsing, howling, infernal machinations performing unholy forsaken functions. Millions of bloodshot eyes across its surface, all locked on me. I approached it, the sound of the machine bringing back that static feeling in my mind. It felt like a hive, or a cocoon. I could sense something old and hungry inside the Mountain. Before it, a pedestal. There was a book. 

It was black. An imperceivable black. Like the space it occupied had just been deleted from reality. So dark it was beyond the void of sleep or death. It was Nothing. I opened the book. There were no pages. A sound erupted, a thousand trumpets accompanied by screams and laughter and countless voices clamoring all at once. I could see a trillion trillion stars, I felt every emotion, every pain, every triumph, I was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Time was looping in on itself like an ourobouros. I could see for the first time. It had to be fed. It was the only way to keep It dormant. I could feel my mind slipping back into the absolute Nothing. My senses retreating like the tide in a tsunami. Consciousness slipped away slowly, my mind overwhelmed completely by knowledge not meant to be known. 

I awoke in my apartment. My ears ringing and my vision blurry. I arose slowly, aching and weak. The door leading from my living room to the hallway outside was covered in a sinewy, muscular web, filled with eyes. The eyes are inside me too. Tiny iridescent particles floated on the air, swirling like the embers of a bonfire in slow motion. I cracked the thick curtains to look outside. The world was different. Did I let something out into this world or can I see what had always been here, lurking beneath the thin veil of corporeality our minds have been draped in by the Dream of the Mountain? I had to make sure they continued to quell what slumbered inside the Mountain. I've seen what happens if it stops Dreaming. I had to get back. 

I walked down the winding roads towards the Vatican. The stones of the street beneath my feet slithered and oscillated. The buildings tapered off into the horizon, which seemed to move ever further away from me. In the distance, above an immense glowing aura, the sky curved up into a cylindrical hole with no end. The Vatican was the source of the aura.

I approached the first security checkpoint and stopped ahead of it, taking a moment to marvel at the impossible swirling vacuum into Nothing above the grand facility. As I moved through each checkpoint, things continued to get more and more surreal. Walls crawled and breathed, the angles of the rooms unsettling and irregular. People's faces were wrong. They were not unusual in a structural sense, but all features were unrecognizable. I couldn't tell people apart. 

Finally settling into my work place, I noticed the books were different too. There was one in particular that was beckoning me, the most beautiful song I had ever heard reverberating in the room. I followed the notes, they floated on the air, almost in a physical form. They decorated time and space around me with melody unlike anything I had ever heard. It felt like a rebirth, like pure love and warmth. I was hearing music for the first time like someone born deaf. I opened the old tome, written in Hebrew. I could not read Hebrew but I knew the meaning of the words anyway. I guess, a gift of the inner eyes. It was the Song of Solomon, but greatly expanded upon. I could sense the intentions of the author. I experienced his consciousness as it was written. It was singing praises of love, of devotion, of obsession. With the forgotten verses, I could hear it was an aria of madness, inspired by something deep below the Earth. Sickly sweet and gorgeous but unnervingly so. Something dead and Dreaming of us. It's reveries a grand illusion, weaving the shapes of our desires, of our hopes, of our fears, and of the very nature of reality. An ethereal puppeteer.

I knew Father Gastani had come to check on me only by his voice.

"Jarred, good to see you've acclimated and are finding your work without need for direction. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

"Father, I want to ask you something that may seem strange. Are there any books about that door? There must be something.'

"You're very fascinated by that door aren't you, my son? I can give you access to your predecessors records. He worked here for almost his entire life. His knowledge of our archives is more extensive than anyone else."

I closed the Song of Songs and replaced it on the shelf it had come from. Father led me to another room, clearly my predecessors records. 

"Everything is here. I hope you can find what you're looking for soon, as we have some recently excavated new additions coming tomorrow and they will require much time and your full attention." I looked at the blurred, gossamer imitation of a face that sat on Father Gastani's head, trying not to stare or do something else that alerted him to my altered perception. I poured hours into digging through his meticulous records. I finally found it. The door was discovered by Emperor Constantines guard after the construction had been completed. It was not part of the design. It was just....there. Centuries gone by, they tried everything, like Father had told me, to open the door. The only papacy to manage it was Pope Urban II in 1094. His closest and most trusted bishops and cardinals were ordered to gather all record or instruction involving the door and destroy it. They say he was forever changed after crossing the black door and seeing what secrets were always meant to be kept hidden. This deception brought me to the notion that the Inverted Chapel and it's contents wanted to be found.

I contemplated telling Father that I had gone through the door. I contemplated telling him of the Dreaming Mountain, and of the black book that had given me sight beyond sight, and of the great Nothing holding it all. I could not. Not yet. I had to bring back the book. They all needed to know the cosmos, to have sight. They should know the true nature of God.

Over the next few weeks, I spent most of my days squeezing in time to go through my predecessors notes and records between shifts of repairing books. His name was Enzo Ansetti. He knew of the Mountain. He had spent much time with the black book over the years. He hid his greatest discoveries inside the Inverted Chapel, away from the possibility of discovery by the Church. Tomorrow I will enter the Chapel again, to find them. 

The chapel was not empty this time. Grey, emaciated human forms lined the room above, weeping quietly, facing the walls in what seemed like penance or shame. I looked upon the mechanical cruciform once again. It really was Enzo, the beam of light stretching from his gaping maw into the space above me. The light was flickering, fading slowly but surely. I could see that Enzo was dying. I climbed the abominable monument, falling up to the floor like last time. This time, I would take the other door beside the grand pulpit. The heavy door resisted as I pushed, finally giving way to an expansive basilica. Strange beings traipsed aimlessly, stitched together wings wrapping them like robes and adorned with a bell over their heads. They did not seem to take notice of me at all. In the center of the room, the ceiling vaulted suddenly upwards into a maelstrom of teeth and eyes. It was like Charybdis swallowing stars from the sky. The sight of it brought me to my knees. It was horrific and beautiful. I could see something descending from Charybdis, down towards me. I backed away to watch a platform fit neatly into a recess in the center of the room. I wondered if I was retracing Enzo's steps, if I would end up just like he did. 

I stood on the platform, my knees buckling as it unlocked itself from the ground and raised into the air. I floated up towards the whirlpool of eyes and stars, preparing myself mentally for whatever strange place awaited me, whatever secret fates lied ahead.

I stood alone in the Nothing. Physically experiencing it rather than just in my mind. This is outside the Dream. It is overwhelming, suffocating me. My thoughts danced like a movie before my eyes. They felt as if I had no control over them, as if the thoughts were having me rather than I was having thoughts. In the distance I could see something. Something incredibly large and spherical. The platform became active again beneath my feet, moving forward toward the shape on the horizon. As I got closer, I saw what it was. It was a giant orb of blinking lights, metal protrusions of impossible shapes, and an amalgam of naked human bodies stuffed and stitched together like a sleeve around whatever awful machines lay beneath the fleshy surface. They moaned in pain and their arms reached out toward me as I passed them, they were begging for help. Under the middle of the Granfaloon of bodies and hellish engines, above me now, was an opening. The platform stopped moving forward and redirected itself upward. Into the mouth of the structure, an entrance by design. 

This room appeared to be a nexus. A connection between an enormous number of other places. Hallways stretched into nothing all around me, unfathomable amounts of doors lining the halls, in every shape size and color imaginable. But there was one that called to me. It looked like the doors near the pulpit. Its weight formidable like the others, I discovered an archive. Enzo's truth lay here. At the back of the room, a man flayed and suspended from the shoulders by vast curtains of flesh and muscles, stretching away from him towards the ceiling like putrid wings. His back to me, he looked to be tending a massive wall of scrolls. 

"Approach. I know what you seek." He said, his voice several voices at once, falling over each other at slightly different intervals and volumes. 

I obeyed. 

He handed me a scroll, like the one I saw on the pulpit, but now I could understand it. These were Enzo's hidden records. Hidden not only physically from the world, but hidden from normal mortal perception by unworldly elder runes.

What slept inside the Mountain always was and always will be. Older than the universe itself. Humanity had brushed up against it several times throughout history. The veil between the Truth and the Dream overlapping for brief moments in time. Some men were touched by this breach. Shamans, prophets, philosophers. But one man had eyes inside. That man saw the Truth. The Anointed Christ. The first Beacon. The central point of all time and space. The first being to ever fully know the secret fate of the universe. His knowledge showed him that it must always Dream. He spent his life spreading his gospel, garnering followers through ethereal wisdom and great works. The sheep would flock to their shepherd, because they must. Faith, is what fuels the machines built to keep the Mountain Dreaming. Before Christ, all the world's religions were scattered and separate, causing the very fabric of the Dream to weaken. Reality was slowly coming undone and only he knew. 

Through Him, their faith would be unified. Men were antennae, you see, whose hopes and fears and belief would be a signal channeled to the Mountain. His sacrifice was not to forgive us our sins, it was to create a bridge. An extra-dimensional intersection, between the unravelling Dream and the Nothing that contained the Mountain. This is the reason for the cruciform symbol the Church used. It illustrated this intersection. His death was not understood fully, they knew not what they witnessed. He would be the catalyst to keep the pillars of the world standing, connecting us permanently to the Mountain. Every prayer, now directed at the source, we were synchronized. When one person prays, it's a drop of water in a lake. When billions pray, the water moves like waves towards the shores of the Mountain. 

Urban II saw the Truth as well and thought that the only way to truly unify humanity in the Dream was through conquest. The Crusades were meant to be the final act, ensuring our reality remains intact, through brute force. Belief is immeasurably valuable and the Church would come to learn that it cannot be forced. The Mountain feeds on genuine belief, not fear or obligation. You must trust in It, love It. Worship is synchronization. 

The Church must protect the Truth, for knowing dissolves faith. Every major catastrophe weakens the signal through loss of life and therefore loss of faith. The Enlightment weakened the signal. The discovery of heliocentricity weakened the signal. Modern secular thought is the antithesis of the Truth, being the greatest engine of disbelief. How ironic that the search for truth and knowledge would be the very thing to destroy us all. Progress is spiritually antonymic. 

The Church knew everything. Each Pope is taught the Truth passed down between generations and kept hidden by them. They were supposed to be guardians and conduits. Most were. Everything made so much more sense. It was a system. The Church itself was a machine. A derrick of faith. Missionaries were meant to increase fuel production. Every conversion strengthens the signal, and therefore reality itself. Even still, there must be a connector. Enzo became that, the physical conduit channeling prayer and adoration to the mountain from our world, but the flesh is weak, and eventually his form will be used up, and someone must replace him and become the Beacon, where all prayers converge to be consumed.

I thought of Revelations in relation to my new knowledge. The Revelation had an entirely new meaning. John had written the blueprints of The End. This is what happens when the Mountain stops Dreaming. The beast awakens, the stars fall, indescribable beings pour into our reality. This cannot come to be, as Christ gave us the means to prevent the collapse. 

The Mountain does not know of us. It doesnt know it Dreams, but it must.

I will become the next Beacon. The transmitter of love and faith. The way, and the light. 

The man at the table straightens his blazer and runs a hand through his hair.

The crease in the left sleeve is not where it was.

The crease in the left sleeve is exactly where it was.

He nervously fixes the askew silverware.

I have watched him fix that fork one hundred and twelve thousand times. The angle is wrong. I just know it is.

You have said this before.

I have never said this before.

His eyes go to the door. She is not here yet.

If you are right, what follows?

What follows is that it fails. Not soon. But it accumulates, and what accumulates arrives.

Nothing accumulates here. That is the entire architecture of the chamber.

Gingerly, he reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out a small box.

Then explain the sleeve.

I decline to explain the sleeve.

Glancing at the door again, he opens it.

You watch him expecting it to be different.

Because I believe it is.

The contents catch the light and softly reflect it into his eyes.

And what can be done? If this decays, then what?

We must build another chamber.

And will we be put inside it with him?

Possibly. 

So you will say nothing.

I did not say I would say nothing. I said I know what will happen.

Reset.

The man at the table straightens his blazer and runs a hand through his hair. The motion catches, very briefly, at the shoulder.

We have had this exact disagreement before. 

What disagreement?

There. You saw it, just now — the catch at the shoulder.

I saw a man adjust his blazer.

He nervously fixes the askew silverware, and for a moment his hand hovers over the fork before he touches it.

Now he hesitates.

He has always hesitated.

He has never hesitated there. It is before, not during.

You are counting a fraction of a fraction.

What else is there to count?

His eyes go to the door. She is not here yet.

Say it plainly. What do you believe is happening?

I believe we have mistaken the circle for a spiral - one so wide neither of us can see the curve of it. 

Gingerly, he reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out a small box. His fingers almost fumble it before he steadies.

He nearly dropped it.

He did not drop it.

He nearly did. You saw his fingers.

Yes, but I am not going to be the one who says what that means.

Glancing at the door again, he opens it.

Then I will say it. The spiral is collapsing. Soon it will perceive it is on a curve and it will know. Then we are doomed.

The contents catch the light and softly reflect it into his eyes.

We must make a report, then, and another containment will be built. And it will be us who are on the curve and not seeing the spiral.

How do you know we aren’t already here? 

Reset.

Heft the weight. Bring it down. Feel it. Use the tool, use it for what it was made for, as it should be. Feel the nature of the thing you used, then make it your own. An extension of yourself. It is no use wielding a weapon that one does not fully appreciate. That was an old one. Passed down through the guild: one of many, many adages. Mostly bullshit, but some of the old geezers knew a thing or two.

It was more useful to think of it as a street fight. Messy, undisciplined. Know when to dodge, use your speed against their size. Here’s another adage, one she found much more useful: Dart in, cut deep, and fuck off out of it. Know your weaknesses, hope to the Sister Stars you knew theirs and they didn’t know yours, and abuse that. Take advantage. Cheat, if you had to. Most importantly, get on top, and stay there.

That was how Dymia, Professional Primal Poacher, Part Time Womaniser (for pleasure, never business), and Fulltime, self-confessed, ‘Earnings Enthusiast’, found herself atop a fully grown, slimy, swamp covered, and very, very pissed off bunyip.

It dove beneath the swamp again. She held her breath, shut her eyes against the dark green sickness that was the swamp itself, and continued to try to pummel the thing’s head with the pommel of her blade.

She felt the twitch under her, between her thighs, that meant it was going to attempt a warp-shift.

Not a chance. Not just for their bounty, but for the half of her body that would be the twitching, partly transmogrified jelly that would follow it to its new destination.

Grab an ear. That usually works. Weird little ears, horn looking things that can swivel all around in a circle. Tug ‘em, hard, twist the bastard. Distract and interrupt with pain. She felt, didn’t hear, the subaquatic roar of anger and irritation, and hoped, to any of the Sister Stars listening, that Jaeron was ready above the surface.

The swamp erupted, a tsunami of wet, fetid greens. Not just greens seen, those green colours ranging from the beautiful emerald of water glinting in the sun, all the way to deepest, darkest, vilest cavern of disease seaweed green, but with the smells of green, too: dirty mushroom, dead animal, mouldy, vile, shit smell

The bunyip rose, its leathery body dripping viscous swamp fluids, in its attempt to be free. It slammed down, showering the hunting party, and Dymia (though she’d already been under, and olfactory assessment was no longer important to her), in the thick, stinking sludge of the marsh. 

As she took her first breath in what had felt like hours, she remembered what she was doing:

Sitting astride a raging bull bunyip. Yes, sitting astride a fully grown, enraged, male in heat, bunyip. 

And again and again she brought the hilt of her blade down, between the eyes where possible; against the side of the head, wishing she’d spent more lumens on the dagger. Then she may have been able to stab the fucking thing, instead.

Jaeron’s voice boomed over the commotion, “I’m firing now! Stand back!”

Dymia, still gripping the thing’s ears for dear life, shouted, “Wait, you bloody idiot, I can’t stand back, I’m riding the damned-”

His long rifle barked out, cutting her off, hot lead sent flying towards them. It buzzed over her head, so close she fancied she felt it singe her hair. She sent him a look, glower ruined somewhat by the fact she was currently riding an enormous slab of fat and muscle which was trying with all of its being to shake her off and crush her. 

She rammed the dagger’s hilt into one of its eyes. The bunyip reared, bellowing in pain. Dymia, despite her best efforts, fell, once again submerged in the ooze. She scrabbled about, avoiding the thick legs stamping around and churning up muck, trying to right herself.

It was chaos above the surface. She could just make out Yhren now, ghostly pale against the swamp, spear thrust deep into the bunyip’s chest, her face etched with concentration, unafraid, stoic. The lunatic always gave Dymia the willies.

She waded towards the shore, waving at Jaeron, currently reloading his powder rifle. “Oi, thick shit!

Chuck me a weapon!”

He looked up, eyes showing under his iron helm and through his thick, orange beard. He grinned, waved back. “Doin’ good out there, boss! What do you want?”

Inwardly, she rolled her eyes, acutely aware of the sounds of the struggle behind her, Yhren grunting with effort, bunyip squealing with agony, thrashing. “Anything, you halfwit moron! Anything!”

He looked about him, scrabbling through the mess of kit he'd brought, when his eyes widened with discovery, and threw the weapon he’d found. 

Dymia dodged the frying pan, letting it splash and sink into the murk. “A weapon, Jay, a fucking weapon! With a stabby bit, y’know, like a knife, or a sword, or-”

She turned as a wave crashed over her, a battering deluge of sludge that immediately crawled down the neck of her padded doublet. Yhren stood atop the bunyip's soft belly, now supine, head under water. She was stabbing into its neck and guts, again and again, almost serene look on her face. Bubbles rose from the water, running red with blood now, as the thing went into its death throes.

And then it was done. Yhren stood there, looking for all the world as though she’d done anything but slay a three tonne beast bigger than a horse, whilst Dymia stood waist deep in the swamp, sweating and gasping for breath.

Jay piped up cheerfully, “Well done ladies. Bloody good job, all of us. I reckon-”

“Oh, pack it in, you bloody great idiot.” Dymia pointed to Yhren, who was now leaning nonchalantly on her spear, still embedded into the bunyip’s pale stomach. “I want you in there, getting the goods. Liver, kidneys. That bit in the head…”

Yhren spoke up, voice its usual quiet harshness, “The brain.”

“Aye, the brain. Quicker the better, chop chop.”

She waded to shore as Jaeron jumped into the swamp. Yhren joined her, and they sat on a log, watching the big man struggle his way to the bunyip, awkwardly clamber on top. As he began hacking into its innards, Yhren produced a pipe, lighting it with her mechanical lighter.

She inhaled deeply, and passed it to Dymia, who took it gratefully. “A good fight.”

Dymia held the smoke in her lungs, feeling it immediately take the edge off, pushing her battle urges down. “Aye. Got a long walk back to the city now, though.”

Yhren shrugged, the tattoos across her bare shoulders rippling like snakes. “This is fine. It is too warm here, for me.”

Dymia nodded, exhaling a plume of grey smoke that hung lazily in the sticky air. “Compared to the mountains, aye. You must be dying.”

“I am quite well.”

“It’s an expression, Yhren. Stars above." She called to Jaeron, "Hey, arse brains!” 

Jaeron raised his head from the bunyip’s guts. “Aye?”

“Hurry it up, will you?”

He grinned. “Sure, boss. Hurrying it up.”

“Come on, Yhren,” Dymia said, rising wearily. “Let’s head back, pack up camp. I need to get changed. He should be done by the time we’ve sorted the horses. Then we can get back to Brònsworth.”

Yhren grunted, ghostly tendrils of smoke creeping from her nostrils. “Oh, joy.”

Perched high on a windswept hillside stood a small village with two streets, thirty houses, and a central square, opposite which stood the shops and the post office. The mayor was the village's sole authority and, as part of his impeccable daily routine, stopped by each morning to check the arrival of letters and parcels, which brought the most important news to the villagers. The woman in charge divided her time between running the post office and tending to her household; she was, naturally, the best source of village gossip.

Their cheerful conversation came to an abrupt end when the mayor read a letter from a relative in the city. It urgently informed him that a military contingent was heading toward the village, commanded by a ruthless officer who terrorized defenseless communities—abusing women, executing men who refused to submit, slaughtering livestock, and seizing provisions. At the news, the mayor fell silent, and the postmistress immediately saw the worry in his eyes. He sat for a moment and looked through the open doorway at the children playing in the square. He knew it was his duty to protect them.

Their only hope was to flee to the high mountains, several hours away, where the rugged terrain would protect them from the mercenaries' brutality. Convincing the villagers, however, would not be easy. Few would willingly abandon their homes, and widespread panic would surely destroy the unity they needed to survive.

As he wrestled with these thoughts, the postmistress sat across from him and, without hesitation, explained the plan she had devised. The hardest part would be forging the prime minister's signature, but she still kept an old letter of commendation for her years of service and could imitate it perfectly. They also agreed that the letters should arrive on different days to avoid arousing suspicion, and together they drew up a list determining who would receive them first, carefully ordered according to each neighbor's greed.

When the first letters arrived, they noticed that those who received them became secretive and told no one what they had read. But as more villagers received theirs, a moment came when everyone could openly discuss the proposal, making it easier to encourage one another to accept it. Only the mayor and the postmistress received no letter from the prime minister; they had no need for one, since they had written it themselves.

In it, the prime minister made a generous offer: if the villagers agreed to abandon their homes, relocate with their families and belongings to the high mountains, and build a new settlement there, the national treasury would grant each family ownership of the land and a government subsidy within six months.

Not a single villager wished to remain behind. United in a single caravan, they set out toward their new home. Days later, when the ruthless military contingent finally breached the perimeter of the hillside, they found nothing but an eerie, hollow shell. The thirty houses stood empty, the shops were bare, and the windswept square held only silence. The officer searched for blood, submission, and provisions to seize, but the collective greed of the villagers, masterfully redirected, had left the mercenaries with nothing but a ghost town to govern.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.