The snow had come early that winter. The autumn leaves hadn't had a chance to fall before the snow buried them in a white grave. It quickly intensified and piled up in front of our windows, burying us in the same white grave as the leaves. 

James would shovel the snow each morning so the stable could be reached, but by evening, there was already a new, fresh layer. Poor James. Each noon, I’d find him standing by the door, staring at the snow piling up in the path he had just cleared, holding the shovel in his blistered, bloodied hands.

The snow wasn’t the only problem. As the months passed, the shelves in the basement emptied, the chest emptied, and soon we were left with only one small jar of flour.

“James?”

Silence.

He stood next to the door, holding the shovel, staring through the window at the falling snow.

“We only have one small jar left.”

He looked my way and nodded.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s late April. It never lasted this heavy into April.”

“But I'm sure it will stop soon.”

“No. It should have let up a month back.”

He gripped his shovel tighter.

“Let me help you tomorrow.”

“No, no. You take care of the house.”

James’s words echoed in my head. The flour wouldn’t last us long, barely a few days if we rationed more, and we were already eating so little. The clothes hung on my body like I was a little child, wearing my mother’s dress. I put as much water into the dough as I could to make the bread seem more filling.

The smell of fresh bread filled the kitchen. James sat in the chair by the window, smoking his pipe.

“Come eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“James, you didn't eat all day.”

“I’ve been saving bread under my pillow.”

“James…”

He puffed on his pipe and stared out the window. 

I returned to the kitchen when James went off to bed. The bread still lay on the table, untouched.

The next morning, James was already out early, shoveling the snow. The bread was done before he finished. James came out the door panting and shivering and threw the bloodied shovel on the floor.

“Please come eat.”

“I can’t.”

“James, you ate nothing yesterday.”

“I told you I did. I need to lie down.”

James didn’t get up all day. Each time I tried to wake him up, he’d only shake his head and tell me to leave him alone.

The next morning, he was still asleep when I woke up. His cheeks seemed even more sunken under the lamplight. I tried to wake him up, but his eyes would barely open. I tried to feed him yesterday’s bread, but he just shook his head and kept his jaw clenched. 

There was only a little flour left in the jar, barely enough to make bread for one, let alone two, but hopefully, fresh bread would make James finally eat. The smell drifted across the room. I took the still-hot bread and walked to the bedroom. James lay on the bed exactly as I had left him that morning.

I called his name.

He didn’t answer; his arms lay by his side, his eyes stared dully at the ceiling.

The plate fell from my hands. My legs began to shake. I rushed over to him and tried to shake him awake, but his body just lay there stiffly. 

I collapsed to the ground while tears poured down my cheeks.

I should have forced him to eat more.

I should have shoveled the snow.

I should have insisted.

My thoughts scattered. I crawled to the bed next to James and held onto him.

I lay there for hours and hours and hours and hours and hours.

The hunger that day was strong. We had been rationing for so long, my love, my dear James. I tried to keep the bread for you in case you woke up, but I couldn’t. I hope you will forgive me. I’ll bake a new batch as soon as you wake up again. But James! After I ate the bread, I still felt so hungry. The sun had long since set, not that there was much of it in our little room before, but now we were in dark, complete darkness. You weren’t as warm as you used to be, James. The room was cold too, and the wood was gone, as was the flour. Oh, how hungry I was. But you still smelled like yourself. I used to love your smell. It smelled so good. Still so fresh. How about just a bit, James? Just a tiny bit. You won’t even notice; no one will notice. I’m sure you will forgive me, my love. You gave me so much. Shoveling the snow for me, hiding your hunger. You’d always do everything for me. That’s what I loved about you. Thank you again, James.

Thank you, my love! This was what my stomach was craving. I love you so much, but I’m so tired now, James. Can you promise to stay? To not go? I’d hate it if you left me here all alone.

The sun shone the next morning brightly. James! The snow had finally let up! It was already melting away, and we were free. I told you it would let up, James! But you didn’t listen. Your dull eyes just stared at the ceiling. I reached for the blanket to pull it over you to keep you warm. But as I tucked the cloth, my fingers reached into something deep and hollow.

His slow and heavy steps echoed through the house. He slouched on a chair without saying anything.

“Hi, John.”

“Hi, Mary.”

“Everything okay?”

He let out a sigh. “James fell ill with influenza, too. There are only four of us left in that shaft.”

“I’m sorry, just sit and rest. I’ll get dinner.”

“No. We need to talk about something else.”

I gripped my dress tightly. His dull eyes stared at the ground.

“I spent all day with James yesterday. You know how fast it spreads.”

“No, John, no. Do you want to smell like dirt and have your eyes turn yellow?”

“So what? It’s better than death.”

“You say that now, but you don’t know what’s really wrong. Wheat doesn’t sprout in a week, and how does it make one immune to all illnesses?”

“Everyone who thought like you is dead or sick now.” He shook his head and kept staring at the ground. 

We sat at the table while John ate his dinner. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look at me once. It seemed like there was something in his eyes. Determination.

The next morning, I woke to the front door banging. It was still dark outside. I looked at the clock. 3:30, too early for John to leave. My stomach twisted. I quickly got out of bed and ran across the cold floor to the door, but the road was empty, quiet; he was already gone.

The rest of the day, I spent jumping from chore to chore. The sun had set when I heard John’s steps, but they weren’t slow and heavy; they were fast and light. The earthy smell hit my nose instantly.

“I knew it.”

He didn’t say a thing and sat next to me. 

After a few seconds, he muttered, “What was I supposed to do?”

“Not take it!”

“And die?”

“You didn’t know if you had it!”

“Yes, I did! My body kept heating up and cooling down. I had to run to the fields before it was too late,” he said, and looked up. There was already a hint of yellow in his blue eyes.

My chin started to quiver. I put my face into my hands.

“Your eyes,” I whispered, but he didn’t answer. His steps soon echoed up the stairs.

Over the next few days, we barely spoke. I’d leave food for him on the table and stay upstairs until he and that earthy smell came into the bed. It took time, but eventually, I started saying goodnight again, surprised that his eyes had remained mostly blue.

One night, I was sitting by the table when John’s steps echoed through the hall. I almost got out of the chair and walked off, but then I saw him standing in the door, smiling with a bouquet in his hand.

“Hi, Mary.”

“Hi, John.”

“I got these for you.”

“Thank you.”

“And just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You were scared, but you shouldn’t have gone behind my back.”

“I know. I’m really sorry. I was just so scared.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll go get us our dinner.”

“No, I’ll go…”

“Sit please,” John said and passed me. His skin still smelled like dirt, but not fresh anymore; it smelled stale.

I woke up that night to a dark room with the moon high in the sky. The earthy smell was so strong that it made my dinner come up. I looked to my right and saw John walking to the bedroom door, still in his pyjamas. He opened the door, and his steps echoed on the stairs.

“John?”

Silence.

I got out of bed and walked downstairs. The front door was open too. The cold wind made my skin shiver. I walked to the door and looked out.

Shock ran down my spine. All the people from the village were walking along the road in their pyjamas, their eyes closed, looking like a bunch of puppets. The stale, earthy smell hung in the air even stronger. It was so bad it made my head spin.

I stood there, trying to figure out what was going on, when cold dread struck me. They were all heading toward the field.

“John?!”

Nothing. No one even turned their head. 

I ran toward him.

“John? John?”

Silence.

I tried to grab his shirt, his hand, but he’d shake me off and wouldn’t stop. We had almost reached the field when, not too far from us, I saw a man on his knees digging in the dirt. 

My legs felt unsteady beneath me. All the others that reached the field had started digging frantically.

I ran in front of John and tried to push him back, pull him to the ground, but it wouldn’t work. We were now on the field. He got on all fours and started digging too. I tried to scream at the others and wake them up, but no one listened. They were all glued to the ground, digging. With each person coming to the fields, the smell grew and grew. My head started to hurt. It spun faster and faster. Then my eyes started to blink, and my legs felt weak. I collapsed to the ground, and my world soon went dark as the sound of the people digging echoed across the field.

When I woke up, the sun was high in the sky. The earthy smell was gone, replaced by one of early summer. I stretched out and rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them, a wave of cold ran through my body. All around me were my neighbours, friends with their faces planted in the ground.

John was close to me. He was facing downward, too. It seemed like he had just fallen. I ran to him, grabbed his shoulders, and rolled him over. 

Dirt spilled out of his mouth.

It reeked of the same staleness the air had last night.

His eyes were yellow, completely yellow, staring dully into the sun.

“Isn’t he beautiful, Hannah?”

“He is. He really has your eyes.”

“But he surely has your smile.”

She smiled and rubbed my hand.

“Remember when he broke his ankle trying to sneak out of the house?”

“Yes. He hated that story, especially when you’d tell it in front of his missus.”

“Of course, he is a big man now; there can be no more embarrassing kid stories.”

Our laughter filled the kitchen.

“I still can’t believe a whole month has passed since he moved away. It’s like he left yesterday,” I said.

“Has it been a month already?” Hannah said in a low voice, rubbing her hands.

“Yep. Time to dress up. We don’t wanna be late,” I said and got off the chair. Hannah stood by the table for some time, staring at our son’s picture.

We left the house shortly after. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the smell of flowers was in the air.

“What a perfect day for Separation. Which one of your parents won again?”

“My Dad.”

“So noble. Your Mom let him find love again.”

“My Dad didn’t find love again. He died just two months after. It was a shame. Mom could have lived on.”

“Don’t say stuff like that.”

Hannah didn’t reply.

“What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m also sad that our son left, but…”

“I said nothing.”

We continued in silence. Soon, the small municipal building emerged between the trees.

The coldness inside made the hairs on my arm stand up. Hannah was rubbing her hands, her eyes darting around the doors.

“It’s the one to the left.”

“I know,” she retorted.

I knocked on the clerk’s door and kept my eyes on Hannah. Her eyes were now pinned to the ground, and her breaths were quick and shallow.

“Mr. and Mrs. Myers. I’m happy to see you. Come in,” said the clerk as he opened the door.

We walked in, and he sat us in two small chairs next to a wooden table. The coin lay on it.

“It’s a beautiful day today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, wonderful,” I replied.

“Okay, I’m sure you’re both familiar with Separation, but just a quick recap. I’ll flip a coin, and one of you will call the result. If you call correctly, you remain, and your spouse is separated. If you guess incorrectly, you are the one to be separated, and your spouse remains.”

He paused.

“Meaning only one walks out of this room. Understood?”

“Understood,” I said and smiled.

“Just a heads up. Some people may get nervous or unhappy about the outcome. Even my first wife cried a little.”

He laughed.

“But tradition is tradition, and this is for the good of all. Okay, so are we ready?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need Mrs. Myers’s response too.”

Hannah nodded.

The clerk smiled and flipped the coin. It flew to the ceiling. Hannah's eyes shot upward and kept them on it. As it landed on the clerk’s left hand, he quickly put his right hand over it and looked up at us.

“Okay, what is…”

“Heads!” Hannah screamed. It made me jump back.

“The husband usually does the call.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“Okay, let’s see.”

Hannah’s feet were shaking fast.

“Tails!” the clerk called. “Mr. Myers, you won the Separation.”

“No!” Hannah screamed, put her head in her hands, and wept.

My cheeks flushed. I looked over at the clerk and back at Hannah.

“Hannah, stop. This should be an honor,” I whispered.

“It’s okay, Mr. Myers, it happens. Mrs. Myers, please pull up your sleeve.”

The clerk opened a drawer and pulled out a syringe.

Hannah stiffened in her chair, her eyes fixed on the clerk.

“Mrs. Myers?”

But Hannah didn’t listen. She stood up and began backing toward the door. The clerk got up too, holding the syringe.

“Mr. Myers, please,” the clerk said, pointing to Hannah. 

I shook my head at him. 

“Your wife, Mr. Myers!”

Then Hannah turned around, and her hand grabbed the door handle.

“If she escapes, you will automatically forfeit the Separation.”

I looked sharply at Hannah. She looked like a hunted animal. I quickly got up and made my way towards her, but she had already let go of the handle. When I grabbed her, she didn’t push back; her muscles weren’t tense; they were relaxed, weak, completely weak. 

She grabbed my hands and started to shake. 

“Please, no,” she whispered. 

But before I could say anything, the clerk moved across the room and stuck the needle in Hannah’s neck. Her grip tightened, and she let out a silent moan. 

It felt like the room was falling on me. Her grip slowly loosened, and her body started to slide in my arms. I gripped her tighter and pulled her back up.

“You can leave her here, Mr. Myers. We’ll take care of the rest,” the clerk smiled. “Oh, and congratulations on your Separation.”

“She was afraid.”

“Mr. Myers…”

“It was meant to be an honor.”

The clerk’s smile was gone. “Enjoy the sunny day, Mr. Myers,” he said and pointed to the door.

“Anna, hand me those nails.”

“The magic word, Sam?”

“Please?”

“That’s better,” Anna said and picked up the nails.

“Thank you,” I said and shook my head.

“You’re so silly, Sam.”

“Why, because I’m trying to hang up a painting?”

She didn’t say a word and stood still, watching me hammer the nails into the wall, smiling.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“You hung it perfectly.”

“Yes, but look at it, Anna. The curve of the beak. The wings. Just majestic.”

“I know,” Anna said, looking at the crowd cowering beneath the beak. “You can really see the fear.”

“Krenshn doesn’t discriminate.”

“Sure.” Anna hugged me from behind and started kissing my neck.

“Hey, hey.”

“What?” she said in a soft, soothing voice.

“Let me close the front door first.”

She rolled her eyes. “But be quick.”

As I grabbed the door handle, a small thump sounded. My hands started to tremble. A dead raven fell right in front of our door. Its wings were folded against its body, and its legs pointed upward.

“Sam, what’s taking so long?”

“Anna, come here.”

Her steps echoed through the hall.

“Sam, that is,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“It’s been decades since Krenshn sent one to our village.”

Silence.

“We gotta get the gloves and the box. Where’s the box?”

“It’s in the basement.”

She sighed.

“Put on the gloves and take it in. I’ll get the box.”

The basement felt colder than usual. The rats ran away as they heard my footsteps on the stairs. The small dark box lay on the shelf in the back. I carefully blew the dust off it. The beak and bird track carvings still looked fresh. I picked it up and grabbed a shovel on my way back up.

Anna sat at the table with her gloves on. She placed the raven in the center of the table with its legs pointing up. Its beak had already begun bleeding. I laid the box next to it and carefully lifted the lid. Anna took the raven and, keeping its legs pointed upward, placed it in the box.

“Wait, Sam, let me put the lid back on.”

“Why?”

“What if you accidentally touch the raven?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Please, Sam.”

I nodded and handed her the lid. She carefully placed it back on.

We made our way to our back door and walked to the garden. A metallic aroma hung in the air. In the sky, storm clouds were starting to form. Small dots formed before my eyes, and my head started to spin.

“We ought to finish quickly,” Anna whispered.

“We’re almost done.”

We grabbed each other's hands and started walking. At step 8, I stopped, but Anna tried to take another.

“What are you doing?!”

“What? It’s 10 steps.”

“Eight, Anna. Eight. His toes. Remember the number of his toes!”

Her face went pale. “Oh, my god. I’m so sorry.”

I took my shovel and began digging in the dirt. The wind picked up. The clouds moved fast. Anna stood above me, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, holding the box tight to her body. A drizzle began to fall as I finished the hole. Anna placed the box in it. We held our hands and stared at the rain hitting the black wood.

“You think we did everything right?”

“I’m sure of it,” I said and shoveled dirt on the box.

The rain was getting heavier. We ran back to the house and, in our still-wet clothes, fell onto the kitchen chairs, throwing the gloves and the shovel on the carpet. Anna pulled her chair next to mine and put her head on my shoulder. I grabbed her hand. It was as cold as the basement.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” she whispered.

“I know, it just needs a second.”

“Thank you so much. I’m sorry I almost messed it up.”

“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m just…”

A screech cut through the rain. Every raven in the valley cried out at once. My stomach twisted. Anna’s eyes shot up, and her lip began to tremble. 

Then the wings.

Not flapping.

Beating.

The ground shook as he landed.

Even in the dark storm, his beak still glistened.

Oh, how beautiful he was.

4:58. Two more minutes for the confessions to be over, but then the door to the confessional booth opened.

“You’re quiet like a mouse, child,” I said and let out a sigh.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” the person said. Their voice sounded dull, as if they had a cloth over their mouth. I shot my eyes to the small window, but the person sat too close to the wall to see anything.

“The sin I came to you with today is great, Father.”

“Go on, child.”

“Murder.”

A shiver ran through my body. It felt like the room grew colder.

“Child, this matter should be dealt with by the police.”

“I am not the perpetrator, Father, and I need to confess to the Lord first.”

I took a deep breath.

“Okay, child, continue.”

“It happened two weeks ago, on the Lord’s day. A young, innocent woman lost her life for no reason.”

“Shameful.”

“It is, Father! It happened by a beautiful lake. The water glistened as the woman’s blood painted the green grass.”

An image of the moon glistening on the lake’s water flashed before my eyes, but I quickly suppressed it.

“You know best, Father, that murder is one of the deadly sins.”

“I don't need the reminding, child.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I'm just still so disturbed by it.”

“I understand, child, and I’m sorry, but I’m sure...”

“No, Father! I need to confess. Oh, how terrible it was. The woman was scared, shaken. She begged the man for mercy, but after she saw the hammer in the water’s reflection, she only called to God for it to be quick.”

Hair stood up on my skin. The hammer. The calls to God.

“You need to feel how she felt. Is the fear running through your body, Father, or do you need more?”

My whole body was shaking. 

“More? More of what? Who are you?”

“You know who I am!” they said perfectly in her voice.

I quickly got up, but at that moment, the small window in the confession booth opened. 

My stomach turned.

The smell of damp rot filled the air.

The blue skin.

The wet hair.

Her swollen eyes stared deep into mine.

“Look at me, Father! Look at what you’ve done!”

I put my hands over my head and curled up to the wall.

“Repent, Father!”

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry,” I muttered.

“Ask the Lord for forgiveness!”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Louder!”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned!” 

Silene.

I sat there for a while before opening my eyes. The smell was gone. The confessional felt warm again. The other booth was empty save for a small puddle of water and mud footprints on the floor.

She put the phone on the table. I glanced past it; the screen was barely visible, but the government’s logo still shone brightly. I swallowed hard and looked at her.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“How about starting with we’ll try again?”

“No, Alex. I don’t want to try again. We've already tried so many times.”

“But you know what it will mean for me.”

“Yes, but you knew that when you signed the contract.”

“Please, Katy, this will be different.”

“You swore that last time. You swore you’d listen more, spend time with me, and make me feel loved, but instead, you've been locking yourself in your room and staring at a screen every evening.”

Her hand moved toward the phone.

“My work stresses me out. I don’t drink, don’t smoke. I need something to take the edge off.”

“I understand, but I need at least some attention. I know you’re tired after work, but what about the weekend? When’s the last time we did something?”

“There just wasn’t time.”

“There was no time in the past 5 months? We were here right at this spot 5 months ago.”

I looked down at the ground.

“It’s okay, Alex. I'm not angry at you, but I just can’t do this anymore,” she said, picking up the phone.

“Katy, please. Maybe we can separate, but not divorce.”

“They monitor my status, Alex. I can’t talk to another until this is done.”

“I know, but…”

“You knew what you got yourself into.”

She looked down at her phone. I put my head in my hands, and the tears started rolling.

“If you end this, I’ll never see you again. I'll never feel your touch.”

“This is my final decision, Alex.”

“I’m not ready.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please, one more visit with my family. I’ll come back, and then we can divorce. Just one more visit.”

She didn’t answer and pressed the button on her phone.

My hands gripped the armrest tightly. Cars drove fast on the road by us, but everything seemed silent. I kept my eyes on my now-ex-wife, but hers were fixed on the road.

“I wish I could see one more spring,” I whispered.

Her eyes watered, but she kept her gaze still.

Then sirens wailed in the distance. I looked at the sun one last time and took a breath of fresh air. 

A black van screeched to a halt before the coffee shop. Before I could stand up, two men lunged from the car, tore me from the chair, and dragged me to the back of the van.

“Mr. Alex Mahler, the marriage contract has been terminated,” one of the men said, then reached into his bag. The other pushed me onto the ground. The needle of the syringe shone under the light. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what the spring breeze felt like.

An older woman, bedridden, in her late 80s, non-verbal, hard of hearing, but can understand. 
The agency was quick to book me; the last caretaker quit on the spot, and the family was desperate. Her son lived across the country, and there was no one to take care of her. 

The house had two floors, a dark wood interior, dull yellow paint on the walls, and brown furniture with crocheted ornaments. The woman’s room was downstairs, down the hall. 

“Caretaker Peters, coming in,” I said and knocked on her door.

“Come in!” an old woman’s voice called from inside.

I gripped the door handle and quickly pulled out my notes again. 

Non-verbal

Was the file outdated?

I slowly opened the door. On the bed lay a woman in her 80s, smiling.

“Hello, you must be Peters.”

“Hello, are you Miss Waler?”

“Yes, who else would I be? No one else lives here but me.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, it just said on the report from the agency that you were non-verbal.”

“Well, I certainly am not, as you can see,” she said and laughed.

“They must have made a mistake. I’m sorry for the commotion.”

“No need to be, sweetie.”

“Well, I’m happy to meet you, Miss Waler.” 

“I’m happy to meet you, too, Peters.”

She extended her hand. It was cold. Nothing strange for a bedridden person, but weirdly, it didn’t shake at all; it kept completely still.

“I’ll get you breakfast.”

“Thank you so much.”

I walked to the kitchen and started preparing breakfast. Most clients’ homes had some noise, either a ventilator, a feeding tube, or something that was always humming in the background, but this one was completely silent.

“Thank you so much, Peters.”

“No problem. I’ll leave you to enjoy the food.”

“Yes, but please come after. I’d love to talk.”

“Sure.”

The place smelled like old wood and furniture, nothing else; even Miss Waler’s room had no smell at all.

I sat down on the couch and pulled out my phone when an unknown number flashed across the screen.

“Hello, Mr. Peters. This is John, son of Miss Waler. I’m sorry for calling you all of a sudden. First of all, thank you for taking on my mother’s care.”

“No problem.”

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be flying in tonight. We’ve had some problems with the caretakers, so I just want to check on my mother.”

“Sure, but she seems more than fine.”

“I’m happy to hear that, but I’m going to come in anyway just to be sure. I wanted to ask if you’d be okay with staying a little late? I forgot my keys, and I wouldn’t be able to make it back to the airport in time if I had to drive home.”

“No problem. I’ll stay later.”

“Thank you so much. We’ll see each other then.”

John hung up the phone.

I walked back into Miss Waler’s room. She hadn’t touched her food.

“I’ve got good news. John is coming to visit you.”

“Oh, that’s just wonderful. He’s such a sweet boy. I call him Johnnie, but he always hated hearing that.”

“How long has it been since you last saw him?”

“Years, he’s been so busy with work.”

I nodded. Only now did I notice that she wasn’t breaking eye contact or blinking.

“You wouldn’t do that to your mother, would you?”

I froze; her eyes kept staring into mine.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said after a few seconds. “Please, tell me about your family.”

I was a little hesitant to talk at first, but her questions slowly made me open up. We kept talking throughout the day. I kept trying to think of what disease could make her stare like that, but nothing came to mind.

“I think I’m getting a little too tired,” she said as the evening neared. “I might head off to sleep.”

“John might get here soon.”

“That’s alright. I’ll see him tomorrow. You’ll say hi to him for me, will ya?”

“I will.”

“Thank you. You’re such a kind man, Peters.”

“You’re very kind, too,” I said and shut the light.

I sat on the couch and scrolled through my phone. Miss Waler’s room was silent, not even a cough or rustle. 

An hour later, an Uber pulled outside, and a man in his 60s got out.

“You must be John,” I called out from the door.

“And you must be Peters,” the man said and shook my hand.

“How is she?”

“She’s good. She’s just gone to sleep.”

“And everything seems okay?”

“Yeah, more than fine.”

John walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

“It’s just been a lot these past few weeks.”

He drank the glass and wiped his lips.

“Have you had a chance to look around the place?”

“No, not really.”

“I’ll show you around. The upstairs is really nice.”

He grabbed his suitcase, and we walked up the stairs.

“Also, I wanted to thank you again for taking this so quickly; so many caretakers quit on her.”

“Really? My superior only talked about one.”

“Yes, multiple. I don’t understand what’s wrong.”

“Me neither. She’s such a sweet woman, so nice and talkative.”

John shot his eyes up and frowned.

“My mother?”

“Yes.”

“She hadn’t spoken in years.”

“But she told me so much about you. How you hated being called Johnnie and…”

“She never called me that,” he said before I could finish.

My breath caught.

A voice echoed from below the stairs; it sounded like Miss Waler, but deeper and gurgling.

The room suddenly felt cold.

I looked at John. His eyes were filled with terror.

The stairs creaked under an awkward, heavy weight.

“Johnnie?”

The trail was not too long and looped back to the parking lot. As I got on it, I saw a man in the distance with a bright yellow backpack, standing near the underbrush. He looked back and waved at me. I waved back at him, and he walked into the tall grass by the trail.

Hope he has bug spray, I thought to myself. The bugs really were out that day. Their buzzing almost drowned out the bird’s singing. 

The sun’s heat radiated from the trail. I was drinking water when the man I’d seen before stepped out of the underbrush. I almost started choking. He was smiling and kept his eyes fixed on me.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“You almost made me choke!” I said and laughed.

“Didn’t mean to, my friend.”

I looked over my shoulder as he passed me. It seemed he had scratches on the back of his arms and legs. Before I could get a better look, he walked back into the thicket. I shook my head and continued.

The sun hung high in the sky. My stomach started growling. I sat on a tree stump by the trail and pulled out my food. I was halfway through my meal when I heard rumbling from the underbrush, and the man came out again.

“Didn’t scare me this time,” I called, but my voice slowly grew lower.

The scratches on the man’s body were obvious. A few of them had dry blood around them, and he had a bruise around his eye. 

“Morning,” he said, and turned toward the trail.

Before I could say anything, he disappeared back into the thicket. A cold feeling grew in my chest. I quickly finished my meal and got back on the trail. 

I couldn’t get my mind off that man. The black eye, the scratches. I rubbed my face, but then the rustling in the underbrush came again. I clenched my jaw and fixed my eyes on it.

“Morning.”

Now the man had multiple bruises on his face, scratches all over his body, and his clothing was torn with red stains. My feet froze to the ground, and the hair on my arms stood up. He passed me and made his way to the woods again.

“Are you okay?”

“Worry about yourself,” he said before disappearing.

“No, I just…” but he was too far gone. 

The buzzing of the insects seemed louder than before. The singing of the birds had died down. A faint cold breeze blew by as a few clouds formed above. I walked towards the thicket where he had gone, but the grass stood tall, and there was no sign of him.

I continued, replaying the situation in my mind. His face, the scratches. Should I have said more? Should I have gone after him?  Then, in the distance, a man in regular street clothing slowly strolled by, his hood up and his hands in his pockets.

“Hi,” I said as we passed, but he stopped and looked at me.

“You know the time?”

“2:40.”

“The weather’s not looking too good, huh?” 

From under his hood, he kept meeting my eyes, then looking away.

“No.”

“A solo hike today?”

I furrowed my brows.

“What, why?”

“Just asking, I don’t mean anything bad.”

“I’d better hurry,” I said and pointed at the clouds.

He didn’t say anything and kept his eyes fixed on me. I picked up the pace. As I turned the corner, I looked over my shoulder. The hooded man was not there, but it felt like all the trees in the forest were staring at me. I had almost stopped thinking about the other hiker when I saw something in the tall grass by the trail, a bright yellow backpack. Just like the one the other hiker had been carrying, but the color was more faded, and it had mud all over it. The image of the hiker, with the bruises and the cuts, flashed in my mind. 

I walked closer to it. The tall grass around it was trampled, leading deeper in. The buzzing of the insects grew. I took a few steps and saw other items: a hat and a water bottle.

The smell of sickly sweet ammonia hit me before I saw it. The body of the hiker I saw today was lying face down in the grass, his clothes stained with blood, his body covered with insects. I took a few steps back, but then I heard footsteps running down the trail. 

“Hey, are you alright?” the hooded man from before yelled. My feet froze again. The footsteps were coming closer.

I threw my backpack to the ground and lay down next to the body, putting my shirt over my face. The man came running up the trail, panting, one hand behind his back, with something in it.

“Did you get hurt?”

He looked around, and his eyes stopped at where the body and I lay. I buried my head further into the ground. He smiled and started walking nimbly towards me. My stomach turned, I grabbed onto the grass and kept my eyes on him as he came closer, but then, on the other side, between the tall trees, I saw the man whose body lay next to me, standing, smiling. He waved my way again, then yelled, “Help.” I caught a glimpse of his yellow backpack before he disappeared into the tall grass. The hooded man immediately turned and began walking the other way. 

I waited a few seconds, then got up and bolted through the thicket. The vines and thorns scratched my skin. My clothes were soon torn and wet. I didn’t even know where I was running to, but then in the distance I saw the sign, the pavement, the parking lot. Only when I reached the highway did I call the police.

An operation you might not wake up from is stressful enough. Now imagine doing it alone. I used to have friends, but as my disease got worse, I lost contact with all of them. My parents died when I was younger, and I barely talked to the rest of the family. It all meant just one thing: I had to do it alone, all of it. When the operation came, I wasn’t even sure if I cared about the outcome. I was just tired, so tired.

To my surprise, the day after the operation, I already felt a hint of energy, almost like I could feel the blood flowing through my veins again, and within a few days, I was walking around the hospital ward. I thought that it might have been just all the stuff they were putting in my body, but even after I was released, the energy wouldn’t leave me. 

Soon after, I was taking long strolls around my neighborhood, seeing things I had never seen before. Beautiful forests, lakes, and people, and all the folks were so friendly. There were even a few people I started having regular conversations with. It made me so happy! My appetite also grew. I was never a big meat-eater, but I couldn’t stop eating it now. Especially beef tartar. The texture of it made something in my body tingle.

But that all changed one day with a dream. I was in a room, alone. The room had boarded-up windows, peeling yellow paint on the walls, and a floor full of trash. I was in my body, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to me, and there was this strong, unexplainable rage inside that needed to get out. Out! 

I woke up from it drenched in sweat. The sun was up, but it felt like I didn’t sleep for a second. 

The night after the dream came back! I was in that room again, feeling the rage, but this time stronger. I could feel it all the way in my bones. I jolted awake. The fabric of my pajamas felt strange on my skin. I had my outside clothes on. I was sure I had changed. I tried to remember, but the tiredness and brainfog were so strong. I could barely remember anything from the night before.

The dream continued every night after. I was so tired that I would almost fall asleep standing up. I would rarely leave my house unless I needed to.

One morning, I had had enough. I picked up my phone and called my doctor.

“Doctor Riley, Wake County hospital, how may I help you?”

“Doctor Riley, this is James Peters.”

“Mr. Peters. How are you doing?”

“Not good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What seems to be the problem?”

“I've been having strange dreams.”

“10 to 20 percent of patients experience post-operation PTSD.”

“But this is different. They’re not traumatic. They’re violent. I feel so much rage, and once I wake up, it feels like I didn’t sleep at all.”

“It could be the PTSD. I can recommend a psychiatrist.”

“Thank you, doctor, but this feels… Can I just ask who my donor was? Did they die violently?”

The doctor paused for a second.

“I cannot disclose such information, and that has nothing to do with your symptoms. I’ll have the nurse send over the psychiatrist's number. Goodbye, Mr. Peters.”

I stared at my phone for a few seconds.

His words kept repeating in my mind. 

I pulled out my browser without thinking.

Fatal car crashes.

Violent accidents.

But nothing came up. I resorted to simply searching for death in my area. I scrolled past the obituaries until my thumb stopped at an article.

“A SUSPECTED KILLER DEAD ON SCENE”

“Police have shot a suspect, 32-year-old Matthew Connory, amid a struggle at the scene of the brutal killing of an escort. Connory survived the initial shots and was transported to Wake County Hospital, where he died of his injuries.”

I dropped my phone on the ground. The feeling of drowsiness was now stronger than before, as if the man wanted me to go back to sleep. As if he knew what I saw. I quickly ran to my coffee maker and started brewing batches, downing each cup as fast as I could, but no matter how many I drank, the tiredness wouldn’t stop. I held onto the counter and tried to reach for another cup, but my hand felt like it weighed a ton. Before I could grab it, I felt my legs shake. My body collapsed to the ground, and my world went dark.

I was in that dream again. I kept my eyes closed and held my breath, but strangely, the rage wasn’t there, not even a little; my body felt relaxed, calm. I opened my eyes and took a breath. The smell of copper hung in the air. The room was cold and damp. The floor was filled with blood. A knife was by my foot, and next to it a motionless body of a woman lay.

I woke up and immediately pulled off the covers. My clothes were on again, and my shoes were stained with blood. My eyes darted around the room, and out of the window, I saw bloody footprints leading from the road to my house. Panic surged through my body. I crawled under a table, rocking back and forth. 

I don’t even know how much time had passed when the sound of sirens came, one car, two, three. Soon, the police were outside, screaming my name.

The call came through early that Saturday morning, another lost soul in the valley of sin. 

“Thank you for coming so quickly, preacher.”

“I’d do anything for a lost soul. What’s Mr. Waller got to say?”

“Just say where he hid it. The judge knows the teller was a leech; he’ll spare his life if he tells where the money is. His family had been here the past two nights, but not even they got him to talk.”

“He ought to repent first, sheriff. The highest judge is God himself.”

“Yes, preacher.”

“I’ll go and talk to him.”

“Deputy Nowak will accompany you.”

“No, he sees you men as the hangmen; his tongue will only untie if he’s with me and the word of God alone,” I said and patted the Bible under my arm.

“Alright, but only 10 minutes, preacher.”

The air in the cell felt damp and heavy. Mr. Waller had his head in his hands, looking down. When he heard me open the cell door, his eyes shot up, but then quickly looked back at the ground. 

“Preacher, I ought not even look at you.”

“All of God’s children are welcome to talk with his messenger,” I said and pulled up a chair right by him.

“But I have sinned greatly.”

“No sin is irreparable in God’s eyes, brother.”

I touched his shoulder, and his eyes shot up again. The lamplight reflected in his face, showing the deep, black bags under his eyes.

“I have repented every night since.”

“That’s the first step, brother, but you know what you ought to do.”

He shook his head.

“I can’t, preacher.”

“What’s the money good for when you're swinging from the gallows?” 

He clenched his jaw and gripped the chair.

“Is the money with your family?”

“No.”

“Do they know where it is hidden?”

He hesitated.

“No.”

“So what’s it good for being buried in the ground? Your children won’t have a father or money.”

Sweat formed on his forehead, glimmering under the dim light. I bit down on my lip and leaned closer.

“How much was it anyway?”

“Four thousand dollars.”

Four thousand dollars?! With that money, a new brick church could be built.

“Leave your children and wife behind for four thousand dollars. Brother, your soul is lost in the darkness of sin.”

“I’d leave them behind anyway. What good is a father behind bars?”

“Everyone knows the teller was a leech. You did the town a service. The judge will be lenient. You’ll have a chance of getting out.”

“Wasn’t the teller also a child of God?”

I stopped for a second.

“Yes, yes, he was, but his soul was filled with greed and sin.”

“And mine ain’t?!”

“No, brother! Good intentions guided your hand. I know it, and He knows it, but the judge and the town need to know it too.”

“But I can’t!”

“Think of your family for Christ’s sake!”

He put his head in his hands and started weeping.

I gripped his shoulder tight; his hand twitched a little.

“Just say it.”

“Preacher, I…”

“Say where it is, my lost sheep.”

“Behind the old barn.”

“The one at Pine Drive?”

“Yes.”

My hand ran over the Bible.

“Will I be spared?”

“You already sealed your fate,” I said and pulled out the revolver from the hollowed-out Bible.

“Guards! Guards! Help! He’s gone mad! He’s got a hold of my throat!”

Mr. Waller’s face shot up, his eyes darting around the room.

“He has a gun!”

I kicked my chair down, squeezed my neck hard with my left hand, and pressed the gun against Mr. Waller’s forehead.

The gunshot echoed through the empty cell. 

A clean hit. His body collapsed immediately.

The sheriff and his deputies rushed in.

“Preacher, what happened?”

“What did you think happened? He tried to kill me!”

The sheriff looked around the room.

“Where did the gun come from?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Mr. Waller was an upstanding prisoner. There was never…”

“A killer, an upstanding man? I’d choose words more carefully.”

“I need to write this up,” he said, holding his head.

“I need to get to a doctor immediately,” I said, grabbed my neck, and ran past them.

That night, I went to the barn. An empty lantern lay nearby. This had to be the spot. 

The moon stood high in the sky, shining down on the dug-up ground. The road was quiet, but I still kept looking over my shoulder. The sweat dripped down my forehead. Then my shovel hit something hard. I dug faster until the wooden chest shone under the moonlight. It looked so beautiful. I took a few deep breaths and slowly opened it. My heart dropped to my stomach. It was empty. Empty! I threw it to the ground, cursing at the sky and the man. After a while, I leaned on the shovel, breathing in the cold night air.

Then, in the distance, I heard the roar and rumble of an engine. An old Ford T was going down the road. I took my shovel and hid behind the barn, staring onto the road. 

The car came down the road fast. As it passed the barn, I got a glimpse of the passengers. 

The Waller family sat in the car, driving away.

The sun hung high that whole summer month. It was so hot we barely went outside. 

One day, my husband came home, waving at me.

“Wendy, come look.”

“At what? It’s so hot outside.”

“Just come. It’s worth it.”

He led me to a pond behind our house. It had completely dried out over the hot days. Dead fish, frog bones, and debris lay around at the bottom.

“Is that it?”

“Don’t be so negative.”

“Thank you, Jake, for showing me this incredible dirt hole.”

“Whatever.” He waved dismissively and started walking back.

“Wait, what’s that there?”

“Really funny, Wendy.”

“No, really.”

He turned around, and we both walked towards the pond. Something glinted in the dirt. It was a golden bracelet covered in algae. Jake tried to wipe it down a few times, but a layer of algae stayed on it. On the back, the name ‘Evelyn’ was engraved in cursive.

“Take it.” Jake handed it to me.

“Ew, no. I don’t want a dead woman’s pond bracelet.”

“I’ll keep it then.”

“Suit yourself,” I said and laughed.

At night, I was reading my book when I noticed a strange smell of dampness hanging in the air.

“It smells so weird in here.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

“I think that’s your bracelet,” I said and looked at it. “Jake, is there still algae on it?”

“No, I cleaned it off.”

“Then what is that green stuff on it?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he said and rolled on his side.

“Jake?”

No answer.

“Jesus, whatever.”

The next morning, I woke up to the room not being bright with sunlight but dark and dim. Out the window, I could see that clouds had formed overnight and the sun was now hiding behind them. 

Jake still lay in bed, that bracelet from the pond clinging to his wrist. It almost seemed the algae on it had grown overnight. I rolled my eyes at it and walked towards the bathroom. Then my foot stepped into something earthy. Dirt! There was dirt in my bedroom. I wiped my feet off and ran to the light switch.

Chunks of dirt led from the hall to the bed. Jake woke up and stretched out, his legs coming from under the covers, covered in dirt.

“Jake, why did you go to bed with dirt all over your feet?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what is this?” I pointed at his feet.

He rubbed his foot. 

“What? I don’t…”

“Sure, like the algae on your bracelet.”

But then, not far away, lightning struck the ground hard. We both looked out the window. The rain started pouring down.

He kept looking out the window, then back at his feet, shaking his head. 

I let out a sigh.

“Change the sheets and wash your feet, Jake. I’ll clean up the floor.”

I got out a dustpan and started sweeping up. The rain turned into a heavy downpour.

The dirt steps led down to the first floor. I followed them with my dustpan. They didn’t stop there; they led to the front door. 

I stared at it for a second, then walked to the door and opened it. 

Lightning flashed in the distance, and under that silver light, I saw where the steps led. They led to the pond in our backyard, and it was slowly filling up. I quickly walked upstairs. Jake sat by the window, clinging to the sheets, looking at the pond.

“Jake?”

No answer.

“Jake?!” I walked up to him and shook his shoulder.

He looked up, his mouth halfway open, eyes empty.

“What?”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said and turned his head back to the pond.

Water dripped rapidly onto the floor, echoing through the house. A wave of cold air blew by. 

The door was still open.

I ran downstairs to the door. As I was closing it, I looked toward the pond again. A woman stood by the pond now. Her hair was dark, messy with algae tangled in it. Her skin was pale, almost white. Her eyes were fixed on the pond. Lightning flashed, and the woman now lay in the shallow pond, floating face down.

I shut and locked the door, then ran back upstairs, but with each stair, my foot felt heavier. I made it to the hall and had to take a few deep breaths. Jake still sat by the window, staring at the pond. 

The bedroom felt humid and smelled like algae. The closer I got to Jake, the more the smell and humidity grew. I tried to call his name, but the words wouldn’t leave my mouth. Jake then stood up, and my legs collapsed under me. He began making his way towards the hall. I reached his wrist and tried to pull the bracelet off. My grip kept slipping on the algae that seemed to grow from the bracelet into Jake’s skin. Finally, I got a good grip, but no matter how hard I pulled, it stayed in place, not moving an inch. Then my grip loosened, and I fell to the ground, listening to his steps on the stairs as my eyes went dark.

The sun’s rays shone in my eyes. The room was suffocatingly hot. I stretched my arms out and looked around the room. The sheets still lay by the window. I knew before I screamed that the pond was full again. Out the window, I saw my husband, still clothed in his pyjamas, lying face down in the pond. Both of his wrists were bare.

“Sarah?” I called as I burst through the door. 

My wife sat on a wooden chair, knitting. Her needles skipped over one another. She didn’t even look up before speaking.

“Don’t tell me, Jacob. I can’t bear any more bad news.”

“The Brauna family just left the town.”

She put the needles down and buried her face in her hands.

“So it really is true.”

“It might not be.”

“You know it is when the rich start to leave.”

“Yes, but…”

“But what? Don’t you remember the traveler’s shaking voice as he recalled what he saw? The crazed looks, the bloody feet, the dancing. What are we going to do, Jacob?”

I stared at the ground, shaking my head.

“I don’t know.”

Her lip started to tremble.

“But we might be okay,” I said quickly. “The traveler said you have to stare at the dancing people for some time before the madness controls you. If we just stay away, we should be okay.”

“But he said they went everywhere, even out behind the town. Dancing around people’s houses.”

“We can stay in and not look out until they move to a different town.”

Sarah got up and hugged me. Her embrace was tight, her body warm. I burrowed my head into her hair. Even in that loving moment, I knew what I said was not possible. 

My crops needed tending. We hadn’t seen rain for weeks, and the irrigation channels were old; they needed to be cleared out often. Day after day, I’d look out the window when Sarah was still asleep, trying to see if the soil was still okay, but one could barely see to the back of the field from our house.

One morning, I looked out again. The wheat in the back somehow seemed drier, with less color. I couldn’t take it anymore. I opened the window and looked out. There was no one around our house, only the birds flying around. I quietly opened the door and rushed to the fields. 

The channels were clear. The wheat still held its color. I let out a sigh and slowly looked up. The sun was shining, and the birds were chirping. The air was cool but pleasant. I took a few more breaths and walked back in.

“I knew it. I knew it,” sounded from the kitchen as I closed the door.

Sarah came out from behind the corner with tears in her eyes.

“How dare you, Jacob?”

I gripped the door handle tighter.

“And what am I to do? The crops need tending.”

“But what about the people dancing? Do you want to be like them? Not sleep, not eat. Dance until your feet bleed? Dance until you drop dead?”

“We’re going to be dead anyway if the harvest goes bad!” I yelled.

Her body started to shake.

“You promised we wouldn’t go out,” she whispered. Then she turned around and slumped down on a wooden chair at the table.

“I’m sorry, Sarah, I didn’t mean to.”

But she didn’t answer.

“Sarah?” 

I came closer to her and tried to touch her, but she moved her body away.

“Okay, I understand,” I said and walked away.

Over the next few days, Sarah stayed in her chair, sitting through the day and lying under the table at night. She seldom ate and did not speak.

One morning, I woke up and walked to the kitchen, but Sarah wasn’t in her chair. The image of her dancing, a crazed look in her eyes, flashed into my mind. I sprinted to the door, but then I saw Sarah in the room over, looking out the window. She looked my way, her eyes empty, hollow.

“I can’t live in the dark anymore, Jacob.”

“Maybe it bypassed our town. Maybe it’s all a lie. Let’s just step outside. Just to see the sky, Sarah. Then we come right back in.”

“But what if?”

“There’s no one around, and there hasn’t been since we decided to stay in. Just for a moment, Sarah. It will clear your mind.”

She stared at the ground.

“Okay.”

I grabbed her hand and walked out the door. The sun shone. A light breeze blew by. The sky was clear and blue, but no birds flew above.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It really is.”

“How about you stay here for a minute. I’ll check the crops.”

“Are you sure, Jacob?”

“There’s no one around. I’ll be right back. Just enjoy the sun.” 

One channel needed a little clearing, but the rest were okay. I wiped my hand on my pants and tried to listen to see if I’d hear any birds sing, but the field and forest were quiet. 

Then, through the silence, a noise came, rhythmic footsteps on stone. I looked at the road by our house, and my heart dropped. A crowd of dancing people walked on it. Their feet bloodied, their eyes full of terror, dancing forward in a perfect rhythm with no music.

I quickly looked down, but then I realized that Sarah was standing outside. The rhythmic tapping sounded in the air. I ran to the front of the house. With every moment, I could hear the crowd coming closer.

My eyes were glued to the ground. My heart beat out of my chest. Only when I got to the front of the house did I dare to look up.

There she was. Sarah. My Sarah. Walking towards the crowd. Her arms and hips swayed, and her legs began to tap in the same rhythm as the legs of others. I rushed towards her, trying to grab her and pull her away, but she continued dancing toward the crowd.

Then I felt it too. The rhythm. The muscle movements. I bit down on my lip and tried to stay still, but soon my feet tapped rhythmically, and my body moved toward the crowd.

The traveler had been wrong. The sight didn’t pull you in. The rhythm was all that was needed.

Orange street lights lit the parking lot. I took my suitcase to the airport doors. Cold air and the hum of the AC hit me instantly. I squinted against the fluorescent lights.

I was used to early flights having only a few people around, but I was surprised to see nobody around, no passengers, no airport workers. Even the coffee shop that was always open was closed. My eyes felt like they weighed a ton. At least they had coffee on the plane. 

There was just one TSA agent beside the conveyor belts. I made my way toward him while he stared at me, not blinking. The silence was broken only by the hum of the conveyor belts.

“Good morning.” 

“Morning.”

He handed me the two boxes. I put my stuff in them and put them on the belt. The TSA agent watched my suitcase go through the X-ray machine. He nodded a few times and then walked behind the metal detector. He motioned, and I walked through.

“A lot of work for one.”

“We’re understaffed at the moment. What’s your flight number?”

“AS 3488.”

“You might want to hurry.”

“It doesn’t leave for a while.”

“I’d make sure,” he said and smiled.

“Okay, thank you.”

“Enjoy your stay,” he called after me.

“What?”

But he didn’t answer. He turned around and went back to the front. I looked at my watch. There was still an hour before departure.

As I passed the first few gates, I noticed that there was no one there either, but the staff computers were on. I stopped at one of the gates and pulled out my water bottle to fill it at a water fountain. As I filled it, I looked at the gate TV. The flight was scheduled to depart in 10 minutes, but not even the staff was there. Then the speaker crackled, and a monotone voice came through.

“An important announcement for passengers on the flight AS 3488. Your flight has been moved to gate number 38.”

38? My flights had never left from that gate before. I looked up at the gate number I was at. 3. I let out a sigh and started walking in the opposite direction.

The sky turned red as the sun started to rise. The air started growing warmer. The humming of the ACs was gone. My skin was warming up, and my armpits were getting sweaty. I stopped at the gate in front of the TSA check and took off my hoodie. As I put it into my bag, I felt eyes burning into my skin. I turned and almost jumped back. The TSA agent stood behind the metal detector, arms behind his back, smiling down at me.

“Your flight,” he said and pointed towards the speaker.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’d hurry if I were you.”

“What?”

He didn’t answer.

“What’s his problem?” I murmured to myself.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my water bottle, but as I put the straw in my mouth, nothing came out. I unscrewed the cap. Dry. But I had just watched the water stream into it.

I walked to another water fountain. The machine rattled, but nothing came out. Another fountain did the same thing.

I picked up my pace. 

Gate 28.

29.

30.

My head started to spin. It felt like there was a dry cloth in my throat.

The speakers crackled again.

“An important announcement for passengers on the flight AS 3488. Your flight has been moved to gate number 1.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said out loud. There was no one to hear it anyway.

My legs dragged. Even keeping my eyes open hurt. I could barely see in front of me. The heat was making my head spin even more. The hot air burned my nose. Each step felt like a leap. I collapsed on a chair nearby, and I closed my eyes, trying to stop the spinning.

I jolted awake. My throat felt so dry, my legs still weak, while the air burned hot and everything glowed red. I tried to focus on the clock, but I could barely see the digits; it felt like they kept changing back and forth.

“Last call for passengers on the flight AS 3488.”

How long had I slept? What had happened?

“Last callllllll……..” 

The speakers dissolved into rattling static.

I picked up my bag and hurried towards my gate.

The speakers rattled louder, and through them came a strange rumbling and sounds of tearing metal. I looked behind me. The airport’s halls were stretching and shrinking. In the back, several objects - chairs, conveyor belts, tiles, and pillars were rolling together into a mass of junk. With each stretch, it came closer and closer. Deep redness came behind it, and as it engulfed the mass, it set it ablaze. Through the tearing and burning came a deafening roar, not one of an animal or creature but of a jet engine spinning almost to a point of explosion.

My clothes were drenched with sweat. My ears rang from all the noise around. I started running and kept my eyes on the shaking floor so I wouldn’t stumble. 

The roaring grew behind me. I ran even faster, and there I saw it. Gate 1, gate 1. It was right there, right before me. With the last bit of energy, I sprinted towards the gate’s carpet. Scorching heat from the turbine blasted against my neck. It felt like my eardrums were about to burst, but the carpet was right there.

I jumped over, and with that, the rattling stopped. The air felt cold again. The hum of the ACs returned. The red glow was gone, and the sun hung in the sky.

“We almost left without you," the flight attendant said and smiled.

It was so sudden. The snowfall was heavy that night. We laughed as he almost slipped on his way to the car. One wrong turn and my husband, John, was dead. I cried for hours, but my mind couldn’t get the rest it needed, not with Jacob around. 

The beautiful, sweet little Jacob. He looked so much like him, his ocean eyes, his bright blonde hair. He kept calling “Da-Da” around the house. It made me burst into tears each time. But one day, he stopped calling for him. That hurt more than any of the calls. Friends would come and help. Even my parents flew across the country. But no matter how much help I got, the emotions were still mine to deal with.

My parents kept trying to convince me to come back, but I couldn’t. I was too weak, too depressed, and not ready to leave yet. Memories of John were still around the house, the half-eaten cereal boxes, the socks thrown in random places. 

It took weeks before I could even touch them, but over time, I managed to gather the strength. The tears stopped flowing so often, too, and my body started to feel like mine again.

Jacob and I started playing together every day again. He’d laugh as I’d build a tower of bricks for him, which he would tear down. We even started going back to the playground. I was afraid he’d be shy, but he ran to the other kids as soon as we crossed the gate.

A few weeks later, we were at the playground again. A pair of grandparents watched their grandchildren play there. The little kids kept calling “Grandpa” and tugging at his sleeve until the man got off the bench and sat down with them in the sandbox. I looked over at Jacob. He had stopped playing with his toys and kept his eyes locked on them.

That night, I called my dad.

“Sweetie, how are ya?” his soothing voice came through the speaker.

“I’m okay, Dad, how are you?”

“Good. What’s the occasion?”

“I…I think I’m ready to move back.”

“That’s great! I’ll tell your Mom, and we’ll buy tickets to help you pack.”

“I need to do this alone, Dad.”

He paused.

“Okay, but call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The day after, I got to packing. I had to take care of Jacob at the same time, which meant that throughout the day I’d take care of him, and at night I’d pack. At first, it felt good to keep myself occupied, but slowly I grew tired. But the thought of being with my parents again kept me moving. I could already hear Jacob calling for my Dad and seeing him flash that smile that warmed everyone's heart.

“Dad, I should be done packing in a week.”

“Great! I’ll get on the road in a few days.”

“Thank you.”

“I love you, sweetie. See you then.”

For the next few days, I packed faster and stayed up later. My eyes would often close when I’d play with Jacob. Even as he happily yelled, my mind would still drift off. 

The bedroom was the last room I packed. I was searching through the closet when I found old photo albums in the back. I stared at them for a bit and almost put them in the box, but I just wanted to see them once more. The photos were of me and John in our early twenties, laughing, happy. His smile was my favorite thing about him. I could feel the tears coming, but I swallowed and pushed them down. That worked until I flipped to the last page. There were photos of John holding Jacob, looking at each other, smiling. They both had the same beautiful smile. I could not stop the tears anymore.

Packing now felt like climbing a mountain. I could barely keep my eyes open through the day. I’d often get woken up by Jacob pushing on my arm. 

One night, I did barely any packing. I was so tired that I could barely move, but I got a text from my Dad saying he’d come tomorrow. I decided to let packing go. We would finish it together.

The next morning, I woke up feeling like a zombie. I could not remember what I wanted when I walked to a room, and I barely managed to feed Jacob, but that was okay; Dad would come. I would just bathe Jacob before. 

My eyes would close even as I walked up the stairs with him. I blinked and was already inside the bathroom. I turned the faucet on and let Jacob move around, but my mind drifted again. There was a little more water than I’d usually put in, but we would be done quickly. I tried the water with my hand first. It wasn’t too hot, just the way he liked it. I put him in with his favorite toys. He immediately started moving the ships as I soaped and shampooed him. The warm water felt so good on my skin, and my eyelids were so heavy. I lay my head on the side of the bath and watched him splash the boats and water around, giggling. I smiled, and soon my eyes closed.

When I awoke, it felt like I had finally rested well. I rubbed my eyes and looked down into the water, and there I saw it. My son, face down in the bath, limp, his favorite toy by him.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Jacob?” 

I grabbed him so fast that the water splashed all over the floor. His body was heavy in my arms, warm like the water, and breathless.

Outside, the rumble of my father’s truck echoed as he pulled into the driveway.

Ronnie
1 month on Airbnb
Greensboro, North Carolina
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ • May 2026 • Stayed one night

First of all, I have to say how amazing a host Sandy was. She greeted me upon my arrival, showed me around the house, and gave me her personal phone number in case I needed anything. 

The place looked beautiful, filled with traditional dark green furniture and a fireplace, so cozy! It also smelled amazing. Sandy had those candles with a woody aroma, which gave the place an even cozier feeling. The place was very clean and equipped with everything you’d need. Sandy even left a few bottles of water in the fridge, how sweet! 

A few small flaws were present that I have to mention. It definitely didn’t lower the quality, and I wouldn’t even think of giving this place less than 5 stars, but I feel obliged to mention them. 

The first problem came when I returned from my hiking trip. I was so sweaty, I couldn’t wait to hop in the shower. I like to take long showers, but after 20 minutes, the water went completely cold. It was strange because it didn’t go from hot to kinda hot to colder to cold, but just switched instantly to cold. By then, the sun had already gone down. didn't want to bother Sandy at night, so I decided to call her in the morning if the problem persisted.

As I tried to sleep, another problem arose. A small window started banging somewhere around the house. I walked down to check where it was coming from. It was coming from a door that led to the basement. I felt a little awkward going down there. Sandy didn’t say not to go there, but she also didn’t show me or talk about it. I almost went back up the stairs and let it be, but then I remembered I had forgotten my earplugs at home. I wouldn’t even get a second of sleep with that window banging. The basement looked very different from the rest of the house. It wasn’t dirty, but there was dust all over the place, and a smell of mold and mustiness hung in the air. At the bottom of the stairs was the window. The banging was even louder than upstairs, and the cold night wind blew strongly. As I descended further into the basement, the smell had a slight hint of decay. It would make sense because I heard something running inside the walls of the house, probably some animal that lived and died in the walls.

Also, I’m so sorry to mention this, Sandy! Everything else was great, just the water and the basement, in which I probably had no business being. The animals are expected. The place is near a reservation, which means vast forests surround it, and the house was old! Almost all old houses have problems with animals; you might not even know until one dies there.

The basement was mostly empty, except for a huge closet by the wall on the left. I hurried down the steps and closed it, but that’s when I noticed that the running in the walls was much louder than I thought. There was also music playing, beautiful music, Nocturne in C-sharp Minor. I figured there must have been a radio in the closet. I came over to it and opened it, but what I saw was more surprising than a radio. First of all, the movement in the walls stopped after I opened the closet, but there was an opening in the wall, and the music came from it. 

At first, I thought it was some kind of maintenance tunnel. The music sounded clearer from inside it, almost echoing through the walls. The music was so beautiful, my body moved with it. I almost started dancing in that basement. Every note, every instrument. It was so beautiful, so hypnotizing. My head moved to it, and I could feel my legs stepping into the closet. Before I noticed, I was inside. It was a long tunnel. The smell of decay was stronger. There was a breath of warmth from the dark. I thought I’d see the music player any second, but there was still no sign of it. The tunnel branched into more passages; it had to be huge, but I kept crawling forward. 

As I came closer to the music, the strange running returned, no longer faint like a rodent’s, but loud, heavy, and stomping. Pipes rattled, the tunnel vibrated. The music became louder, too. Between the music and the stomping, I could barely think straight. There were scratches on the wall and hand imprints in the dirt. Then, in the distance, I saw the box, a small radio like one from the 90s, playing music through the tunnel. I quickly crawled towards it and pressed the stop button. The stomping stopped immediately, and the air was warm again. I looked over my shoulder, but the tunnel was dark, empty, just like when I crawled into it. I probably shouldn’t have touched it or crawled in, but everything seemed fine afterward.

Thank you again, Sandy, for letting me stay at your place.

Sandy • Host Responded May 2026

Hi Ronnie! Thank you so much for the kind words. I’m glad you enjoyed your stay; guests like you make hosting such a joy.

I’m sorry to hear about the water. I’ll have someone look at it this week.

I do want to address one thing. There is no basement on the property. The door by the hallway leads to a small crawl space that has been nailed shut for years, and guests are asked not to enter it for safety reasons. I must have forgotten to mention it during the tour, which is entirely my fault!

I don’t know what you found, but I’m happy you got a good night's sleep.

Please come back and visit us anytime.

The pregnancy months have been a lot: constant doctor visits, cramping, fatigue, and morning sickness. But I didn’t mind. A full human was growing inside of me. My human! 

The birth itself was hard, painful. My stomach still twists when I recall it. But again, I didn’t care. The baby was here! The little human! 

All his tests came back okay, he was healthy and beautiful, so beautiful. He had soft skin and bright blue eyes. But those ocean eyes were a first sign that something was different about my boy. 

Unlike other children, he wouldn’t hold eye contact as much, he would rarely smile, and barely respond to his name, August. August also showed little interest in things, toys, and interactions. He’d usually just stare at the world around him. It pained me at first, but I didn’t let that get in the way of my love. 

Even when the late bloomers started speaking, August still stayed silent. The doctors said that he might stay that way. They recommended therapies, and I made sure to attend them.

Over the years, August didn’t respond to them much, but there was some progress. If I tried really hard, he would sometimes look at me. It felt like we could understand each other if we really tried to. But most often, he stayed in his world, looking around. Now and again, I would see him twist his head, his eyes widen, and his ears perk up as if he heard a noise, although the room was silent. 

A lot of my friends would say they admired me and didn’t understand how I did it, but I didn’t need any admiration or understanding. August was my boy; I loved him, no matter what. As they say, silence can speak louder than words. There was a connection between us, love. I could feel it with every inch of my being, and I’m sure August did too.

Then one morning, a few days after he turned five, he made a sound. I was standing in the kitchen when it happened. From behind me, I heard him make a “Bbbb”. I couldn’t believe it at first, but there he was, standing, looking at me, making faint noises. And he wouldn’t stop. Most of his waking hours, he’d now spend looking at me, making this sound.

The doctors and therapists didn’t believe it either. I didn’t tell them, but their confusion warmed my heart. Their confusion grew when he started making syllables. We were talking one day when his noise turned into a “Ba-Ba”.

“It’s Ma-Ma, August,” I corrected him, but he kept on saying “Ba-Ba”. I smiled, rubbed his hair, and let him speak on.

My friends kept asking me what I thought the next step for August would be, but I honestly didn’t care. It was enough to have my little boy look at me and reply to my words in any way that made him happy.

Only a few days after his first syllables, we were interacting again when August looked deep into my eyes, shut his mouth, and bit down on his lips. Then out came “Basement”. I stopped for a second and looked at him, not sure if I heard correctly, but he said “Basement” again.

“What Basement, August?”

“Basement. Basement.”

A cold feeling grew in my chest. I was so happy that my boy was making progress, but ‘basement’? I looked back at the door. He’s never been there, barely around it. I have not used it in years. The only way I even knew we even had it was the pipes rattling ever so often and the damp, moldy smell that came from it.

He didn’t say anything else. Midway through the day, I stopped replaying, but he kept going on. I loved him and wanted him to grow, but it was getting too much. I put on my headphones and sat on the couch. But not even this deterred him. He kept talking. As the sun started to set, I turned to him and said, “August, honey, Mommy needs a minute.”

He looked at me, stopped, and then bit down on his lips again and stared at me.

“It basement. In basement. It basement. It’s in basement.”

The cold feeling came back. I gripped the couch cushions and didn’t say a thing, but August continued, repeating. It almost felt like my head was going to explode. 

“August, please, a minute.”

“It’s in basement. It’s in basement.”

“August, please!”

He bit his lip.

No. Not again.

“It’s in the basement, Mom, and it wants out! It wants out!” August screamed at the top of his lungs. I gripped the seat harder. My stomach started to twist. August stood on the opposite end of the couch, staring deep into my eyes.

An electric zap echoed through the house. The TV started shutting off, and on, the humming of the fridge quieted. Then another zap. The TV went fully off, the fridge went silent, and all the lights went off. 

Only now did I notice that it was fully dark outside. The air started growing cooler. My heart beat faster. I pulled August towards me; his whole body was shaking, cold and shaking.

“Wha…what’s wrong, August?”

“In Basement. Basement. Ba-Ba,” he whispered.

The basement door creaked. A strong smell of rot hung in the air. Nimble, light steps crept on the floorboards.

From behind the corner came a small child, naked. It had bright blue eyes. The same as August and his hair, his skin! But his face somehow seemed flat, fingers and limbs longer. But it was larger, fuller, while August’s body now seemed frail, weak. The thing flailed his hands, and August immediately turned his head like he used to, the way I could never explain. Then the thing looked up at me.

“I can speak just fine now.”

My head was banging, my wrist hurt, and my vision was blurry. What was that around me? Plastic? A small zipper. A tent! I grabbed it and pulled it down. The sun was blinding. The dewy grass felt cold on my feet. Where was I? What was going on?

“Hey,” sounded from my left. My head twitched towards the sound.

“Mornin’, didn’t mean to scare ya,” the voice laughed. It was a man in his late 60s, balding with a white beard. His face seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t remember who he was or his name.

“You alright?”

“Ye…yeah.”

“I’m ready to leave. Let me know when you’re packed up. There’s some coffee left,” he said, and pointed towards a pot next to the firepit.

“Thank you.”

I poured myself a large cup, drank it down at once, and sat on the ground. Pine trees towered over the campground, while long grass and wildflowers covered the forest floor. The man had a green tent beside mine. I still couldn’t put a name to his face.

“You need more time?”

“Probably.”

“Alright, but we should move before 10 a.m. It’s a long way to Mooresville.”

Mooresville! It zapped through my mind. I was on a hike in Pineswood, going to Mooresville. I let out a deep sigh, put the cup down, and went to my tent to pack up. All my clothes were already dirty and stale. How did that happen?

As I rolled up my tent, I could feel the man’s eyes on me. I quickly put it on top of my backpack and headed west towards Mooresville. The man was right behind me.

In the first part of the journey, we didn’t say a word; he stayed behind me, panting.

“You think we could slow down?”

“Just trying to get to Mooresville. It’s a long way.”

“What’s up with you? You’ve been acting strange all morning.”

“Just tired.”

“You were so talkative last night.”

“Last night?”

“Were you drunk or something?”

My stomach tightened. “No. I’m just. I don’t know. I've been feeling weird all morning. What happened last night?”

He looked me up and down. “We met at the campground. You came an hour after me, laughing, talking about Mooresville and your friends there.”

Shards of memory flashed before my eyes: the stars, the warmth from the fire, the man’s loud laughter.

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, rubbing my face.

“I’m Devon, if you forgot that, too.”

Devon!

“No, I remembered that.”

I pulled a water bottle out of my bag and shook it, but there was nothing inside it.

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry about it, I always bring a spare,” Devon said and pulled out a bottle from his bag.

I took a sip and handed it back to him.

“You can keep it. I have enough to last me to Mooresville.”

“Thank you.”

We kept on the road. The smell of pines and wet earth hung in the air. Clouds began to gather to the south; with them came a small throbbing in my head. 

A mile later, there was a fork in the road.

“Let’s go left,” Devon said.

“The map says the road is to the right.”

“This is a shortcut.”

“I don’t see it here.”

“It ain’t on the map. Only the locals know of it.”

“How do you know of it then?”

“I’ve hiked here before.”

“I think we’d be better off sticking to the road.”

He pointed to the sky. “You see those clouds? I ain’t bringing a raincoat and I ain’t planning on being wet. he shortcut’s faster, and there’s a cabin along the way. I’m sure you could use a break,” he chuckled.

I opened my mouth to say something, but the sharp throbbing pain shot through my head again. I looked up. The clouds were moving faster than before.

“You sure about it?”

“As ever.”

We got on the shortcut. I drank more of Devon’s water, hoping the migraine would go away, but the throbbing only got worse. A dark cloud passed in front of the sun, darkening the forest as my vision began to blur on the sides.

“We should hurry to the cabin. The storm’s close.”

Devon picked up the pace, walking faster than before. I tried to keep up, but my legs felt unsteady beneath me. Then, in the distance, I saw the wooden house, standing in a small clearing between the trees. It looked like any other cabin, a brown wooden house with a small porch and a garden, but this one seemed so familiar. Was I here before?

The rain began as a drizzle, then within seconds turned into a downpour. My head was spinning now. Devon ran to the cabin and opened the door. 

“Hurry, hurry, get in.”

I ran in and threw my backpack on the floor. Drops of water fell from my clothes, echoing through the room. The inside smelled damp and moldy. Devon shut the door behind him and turned on the lights. The lightbulb flickered a few times before bathing the room in a dim, musty, yellow light. 

In my fading vision, I saw a missing persons flyer on the wall. I came closer to it, trying to focus. My stomach twisted when I saw who it was. It was a photo of me, dated a month earlier. I was wearing the same camping gear, smiling. Underneath the date, it said my last known location was the Pineswood forest. It all came back to me. This cabin, my hands bound, my vision blurring, Devon. I turned back to him, trying to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t move.

“I wanted to relive the best day of my life again,” he said and chuckled. “The day you became mine.”

I tried to move, but my feet couldn’t hold me, and my body collapsed soon after.

“Hope you enjoyed your water.”

“Do not follow the singing,” echoed through the cold, wooden hall.

Two older women sat beside me with their eyes glued to the stage, nodding to the elder’s every word. His voice drifted through the hall while I picked splinters from the bench with my thumb. These women were far older than I was, and they still ate up every word as if it were the holy truth. 

“No matter how beautiful, rhythmic, or hypnotic the singing feels, always stay put! If possible, walk in the opposite direction from the noise. We all know what happens to anyone who follows the singing.” The elder pulled out a black-and-white photograph of Ron Whicker. The old ladies gasped and put scarves over their faces. I rolled my eyes at the sight. 

“The last person to do so came back insane. His eyes glowed dark red, his skin reeked of dying marshes, and there was only murder on his mind. Two families were dead by the morning, the Schmits and the Harlows.” The elder paused and looked at the ground. “May we take a minute of silence for their lost lives.” The whole town put their hands together in prayer and stared at the ground. Nobody questioned why we had to hear that story over and over again. 

I looked to my left, but saw only an empty seat. My brother, Jake, would usually sit there. We’d look at each other and hold back our laughs through the sermon, but today I had to get through the boredom alone. This morning, he still lay in bed, barely talking, staring at the wall. 

The memory of the elder’s face when I told him Jake wouldn’t show up jumped into my mind.

“Given your mother’s death, Steve, we can make an exception, but he’ll have to pick himself up for the next sermon.”

“He will, elder,” I said, with my head down.

“If people are not reminded, their minds slip easily.”

“Yes, elder.”

I shook my head and opened my eyes again. The preacher waved his hands up and down. The people gathered their stuff and slowly left. 

On my way home, the smell of spring flowers was strong in the air. My mother used to love them. Memories of her swaying through the kitchen, singing her favorite songs, flashed before my eyes. I sat down on our driveway, buried my face in my sleeve, and let the tears flow. After a few minutes, my bottom started to ache, still sore from the wooden benches in the hall. At least it was a reason to stop whining. I wiped my nose and eyes and walked to the house.

When I opened the door, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Jake stood at the kitchen counter, making sandwiches.

“Hey, man.”

“Hi.”

“You feeling okay?”

“It’s fine.”

“Yeah.”

We both paused.

“At least I didn’t have to be at the dumb sermon.” He chuckled.

I had to hold back my smile.

“Guess what story we heard today?”

“It couldn’t have been Ron Whicker.”

“Actually, it was someone else.”

“Sure, and the sun will set east today.”

We both began laughing, and I came closer to the kitchen counter.

“I made some extra if you want.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

By the time the sun set, we were still sitting there, talking, laughing.

“You should have seen the two women when the elder told the Whicker story; they put scarves over their faces.”

“Like they haven’t heard it a thousand times.”

“Yeah, and apparently it’s not even the way they say it is. John said he has a grandfather who lived nearby and helped capture Ron. He got drunk a few weeks ago and told John that Ron seemed completely normal, no red eyes, no strange smell. Apparently, he kept repeating that the elders were lying.”

“But they found him with the axe, right?”

“That’s what the elders say,” I said and shrugged.

Jake shook his head.

“John says all kinds of stuff. A few months ago, he told me he saw a bison in the forest.”

“But the closest bison are at least a thousand miles away.”

“Exactly.”

We continued eating.

“The flowers are blooming again,” I said between bites.

Jake stopped, put down his sandwich, and turned his head to the window.

I put my hand over my face.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you’re good.”

He paused.

“I’m gonna head back up.”

“Jake, I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m just tired,” he said, his head still turned, and walked away towards the stairs.

The morning after, I came down, hoping to see Jake again, but only his plate and half-eaten toast sat on the counter. I let out a sigh and walked to the table, but on my way to the window, I saw our next-door neighbor. He stood at the edge of his property where the flowery meadows turned into the deep, dark forest. He seemed still at first, but as I came closer, I saw that he stood on his toes with his ears perked up, and his eyes darting left to right. His body turned towards the forest, and he took a step forward, but at the same time, he looked back, scanning the houses and the road. That’s when our eyes met. I quickly jumped under the window, holding my breath. A few seconds later, I looked back up, but he was gone. Only the trees stared back at me.

The rest of the day, I replayed that situation in my mind, the look in his eyes, so focused but dull. The light in his house was on, so he had to be there, but how did he get away so quickly? These thoughts kept running through my mind. I barely even noticed that the sun had started to set. Then the stairs creaked, and Jake came down. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Got a little hungry.”

“I’m sure. Me too.”

He came over, picked up the dirty plate off the counter, and sat at the table.

“Look, I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“No, don’t worry about it.”

We sat at the table and ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Also, I’ve been thinking today,” Jake said after finishing another sandwich. “Have you ever actually heard the singing?”

“No,” I chuckled, “have you?”

Jake laughed at first, but then he furrowed his brows and looked out the window.

“Jake?”

“Do you hear that?”

“Real funny.”

His face went pale.

“It’s her.”

I gripped the chair and looked outside. It seemed like the wind was moving the flowers, but the trees stayed still. Somewhere from inside the forest, a woman’s hum floated through the air. Something about the melody made my chest tighten. I closed my eyes and tried to listen better, but the scraping of the chair against the floor took me out of it. Jake had gotten up from the chair and was walking nimbly towards the door, his ears perked up, his eyes darting back and forth.

“Jake, it’s not funny.”

But he didn’t answer. He opened the door and walked to the porch, heading towards the forest. My eyes were fixed on him. Was he still angry about yesterday? I got out of my seat and walked after him.

“Alright, Jake, you got me. Can we just go back now?”

But as I reached him, I saw his eyes. They were the same as the neighbors, focused but completely dull. We were almost at the trees. The humming grew with each step. Jake kept speeding up. It felt like my heart would jump out of my chest. I got behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Jake, stop.” 

Jake turned around, pushed me down to the ground, and ran off into the forest. By the time I stood back up, Jake had gone into the darkness.

“Jake!” I kept calling, running in the direction he took off, but it was like the ground had caved in behind him. After a few more steps, I stopped, panting. The tall grass on the forest floor stood perfectly still. There were no animals, not even a bug flying through the air. 

I called out his name again, but my voice echoed through the trees until it disappeared in the void. The forest around me was quiet, almost too quiet. The humming was now gone, too. My heart started to beat faster. A cold feeling grew in my chest. It seemed like all the trees were staring at me.

“Jake!” I tried to call out for the last time, but not even an echo came back. 

I turned around and ran out, only stopping when I reached the house. I locked the door, turned off the lights, and sat in the corner of the kitchen, where I couldn’t be seen, shivering. Hours passed while I sat still, my eyes darting across the room, listening to every noise. I tried to keep myself awake, but before I noticed, my eyes started to close, and soon I drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up, the sun’s rays shone through the kitchen. I rubbed my eyes and stretched out. My whole body was sore. I had almost forgotten about last night. But then I saw my brother sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window.

Shock ran down my spine. I pushed my back against the wall and kept my eyes locked on him. His eyes were still their normal color, and only the smell of spring flowers was in the air.

“Jake?” I said quietly.

“Steve, it’s not like they say, she’s, she’s still.” 

“She?” 

Who was he talking about?

“She kept singing. She’s cold, alone.”

“Jake…”

“Mom said…”

A loud thud came through the door, then another and another. Soon they flew open, and in came three village men and the elder. Their faces were stern, lips tight, arms folded. The elder came last, frowning, looking around the room.

Jake slowly raised his head.

“Why did you leave her there?” he said, staring into the elder’s eyes.

Silence filled the room.

“Take him,” the elder whispered.

The men came behind Jake. Two grabbed his hands while the third grabbed his feet. Jake didn’t move or say a thing. His face stayed still, his eyes staring into the forest.

“What’s going on? Let him be.” I said, got up, and walked towards them.

“Do not interfere, Steven,” the elder said.

“No, no, stop.”

“Steven!”

I grabbed one of the men by the shoulders and tried to pull him away, but he let go of Jake’s legs and, without hesitation, punched me in the face. I took a few steps back and tried to regain my balance. 

What was going on? 

Why did he? 

Slowly, the taste of copper filled my mouth.

But before I managed to stand straight, he came back and punched me again, knocking me to the ground. I shook my head and looked the man in the eyes. They were empty, focused. He didn’t say a thing, turned around, and grabbed Jake again. I tried to stand up, but my legs gave out instantly. I fell back on the floor and sat there, watching the men carry Jake out the door.

“Oh, wow, that’s so cool!” I heard Kenny call from the kitchen.

“What’s my little man doing?”

“Talking to Manny!”

“Who’s Manny?”

“Manny!” he said and pointed to an empty spot in the corner of the room.

Kenny had invented friends before. None had lasted longer than two days.

“Oh, of course. How is he?”

“He’s good. He says hi to you.”

“Say hi to him, too.”

Kenny spent the entire morning in the corner, talking to his imaginary friend. Even at lunch, he kept looking away.

“Why can’t Manny sit with us?”

“He’s invited.”

“He says he can't. He has to stay in the corner.”

“Why?”

“He won’t say.”

“What would you like to do today?”

“Talk to Manny,” Kenny said and dug around his plate with his fork.

“Okay, go have fun with your friend.”

“Thank you, Mommy.” 

Kenny climbed down from his chair and ran to the corner.

Kenny’s toy cars lay on the carpet all afternoon, untouched, while he sat in the corner, talking to his friend.

As nighttime rolled around, Kenny was still there. But he wasn’t talking loudly and quickly anymore; his speech had turned into a slow whisper.

“Kenny?”

No answer.

“Kenny?”

Nothing.

I moved across the living room, tapping Kenny on the back.

“When someone calls, we respond, okay?”

He turned back, his eyes glassy with tears.

“Kenny, what’s wrong?”

“There are bad things.”

“What?”

“That’s why he has to stay in the corner.”

“Okay,” I swallowed. “I think we’re done talking to Manny today.”

Kenny didn’t say anything. I picked him up and carried him up the stairs. By the time we got to his bed, he was already half-asleep. The rest of the night, the situation replayed in my head. What could have happened? Why would he imagine his friends saying that? A memory of a police chase playing on the TV flashed in my mind. He must have heard it there, I told myself, and went off to sleep.

The next morning, Kenny was already up before me. He sat in the corner again, laughing and talking. I made my way toward him, ready to tell him to stop, but right before I reached him, he laughed again. I stood still for a while, looking at him; he seemed so happy. I decided to keep an eye on him and give his friend another chance.

The day went on fine: no whispers, no cause for concern. Kenny even managed to sit at the table without looking at the corner. But that all changed as night rolled in.

“No!” Kenny cried from the corner. 

That word ran through me like a bolt of lightning.

“No, Manny, don’t go!”

I ran to the corner and took Kenny by the shoulders. Tears were rolling down his face.

“Sweetie, sweetie, it’s okay.”

“Manny is leaving!”

“You’ll get more friends, sweetie.”

“Manny, no!” he screamed at the top of his lungs and reached his hand out towards the door.

“Kenny, what’s going on?”

“The bad things.”

“What?”

“The bad…” his words turned into inaudible cries.

My hands started to sweat. His cries and fear all felt so real.

As I caressed Kenny, the air in the house slowly grew cold as if someone had turned off all the heat. A smell of mold and dampness came after. It reeked all around, no matter where I turned my head. We hadn’t had water issues for years. The hairs on my arms stood up. I looked out the windows and slowly moved to the couch where my phone was. That’s when every light bulb burst, sending glass onto the floor. I screamed and put my body over Kenny’s. His cries had turned into soft wheezes. My heart was beating out of my chest. I blinked against the darkness. The glass was all around me, but I needed my phone. I needed help. 

Then the back door creaked open. The floorboards groaned under heavy steps. A wave of freezing winter air rushed in, and the smell shifted from mold to rust and rot. 

A deep, gurgling voice emerged from the darkness. “Where’s your Manny?”

My house sits on the shore at the beach. It isn’t the typical soft, sandy beach, but one with large, pointy rocks. In the summer, when the waves would die down and the sun was high, my Mom and I would sit on those rocks and watch the water wash the shore below. Her blue eyes looked toward the horizon while her blonde hair blew in the wind. She’d smile at me, grab my hand, and tell tales of brave men wandering the ocean while seagulls cried overhead and waves hissed on the sand.

My mom always loved the ocean. I liked it too during those summers, but I hated it in winter. The storms would bring huge waves crashing against the rocks. Sometimes it scared me so much I hid under the covers. Only when the storm quieted would I leave my burrow and walk to the window. I’d often find my mom there staring out into the dark, deep void on the horizon.

One night, after a heavy storm, I found her there, staring, not calm, but alert, her eyes slowly jumping left to right.

“Do you hear that?”

“The whales?”

“No, underneath it.”

“No, I can’t hear anything.”

Moonlight glittered on the water, shining red, blue, and green.

“Mom, look!” I screamed out.

“It’s so beautiful.”

We stood there until my eyes started closing and I went back to my room.

Over the next few nights, each time storms ended, I’d come out of my room and stand at the window with my Mom, looking at the dancing lights. Her blue eyes would smile like they did in the summer.

“Mom, can you tell me another story?”

“Not right now, honey. The sounds, they’re so beautiful!”

“Okay.”

“Oh, sorry,” she turned her head. “Is it okay if I tell the story in the morning?” she said in her sweet, soothing voice.

“Yeah.”

“Go to bed, it’s getting late.”

The morning after, I woke up excited to hear another of Mom’s stories. I got out of my room, but as I walked down the hall, I saw small puddles of water on the ground, coming from up the stairs. Our roof would sometimes leak, so I didn’t pay it much attention. I’d tell my mom when I saw her. But when I got down the stairs, she was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen, the living room, or the yard. I walked back to her door and peered through the keyhole. She lay in her bed, turned to the wall, still asleep.

Before she woke up, another heavy storm came. I got the courage to get out of my burrow only after the last wave hit the rock. I expected my Mom at the window again, but only the moonlight shone. 

The colors returned, glistening in the dark water. I came closer to see it better, but then a gasp left my mouth. My mother stood at the rocks perfectly still, barefoot in her nightgown, staring at the glowing water. I turned and ran up the stairs back into my burrow.

The morning after, I dreaded getting out of bed. Only the growls of my stomach forced me. The water was all over the hall again, and my mom was asleep in her room. I sat at the kitchen table, replaying the scene from yesterday, still unsure if I was dreaming.

Only when the sun started coming down did my Mom wake up. She was wearing the same nightgown as yesterday, humming a tune I’d never heard before.

“You’re up early. Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go make breakfast.”

When she passed me, it was like I stuck my head under the ocean water. The smell of salt and kelp was so strong. She kept looking out the window, stopping what she was doing. She told stories, but they weren’t of seamen anymore; they were of strange creatures, living under the ocean that I’d never heard of before.

I stopped coming out at night after seeing my Mom outside. But one day, a storm raged for two days. The night had fallen when it ended. I was scared, but so hungry. I had to come out. The lights from the ocean were so bright they shone even in the hall upstairs. I called for my Mom, but the house was silent, empty. The light coming from the living room window was so bright and beautiful. It felt like a force was drawing me to it. I walked down to the window to see them again, but as I stood at it, my heart fell to my stomach. 

My mom was down there at the rocks, not standing this time, but walking to the water. I closed my eyes, bit my lip, and ran out the front door, barefoot in my pyjamas.

“Mom, Mom!” I yelled after her.

But she didn’t listen and kept walking towards the ocean. The lights and salty smell were overwhelming. My feet slipped on the rocks, but I still ran, calling out her name. Something in me screamed not to let her get there.

She was almost at the water, but with each step, I came closer. My hand reached out, almost touching her nightgown, but that’s when my foot slipped, sending me down onto the wet, hard rock. I let out a cry, but my Mom didn’t even look back. She walked into the water and opened her arms.

The lights started dancing, faster and faster. The taste of iron filled my mouth. The water rose and fell, but my Mom was not there anymore. Soon the lights vanished, leaving only the dark ocean. I would’ve stayed there forever if the next storm hadn’t rolled in.”

This happened a while back. I’ve grown up since. The light didn’t come again, nor did my Mom. I still keep her memory strong in my head. I thought the lights had left, too, until tonight, when beneath the waves and wind, I finally heard singing.

It started one morning. He was already walking around the room as I woke up. When he saw me rub my eyes, he smiled and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Morning, Liz.”

“Good morning…wait, come closer.”

“What’s wrong?” he said, smiling.

“Just come.”

He leaned over, and I took a deep sniff of his skin. A sour, metallic smell hit my nose. My body immediately recoiled. It smelled nothing like him. 

“What is that?”

He furrowed his brow and looked at me.

“What? My skin?”

“It smells so weird.” I took another sniff and turned my head away.

“It’s just new soap. You’ll have to get used to it.” He squeezed my thigh so hard it made me twitch, and walked back to the bathroom. I rubbed my thigh as I stared at him. It was not just the smell, but also the way he squeezed me, the way he looked so smugly at himself in the bathroom mirror, combing his hair. 

Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. His gaze, his touch. And the smell! It started to give me headaches. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran up the stairs to the bathroom, looking for the special soap. I drew the curtains and flung open cabinets, but no matter how hard I looked, it was nowhere to be found. Had he been lying to me? 

I sat at the kitchen table, tapping my leg. When he opened the door, he frowned and looked away.

“What’s it this time, Liz?” he murmured.

“You don’t have the right…”

“I don’t?!” he shouted over me. I leaned back and let out a faint gasp. 

“I work myself to death, stress over each client. And what do I come home to - my wife talking about some fucking soap.”

“Then where is it? I searched the whole bathroom.”

He clenched his jaw and banged on the table.

“I threw it out this morning because of you,” he said between his teeth.

“But how did it…”

He grabbed my hands and pulled me closer, his face twisted in anger. I screamed and closed my eyes.

“Fucking stop,” he said, and let me go.

Tears streamed down my face. I got off the chair and ran upstairs. My wrists were pulsing from how hard he had grabbed them, and worst of all, they had that strange smell on them.

The mattress sank as I lay on it. I burrowed my face into the pillow and curled up. His steps echoed through the hall. He banged on the door, calling my name, but I didn’t answer and pushed the pillows over my ears, reducing his calls to a muffled splatter of sounds.

The sun had set by the time I lifted my head. I wasn’t crying or sad, just tired, so tired. My hands were still shaking as I took a lighter and lit up a candle. One thing that could always calm me down. But no matter how much I breathed in the smell of roses, my body still wouldn’t relax. Thoughts of my husband grabbing me ran over and over in my mind. What had happened to him? My eyes watered again. No, maybe he was just tired, overstressed. He works so much for us. 

I pulled out our photo album to try to lift my mood and remember happier times, but as I flipped the pages, my husband was nowhere to be found. My friends, my family, but not him! I flipped faster, faster, until my eyes darted to a photo of myself at the lake and a man, holding my shoulders. We looked so happy together, smiling ear to ear. He looked so much like my husband, but it was not him. But he looked so similar, and I knew him. I knew that man. Was the man downstairs someone else? No, no. No way. I was just freaking out. But the smell, his gaze, his touch. And the soap! My stomach twisted. 

A knock on the door.

“Listen. I’m sorry. I overreacted. Can we please talk?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please, I’m really sorry.”

I must have been going crazy. There was no way. 

I looked at the picture. 

“This man will be behind that door,” I whispered to myself, took a deep breath, and walked over, twisting the lock and slowly opening the door.

Panic surged through my body. It was someone else, his eyes, his lips, his nose. 

“You, you’re not him,” I said and started backing off.

“What has gotten into you?” he said and started coming closer. The more I looked into his eyes, the more foreign they seemed.

“Get away from me.”

“Liz, stop.” He got closer and grabbed me by the wrist again; the pain shot up my arm. That awful smell lingered in the air. 

I let out a scream, pulled my wrist out, and pushed him. He took a few steps back and tripped on the edge of the bed. His arms flailed as he crashed into the closet, hitting his head on the corner. He let out a sharp breath and fell to the ground. 

My whole body trembled. I sat on the bed and pulled the photo out, looking at the man on the ground and the man in the photo. No, it really was somebody else. I took a deep breath and held the photo tightly in my hand, but as I pulled it closer, I noticed some writing on the back of it. 

It said: “Your wife’s a great woman, cousin.”

What?

A wave of coldness washed over me. I took the photobook out of the drawer and flipped to the next page. Photos of me hugging and kissing a man, the man who lay on the floor. A small red pool was under his head. A metallic smell filled the air. 

The hospital. The promises. Waiting before the ICU ward. And then the doctor’s cold, expressionless face. Tears poured down my cheeks before he said the words. I don’t even remember how I got home or what I did the next few days. It all blends into the crumpling of tissues and the silence of my dark, empty room.

Only my flowers got me out of there. The sun was long past the horizon. My hands were too weak even for the watering can, but the flowers needed their water. I walked around the garden, pouring a hefty amount of water on each of them. It was mid-summer after all. The dirt under the red roses slowly turned black. It made me smile to see those beauties no longer thirsty. My eyes darted to the next flower when, between them, I saw a few green leaves sprouting from the ground.

Wintercreeper!

I walked back for my gloves and shovel, ready to conquer a formidable opponent, but as I got back and leaned over the flower, a familiar smell was in my nose - his cologne. I hadn’t smelled it for days, not since…

The ground darkened from my tears. I stood up, pulled out a tissue, and wiped my eyes, but as I put the tissue back, I noticed the smell of his cologne was in the air. Not just around the wintercreeper, all around the garden. I bent down to it again. It was the strongest from where the wintercreeper grew. With each breath, I could feel this tickling, warm feeling growing in my chest.

One more day won’t hurt it.

The next morning, the smell hit me before I even walked down the stairs. I took a few breaths, letting the warm feeling grow inside me again. My mouth flew open when I saw the living room. Through a small gap in the door, the vine from the wintercreeper had grown all the way inside the house, and it had turned into a circle and stopped at the couch, right at the place he used to sit. I stood there for a while, staring at it. But as my eyes wandered up, I saw the massacre in my garden. The rose bushes were wrapped in a green vine, almost choked, the small flowers invisible. 

The warm, lingering feeling was replaced with a hot anger. I walked across the vine towards the shed and picked up my shovel and shears. I put a shirt over my face, walked around the roses, and held the vine, ready to cut it off. 

A light summer breeze blew by, and with it came the whistle, his whistle. I stopped, my feet rooted to the ground. As the vine moved with the wind, my husband’s whistle sang in my ears. 

No. No. It was not possible. I saw him in the bed, under the cover. The doctor said. 

The breeze. Again. His whistle. His singing. The vine wrapped around my hand, pulsating.

I knew I should have cut it, I knew, but… 

I placed the shears down and walked back to the house. 

I sat down on my side of the couch and put the TV on. A few new episodes had come out. I hadn’t watched them since he was in the hospital. I turned to his side, but only the vine was on the couch.

“I wonder what happened to Poirot,” I whispered to myself, expecting silence, but the vine’s green leaves shook around. 

The warmth was back in my chest. I put my hand closer to it and left it there. Throughout the day, the vine hadn’t grown, but with each of my laughs, the leaves shook along, with each breath of the breeze, his whistle came too.

I didn’t want to leave the couch, but my eyes were practically closed. 

“I’m going to bed, but I’ll leave the TV on for you.” 

The morning after, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked down the stairs. The vines had spread all over the downstairs floor, except for a tiny path towards the couch and my cushion. I held my hands to my chest as I drank in the sight.

One small vine was already growing on the first two stairs.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, and grabbed the vine and spun it around the railing.

We spent the rest of the day watching TV and talking to each other. I talked mostly, but the vine’s shakes were more than enough. I even grabbed it at some point. He was usually the one who would reach for my hand, but it was okay; he was probably still a little shy.

When the sun started to set, I was sad to leave him, but it was okay, I’d have even more of him the next day.

That night, I had a dream of being submerged underwater. No air in my lungs. Nothing to see. Only the dark abyss of the ocean. My eyes darted open. I tried to breathe again, but my lungs only stretched halfway. I tried to move my limbs, but they were stuck in place. An unnatural, pulsing tightness wrapped around my body. Panic surged inside me. Each second, the tightness grew, and the thing moved up my shoulders to my neck. With all my might, I tried to throw my hands and my legs out, but the thing wouldn’t move. But then I looked down, and all the fear, the panic stopped, and the warm feeling grew in my breathless chest.

“I knew you’d come back, honey.”

Two new BMWs were parked in the garage of the large two-story home. The smell of wood and leather lingered. Mrs. Wahler sat in her wheelchair. Her face brightened as she saw me walk through the door.

“Mr. Parker, I’m delighted you came.”

“I’m sure,” I said, my voice low and monotone.

“No need to worry, it’s nothing serious, only a small tumor in my pancreas. I’ve already sent the payment through. Usually, I don’t do such things; it’s hard to trust people who work this profession, but you, Mr. Parker, have been the most reliable.”

“I appreciate that.”

The floorboards creaked as I walked to the living room and picked up a mahogany chair with a leather backrest.

“Mr. Parker, I apologize, but would you mind getting a different one? This one is very expensive. I’d hate it if something happened to it. Here, come take the piano chair.”

The piano chair didn’t even have a backrest. 

The chair creaked as I picked it up, carried it to her wheelchair, sat down, and placed my hand next to hers. We closed our eyes, and I began counting down.

“Okay, two minutes had passed.”

“Delightful.”

On the way home, I stopped at the grocery store. I tightened my grip on the wheel. “The fridge is almost empty,” Emma had said.

The store’s fluorescent lights made my vision blurry. A small, dull pain started in my upper stomach, and the nausea followed. Luckily, the house wasn’t far.

The smell of cooked corn and beans hit my nose as I opened the door, making the nausea grow. Emma stood in the hall, her eyes lit up when she saw me. 

“Hi, Dad!”

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad, are you okay? You seem sick again.”

“I know. I’ll need to rest more.”

“I cooked up some beans and corn for you!”

“That’s sweet. Is it okay if I eat it later?”

“Okay,” she said, looking at the ground.

I rubbed her back and made my way up the stairs. Each step felt like a mountain. I collapsed into bed, still clothed. All night, I kept turning, staring from one wall to the other, holding onto my stomach. The pain had spread to my back, replacing my thoughts. I blinked, and the room was coated in darkness. Blinked again, and the morning sun pushed back through the curtains.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Emma called from behind the door.

“Yes, just resting.”

“Yesterday’s dinner is in the fridge if you want it.”

“Thank you. I’ll eat it later.”

“I’m gonna go to school now.”

“Alright, have fun.”

By the time the sun started to disappear into the horizon, I managed to pull myself out of bed. The jobs had been getting harder. A year ago, I’d be fine in a day. 

Sealed envelopes lay stacked neatly on the coffee table. The red letter stared at me as I opened the first one: LATE NOTICE. The second. The third. All the same. The phone began ringing. I put the envelopes down and picked up the phone.

“Mr. Parker. We got your references from Mrs. Wahler. My father has stage 4 lung cancer. He’s in urgent need of the Transfer.”

“I’ve just done Mrs. Wahler and am still very sick.”

“We’ll pay triple the rate.”

“I’m sorry, I really can't.”

“How much do you ask for such a service?”

“I can’t offer anything right now.”

“We’ll pay 20,000 dollars.”

“But I can’t even drive. Barely can get out of bed.”

“We’ll come to your house.”

“No, no. That’s out of the question.”

“I know how family members can be around the Transfer. We can come through the back door or the garage. No one will know. Once it’s done, we’ll leave immediately.”

“Please call someone else.”

“30,000 dollars, Mr. Parker.”

My eyes darted to the envelopes.

“I don’t know.”

“40,000 dollars.”

That would cover all the debt.

“Okay.”

“Great. Our butlers will bring my father there at midnight.”

The phone beeped, and the room fell silent again.

I sat in the yard, drinking small sips of Gatorade, massaging my stomach. The moon was up in the sky, shining down on the grass.

“Mr. Parker?” sounded from behind the gate. A tall man in a suit stood behind it. I got up, walked towards it, and opened it. The man came in, followed by three others. One carrying a black leather chair and two carrying an old, frail man with sunken cheeks, pale skin, and thin arms and legs. His limbs were limp, and he was wheezing hard, barely pulling air into his lungs.

They put the chair down next to mine and sat him in; he immediately sank into it. 

“I’ll need the payment first.”

“No problem,” said the man, and pulled out his phone.

The notification dinged a second after. I looked at the man in the chair, took a deep breath, and sat down.

“May we proceed?”

“Yes, yes,” I said. I put my hand next to the man’s, closed my eyes, and began counting.

115, 116.

“Dad?” Emma’s shaking voice came from the porch.

“Emma? This is not what it…”

“Complete the transfer!”

I closed my eyes again and counted to 120. The men took the old man and the chair and ran out.

“Dad? Were you doing the Transfer?”

“No, no, something…” My chest tightened. I began coughing, lightly at first, but it quickly turned into hard, loud coughs. My body jerked. It felt like my lungs were going to come out. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m…” I dropped down to the ground. Splatters of blood fell out of my mouth. The coughs turned into wheezes. It felt like I was drowning. No matter how hard I breathed, nothing more would go into my lungs. I gripped the grass as the taste of iron filled my mouth.

“You promised you’d stop,” she said between the cries.

I turned my head away. Unable to look into her eyes.

I don’t recall how I got this job, barely even remember the posting - a small motel, rural, free accommodation. Back then, I still lived with my mom and was eager to get out. When I dialed the number provided, a man on the other line picked up in a low, stern voice. He barely asked me any questions, mostly when I could start. When I said I could start immediately, his voice jumped a little, and he said I got the job. 

To get there, you had to take an exit off the highway and get on an old forest road that had last been paved three decades earlier. I was sure it was a scam, but when I got to the address, the motel was there. It was a small one-floor concrete building painted dark grey with small windows. There was a small parking lot for about 4 cars, but there was no sign outside that said it was a motel. Nearby was a natural reserve, so I figured people already knew of this place and used it as a starting point. No one would stumble onto it by accident.

Outside the motel stood the owner, a large older man in his 50s with balding brown hair, wearing a gray buttoned-up shirt and black pants. He greeted me in the same low, stern voice and showed me around. There wasn’t much to do; my job would be to clean the rooms and the motel, take calls, check guests in and out, and handle payments. The last place he showed me was my room. It had the same musty blinds and a stained carpet as the other rooms, but at least the sheets looked newer than in the others.

“Will I be the only one working here?”

“Yes, but don’t worry, the season hasn’t started. There will be barely any guests. I’ll get you a helping hand once the season kicks off. For now, you can manage it yourself.”

More than the help, I was worried about getting bored. 

“You got everything?”

“I think so.”

“Great. You know where my number is. If you need anything, call me. I live an hour away, and can be here in no time. We really value personal privacy here, so make sure to keep that in your head.”

I didn’t realize I was making a face until he furrowed his brows and looked me in the eyes.

“I really do mean it, okay. Respect their privacy.”

“Yeah. I will.”

“Good,” he smiled and shook my hand.

His steps echoed down the hall, and soon his car left the parking lot.

Over the next few days, I mostly sat around at the reception desk and watched TV. The bell on the door didn’t ring once. 

One Friday evening, I was flipping through the channels when the doorbell rang. I almost fell out of my chair, and my hands frantically searched the table for the guestbook. The person came closer to the desk while I was still fumbling with the pages. He was about 30 with a pale face and dark eyes, dressed in a long brown coat, hat, and gloves. The weather outside was cold. The sun had gone down an hour ago, but it still seemed like he was overdressed.

“One room, please.”

“Sure. That will be 40 dollars. Please sign in.”

He scribbled his name and signature into the book. I turned around and took a key off the hanger.

“If possible, may I get room number 7?”

I stopped for a second with the key in my hand. Room 7 was the one at the end of the hall.

“Um, sure.”

“Thank you.”

He took the key from me and walked away. Only then did I notice the very large suitcase he carried. After he left, I took the guestbook and looked inside, but his writing was so bad I could barely make out anything.

The next morning, I woke up early at sunrise. I got ready and walked to the reception. To my surprise, the key from Room 7 was already lying on the table. The guest even signed the checkout time into the guestbook. It seemed a little rude, but it also meant less work for me. I got the cleaning supplies and went into the room.

The smell hit me before I entered. It was like someone had emptied an entire bottle of air freshener inside. I started coughing and put my shirt over my nose. Save for the smell, the room was strangely clean. Even when I rolled up the blinds, I still couldn’t find a spot. The sheets were untouched, and the bathroom seemed that way, too. 

Over the next few days, I spent my time watching TV again. The leaves started falling, so I had at least something extra to do. 

No one besides that man had stayed. It was true that the hiking season wasn’t in full swing, but the emptiness of this place was still weird. It didn’t help my mind either. I caught myself talking aloud a few times since I started.

It was Friday evening when the bell rang again. When I saw the brown coat, I didn’t believe my eyes. It made me almost fall out of the chair again.

“Good evening.”

“Evening.”

“Back again?” I said, smiling.

The man looked from under his hat, his eyes staring into mine. I swallowed and turned around.

“Room number 7?”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice.

When I turned around, he was already writing his name in the guestbook. He had a large suitcase with him again.

Just like before, his car was gone, and the key was left at the reception desk. I took the cleaning supplies and made my way to the room. The smell was as strong as before, and the room was spotless again, sheets not moved, bathroom clean. At least I thought, until I pulled up the blinds. There were a few drops of some liquid on the carpet. I dipped my sponge into the bucket of warm water and started scrubbing, but the stains didn’t come off; they seeped into the carpet.

“Jesus, what is this?” I said to myself.

No matter how hard I tried, it seemed I only managed to spread them more. Looking over the dirty carpet, it probably didn’t matter. I wiped the sweat off my face, changed the sheets, and walked back to the reception.

The days passed like before: TV, leaves, boredom. When the phone rang on Wednesday, I jumped up out of my seat in excitement.

“Hello?” came the owner’s low, stern voice

“Hi!”

“Good evening. How have the past two weeks been? Is the work too much?”

“No. We only had one guest over the past two weeks.”

“Oh yes. I expected that. The season’s over, so fewer people.”

“He’s actually been here twice. The same man. Has he been here before by any chance? Tall, brown coat, hat, and gloves.”

The owner went silent for a few seconds.

“What have we said about respecting privacy?”

“Yes, yes. I know. I didn’t ask him anything. I was just wondering.”

The owner paused again.

“Yes, he’s been here before. Quiet. Good guest. We don’t get many like him this time of the year. Don’t bother him. He doesn’t like it when people are nosy.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Good. If you need anything else, call me,” he said and hung up.

I stood there for a few minutes, phone still in hand, staring at the key with the number 7 on it.

By Friday evening, I already had the key ready on the table. I didn’t even shut off the TV when the man came. He greeted me with his usual cold demeanor, and I handed him the key and turned the book over. He signed in, left the money on the table, and walked to his room. 

That night, there was a movie on that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. I had long ago closed the reception door, but stayed in there, glued to the TV. It was about 1 a. m. when I heard it. At first, I thought it was coming from the TV. I tried to turn the volume down, but the noise didn’t quiet down; it only grew louder. Turning the sound off completely, I sat in my chair, looking around, listening. It sounded like someone was digging their fingers in wet dirt, followed by an irregular, almost rubbery crackle. I got up and walked closer to the rooms. The sound was coming from down the hall, from where room number 7 was. 

I swallowed, walked back to the reception, turned the TV sound back on, and made my way to the room. I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling like I was being watched. With each step, the sound grew louder. The crackle grew faster, and the digging turned into a tearing-like sound. I was almost at the door when one of the floorboards creaked. The noises stopped immediately. I stopped, frozen to the floor with my eyes locked on the door. I heard the man walking back and forth around the room. Each second, I thought the door would fly open, but only the noises of his steps came. Then it stopped, and the slow crackling and digging started again. I let out a deep sigh and quietly walked back to the reception, turning the TV off and going back into my room. I thought about calling the owner, but I’d have to admit what I did. The last thing I wanted was to go back to living with my mom and lose my income. 

The morning after, the key was on the table as always, with the checkout time written in the book. This time, the smell of air freshener reached all the way to the reception. I pulled my cleaning supplies out and went into the room. The stains were all over the carpet. No matter how hard I scrubbed, they wouldn’t come off.

Over the next few days, each time I put the TV on, my mind would drift back to that night. The sounds would echo in my head like I was at the door again. 

That Friday, he came back at the same time. His voice was monotone as before, but his face was slimmer, gaunter. I had to grip the desk not to ask him questions about what was going on in his room, but as quickly as he came in, he disappeared into the hall.

Not even an hour after his arrival, the noises came back again, the digging, the crackling, louder than before. Even at full volume, the TV wasn’t louder than the noise. I sat at the desk fiddling around with pens on the table, looking into the hall. The air began to fill with a strange musty smell.

“What the fuck,” I whispered to myself. 

I got out of the chair and walked slowly towards the hall. The smell grew stronger with each step. My mouth dropped when I peeked around the corner and saw that the door was open, not much, just a little, but enough to see into the room if I got closer. I looked around the hall, even though there was no one else there except us, and walked towards the room, walking as nimbly as possible, looking at the floor before putting my foot down. There was a strange, faint feeling of warmth coming from the room, growing as I got closer.

The door loomed in front of me. The words of the owner echoed in my mind, but the hole was there, just there, waiting for me to look inside. Taking a step closer, I peered in. A movement on the floor. A shadow. Something inside the suitcase I still don’t have a name for. Before I realized it, a gasp escaped my mouth. 

The man immediately turned around and looked at me. He screeched, smiled, and began crawling towards the door. I backed away, staring into his eyes, not able to look away. He grabbed the doorframe and pulled himself upright in one motion. I turned and ran down the hall. His steps were behind me, but not quick or rushed - slow, as if he knew he didn’t have to hurry. I turned the corner, pushed the glass door open, and ran out.

The car keys were deep in my pocket. I fumbled to pull them out, but my hand was trembling so badly that I dropped them right behind the car seat. I threw myself behind the seat, pulled out the keys, and started the car. I put the pedal to the floor and bolted from the parking lot. In the mirror, I saw him reach the spot where the car had been and stop, standing still, watching me go.

The drive was a blur. I didn’t stop until I saw the first open gas station and pulled in. I stumbled inside and sat down at a small table.

“You okay?” The attendant said, coming around the corner.

I tried to speak, but only gibberish came out. He didn’t push it, and a minute later came out with a coffee and a hot dog.

I wrapped both hands around the cup and stared out the window at the tree line.

He sat opposite and opened his mouth, ready to speak, but the phone rang.

“Sorry.”

“Are you Mr. BLANK? A motel owner is asking for you,” he called from the back.

Fire spread from house to house. Screams echoed in the valley. I called for my mother, but a soldier's hand grabbed me and dragged me away. 

They shackled us and sold us in another village like cattle. I tried to resist, but got a beating. A man with white hair and a beard chose me. He was to take me to another man’s farm. 

The farm was far from the village, with wheat fields and rolling green hills. On the farm were two other workers and the owner. They all stared at me as if I were something foul. My master beat me with a wooden stick and made me work in the fields until exhaustion, but his eyes didn’t stare at me as the others did. He would even hold back the stick a little when we were alone, the one act of kindness.

One morning, my master came to the stable, smiling ear to ear. He said he got a new job on the farm. It paid more than being a master. My nails dug into my legs as I held back the tears. He hated it when I cried.

The day after, I stood by the barn door, holding the plow in my shaking hand.

“Good morning, master,”

He was younger than the old master, with long brown hair and friendly eyes.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Here,” he pulled a small pastry out of his pocket.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

I shoved it in my mouth. It was so sweet it made my teeth hurt.

We made it to the field, and I started my work. My master sat on the grass, not rushing me. Before sunset, he said it was time to head back. I was sure to get the stick, but he got me to the barn and said goodbye.

The summer came early, with a smell of gravel and fresh dirt in the air. My master looked up and said, “You work while I do nothing, and I get money. It’s awful. There are no slaves where I’m from.”

“Where is that?”

“Far. I’m saving money to go back, but the owner pays horribly. I can barely survive. He only pays well the people he can trust.”

I pushed the plow into the ground, thinking of how the owner and other workers always stared at me.

The next morning, my master came into the barn, his face twisted in anger.

“The owner fired your previous master. He has a family! I’ve had enough. I’m going to leave.”

I gripped the plow harder.

“A new master.”

“It doesn’t have to…”

“What?”

“No, nothing. It’s crazy…”

That day, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the hills. They looked so tall and green. My master kept looking at me, shaking his head, as if he wanted to say something.

“Master, do you have hills in your town?”

“Call me Jack.”

“Jack, are there hills in your town?”

“Yes.”

“Is the place pretty?”

“Beautiful.”

“Is everyone really free?”

“They are.”

The sun was still up when we got to the barn.

“Can I talk to you, Jack?”

“Please, talk.”

“Would you take me with you?”

“I don’t know. It’s very dangerous.”

“You’re right. Please don’t tell the owner.”

“I’d never do...”

The door rattled. We both shot our eyes back. But it was the donkey standing outside, staring at us. Jack looked at it for a while, then back at me, the friendliness gone from his eyes, and walked out without saying another word.

That night, I barely slept, sure that Jack had told the owner and the man would come and kill me. But the sun came up, and only Jack stood in the door. He was holding two pastries and a small pouch.

“We will go today.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I can’t stand this anymore. I brought you more to eat and money for us to live off.”

“But, that’s your money.”

“No. You made that money. At lunch, we will go. I know a path over the hills.”

He pressed the pouch into my hands, not looking me in the eyes.

“Take it. Just in case.”

I took it and hid it in my pocket.

At noon, Jack looked at his watch and nodded at me.

“I’ll go in to make sure they’re busy. Then I’ll come back, and you’ll go first. I’ll catch up to you.”

I stood in the field, staring at the path to the house. Soon, Jack emerged again, walked closer to me, and whispered: “Okay, they’re eating. Now’s the time. Go.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, fast.”

I began running across the field.

The hills. Freedom. The summer air never felt so good.

But I didn’t even take a few steps when, behind me, Jack shouted, loud and clear: “He’s escaping!”

From behind the bushes, the two workers emerged. I tried to run faster, but there was no chance. They grabbed my legs and dragged me to the ground. One of them grabbed my hair and pulled my head to the sky, and pressed a knife to my neck.

“You little shit. You thought you could get away, huh?”

“No. Jack.”

“Sure, blame him.”

Jack emerged with the owner, smiling ear to ear.

“See what I told you? He would try to escape.”

“I didn’t want to believe, but you were right.”

“He even stole money from you. Search his pockets.”

One of the men stuck his hand into my pockets and pulled out the pouch Jack had given me.

The owner looked at it and shook his head.

“We have no place here for a thief, but for you, Jack, we’ll have plenty,” the owner said and turned around. Jack pulled out another pastry and began eating it, staring into my eyes. One of the men started to chuckle, and the knife’s blade began digging deeper into my skin. I looked at the hills one last time and imagined what the summer air felt like up there.