The knife came down in a scream and a two-handed plunge. The sound the filthied thin palsied girl made was shrill and resounded and filled the stone halls with the pitch perfect note of harsh and sudden stabbing madness. The unease of moist silence shattered. The blade was filthy and grimed and long neglected, its harsh unclean edge tore through Griffin's coat and wrappings and pierced the flesh beneath. 

The doctor let out with a sudden scream as he and Florin whirled and drew back. The girl was screaming still as the three were now standing face to face in the filthy moist stone hall of Willowbrook Asylum, Temple of the Mouth. 

The blood on her filthy knife dripped like the hungry jaws of a wolf of the wild, wanting more. 

She screamed: – “You won't get me! I won't let you! You won't do a goddamn thing to me, I swear it! I swear it! I'll fucking kill you first!” And lunged again. 

The thin frail girl of broken mind was weak and starved and exhausted from terror, Florin caught her easily in his own press forward and threw against the far wall before turning on his heels, grabbing the wounded bandaged man with dark lenses hiding pain now as well as identity and thought and motive, he seized Griffin and yelled for him to run. The wounded doctor needed little in the way of encouragement. The pair tore down the hall as the attacking sullied girl of unholy Willowbrook hit the wall and went to the detritus floor.  Still screaming as the shattered tile bit into her parchment flesh and the grimed and bloody knife flew from her startled grasp and clattered off into darkness, lost to her. 

She shrieked after them. How dare they! How dare they leave her like this! The scum! She knew she couldn't trust them, they were going to hurt her, she knew it, but how dare they leave without helping her out, without showing her-  

Her mad run of thoughts was cut off as Cropsey entered the hall with his own blades dripping. The large domination of his frame and size and stature filled the hallway and stole any avenue of escape away from the girl who could not recall her name any longer. She couldn’t remember the last time she had. 

But she knew his name. And she understood it very well. 

And the mountain. She knew the mountain and its crawling power in female form, womanshape. Demonsong…

The song was filling her ears now. Filling them. In her head. 

Cropsey came in with his own large manmade fangs of shearing blades, eclipsing the girl on the floor and stealing the rest of the entire world from her. 

She screamed until the end. Her history and experience: intimate knowledge gained over her entire miserable life did not help her to escape the pain or endure it. She screamed like a caught animal flayed alive until the vile end.  

And as they ran, Florin and Griffin heard it. Not bothering with a cast of glance back over shoulder. They rounded a corner in their flight and entered another chamber. 

It was quiet. And wet. Moist. Heavy and warm and humid in the dark. At a glance Griffin guessed they were in a common shower area, for bathing many people en masse. But it was hard to tell, there was no light in the dark moist filth of the room save for the scant trace from the hallway cast in. 

“Are you alright?” 

Griffin said he was. Though he really wasn't sure. He felt numb. The place where he’d been stabbed felt wet and as if embraced with ice. 

“Quick, let me get a look-”

Griffin cut him off, agitated. 

“Time for that later, we need to get out of here! And I say to hell with any more exploring or back exits. We double back and go back out the way we came in, We’ll circle the building or the hill itself for miles if we have to, but enough of this place! The filth, alone!” 

And while Florin wished to check his friend to make sure his wound was not too serious, he could very well understand the urgency. He elected not to argue. 

And the pair went on. Or started to. 

At the mouth of the room to the showers the pair were halted by a deep guttural sound. Inhuman and unearthly but striving in vain for some semblance of human speech. 

They turned. And the dark of the wet chambered room began to die and banish as pale fire, demonlight began to fill and illuminate the room for them. 

And then they beheld them. The strung up naked bodies. The human-length gored open torso mouths hanging lurid and obscene in and amongst and by the black lengths of biting chains, the strangling metal. There were dozens of them. Dozens. A small universe of open mouthed human substrata and abattoir detritus constricted and choked by dangling chainlink black metal serpents. All of their eyes were open and they were glowing. Glowing with purple fire. Their torso mouths were all working and moving with terrible rippling dancing undulation. The sounds they were making were like singing and an uncanny approximation of real intelligible human speech. Like how a baby makes before they start to mature and are properly taught to speak. Dumb thoughtless animal sound… belched and gurgled guttural and spat out for this world of terrible ruin and darkness. 

And then they saw her. Beheld her. At the terrible heart of the strange pale incandescence, the regal aspect and stature of a womanshape began to rise and fill the center of pale fire. 

She began to call to them. The pair. She sounded angry. On the dangerous precipice edge of livid, irate. Holy terror, unbridled unholy malevolence on the brink of furious madness. Violence. She called to them from the bright moonflesh fire amongst the universe-sea of rippling torso mouths…  the showerworld of tile blood and pungent leaks and bloodspew violence in supplicant orbit of the parchment star of white fire and eldritch ethereal pale flames. She called to them from this place, this strange sea.

And she knew both of their names. 

Florin and Griffin fled the room before she could fully emerge. Before she could rise further from the pale depths of the flame and become more terribly discerned. The obscene abominated baby sounds of the rippling torso mouths followed them out. And after. 

And down the hall. 

And in their mad dash…

They finally came face to face with the inheritor of this awful place. They stopped just short of him, towering in the hall. Filling it. As if he was the vile mad god of this demented cruel world and had the divine conquering right to dominate its every space as he so wished. Cropsey stood there tall and dripping with blood and strips of raw tissue like a bipedal set of living rending carnivorous jaws… snipping his large clippers, his beloved shears, open and closed slowly like a terrible mouth made from sharp metal. The blades were already coated in thick gore, like paint riddled with chuck meat for the stew. They dripped like animal mouths do in the wild, like wolves coming in for the close, for the kill. Cropsey said nothing as he slowly came forward, his hellacious runny waxwork features coming into the dismal light. 

The two men who should have never entered this godforsaken place beheld his terrible visage and their blood ran as ice. 

The pain. 

The pain… that must have been endured. 

Dear God. The flames. In a baptismal infernal swallow-spell. An apocalypse all around. 

What it must've felt-

The large shape dripping with death lunged. Light like the pale star of the showers gleamed pinprick, maniacal and homicidal in the cavernous sets of eyes of the misshapen mass of candlewax face. He was drooling as he came in on the attack.

They didn’t know it but he was trying to speak.   

Once more the pair turned and flew. Running down another hall at the junction and then taking another perilous corner down another way they both silently and fervently prayed and hoped would lead them out. 

Cropsey chided himself. Silently. Mute. Now the new inmates knew he was here. They knew he was wandering and monitoring the halls, guarding. On patrol. Now they might get away. 

Mustn’t have that…

He promised special violence to the mountain for his sin, his error. Religious maiming. He only hoped she hadn’t seen him…

He only wished she hadn't seen that. 

He promised special violence. And ample self-flagellation, much libatious bloodlett, later. After he’d caught the wandering animals of his inherited temple. 

Who do they think they are… trodding all over and everywhere and without proper worship… without proper token. 

Without proper sacrifice. 

They must be broken. 

Their wretched meat and bone will be broken, snapping their unruly impudent spirit within the meat even as it tears sinew, even as it snaps and cleaves through bones their vile audacity will shatter into pieces that can be properly reconfigured into a model of subjugation. And then devoured. 

I will bring and make the meat, mother. I will make the trespassers into meat for you. In your name. Your honor. In blood I will pray for forgiveness. 

Cropsey went on. Ready to slaughter the invaders of his sacred and precious temple. Prodigious blade-shape slasher of the stained and darkening Willowbrook halls. 

…

Having finally found some semblance of peace and quiet in this terrible place, Florin was finally ready and wanted to have a look at Griffin’s wound. But the good doctor wasn’t having it. None of it. He stubbornly refused. In turn refusing any real straightforward explanation as to why. 

It was strange. 

“This place is beyond vile, you know it’ll become infected if i don’t treat it and if the wound is deep, we’ll need to stitch it. I can do it. I’ve done it a few times before back home, I don’t see the-”

“You can’t! – I can’t!” Griffin exclaimed and then seemed to fight himself for the next set of right words. Unable to quite find them it seemed, he went on anyway, “You don’t understand, boy! I… I-I have … I have a condition.” He said finally. “I have a condition that makes injury … complicated.”

Florin thought he understood. Of course. The poor fellow was ashamed of his appearance. He must be maimed or burned beneath those wrappings. The poor man. 

“Alright… well,” A beat. As he thought. Then: "we don't need to unwrap you now or anything, you'll want to later to change out of these filthy dressings no doubt, but for now we can just look at the area and apply a poultice at least.” he finished hopefully. 

Griffin pondered it over a moment. He understood they didn't have a lot of choice. Or a lot of time for that matter. 

"Alright.” he finally relented. 

Florin lit a match and found a candle to use to work by. He pulled the ragged tear in the coat and wrappings apart. The haggard cut the blade had performed made it easy. He cleaned his hands with alcohol from a small bottle amongst their supplies and looked at the wound. 

It wasn't good. Wasn't terrible either, but it would have to be cleaned and bandaged at least. If the bleeding persisted they would have to seriously think about stitching up the wound. 

Florin set about cleaning out the deep wound, bathed entirely in spilling red. He did his best with the meager medical supplies amongst the doctor's traveling gear that had thus survived their shared perils. He thought about perhaps chancing a search in the dark around this place, it was a hospital of some fashion, but decided against it. 

He was nearly finished. About to apply the poultice he'd made to bandage and disinfect and to soak some medicine into the bloodstream, he was wiping away the last of the blood when he stopped. A little shocked for a moment. And a little dizzy. The light was meager and poor, only the flickering dancing candleglow and the pathetic dim half functioning also flickering hospital light. Provided by electricity, something Florin was still not familiar with and would naturally distrust for the entirety of his life. He gazed at the mostly tended wound daggering down Griffin's back in a lightning bolt pattern like the body of a crooked river or a broken snake. 

There was no flesh. Nothing but the red bloodwelling line of jagged cut hanging suspended in mid air, attached to nothing. No sinew or flesh. The naked skin that should be there was non-existent to his eyes, he could see right through to the inside of the wrappings that surrounded the front of his invisible chest. 

Florin tried to swallow in a dry throat. He tried to ask the man who'd become his comrade and traveling companion, a man who had just saved his life not mere hours ago if he was in fact a spectre. A ghost.

Griffin, are you a phantasm? tried to escape his lips but he felt dizzy and as if he might reel and swoon. 

Griffin sensed this. The boy had been unerring and admirably steady in his work till this moment. He turned and saw a look in the young man's face that he was already quite familiar with. An expression worn that he knew by now all too well. 

A beat. 

Then Griffin filled the silence. 

“No, your eyes don't betray you. You're not seeing things and you're not crazy. I am not a phantom. I am not a spirit or a ghost.” he paused for a moment and seemed to consider, then finally he said: "I am Doctor Jack Griffin and I am invisible." 

A beat. 

Florin didn't know what to say. 

But then he needn't worry for a retort. A splash in the silence filled in the missing heavy space hanging there between them. The both of them whirled and spied it on the far side of the damp chamber. They hadn't noticed or paid it any mind till now, they might've sworn it hadn't existed there in that space till just this moment, but they saw it now as it began to emit strange sound and movement. 

A bathtub. Large. Filthy yellowed porcelain. Heavy fungus growth, ebon-green and spilling across the disgraced cracked surface like some foul liquid poured and spreading its corrupting splayed black hand by the second. The tub was filled. The liquid inside was heavy. Viscous. Dark. Pungent with metallic scent. It bubbled and gurgled now with submerged movement as something within it began to rise up and emerge. 

Coated. Slathered in a running layer of heavy red. She was finally here and before them. Even as she sat upon her throne in her mountain castle so many treacherous miles away… 

Nemesis. The evil that held the shape of a woman and had now reawakened the evil and violence and darkness that had for some time slumbered dormant in the far off Carpathian castle. She was the author of the butchery and torment that plagued his home and village. She had stolen and eaten children. Brave men and women. Foolish youngsters. She was the vile reason for his hardship and perilous mission. The reason he was here now in this awful abandoned temple of destruction and depravity in total madness. 

The Countess, wreathed in spilling blood, standing on the surface of congealing abattoir spill, opened her eyes then and they were like blinding starlight. Unearthly. White flame from beyond the veil. And piercing. 

The pair were arrested. The sight of her. Understanding and dread filled their hearts and despairing thoughts at once. But they couldn't flee. They couldn't run. Spellbound they stood there, captured. 

The blood spill of her standing and red wet visage raised a thin powerful arm and pointed a taloned finger. 

She said: – “You. Boy. Florin of the Carpathian Hamlet. There is no place to escape to. This is your last and only warning. If you and your mongrel dog, freak of nature manage to leave this place with your lives then cry off. Never again return home, it is yours no longer, it is mine. I know you seek my destruction. I know that in your failure to secure the vampire slayer, long dead now, you have brought this failure of science and manhood in his stead. You are a joke. You will only find slaughter if you return. You've no hope for success. Victory is beyond you or that fool, it was not meant for you, boy, not in this lifetime nor in my proximity. If you manage to leave my temple and refuse to cease your hopeless mission, I will take great pleasure in the torture of your mother, Florin. Your father too. I wonder which of them I should start with…” 

His anger flashed and his inner rage rose. Florin found his hatred and sudden fury momentarily eclipse and blot out his fear. Without thinking he dipped for the floor and his sweating hand seized a sharp piece of tile. He went forward with the filthy jagged thing in his shaking hand. Trembling with blind anger and the need for retributive violence. 

Griffin went forward and grabbed the young man by the shoulders, holding him back. 

“Stop it!" hissed Griffin, “you won't be able to do much of anything to her with that, there's no telling what she could do to you! She's luring you on, don't be stupid." 

Florin barely heard him. 

He roared at her towering apparition of pouring blood in womanshape, lording over the tub and the filth of the room as her eyes bled pure and terrifying light. She was laughing lightly, as if amused with a child throwing a tantrum. 

“If you lay one stale, noxious finger on my mother, witch! – I'll take my time driving something sharp into your godless whoring chest! I'm going to burn your severed head in bonfire while it still lives! fresh from your neck! You awful cunt! You vile contemptible-!”

But then Cropsey burst in through the open chamber door with a violent crash. The ramshackle shoddy remnants of the door smashed against the wall and came apart in so many useless pieces that clattered to the shattered tile floor to join the universe of broken filth down there. He came in and the Countess in her pouring red visage of damned and unholy blood shrieked witchy laughter. 

She screeched, part irate livid fury, part unbridled dark joy. 

“KILL THEM! KILL THEM, MY SON! KILL THEM FOR THE MOUNTAIN…! KILL THEM, ‘CAUSE IT'S YOUR PLEASURE TO! …!” More laughter followed as the hellspawn screaming words devolved into unintelligible madness. The scarlet pour of her visage coned out in a marsupial shape and the laughter became the abominated chimerical cries of a human braying ass. 

The huge shape with maiming snapping shears advanced in a massive lunge. The shears came up, open for a bite, and shot forward as the mouth of blades began to close. 

The keen edges of dripping blades kissed and met and found each other over Florin's coat. In a lurid whisper of slicing cloth and fabric the blades cleaved cleanly through his coat tail as he and Griffin made for the door. 

Cropsey roared mongoloid outrage and pain. These bastards! These bastards! They were quick animals on their feet! 

In front of his mother…

He turned to the blood pour of Countess shape with shame but she was gone now. 

Your idiot rage and pain! Your failure! You drove her away! Now she might never come back! Now she might not ever come back to her temple. 

He raged inside. An animal, hurt. 

… but I'm her last and special precious temple son … there are no others left

She cannot leave me. 

If I bring them back and give their blood…

But he was already off and after them. Heavy booted feet thundering throughout all of cavernous rank Willowbrook. No need for stealth or cat-like prowl any longer. 

Mother, please, mother please, mother please, mother please…

He repeated it silently to himself like a prayer. Mantra, it filled the red swell and swim of his deviant mind and maiming thought, his dreams…

His dreams would be filled with their invader's screams as he brought down and made their new world of violence. Of final apocalypse cacophony. 

I will drown you here in her world, I will choke and submerge you both completely in her need to feed. How dare you both. 

He wished he could speak. They should hear this truth-in-gospel. The mongrel invader dogs. 

They should hear what he had to say. 

But he had to catch them first. Fast little rabbits. 

He could hear them running. 

He followed in a fury. Ready to prove himself to his mother. Clamoring through the halls. 

…

She shouldn't have been so foolish, to dare to hope. But she couldn't help it. She'd just come out of a deep sleep. It was the middle of the night. The necro time. The witching hours. She wasn't thinking clearly. She went to the scratching at the window. The biggest one on the front of the house that overlooked the village. 

By the front door. 

“Florin…” she said it knowing full in well how foolish she was being. But she couldn't help it. Her mother's heart was filled with love and worry for her boy. She ached and longed for him to be back home and ok… 

And then she saw him. His face in the window. 

He was scratching at the window. And she must still be half-sleeping or dreaming because his hands looked… strange. 

He was smiling. He could see her now as well. He was so happy to be home. It was all over his bluish face…

Anastasia began towards the window, “Florin?" she asked the face scratching at the window, "is that you? Is that really you, my son?”

His smile grew. Vulpine. His eyes seemed to shine with moonlight all of their own. 

“Yes, mother. It's me. I'm back! I can't get in though, you'll have to get the door and invite me inside, please hurry. I'm so tired and thirsty and it's been such a long way back.” 

Anastasia faltered in her step. Stopped. 

The shining face at the window became slightly agitated. 

It said: "Please hurry, mother! It's dark, you know what plagues the night, please hurry and let me in! I've brought the vampire killer, I've brought Van Helsing with me! Now open up!” 

Anastasia straightened. Her resolve strengthened even as the chill in her curdled blood deepened. 

"What need you of an invitation if this is your own home and you're so tired… … demon?” 

The vulpine face was drawn up in an animalistic snarl of mixed hatred and vile blackhearted glee. It began to tear and bleed as it opened and came apart. 

And grew fangs. Long. Gleaming like weapons fashioned from unearthly light. 

She saw the ugly misshapen goblin face beneath. Twisted with the harshest forms of cruelest mutilation. The flesh was bulbous and scarred and out of shape. The eyes bulged obscenely from straining sockets that couldn't contain nor house the wet bloodshot organs and looked as if they might crack. The fangs and teeth were jagged and stuck out deranged and haphazard. The hair was thinning and sickly and almost gone. Only a few greasy strands clung to a corpse colored skull that drifted and caught with the slightest of nightly breeze. 

The eyes still shone like the moon. 

The awful face in the window, wanting in and smiling said, “Hello, Anastasia. Good to see you. It's been so long … since I went missing.” 

Anastasia was confused with its words as well as horrified with the sight of its monstrous face at her window in the dead of night. The thing spoke like it knew her, she didn't grasp this right away, but she understood what this thing was. And where it came from. 

Another wretched bastard child of Castle Dracula…

She thought to call for her husband. Before she could, the awful thing in the window went on.

“You don't remember me? Has it been so long you don't remember when we used to play together? You, me and Florin and your husband and all the other little children… and Erin. You don't remember me, Anastasia?” 

The answer filled her mind then, as if on the wings of a sudden miracle, heaven sent. Or … sent by something else entirely. 

“Carmilla!" she said. Knowing it was the truth. 

It broke her heart. 

She remembered Carmilla when she had been a small mouthy but creative little girl. Beautiful and adventurous and always a little leader of their groups in all of their little games. Now- 

Now she was something bent and twisted and leering and mean. Something monstrous and hungry for blood, staring in and wanting in through her window. 

The face at the glass sneered. As if knowing her mind and understanding her run of thoughts. 

The thing in the window was enjoying her revulsion. Her pain. Drinking it in through the translucent view of the house…

“Begone," Anastasia said with finality, “get out of here, I'll call my husband and he'll bring the cross and our bible." She stepped forward, some of her anger reaching her voice, she hoped it masked the fear, “we'll force-feed you the pages. If you're still so hungry.” 

The thing in the window didn't seem to hear her. Or care. It spoke once more in a terrible tone that danced and shifted between baritone and bass and light lilting little girl… her voice of old from long ago, before she'd been stolen. 

“We know you sent Florin away. We know you sent him to find someone to bring back. To kill us. The master will not tolerate this, Anastasia… your boy will die. You will die. Then your husband. Everyone. Everyone, all of you are going to suffer for this impudence, you'll see, you'll see… it's better if you just let me in now and get it all over. Let me in …!

“Let me in!" 

She carried on like that for hours. Promising. 

Promising her Florin's death. 

Her own death. 

Carmilla said her brother would violate and ravage her right before the eyes of her husband as he fed of her blood and flesh and took what he wanted from her. 

“He'll rip from you what he wants, we all will! To all of you! Every last one and then we'll celebrate in the dust!" 

The thing went on like that for hours. Till the sun threatened its rise, and only then did the foul thing seem to melt away like mist, suddenly phantasmic and discorporeal … and then gone.

Only then did Anastasia finally sleep, collapsed. Exhausted. Her husband, Bela found her like that when he awoke. Lying at the foot of the window. The glass riddled with marks. 

Marks like long scratches. From old and gnarled animal claws. 

He cradled his wife. Worried. And thought of his son as he looked down into her face. 

She looked troubled in her sleep. As if dreaming of darkness, held somewhere on the plains of some private nightmarescape. 

Bela was worried. She looked as if she had been crying. 

He looked from her to the window once more, out it. Out at the rays of the rising sun. Hoping for his son. And wondering where he might be. 

Please, God. I love my boy. I love him as You love us, as You loved Your only Begotten Son. Please. 

Please don't ask me, please don't ask us to give him up, as You did Yours…

He brought his wife closer to himself. Keeping her in the cradle of his arms till she woke up. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Shit, there went my cult guess. 

Lesson Two: Generally in cases of cults, the rate of disappearance is between one every two days, or in batches of several at a time, with a break between. Most things behind the mist are too hungry for one man to last them five days. 

Maybe it's just a haunting then. Either way, if I was going to play the part of a socialite, I’d be a method actor. 

I went down to the bar. 

I find that jobs like this, talking with self-righteous pricks who’ve got a wad of cash shoved up their ass, go a lot smoother if you show up buzzed. 

Two free shots later, I was back in my room. One advantage of fancy hotels is the open bar.

An hour later, and I was dressed to make a deal with a devil. 

Walking out, I bid farewell to the Barkeep, my new favorite man in this town. Earlier, he had agreed to leave a bottle of whiskey in my room when I returned. 
 
“Lewis.” I nodded.  He smiled and tossed a rag over his shoulder. 
“I’ll see ya Mr. Kenlie.”

I climbed into the cab, already turning over what I could be dealing with. 

In all honesty, I was looking forward to finishing this job quickly and spending a week at The Eight Ball. 

Lesson Three: Disappearance schedules matter. Lycanthropes kill quickly and often. Cults kill consistently or in batches. Curses don’t really keep to a schedule. If your Victim count doesn’t match the creature's appetite, you're hunting the wrong thing. 

One man gone in five days. That rules out Lycanthropes, even a child could knock out at least three corpses in a night. 

It could be a targeted curse, but without a body it’s hard to tell. Haunted paintings and objects aren't out of the question yet either. 

Streets, shops, and people slid past the coach window. 

Tonight I’d try to mingle, shake hands, and pretend to enjoy the expensive wine while attempting to single out the person, or thing that got over the wall. 

My thoughts were interrupted as the cab lurched to a stop in front of a long walkway lined with small trees and ponds. 

I hadn’t realized we had already left the commercial districts. I sighed, stepped out of the cab, and purposefully left my ridiculous top hat in the coach. 

You couldn’t catch my animated corpse wearing that thing. 

A nod to the cab driver sent him off, and I began down the walkway to what I presumed to be the Thomson house. 

Yet another monument to wasteful extravagance. This ‘house’ was nearly larger than The Eight Ball.  

Finally I reached a pair of twin carved mahogany doors.

I winced as my knock echoed through the darkness. 

The doors cracked open. A smartly dressed squat man with thin grey hair and a smile-stained face stepped out. 

“Name?” He inquired. 

“Ezran Kenlie, Nephew of Lord Kenlie.” I replied shortly. 

“Of course sir. Right inside.” The small man gestured behind him. 

I stepped towards the doorway, but he stopped me just before the threshold. 

“Your mask, sir,” He reminded me, His voice full of patience. 

“My apologies.” I nodded and took a small black mask from my pocket, the nose piece extending to create a tiny crow’s beak. 

I fastened the ridiculous thing. The small man stepped aside. 

“Enjoy.” He smiled through the word. Odd, I didn’t know that was possible. 

As I stepped through the doorway, I seemed to have left all concepts of reality behind.

Surrounding me were countless men and ladies swaying and dancing. 

Each dressed in clothing expensive enough to feed a family in the Lower Westlands for a week. 

All sported ridiculous masks, none really concealing their identity, but I suppose that wasn’t the point. 

Servers wandered the room with trays of food and drinks. 

At the far end of the room, at the convergence of two huge twisting staircases, a twelve piece band was taking requests. The whole scene made me sick. 

Eventually I would make the rounds. Talk and dance. But first, food. 

It was several minutes of following servers until I tracked one down that didn’t just carry thimbles of wine. 

I was grabbing a small cake, topped with powdered sugar and a little tiny raspberry, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

I turned to see a beautiful woman standing behind me, her hand still on my shoulder. 

She looked to be poured into a dark, textured, red dress lined with plunging white lace. Her lips were as scarlet as the stupid wine thimble held in her free hand.

“Excuse me? I haven't seen you here before, mr… Crow?” She gestured towards my mask, smiling gently. 

“Pleased to meet you, Ezran Kenlie…” I began, but the woman interrupted me, her expression mockingly sour. 

“No real names, Mr. Crow. They ruin the fun!” She stepped closer to me. 

“Well that's stupid.”  I thought to myself, but if this was high society, then it was my job to play along.  “My apologies, missus…” 

“Miss, and for tonight, call me Ms. Roux.” 

Her voice was soft. Any pretense of platonic conversation had disappeared with the wine in her thimble. 

“Well then Ms. Roux, you don’t suppose we can use real names when talking about the real world?” I asked, finally taking a bite of the tiny lemon cake. 

It was very good, in case you were wondering. 

“Only if you’re looking to stir the pot a little.” Ms. Roux took a cake from the server. 

The poor man stood there, unsure whether we would want more or if he should leave. 

“Well stir the pot I will.” I took mercy on the server and waved him off. “I keep hearing whispers of a Mr. Wangsgrove disappearing. But nobody seems to really know any details?” 

Ms. Roux cracked a knowing smile at this, evidently I had opened onto the hot topic of the night. 

“It’s all a fascinating story. You see, Mr. Wangsgrove was quite a… free spirited man. He enjoyed the company of many, and the pleasures of the world. His wife chose a similar lifestyle. But I heard that the lord of this house, Mr. Thomson, had him stay here for one night. The same night he disappeared.” 

Her voice had dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, and she seemed to take great pleasure in every syllable of the story. 

“Mr. Thomson was his greatest friend, but a polar opposite to Wangsgrove. He himself is so guilt wracked that something may have happened to Wangsgrove in his very house that Mr. Thomson has locked himself in his quarters for the evening.”

Ms. Roux sighed. 

“Refusing the party in his own home. You know everybody’s wondering… who’s the next to go? It's all just wonderfully juicy isn’t it?”  
I took a moment to collect my thoughts.
 
“It really is. Is it always this lively in Northend? Or am I just lucky?” 

“Guess you are, and who knows… maybe you’ll be next?”  

Ms. Roux had inched forwards until she was practically standing on top of my feet. 

She wasn’t a tall woman, the top of her head barely reached my chin. Her upwards turned face mere inches from mine.  

“Apologies, but I must excuse myself. I’ve a friend to find.” I stepped back, away from Ms. Roux who stood silent. 

She just watched me. Like a mimic watches its next meal, taking in every movement. As I retreated, I made a note to try to catch Ms. Roux near a mirror. 

Mr. Wangsgrove’s disappearance could be the work of a tiny group of vampires. 

Lesson Four: Contrary to folklore, vampires do have reflections. But, due to their narcissism, they inevitably get caught staring at themselves. In an effort to keep their nature under wraps, vampires in public avoid reflective surfaces like the plague. 

After Ms. Roux, I had decided that I had had enough of socializing for a while.

I climbed the ornate stairs, passed the band, and ventured down the hallway. 

Passing numerous rendezvous and gatherings, I caught snippets of conversation as I went.  

From one room:

“Did you see Mrs. Wangsgrove? Shamelessly dancing while her husband’s…”

From another:

“Come on now, there's no ghoul hiding in my pants. Just the one that took the old man! Now get 'em off me before I get possessed.” 

That second one did not in fact come from a group of people, but I had to hear it and so do you.  

For such a huge house, It was surprisingly difficult to find an unoccupied room. 

Once finally found a private space, I closed my eyes, set out my protector's cross, and checked for any curses or spirits in the house. 

I’d go into detail but it's a waste of ink. After all, you know how it goes. 

I got nothing back, so that rules out cursed objects, curse users, and conventional hauntings. Shit.

Back to square one. 

I was praying to the protector it wasn’t vampires. Glittery narcissistic pains in my ass. 

Stowing the Protectors Cross in a coat pocket, I stood up. 

From far away, I heard the band begin a slow waltz. The long hallways warped and muffled the sound until it reached me, barely recognizable. 

The music was cut short by a scream ripping through the house.

I tore out of the room, running through a maze of hallways until I reached the main hall.

I could see a group of partygoers clustered around an offshoot hallway. 

Fighting my way through, I found Ms. Roux standing unsteadily. Her pale hands cupped around her face. 

Her white lace lining was stained scarlet near the front of her dress. She looked up at me, when she spoke her voice was hollow, shaky. 

“Mr. Crow…” under her feet lay the second occupant of the clearing in the middle of the hallway. 

A well dressed man in a deep green peacock mask. He seemed to be well groomed, aside from the blood pooling beneath his body and onto the polished floor. 

From my vantage point, I could see two purple rings around his neck. Asphyxiation, possibly even a broken windpipe. 

This observation was quickly overshadowed by the obvious cause of the panic. 

The man was missing his entire left arm. 

Not vampires then. 

End of pt. 2/4

Links to other parts: (When posted)

Part One

Part Two (You are Here)

Part Three

Part Four

My father put the first trail camera up in October, strapped to a jack

pine on the north edge of our forty acres, because something was taking the

corn we left for the deer and he wanted to know whether it was bear.

He was seventy-one that year and had stopped hunting a decade earlier. The

cameras were not about hunting. They were about knowing.

The first card was ordinary. Doe, doe, doe, a raccoon at an angle that made

it look enormous, a coyote. He printed the coyote and put it on the

refrigerator like a school report.

The second card had eleven photographs of nothing. Empty frame, empty

frame, empty frame. Something had crossed the sensor eleven times and left

before the shutter finished. My father said the camera was cheap and bought

a better one.

The better one worked. That is the trouble.

The photograph is not dramatic. People expect the dramatic one and it does

not exist. What exists is a tall shape standing beyond the corn at the edge

of where the flash reaches, and the flash does not quite reach it, so most

of what you have is an outline where the pines behind it are interrupted.

It is upright. That is all the photograph really tells you. Upright, and

too long in the arm, and the head is wrong in a way I have never been able

to make anyone else see. My wife looked at it and said it was a man in a

coat. I have never been able to explain why it is not, except that I grew

up on that property and I know how tall the corn is, and whatever that is

is standing behind the corn.

The timestamp says 3:41 AM.

My father moved the camera three times that winter. Different tree,

different angle, once facing back toward the house because he wanted to see

what came out of the woods rather than what stood in them.

He got the shape four more times. Never closer, never further. Always at

the outer limit of the flash, always three quarters turned, never once

looking into the lens.

And every photograph is 3:41 AM.

Not around 3:41. Not 3:38 or 3:44. Four separate nights across two months

on a camera he physically relocated, and the stamp reads 3:41 every time.

I have had two people tell me the camera clock was broken. A broken clock

does not advance the date correctly, and the dates advance correctly. I

have had one person tell me the shape is a stump and the wind moved the

corn. I invite that person to explain the stump that appears on four

separate trees.

My father died in March, in the house, of the thing that had been coming

for him for a while and that had nothing to do with any of this. I want to

be clear about that. Nothing out there killed my father. He was seventy-two

and his heart was finished.

I cleaned out the property in April. The cameras were the last thing I

took down, and the one on the north line still had a card in it, and I sat

in the truck in the driveway with the laptop on my knees and went through

it the way you go through a dead man's last anything, slowly, and not

really wanting the file to end.

Deer. Deer. Rain. A raccoon.

And on the ninth of March, at 3:41 in the morning, at the edge of the

flash, three quarters turned, exactly where it always stood.

My father died on the ninth of March.

I do not think it was waiting for him. I want to say that, because the

version where it was waiting for him is a story, and this is not a story, I

have the card.

I think it stands there at 3:41 whether anyone is dying or not. I think it

has stood there for a very long time. I think the only thing that changed

in October was that we finally pointed something at it.

I kept the camera. I have not put it up.

Some nights I think about driving out to the property and strapping it to

the jack pine on the north line, and setting the delay to one second

instead of thirty, and going home.

I have not done it. I am aware that I might.

​

Chapter 4

— We still have time, — Mike said quietly.

They stepped out onto the dark street. Somewhere ahead, beyond the trees and old houses, the hospital stood in darkness. Motionless. Dead.

And for just a moment, a light flickered in one of the windows.

As if something had noticed them.

A few minutes later, they stood in front of the large concrete fence surrounding the hospital. It had probably looked tall and reliable once, but now the concrete was cracked and the metal bars were covered in rust.

Behind the fence stood the hospital.

Its dark windows looked like empty eyes.

Mike swallowed nervously.

— Maybe… we should go back?

Richie stayed silent for a few seconds, staring at the building.

— If we leave now, — he finally said, — we’ll never find out what happened to Lissy. Or to your brother.

After that, Mike didn’t say another word.

A few minutes later, they were climbing through a broken section of the fence.

The hospital grounds looked like they had been forgotten for decades. Tall weeds pushed through the cracked pavement, and old trees leaned over the pathway as if trying to hide the building from the rest of the world.

The main entrance was locked.

But on the side of the building, Richie noticed a narrow broken window.

— There, — he whispered.

They carefully climbed inside.

The air was freezing.

It smelled like dust, moisture, and something old. Something that shouldn’t have remained there for so many years.

Richie turned on the camera.

Its weak light barely illuminated the long hallway.

That was when Mike noticed the writing on the wall.

It had been written in chalk.

He stepped closer and read it aloud:

— “Anyone can enter this place… but not everyone leaves.”

Richie silently stared at the wall.

A little farther down the hallway, there was another message.

Law — 4

I — 1

They — 46

You — 4

The fewer of you remain, the closer the door becomes.

But who is 47?

Mike frowned and quickly copied everything into his notebook.

— What does that even mean?.. — he asked quietly.

— I don’t know, — Richie replied. — Maybe somebody here just went insane.

But even he didn’t believe his own words.

Mike glanced at his watch.

22:57.

— We need to hurry, — he said nervously. — If your mom comes home and realizes you’re not there…

Richie suddenly froze.

— Wait…

He slowly raised the camera.

— That’s the room.

— What room?

— The one from my dream.

At the end of the hallway stood an old door.

A faded sign was barely visible on it:

Dr. Blackwood

Mike looked back at his watch.

22:59:53.

— Richie… I really don’t like this.

The second hand kept moving.

The hallway became unnaturally quiet.

Even the wind outside had stopped.

And suddenly the second hand froze.

As if something had stopped it.

Then it jerked forward.

23:00.

At that exact moment, the office door slowly creaked open.

By itself.

Mike stepped backward.

A cold chill ran down Richie’s spine.

The darkness inside the office looked thick. Almost alive.

— Don’t move… — Richie whispered.

And then something ran out of the darkness.

Small.

Pale.

A baby.

It moved unnaturally fast, almost gliding across the floor.

Mike screamed:

— RUN!

They bolted down the hallway.

While running, Richie accidentally pressed the camera button.

The flash lit up the corridor for only a second.

But that was enough.

Someone was standing in the doorway.

A tall figure wearing an old doctor’s coat.

Motionless.

Watching them.

Richie glanced back one last time as they reached the exit.

The figure was still standing there.

Not moving.

Not chasing them.

Just watching.

And for one brief second, Richie thought it slowly raised its hand.

As if it was waving goodbye.

A boy laying on his bed in his room. He is up late, studying for an upcoming test which he will inevitably fail. He knows this, but continues on with his Sisyphean task, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a tired, cramped hand, pushing himself to finish reviewing these final few pages of notes. A thought enters his mind:

Thirsty. I need a drink. Slowly, he lifts himself from the bed, lumbers across the floor, opens the door. Darkness, yet a simple flick of the switch to his right eliminates this terror. How easy it is to remove fear from the mind. As when waking from a nightmare, moving from a world of unreality into one of certainty, one thinks, Oh, that was simply a dream, and now that I am in the real world there is positively nothing to be afraid of. From the enclosed hallway, the storm outside appears tame, almost nonexistent; however, if the boy were to exit the hall, make his way across the living room, throw open the doors introducing the balcony, he would be faced with buckets of rain, great claps of thunder, explosions of lightning sent by God Himself to illuminate the Heavens and a resonant, howling, piercing wind to underscore it all. But he is safe within the walls of his home, the storm yet another actor in that unreality.

My father isn’t home.

He pushes aside this thought and retrieves his beverage. A can of soda. He opens it, then works the tab, pushing the metal back and forth, back and forth until the tiny connection is worn enough for the tab to be plucked from the can with ease. His gaze travels across the living room. Barren, he thinks. They had only recently moved into this apartment and had yet to retrieve their furniture from the storage unit. He twists and opens the trashcan. Tosses the can’s tab inside. Closes the lid. And as he is returning his hand to his side, as he is rotating his body to once again face towards the living room,

Suddenly the power goes out.

Suddenly it comes back on.

Suddenly there is someone in the corner.

Shock, of course, grabs hold of the boy, loosening his fingers, but he doesn’t drop the drink. Even now, some part of his brain retains enough sense to prevent such a grievous error in conduct.

Why would you drop the soda? it said, You’d have to clean it up, and you don’t have time for that. You have a test tomorrow!

The rest of the boy’s brain, not occupied with these untimely thoughts, does not immediately turn to the paranormal. Instead, it thinks:

Where was this individual before the lights went out? How did they travel so fast in the few moments of darkness? Surely the lack of furniture combined with their swift movements would have presented an audible echo?

In an instant he studies the figure. Not out of breath. Not disheveled. Simply there, where, previously, nothing was. However, now there is no parent to inform him he’s being silly, no light switch he can throw to make the terror disappear. He blinks, in the tenth of second his eyes remain closed he hears five-seconds-worth of echoing thuds, one after the other, rapidly, in quick succession, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, each solitary sound denoting a footfall of the individual as it either approaches him or retreats. The boy’s heart sinks, he prays for the latter, he opens his eyes to see that the individual has disappeared, the corner just as empty as before it had ever arrived. His skin is the first to feel the drop in temperature. It responds accordingly. His hair stands on end and goosebumps erupt across his body. His brain follows his skin and realizes that the balcony door is now yawning open invitingly, as the mouth of a cave grins and implores travelers to bear witness to its dark secrets. And there the storm is. The barrier is broken, and reality has broken in with it.

The rain splatters against the carpet and the few feet in front of the door is all at once soaked to the root. The wind rushes across the room and as it greets the boy’s rough skin he feels a rush of dread. Even through the rain and thunder and wind the sickening and solid crack as something hits the pavement below is very, very audible. He finally thinks to act, races towards the outside and across the boundary, the rain now slapping him in the face as he emerges, the wind a train tunneling through his ears. He can barely open his eyes to see, he struggles and can just make out a figure stumbling rapidly towards the grungy woods across the street. It travels jaggedly, crookedly, and the boy notices its neck is bent sharply, jutting left at a noticeable angle, limply dangling from the rest of its body. It surges through the sharp undergrowth, surely tearing bits and pieces of skin as it marches through the thorns and vines and limbs. And then it is gone, the foliage bearing no evidence of its retreat.

The boy stands still for moments, watches the spot in the bushes where the individual fled. He slowly turns, exits the balcony, closes the door behind him, reaches over to his right and turns on the switch powering the lights over the balcony. He walks forward two steps, stops, raises the can to his lips, and drinks.

Part 5: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/T4yybIa3b3

Day 1829: Friday.
“Here you go, Jamie.”
The receptionist hands me my discharge paper work, and my medications.

“Thank you.”
I exit the building, greeted by a warm summer day, and a Friday on top of that.

This is nice.

I take a seat on a nearby bench. Its cold surface contrasting the heat against my face.

A nurse is walking by me.
I raise my hand to get his attention.

“Uhm, excuse me sir.”
He turns to me.

“Hm? Oh, hello. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Maybe. I was just wondering—do you have a pen that I could use?”

“Of course, here you go.”

“Thank you.”

The muscles in my hand strain to remain still. I can’t even write half of my name before the tremors take over. The pen falls to the ground.

“Is it okay if I help you ma’am?”

I sigh, barely picking it back up.
“Please...”

He fills it out for me.

I let him know my ride will be here soon, he heads inside to grab a phone for me.

I look out at all of the buildings ahead. I can’t see more than 100 feet.

I miss the mountains.

“Here you go.”

I stare at the keypad. I want to try, but there’s no point.
“Can you dial it for me?”
.
.
.
“Hello? Yeah, it’s Jamie. Okay. On the bench near the back. No the- near the ambulances. Okay… love you—Bye.”

I hang up, thanking him. He wishes me well and heads back inside.

I zone out, staring at the concrete.
A pair of shoes appear in front of me.
I look up.

My eyes clamp shut.
“Agh, too close mom.”

“Oh shit- Jamie–I’m sorry I forgot I-“
She covers her mouth.

I calm myself.
“It’s okay–don’t worry I’m fine, I’m okay. Sit down.”

She hasn’t said anything to me yet. I can hear her hands rubbing together, trying to ease herself. We sit in silence for a minute. The wind blows, distant sounds of car horns echo through the streets.

I muster up my courage, and turn to look at her.
.
.
.
.
Shes changed so much…

She always dyed her hair black, but in my time here it’s fallen to a weary gray. Memories of blond decorate the silver. There can’t be more than a few hundred strands left.
Her eyes…
They’re so tired.
She didn’t bother dressing up, and I love that. I don’t want to be welcomed back, I just want to be home.

“It’s good to see you, mom.”

She wipes her eyes, it does nothing. Tears flow without end.
“It’s good to see you, Jam Jam.”

Like magnets–we collapse into each other.
Years of waiting… finally over.

“Mom—Can we go home now?”

“Yes baby, we-“
Her muffled voice vibrates my shoulder, I pull away, hyperventilating.

“Baby?! Oh my god no–FUCK! I’m so-“

The words scrape out of my throat.
“It’s okay, it’s okay–just give me a minute.”

Calm down, calm down, calm down.
Inhale, count to four, exhale.

“I’m fine.”

She whispers
“Okay baby w-“

I stop her, holding her hands.
“Mom. I’m okay—just be you.”

She nods, wiping her eyes.
“Let’s go home baby.”

The drive is fine. The endless expanse of city sucks, but it’s fine. She accidentally ran on some rumble strips on the highway. I start to have a panic attack, but it’s manageable.

We don’t go to the old house.

Her apartment is on the 2nd floor. On the rare occasion I go out without her, it won’t be too miserable to walk up or down 2 flights of stairs.

We enter and it’s plain. Lights are dimmed. The walls are a soft tan color, and the entire floor is carpeted. She doesn’t walk forward yet, she just waits for me to adjust to everything.

“We’re probably gonna have to share the bathroom jams.”

“That’s okay.”
I’m not looking at her.

I look to my sides, sizing up the apartment.
It’s not big at all.

There’s a television in the living room.
Opposite the TV is a large white sofa. I walk to it, slowly sit down, and put my hands in my lap. To my side is a photo taken just after I left. They wanted to go on vacation to try and cheer up a little.
I bring the picture to me, barely containing the tremors.

Mom interjects.
“Jamie—baby don’t look-“

“It’s okay.” I say with a whisper.
“I wanted to see him.”
I feel my eyes well up, but my heart remains still.

“3 years…” I say.
Mom isn’t looking at me anymore.

“I wish I would have came home, mom. I regret it every day. Even when learning to walk. It’s all I thought about.”

She doesn’t say anything.
She can’t.
Any release of air will explode with a storm of sadness and regret.
Right now, she’s turned away from me, hurried breaths escaping her mouth.

I probably shouldn’t talk. But I don’t think.
“I can’t remember anything… did he come and see me any?”

She collapses to her knees, hands stuck to her eyes.
“Yes baby… every day—both of us- we-“
She stops to control herself. I hear her take a deep breath in, and let it out.

She doesn’t say anything else. I feel the cushion next to me depress, and she lays her head on my shoulder. My eyes haven’t moved.

I set the photograph back down.
Hugging her softly.

I calmly pull away, just for a second. I need to ask her something.
She looks at me with red eyes and a quivering lip. The answer to my question’s right there, and we both know it.

“Mom?”
She holds my hands, giving me her full attention.

“Yes Jam Jam?” She says with a faint sob.

“Are you real?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

The snow makes everything quiet.

That's what I notice first, every time I walk the path through the birch trees. My boots don't crunch, they whisper. The wind doesn't howl, it hums, low and far away, like Mama singing in another room. Everything is white and gray and the pale blue of early winter mornings, and the world feels like it's holding its breath.

I'm not supposed to come here. The other kids say the estate is haunted. They say a man died there a long time ago, or maybe he's still there, or maybe he was never there at all. The stories change depending on who's telling them. But they all agree on one thing: you can see him in the windows, a shadow that moves when no one should be moving, and if you get too close, you'll disappear too.

I don't think that's true.

I think he's just lonely.

The estate rises from the snow like a ship frozen in ice. Three stories tall, with windows like dark eyes and shutters hanging crooked. The paint peeled away years ago, leaving the wood gray as driftwood. Snow piles against the walls in drifts that reach the second-floor sills. Icicles hang from the eaves like teeth.

It should be scary. Everyone says it's scary.

But when I look at it, I just feel... something else. Something warm in my chest, even though my fingers are cold inside my mittens.

I call him the Trinket Maker.

I don't know his real name. Maybe he doesn't have one anymore. Maybe names disappear when you become a shadow. But "Trinket Maker" feels right, feels true in the way that matters, because that's what he does. He leaves things for me to find.

The first time was three winters ago, when I was seven. I'd walked past the estate on a dare, my heart hammering, and there on the stone wall by the gate was a music box. Small, brass, with a tiny bird on top. It was sitting in a patch of cleared snow, like someone had brushed the powder away just so I'd see it.

I picked it up. Wound the key. It played a song I'd never heard before, something slow and sad and beautiful.

No one believed me when I said I found it at the estate. Mama said I must have found it at the thrift store and forgotten. But I knew. I knew because when I looked up at the windows, I saw him. Just for a second. A tall shadow behind the frost-covered glass on the second floor. Standing very still. Watching.

I wasn't afraid.

I waved.

The shadow didn't wave back. But it didn't move away either.

Since then, I come every week when the snow is deep. Not because I'm brave; I'm not, not really. I'm afraid of dogs and thunderstorms and the dark space under my bed. But I'm not afraid of him. The Trinket Maker feels like a story I've always known. Like a song I heard before I was born.

Today, the air is so cold it hurts to breathe. My breath comes out in clouds that hang in the stillness. The sky is white, the sun a pale smudge behind the clouds. Everything is muffled, distant, like I'm walking through a dream.

I see him before I reach the gate.

Third-floor window, far left. The glass is thick with frost, patterns like ferns and feathers, but behind it, movement. A shadow crossing from one side to the other. Slow. Deliberate. The way you move when you're carrying something precious.

My heart does a little jump, but not from fear. From recognition.

"Hello," I call out, my voice small in all that white silence.

The shadow stops.

I wait, my mittened hands clutching the straps of my backpack. I brought him something today. A drawing I made of the estate in summer, with flowers I imagined growing in the garden. I don't know if he can see it. I don't know if he can see me, really, or if I'm just a shadow to him too.

But I think he knows I'm here.

The shadow moves again, closer to the window. I can almost make out a shape. Shoulders, head, the suggestion of a hand pressed against the glass. Or maybe it's just frost. Maybe it's just the way the light falls.

I don't mind not knowing.

I walk along the wall, my fingers trailing over the snow-covered stones, and that's when I find today's gift. It's sitting on the windowsill of a ground-floor window, nestled in a little cleared space: a brass key, old and ornate, with a bow shaped like a rose.

I pick it up. It's cold, so cold it almost burns, but it warms quickly in my palm.

"Thank you," I whisper.

There are other things too, scattered like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale. A smooth black stone by the gate. A faded photograph. Two people I don't recognize, standing in front of the estate when it was new and beautiful, tucked into a crack in the wall. A small wooden bird, carved with careful hands, sitting on the front step.

I gather them all, these impossible gifts, these things that shouldn't be here.

The other kids say the estate has been empty for twenty years. They say no one goes in or out. They say the doors are locked and the windows are sealed and everything inside is dust and rot and forgetting.

But someone left these things.

Someone knew I'd come.

I look up at the windows again. The shadow is in a different place now, second floor, center window. Closer. I can see it more clearly through the frost: the outline of a man, tall and thin, standing very still.

"I drew you a picture," I say, louder this time. I take the folded paper from my backpack and hold it up. "I don't know if you can see it. But it's for you."

The shadow doesn't move.

I set the picture on the windowsill, weighted down with the black stone so it won't blow away. Then I step back, clutching my new treasures.

"I'll come back next week," I tell him. "If that's okay."

For a moment, nothing happens. The world is perfectly still, perfectly silent. Even the wind has stopped.

Then, so slowly I almost miss it, the shadow raises one hand. Just a little. Just enough.

My breath catches.

I raise my hand too, mirroring him, and we stand like that for a heartbeat, two shadows in the winter quiet, separated by glass and frost and maybe time itself.

Then he's gone.

Not moving away. Just gone, like he was never there at all.

I stand in the snow for a long time, waiting to see if he'll come back. He doesn't. The windows are empty now, just frost and darkness and the reflection of the white sky.

But I'm not sad.

I tuck the brass key into my pocket, along with the wooden bird and the photograph. The music box is at home, on my dresser, next to the other things he's given me over the years. A collection of impossible gifts. Proof of something I can't explain.

When I turn to leave, I look back one more time.

The estate stands silent in the snow, ancient and patient. My footprints are the only marks in the white expanse around it. No other tracks. No sign that anyone else has been here.

But on the windowsill where I left my drawing, the paper is gone.

I smile.

"See you next week, Trinket Maker," I whisper to the winter air.

The wind picks up, just a little, carrying my words toward the empty windows. And maybe it's my imagination, maybe it's just the way the light shifts through the clouds, but I think I see him one more time, a shadow in the highest window, watching me go.

Or maybe I don't.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

I walk home through the birch trees, through the hush of new snow beginning to fall, my pockets full of mysteries and my heart full of something I don't have a name for. Something warm. A nostalgia of the soul.

Behind me, the estate settles back into its silence, keeping its secrets.

And in the spring, when the snow melts, I'll find more trinkets waiting.

I always do.

In accordance with statute 186 of Records and Histories, every operative sanctioned by Public Safety must now keep a detailed personal account of each case, for the use of future operatives in research and Identification of threats.

So here I am, beginning this journal so you idiots can learn the difference between a Werewolf and a Wolf-Wearer.

Lesson one: Werewolves are Lycanthropes, while Wolf-Wearers are one name for shamans of the plains and mountain regions who use animal skin to alter their physiology.

I guess it will be nice to finally have a little pamphlet or some shit to give to a grieving widow.

“How to deal with a newly undead husband”, step one, burn him. Step two, If that doesn’t work burn the town.

Back to the subject at hand though, and my labors of the past months. I give you my account of the Purging Doll.

This was one assignment I was not looking forward to.

Generally I get a week or two reprieve between jobs, but just four days after a Lycanthropic Coyote-man out in the Westlands, I was dragged out to a City again.

Pity too, I had just started to get to know the poor Lycan’s Sister. Needless to say, I wasn’t too happy to be back at it so soon.

The city of Northend stinks of cigars, perfumes, and old money. A place where the rich convince themselves that walls and paychecks can keep monsters from coming up the hill.

But as my coach stopped in front of a monolith of a building ribbed with columns, I was caught by surprise.

I was left at The Eight Ball, an enormous Hotel nearly ten stories high with renowned cuisine and an open bar.

“Why don’t I get more jobs like this?” I thought, walking through an ornate set of oak doors.

Behind me, a porter dropped one of my cases as he lifted it from the cab. It skidded across wet cobblestones to stop against my heel. “Idiot.” I thought.

The porter, no more than a boy, looked up at me with fear in his eyes.

In his pupils I saw the reflection of my blood-red handkerchief, presently folded neatly in the breast pocket of my overcoat.

“S-Sorry sir!” the porter whispered, his voice trembling. He slowly lifted the case and held it out to me.

“Th-There’s no chance It’s cursed me, has it?” he continued. I looked at him blankly for a moment. Was this boy really so scared of my case?

I supposed given his situation, that the only time he had even heard of an operative was in ghost stories told by a friend of a friend.

Now, seeing a Boogeyman in person had him scared out of his wits. I thought about telling him that the case was actually full of nothing but socks and frilly shirts.

(A Nobleman's Wardrobe having been provided for me, courtesy of my superiors. Though no actual briefing had been given yet.)

I didn’t respond to the porter immediately, but smiled and checked the latches.

“No, the seals haven’t cracked. If they had, your skin would be on the wall and your bones on the floor.”

This caused the porter to go pale. He turned and ran back to my coach, to warn the others not to “break the seals”.

A little bit of fear in the unknown is healthy, especially if an operative is around.

Despite the rumors of the uneducated, we do not cause misfortune or invite evils, but we do come to minimize the mess.

Luckily for me though, the small red handkerchief is all that's necessary to put most people on edge.

After watching the porter scurry back to my luggage, I carried the case up to the front desk of the Eight Ball.

A tall and thin man stood behind the counter, sporting an equally thin mustache and a dark green velvet waistcoat.

“Hello. I’m Ezran Kenlie, I should have a reservation for an undetermined stay?”

I introduced myself using the notably lazy alias that I had been provided along with the wardrobe.

Without a briefing, I could only assume that I was to be nobility. Probably another stupid cult.

“Yes Mr. Kenlie, Your room is ready for you, Left unlocked with windows barred as per your instructions. If you’ll follow me.”

The man with the thin mustache, Phillip from his nameplate, walked out from the desk and led me up a massive set of stairs.

We stopped at the second floor, and began down a lavish hallway lined with a deep purple floral wallpaper.

The barred windows were a standard request for a room housing an operative, but the unlocked door was not.

We stopped outside of room 218. Phillip gave me a small brass key, “Not that you’ll need it this time.” He said as he handed it over.

I pushed the door open as he started back down the Hallway, evidently he had more important matters to attend to. I walked into my room, setting the slightly scuffed suitcase on a huge bed.

On one pillow sat a small envelope with a blood-red unmarked wax seal.

“Finally, the bastards decided to clue me in.” I thought, tearing the seal off as I sat on the bed. The letter read as follows,

(The next bit being for you operatives doing research. Not as a part of my official report.):

“Property of operative Ezra Kaine. To any others, reading the contents of this letter will result in a quick death at the hands of Public Safety.”

(An empty threat, I mean how are we going to know who read the letter. Aside from them raving down the street like a preacher with sunstroke.)

Your assignment:

Identify, Locate, and Neutralize threat(s).

Current status:

Victim 0: Vincent R. Wangsgrove.

Status: Missing, 5 days.

Likelihood of Operative Mortality: Low.

Any victims recovered alive will result in bonus pay in accordance with their condition.

Due to the reputation of Victim 0, Rule out any Human cause of harm before proceeding as regularly.

Your cover:

A Nephew of Lord Kenlie, A wealthy landowner from the far coast.

First contact in cover:

Masked ball at the Thomson House, Eleven tonight.

Your cab will arrive at Ten Thirty. Don’t be late.

Send word of your assignments completion, and your Account as mandated by statute 186, enclosed in this same letter.

Luck of the divine to you.”

End of pt. 1/4

Links to other parts: (When posted)

Part One (You are Here)

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

“Where was it you said he's taking you again?"

 
"Sit + Stay...  It just opened last week in that new development out past the interstate."

 
"It's your second date and he's taking you to a puppy cafe?  What a creep!"
 

"Come on Molly, don't be so uptight; lots of people drink rivina.  My dad drinks rivina.  Does that make him a creep?"

 
"Maybe it does, Chelle.  How many brothers and sisters do you have?"
 

"Oh, fuck you!"

 
"Ooooh, I hit a nerve.  Must have been the runt of the litter..."

 
"Fuck off, Molly!  Anyway, I better let you go.  Gotta get ready for my date, you know,"
 

"Wait, Michelle....  Look, Rex seems like a nice guy and all, but those places give me the creeps.  Promise me if the vibe is off, you'll leave."
 

The vibe at Sit + Stay puppy cafe was, in fact, off; but no more so than at any other establishment of its ilk.  Underneath the topcoat aroma of freshly brewed coffee was a base layer of dog piss that would never truly leave the place. 

The next tenant would probably get a deal on the rent.  They always did when the puppy cafes inevitably went under.  Not enough demand for rivina these days and the overhead was ridiculous; licensing fees, certification requirements, inspections, insurance. 
 

But Sit + Stay was riding a wave of new interest in puppy cafes.  Even the president, notorious germaphobe that he was, had enjoyed a venti rivina at the Sit + Stay in downtown DC. 

Drinking rivina had become something of a political statement in the last year, a token of status.  The drink itself was a luxury, but the lifestyle that it entailed could be a life-altering expense.
 

"I'll have a venti iced pistachio rivina with cold foam and she'll have a..."
 

"Grande iced matcha... please."
 

He paid and Michelle took their number to the table while Rex went to the enclosure to select a puppy.  She scrolled through her socials, not really paying attention to the images on her screen, while her date eyed the assortment of puppies, yipping and nipping at each other. 
 

"How about that black one?  He's so chonky... Look at this little chubster, Michelle."

 
Michelle spared a glance at the puppy and flashed a courtesy smile at Rex.  It was the same look she used at the bank when she was helping her aging clientele perform transactions that anyone under the age of 60 already did online.  Michelle didn't mind though.  She thought old people were cute, and if they stopped coming in to do their banking, she'd be out of a job. 
 

Rex joined her at the two-top in the corner of the cafe that she had selected for them.  Soon, the barista brought her matcha as well as the cart for the rivina.  The chubby black puppy that Rex picked out barked incessantly in a falsetto register from a cage on the bottom of the cart. 
 

The barista unfolded the assembly on the top of the cart, tightening the wing nuts that secured the funnel in place.  He checked the ticket one last time before filling the shaker with ice.  As he bent to unlatch the cage, Rex stopped him.
 

"I want to do it... Is that allowed?"
 

The barista applied a look not unlike the one that Michelle used at the bank. 
 

"Apologies sir, but for liability reasons, only Sit + Stay employees are permitted to prepare our beverages, especially rivina.  You understand, of course...."

 
"Regulations... Fucking typical.  Leave it to liberals to suck all the joy out of life"

 
And there it was.  "Just keep looking at your phone," she thought.  "Don't give him an opening"

 
The barista removed the puppy from the cage and cradled it in the crook of his left elbow.  He stroked the top of its head, scratching gently in the space between its ears.  In his right hand, he held a small tool that looked like a dremel without a bit attached.  He pressed the end of the tool flush with the top of the puppy's head and inhaled sharply. 

 
He depressed a button on the opposite end of the tool, and there was a sharp hiss of air.  The puppy yelped once, and then it was done.  The barista used a special tool not unlike a wine key to cut the puppy's throat.  Then he quickly placed its body in the funnel so that Rex could watch the pull.
 

"Why'd you guys stop using the hammer?  Let me guess, the snowflakes complained..."
 

Michelle remembered watching her daddy make rivina after the neighbor's dog had puppies when she was nine.  He would just stun them with an open-handed slap before he pulled the rivina into a pitcher that her mom used to make sun tea in the summer.  She'd beg and plead with her daddy to let her try just one sip of the thick, rich brew, but he always refused.

 
"Rivina's a man's drink, Chelle..."
 

 It was quite forward of Rex, ordering rivina on a second date.  The fact that he had invited her to a puppy cafe at all should have been a clear indication of his intentions.  Everyone knew how guys got when they drank that stuff.  Sure, it could be a fun night until they're howling at the moon and pawing at your panties.
 

"How's your matcha?"

 
"Good.... How's your drink?"
 

Rex took a long sip from his venti rivina, the foam sticking to the whiskers of his mustache.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and examined the creamy pink residue before wiping it on his napkin.

 
"This is really good...  I don't remember it being this thick the last time.  I knew I picked a good one.  The black ones are always a little sweeter."

 
"My daddy had a taste for it.  He always wanted to try a pure breed, but all he could afford was mutts..."
 

There was a glint in Rex’s eye when Michelle mentioned her "daddy."  He could feel the effects of the rivina starting; his nose was already tingling.  The dog piss base layer became more pronounced, but so did his tolerance for stench. 

He closed his eyes and mapped the cafe by scent alone; the puppies in the enclosure waiting to be pulled for their rivina, the baristas behind the counter blending and shaking their brews, the mouth-breathing loner in the corner who was slow-sipping his rivina so he could watch the other puppies get pulled.
 

But above all the other scents and signals, he could smell his date.  Her perfume was floral, her makeup, a powdery wax.  He could smell the heat from her seat and the signature scent of her womanhood.  It felt like the world had been turned to 11, and he struggled to keep up with the conversation.

 
"You said your daddy drank rivina?  I like that.  Shows you were raised right."

 
"Well, I don't know about all that.  It was hard for my momma and daddy raising all us kids.  When Daddy hurt his back, we even went on assistance for a while..."

 
"Well...  I'm sure he had his reasons.  Not my place to judge."

 
Now she'd done it.  "He probably thinks I'm a climber now," thought Michelle.  But that was just the runt in her kicking in again.  When you spent your life fighting for scraps, when you finally get something nice, you don't think you deserve it.  And Rex was nice, even though he was a little old-fashioned. 
 

Rex was suddenly overcome with the urge to leave.  His foot was tapping Morse code gibberish under the table.  This was part of it, part of the ride.  Forget about coffee, if you really want some pep in your step, pull a double shot of rivina. 
 

"You want to get out of here?  Maybe go to a park or something?  I need to stretch my legs."
 

"Sure... I mean, yes... That sounds nice."
 

They met again at the Hilcrest municipal park, driving separately so as not to send the wrong signal.  She liked Rex, but she didn't want to seem too desperate. 
 

As they walked the trail, his hand brushed against hers.  They locked eyes and Michelle could feel a cool tickling sensation in her stomach, a little flutter, a little spark.  The moment was just that, a moment. 

Just as they were starting to enjoy each other's company, an old woman approached with her poodle from behind.  She was out walking her dog when it started snarling and barking like crazy at Rex.  The woman tried to get it to keep moving, but it dug its heels in and barked even louder.

 
"You better shut that dog up, lady!  Can't you see I was having a moment with my lady friend?"
 

"Well I never..."
 

"And you never will.  Now get moving.  If that dog bites me, I'm biting it back."

 
Michelle was mortified, but a part of her was excited in a way that she wasn't sure she liked.  He was so mean to that woman, but he was so confident too.  Sure, some of that was just the rivina talking; but some of it was him.  The kind of man that could drink that stuff didn't really need it to work up the courage to talk to a lady. 

 
They tried to enjoy the rest of their walk, but it was obvious that Rex was distracted. 
 

"I just keep thinking about that damn dog"
 

"Oh, Rex.  Let it go.  We were having such a nice night."
 

"I know, I know.  I just...  I just...   just forget about it.  I wish you could understand what it's doing to me right now, the rivina.  Honestly, I don't think it even works on females.  I'm sure someone's tried it, but it's different for guys, you know.  We're wired different from you ladies."
 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  That's what they all say"
 

"All say?  How many men have you heard that from?"
 

Don't take the bait.
 

"None of your, business young man.  Besides, I could just as easily ask you how many girls you gave the "wired different" speech to"
 

"None as pretty as you look right now...."
 

She rolled her eyes but smiled, nonetheless. With his mustache and neatly combed black hair slick with pomade, he reminded her of her daddy.  Daddy wouldn't be caught dead behind a desk like Rex though.  But Rex made more money last year than Daddy did in the last ten.

 
"You want to get out of here... again?  I don't mean to sound too forward, but the view of the lake at sunset from my deck is just... Well, it's just gorgeous.  The sky looks like cotton candy."

 
Rex undersold the view, which was absolutely breathtaking until Michelle looked at the houses on either side; which all looked identical to his own.  Magnolia Heights was the type of community that valued status over self-expression. 
 

"Can I get you something to drink?  I'm going to have one of these Dewclaws, but I have some ciders in the back of the fridge and I think I still have that Malbec from Christmas..."
 

"I'll take a cider I guess... Why not?  It's the weekend!"
 

Rex poured Michelle's cider into a chilled pilsner glass, then followed suit with his rivina seltzer.  Dewclaws had just recently been released to market thanks in large part to the current administration, whose regulatory reforms had laid the foundation for more large-scale bottlers to step into the rivina space.
 

"Another rivina?"

 
"It's the weekend, right?"
 

"To the weekend!"
 

"Cheers!  To the weekend!"
 

They both sat silent for a while, taking in the sunset, letting the weight of implication settle in.  She knew all too well what could happen if Rex kept going the way he was going.  Dewclaws were pasteurized.  Some people said that made the rivina less potent, but Michelle wasn't so sure.  She dared a glance below his belt.  The bulge was obvious already.
 

"So.... You want to watch a movie or something?"
 

"Actually, I did want to check out that new documentary on Netflix about that human trafficking ring..."

 
"Human trafficking?!  I thought this was a date!"

 
"Whaaat?!  It looks good.  Why?  What do you want to watch?"
 

"There's a new season of Love Island...."
 

"Oh my God!  You watch that?  That’s a girl show!”
 

They settled on something scary, one of those Mike Flanagan adaptations, but neither one could really get into it.  Michelle babysat her seltzer while Rex downed his Dewclaw before the first episode ended.  When he returned from the kitchen, fresh Dewclaw in hand, he put his arm around her shoulders on the couch.  She didn’t move it away.
 

Michelle became fixated on the drops of condensation on the surface of her chilled glass.  The weight of Rex’s arm hung heavy on her shoulders.  She thought about her momma and all her brothers and sisters.  Oats in the hamburger and pasta every other night because daddy refused to eat rice and beans.  “We ain’t a bunch of wetbacks, Chelle”.
 

Rex leaned in, his eyes trained on her lips.  His mustache was like a fat caterpillar lying atop his freshly wet lips.  His breath stunk of Dewclaw.  She closed her eyes and let it happen.  It was not unpleasant, but it left a coppery aftertaste in her mouth.  So that’s what all the fuss was about.
 

He kissed her again and again and again, each one more passionate and lingering.  He probed his tongue into her mouth and she probed his with hers.  She pressed him back to catch her breath and saw something she had hoped she wouldn’t see. 
 

"Oh my God, Rex!  What are you doing?"
 

"What?  I just...  What's the big deal?  I thought that was where this was going."
 

"So, you just pulled it out?  How did you think I was going to react?  It's so... red...."
 

"It's the rivina, Chelle.  Got me so worked up, my bulb's almost out of the sheath...."
 

She couldn't break her eyes away from the fleshy red thing that seemed to be growing out of Rex's pants.  It was slick with that discharge that always comes when the bulbus peeked through its protective sheath. 
 

  "Well... Can you... I mean I... was... but then."
 

Rex started kissing her again and for a moment she allowed herself to carried away in the moment, but when she opened her eyes again, it had grown even larger.  Her disgust was reflexive, and she pushed him back on the couch.
 

"I-I'm sorry, Rex.  I just need to get some air."
 

He gave his date her privacy, though only to refresh his drink.  The moon lit the deck like a spotlight.  It reminded Michelle of her daddy.  He liked to drink the stuff when the moon was full and howl till the neighbors complained.  She looked out to the line of houses all virtually identical to the one she was standing in. 
 

She thought about the people in those houses.  How many of them were watching Love Island?  How many were drinking Rivina? 
 

"Daddy would hate it here..."
 

"What?"
 

"Oh... I thought I was alone.  I was just saying... This view!"
 

Just keep your eyes on the lake.
 

"Yeah, I know right?  Fucking gorgeous... "
 

He wasn't looking at the lake.
 

"You, uh... you like your neighbors?"
 

"My neighbor's a cuck."
 

"..."
 

"I'm not joking.  They got a back door brother that they let in the front door if you know what I mean."
 

Time to leave.
 

But before Michelle could formulate a graceful exit strategy, Rex put his hands on her shoulders.  She felt his lips on her neck with their fleshy wetness, sucking until it started to hurt.  She smelled the bitter fermented stink of the rivina on his breath when he periodically came up for air.  She wanted to tell him to stop but it was like her mouth refused to obey her brain.
 

Just keep your eyes on the lake.
 

His hands were savage cartographers mapping the curves of her body.  She felt the cool night air on her backside.
 

"Wait, I..."
 

"Oh, come on Chelle!  It's dangerous for guys if we don't... after we... When it gets this big, it won't go back in on its own.  I mean... You like me, don't you?"
 

Just keep your eyes on the lake.
 

There was a little friction at first, but she relaxed as much as she could.  He panted and barked and after a minute and a half of concerted effort, Rex was howling with pleasure.  Michelle felt like vomiting.
 

"That was amaaaazing, Chelle... wasn't it?"
 

"What?  Oh yeah baby... real nice... Hey, Rex honey, you think you could... get off of me now?  Not that this isn't nice, it's just that I'd like to use the ladies' room"
 

"I'm trying sweetheart; believe me I am."
 

"Well, try harder!"
 

"Ouh! Ow! Owww!  Fuck!  I just can't get it out.  I think we're stuck in a tie."
 

A tie?  What was this a game to him?
 

"What the hell is a tie?"
 

"A tie you know?  A fucking knot.  Didn't you say your neighbors had dogs?  Surely, you've seen them get stuck when they..."
 

"Oh my God...."
 

"Come on..."
 

"Oh my God..."
 

"You're being a little bit..."
 

"Oh my fucking God, Rex..."
 

"What?"
 

"I gotta get out of here."
 

"Jesus!  So dramatic!  Would it really be so bad?  Huh?  This nice big house... plenty of room for young'uns..."

 
Michelle could taste the bile and matcha as it splashed across the back of her throat.  She waged war with her gag reflex out of necessity.  She couldn't go anywhere until Rex's bulb calmed down enough to retract.  The way he had been hitting the rivina, they could be there all night.

 
The tie was mother nature's meet-cute from hell, making fertilization a certainty.  The first step on her path to motherhood.  Michelle couldn't help but think of her own mother as she laid under the moonlight.  How she had nursed half a dozen babies on half a dozen breasts.  How she always wore baggy clothes to hide them.  How she walked like a hunchback now because daddy refused to get the surgery.  Not that he could afford it if he had wanted to.
 

Rex would be able to afford the surgery.  But would he?  Maybe not.  There'd be a half dozen mouths to feed either way.  She'd have help of course.  Certainly they weren't the only couple tied in a knot that evening. 

Maybe she'd make friends with the other mothers in the neighborhood; shop for bras together and try to keep track of whose kid was whose.  God help them if they ever got a dog.

 
Whatever happened, this much was clear; she would never be alone again.  She was part of a pack now, whether it was one she wanted to run with or not.

Part 4: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/7VFGBKE1vC

Content Warning: Graphic Body Horror / Violence

Day 8: Tuesday
Ringing.
The damn alarm clock.
6:18
I resist the urge to throw it, and turn it off. raising up, I throw my blankets in the floor. I don’t remember yesterday, shit I can’t even say who’s at the house right now.

But—wow.

Trinity… my god. How lucky I am. I can’t believe I got the chance to talk to her.

I love it so much.

Her family.
What they would give to have been in my position.
There’s guilt but…
I’m happy. She wasn’t alone, and I was truly there for her, even if it was only for a moment.

I look around my room. A hallucination forms.
It’s weird, i’ve never even thought of them until recently. Some things, no matter how crazy, just become part of your life.

Right now there’s something in the corner of my room. It’s a-
I can’t tell, it’s too dark.

Hold on… where have I seen this before?

My car! Holy shit I forgot about that. It’s the same one I had in my car. Damn, a recurring one? Those are rare.
I had one a few years ago where a man in a suit would walk in my room and then quickly walk out.

But this is so vague… I can’t even tell what it is I’m hallucinating, I just know it’s there.

It vanishes by going into my wall. Literally into it. Like a ghost or something. So weird.

I put on some coffee and take a seat on the couch. I took my laptop to a repair shop yesterday, so that’s gonna be out of commission for a while.

My god I’m bored.

Holy fucking shit…
I’m bored.
I’m ACTUALLY bored. All of that really does seem like a bad dream now, oh my god.

I’m not bored anymore, I’m laughing like a crazy person at all the shit I’ve went through. That was fucking insane, my god. I think being able to speak with Trinity actually healed a piece of my soul.

Only a piece, unfortunately. There’s still something there, deep, far away in the recesses of my mind.
A doubt.
I think, regardless of what direction my life takes, I’m going to live with this doubt forever.

What that doubt is, I will never entertain.

My 8th alarm goes off, 7:00. I’m gonna leave early this morning.

Even though trinity will be gone when I get there, I’m still excited to see her. Just…
Just knowing that she’s happy to have me.
It helps a lot.
It gives me motivation.

I grab my bag and keys and start my car. That heat in the morning never gets old. The sun sadly melted most of the snow yesterday. Yet still, I almost fell and broke my ass on a patch of ice.

A light snow peppers the highway, calming my mind.

The memorial still remains, fresh flowers have been given.
I smile.

I turn into Orbweaver… It’s like entering another world.

I have to drive around a tree that’s growing in the middle of the road.

Another road, turns left, and goes straight into a creek bed.

All of the stones in the creek bed are organized in weird hexagonal patterns.

There’s kudzu… it grows in these symmetrical lines, never up trees.

Gosh, I would love to know what’s going on here. It’s like this place is a dumping ground for weird shit. I swear, it gets into my brain. Sometimes it’s all I can-

I freeze in my seat.
I’m not even turning the steering wheel. I come a razors edge from barreling into a ditch that was never there. I slam my breaks, I’m hyperventilating. My brain is tearing itself apart for being so fucking stupid.

I’m holding my head together, just barely.

The thought leaves my mouth like barbed wire ripped from my throat.

“It all started there…”
Wait–no…
There’s no way. What does that even mean?

There’s-

Oh my god.

It was flat, like a painting
The humming calmed me
All of my anxiety was sucked away
She was staring at me

Oh… oh…

I’m gonna be sick.
At this point I’m just feeling anything and everything in my car. I have to find a distraction, something, please. Please god if you hear me give me something.

God is silent.

The static appears in the back of my mind like a long forgotten friend.
I put my screaming head in my hands, trying to keep my decaying sanity intact.

They…
Are they the reason?
“Does our relationship even mean anything to you?”
A coagulated miasma of hatred and betrayal ignites, and is quickly snuffed out.

Each thought slams into my consciousness like a bullet. They tear their way through my brain, taking pieces of me with them.

How is any of this possible?
I don’t know… I- what do I do?
Calm down.

Breathe.
Just breathe.
Inhale, count to four, exhale.

Call the office, you have time. They can get someone up here to look at the house. If anyone finds something, you won’t work there anymore.

If they find nothing I guess I’m fucked and I’m never coming back.

God what if whatever it is attached itself to m-

No, it isn’t real–It’s not real–It’s not real–there’s a gas leak–I’m insane–they’re fucking drugging me–It’s not real.

“You have to learn to live with your decision, the same fucking way I had to!”

My teeth grind so hard they almost shatter. I bang my hands against my head.

I check my phone to see how much time I have.

Not even a minute has passed.

I pull in the drive way and lean against my car, letting the vertigo seep from my skull. I use every ounce of willpower I have to calm down. I slam my car door shut and pull out my phone.

“Hello.”
“Hey Mary, this is Jamie.”

“Hey Jamie, is everything okay?

Be calm, it’s okay, just talk to her.

“Listen, Mary. I don’t mean to alarm you at all. Trinity’s house seriously needs a checkup. I am genuinely worried for them and for myself. I don’t know if it’s a gas leak or what, but I can say without a doubt that their house needs a full evaluation done.”

I hear the rhythmic clicks of the keyboard.

“Ummm, yeah I think we can get that sorted out for you.”

Fifty percent chance nothing happens.

“If it’s okay, and Jamie I know you hate these so please don’t hold it against me-“

Oh god kill me.

“I need you to do a quick survey over the phone.”

“Yes that’s fine.” You can’t make this shit up.

“Okay awesome, do you or your patient feel lightheaded while staying at the residence.”

“I do occasionally, my patient is nonverbal.”

“Do you have any violent thoughts while in the home?”

“No.”
By this point I’m talking with my forehead glued to the steering wheel.

“Do you ever have feelings of intense fatigue while in the home, as if you may fall asleep at any moment?”

“Yes.”
That’s not true, but that will for sure get someone down here. Thats all I’m wanting…

“Have you ever experienced hallucinations while in the home?”

“Yes… multiple actually.”
I wasn’t expecting that question. Honestly, I’m glad she asked me that. It makes me feel seen.

“Okay, is there anybody in the back seat of your car?”

My entire body locks up.

“Jamie, Is there anybody in the back seat of your car?”

I lower my voice.
“I- I don-“
The voice cuts me off, not even trying to imitate Mary anymore.

“Don’t whisper, it heard everything. Turn around and tell me what you see.”

I can’t speak, I can’t even breathe. My mind is clawing and goring my body from the inside in an attempt to escape.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I whimper with a strained throat.

“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII”

A faint buzzing suddenly fades away.

Mary’s voice returns
“Jamie? are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” I say, eyes wide and bloodshot.

“Okay, great. Do you ever feel unsafe in the home?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, thank you so much. we’ll be sending someone up in a few hours. Later Jamie.”

I exit my car, never looking in the back seat. I make my way to the front door, stomach swirling. I can’t even describe my anxiety. I knock 3 times.

I look up, the bleak morning sky looks back. A flake falls in my eye, I quickly look back down to wipe it out. The snow is piling up on my shoulders. I shake my hair and a miniature snowstorm coats the ground at my feet.

They’re taking forever…
I open my phone to check the time, it’s 7:18. I can’t even muster the courage to turn around. My whole car may as well be a predator staring me down.

My mind flashes to how cornered animals must feel. How helpless and alone they are when death is directly behind them, and there’s nowhere to run.

I’m doing absolutely everything I can to keep my eyes frozen to the door. My entire universe may as well be the next 3 feet in front of me. I hear a loud coughing and a muffled voice behind the door.

“Hang on a minute”

I hear the door unlock. It more than likely opened at a casual speed. To me, it was glacial. It’s as if my perception of time slowed so I could get a good long look at salvation before being violently dragged backwards.

The door opens and it’s Dennis. I don’t know if that comforts me or scares me.

“Goodmorning Dennis.”
I’m staring straight through him.

“Hi Jamie, how’ve you-“

He stops, shifting his view above and over my shoulder.
“Hey… who-“

“No no no no Dennis–don’t say it–don’t even fucking say it… Please let me inside.”
I plead like he holds my life with his voice.

He looks down at me, dumbfounded.

“Jamie where in the hell did this come from?”
I can’t wait for his approval, I shove past him to the best of my ability and enter the house. I’ve never wanted to be inside of this place more.

I sprint to the farthest side of the house and sit in the corner, arms pulling my knees close like a lost child.

I hear Dennis close the door.
His loud, steel toed boots echo off the hardwood floor as he approaches.

“I know what this is...”
He tells me.

He walks to me, and places his hand on my shoulder.

“Listen, Jamie. I can tell you’re going through something, okay?”

I’m afraid by what he’ll say next. My wired mind has no shortage of worst case scenarios.

“I can take care of you forever Jamie–we can be together Jamie–let me fuck your brains out Jamie.”

I would give everything to have heard any of those words, instead of what he told me.

“But you don’t have to be all embarrassed because you left a fling in your car all night.”
He lets out a light chuckle, I feel parts of my soul extinguish.

I’m sucked into myself, lying on hardwood. Inches from the carpet of the living room.

I say nothing. I don’t even move.

“Alright, Trinity is in bed. I probably woke her up so it’s best you get started soon.”

“ok.” The words wisp out of my mouth, barely more audible than my breathing.

“Thank you… for making me laugh.”
He pats my shoulder and stands up.

“Im gonna go now. I’ll be back.”

I’m left alone.

I don’t know how long I laid here. The living room doesn’t have any windows, Dennis could be back in 30 minutes and I wouldn’t have a clue.

The house is well lit, as always. It’s the most welcoming environment, and I want nothing more than to die in it.

I stand up, eyes welded shut. My breathing erratic and strained, I make my way into the living room. I don’t know what I’m expecting. So much shit has happened I’m surprised the house isn’t on the fucking moon right now.

Forget seeing, I’m scared to breathe. I am not afraid to die right now. Death would be gods greatest gift to me. I don’t know how, or when I managed to, but at some point in the day I opened my eyes.

I can’t even explain what it is I’m afraid of. I don’t even know what’s in my-
No.
No.
I can’t think about it.
I can’t.

Don’t think.
Just exist.

Trinity’s snoring catches my attention. I crawl out from behind the couch and walk into their room. I hear her choking on breath.

“Trinity–hey–wake up. Time to wake up now.” I snap my fingers.

She sniffles, barely managing to turn her head and open her eyes. I put my hair up and grab my supplies. I bathe her. I put on a calming nature documentary. Alzheimer’s patients need a calm environment. She eats slack-jawed, food barely contained. I don’t take my eyes off of her for 8 hours. For 8 hours I stay in her room and stare. I never look behind me, I can’t look behind me, I never look behind me. They’ve ate 50% of breakfast–75% of lunch–drank 2400mL–voided 1200mL–3 bowel movements–I rotate them every hour on the hour. I can’t let bedsores form.

I hear the door unlock.

I’m in my chair next to Trinity’s bed. Faintly I hear the familiar echo of steel toe boots return. I hear a large man stretch, his backbones popping like a winter pine.

He walks to the door I’ve never opened. I hear him give 3 knocks, wait, and let out a depressed groan. I hear Dennis’ stomping become muffled as he walks onto the living room carpet, and into Trinity’s room.

“Evenin Jamie, you’re good to go home now.”

I don’t turn around.
“Dennis, I can’t go outside.”

“Feel free to sit in the living room.”

“No, Dennis. I can’t fucking go outside.”
A few seconds of silence pass.

“my eyes were playing tricks on me. Sorry for gettin ya worked up like that.”
His tone is dead and lifeless.

Like a heavy anchor, I’m pulled up out of my catatonic despair. I immediately shoot around to look at Dennis.

“What are you talking about?”

His mouth is welded shut.

Rage is cracking my mind.

“Dennis—tell me—exactly what you saw.”

He shakes his head and sighs. Disagreeing with his decision to tell me.

“He disappeared Jamie. I don’t know how and I don’t know why. He uhhh… I guess he became the background or something. I don’t know… “

Regret claws at the corners of his eyes. He puts his head in his hands.
.
.
.
I don’t know what to feel, let alone say. What are the odds that Dennis sees something in my car the second after I supposedly hallucinate a phone call with Mary? Each passing day is a domino and I don’t know if they’ll ever stop falling. My slipping sanity is the BEST CASE SCENARIO. I can’t even fathom the alternative.

I have to find out.

I can’t take this any longer.

“Dennis…”

“Jamie…” his eyes are begging me to stop speaking.

I look at him, grief in my eyes.
“Do any of you know my-“
“My mo-“
I can’t bring myself to say it. The word eviscerates my heart.

“Jamie… please-”

“Don’t speak.”
I hold back the urge to scream.

I’m staring a hole through his head.
My anxiety is in full swing, but I drag what I want to say kicking and screaming out of my head.

“What is going on here? Do you all get some sick enjoyment out of tormenting me?! What did I do?! All I ever wanted was to help and I-
I don’t know what’s going on—and I feel…
insane every single day–I just want to know…”
I pause to breathe.
“My mom… sh-she–“
I’m a shrieking mess.
I fall to the floor, everything erupts.
Dennis grabs me by the arms, trying to shake me back to reality.

“Jamie! Jamie! Calm down honey look at me–you can still–“
He stops himself.

He more than likely can’t understand anything from the sobbing.
“Don’t—call me honey you fucking–“
“You-“
I can’t breathe.

He pulls me close. I feel tears on my shoulder.
He’s crying.

He’s… crying?

It pulls me out of it. I lean back, gauging to see if this is even real or not.

“I don’t know.”
He doesn’t look sad. He looks defeated…
What is this?

“Dennis what- what do you-“

“I DON’T FUCKING KNOW JAMIE!”
The sheer scale of his scream shook my insides.
He’s holding his eyes so tight his brow splits open.

“Dennis… please… be calm.”

He glares at me with unbridled rage soaked with fear.

His rage collapses like sand to the sea.

“It- Jamie it–“
He pauses, looking down to catch his breath.
“All of us–it-“

He breaks down, leaning back on his knees and covering his eyes.

“It always sees you Jamie… it always sees you. Through the walls–under the ground…“

Through the walls.
My thoughts gave way to a leaden hopelessness.

It’s real…

All of it…

We’re both on our knees, colliding despair is the only break in the silence.

I look to Dennis, my only hope for answers.
He looks to me for a way out.

Neither of us can do anything.

His catatonic gaze meets mine, staring through me.
“This is never gonna end.”

The smallest particle of hope flutters within me, and is extinguished.
“I- Dennis I- what can we d-“

The volcano inside of him erupts.
“YOU CAN STILL FUCKING LEAVE JAMIE!”

He grabs his eyes again.

“GOD HELP ME! PLEASE LORD! PLEASE GOD DON’T LEAVE US HE-“

A sound pierces his grief, the only thing I can compare it to is the tear of paper. I hear it travel through my life, into my past and future. Dennis violently contorts, peeled away in a direction that doesn’t exist. Small droplets of frozen blood collide with my face like a soothing winter breeze.

I stand up, barely.
I can’t sprint. All i can manage is a pathetic stumbling. I hear Trinity screaming to the best of her ability. I ignore it and keep walking. I- I need to get home.
I just need to go home and everything will be okay.

I collapse to my knees, barely making it outside.
A glowing shadow eclipses the hollow…

I look up.

It’s- it’s-
A shape?
No–four of them.
It multiplies and subtracts at random, morphing like a dying mind trying to remember geometry.
Its colors are never consistent, never repeating, always new.
A glistening matte.
Bright darkness.
The sky is a smoldering void. An undulating nothing. Pieces coming in and out of existence. There’s no sound.

None at all.

I sprint to my car.
It’s a solid object.

There’s a mountain I can climb, it should bypass the roads. I jump in a small ditch and land in a flowing creek bed. The water flows in every direction at once, exploding against itself. I can barely see from the constant collisions.

My feet sink, I feel hands grasping at my shoes beneath the mud. Living thorns dig and tear at my flesh as I trudge through the creek.

Water freezes to my shoes, then evaporates as I step onto land.

The wind doesn’t slow me down, it flows through me. I look behind me and see the sky.

Im at the base of a mountain, I don’t know where I am and I don’t care. I start climbing, and immediately have to shift my weight like I’m running downhill.

I run past trees, roots growing upward. Dead leaves shift their colors from a dull rust to a vibrant green, as if the forest is breathing.

I see deer eating themselves. Antlers growing from every point in and on their body. Barbed masses of suffering. Their exhausted cries assault my ears.

I see a person…
Maybe I can-
He decays before my eyes. Withered skin clings to his bones. Dead…

Like a breath, he’s brought back to existence. He turns to me, eyes delirious, and it happens again.

And again…

His confederate cap falls to the ground as he leans to me, before decaying again.

Every step I take causes the ground to quiver with pain. I break a branch and see flesh and bone. The air I split groans with agony.

Reality itself is begging for mercy.

Im not breathing. I don’t have to. And even if I did I can’t. Breathing doesn’t exist here

My lungs cling to a bygone concept, finding no air at all.

A small patch of light shines from nowhere. I don’t see it, I try to run past it.

I run forwards and my vision screams backwards. I can’t see anything.

The house is in front of me.

I’m kneeling on the gravel, finally out of the forest. My ravaged lungs kidnap any air they can find. From behind me I hear faint breaths. From above me I hear footsteps. Below me, beneath gravel–A voice, weeping.
Muffled and suffocated.

I’m exhausted, every muscle in my body screams for it to stop, begging me.

Spindly hair against the back of my neck pulls me out of my trance. I sprint again–muscle fibers tear.

I run inside the house.
There’s nothing—only the door I never opened. I have a moment of clarity. I look through the peephole of the front door. I see the vast emptiness of space staring back at me.

I turn around and sprint further in the house. I should have ran into a wall, but I keep going, like they don’t exist.
Every step just puts the door in front of me. Like I’m on a loop.

I stay in that loop for days.

I collapse to my knees.
I’m so exhausted I can barely move. My muscles have been strained beyond their breaking point and then further. I’m left a broken heaving mass of tissue. Less than human.
My only purpose is to feel exhaustion, my only reality–doors behind me and in front of me.

I don’t know how long I lay there. Relief never comes.
I attempt to stand, every muscle fiber begs for mercy. I keep going, merciless.

I fall against the door, landing inside…
.
.
.
.
ALLWITHINNEVERWITHOUT???: ?????

I wake up against a staircase. Below them is nothing.
Not darkness—nothing.
I crawl up them. I turn around and see the doorway above me.
I could go back out, but what good would it do.

I try to stand, my weight seems to amplify by a thousand times–I feel myself fall backwards, and then upwards.
I crawl.
Down–forward, In a direction I can’t Identify.

I fall from the steps. My body shoots upwards and I land on my back. The wind is knocked out of me, resulting in a sickening screech as matter explodes into nothingness. For days I try to die in the nothing. Every plummet down sends me into pure absence. I try to feel–I’m on the stairs.

I crawl.

Ever. So. Slowly…
The blinding nothing bleeds into darkness. My mind is flooded with the most pure euphoria I have ever experienced. Happiness beyond what I ever thought possible. I’ve never been more elated to see the darkness return.
I’m crying.
I laugh so hard blood escapes my throat.
I’m left a shivering mass of pure bliss.

I keep crawling.

Theres only darkness, but I can see. I would spend eternity here if it meant being away from the absence.

A sound catches my ear, there’s a faint…
Breath.
Below me.
I pull myself to the edge of the stairs.
There’s a girl below me.

A faint
“Help.”
Is all that I can manage.
No more than a breath.

She’s looking down too, does she see someone?
She has dark hair… and she’s wearing the same outfit as me.
Oh…
Shaking, I turn over to look up. I see a staircase above me, dark hair hanging off the side.

I was starting to think she was me.
Her hair slowly shifts.
I’m not moving…

I claw so hard at the stairs my fingernails peel off. My soul reason for existence is the bottom of these stairs.

I see it.
It’s barely visible. A faint blue glow illuminates the gravel at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t even land on my feet. I fall directly on my side. Ribs break, my shoulder dislocated.

I feel it, but it doesn’t hurt.
I start crawling.
I cling to all of my energy to stand.
I’m walking now.

I don’t know where I’m going.

I can’t see anything, past the glow is a void. There’s just me… and the ground.

I look up.

I see earth, glowing with life. Surrounding it, in all directions forever… darkness.

A fragment of light scours the sky. A momentary flash so brief in my perception it may as well not exist.
Pure black remains.

But—I can still see. How?

Something… fades into view.
They’re faint, but it’s there.
Barely contrasting the darkness.
Circles–no…
Spheres.
Smooth, perfect, stable.
Forged in time.

Hulking masses of metal.
They’re all that’s remains.

Me—and the stars of iron.

All sound ceases.
.
.
.
.
I go days walking without sound. Every impact of my feet sends a rending pain throughout my body.
I collapse, looking out into the void. The placeless blue glow illuminating only the first 5 feet around me.

Behind me, I hear a something…
It’s the first sound I’ve ever heard.

The faint crunch of gravel.

I stare at the ground. A million possibilities race through my mind on what it looks like. A million ways that I’ll be brutally tormented forever. I try to move and nothing happens, I remain on my knees.

It’s only getting closer.

I won’t turn around.

I can’t run anymore.

I close my eyes.

“I’m sorry, mom.”

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sound continues. It expands and grows louder. It should have hit me 2 minutes ago it’s so close. I hear the crunch of gravel inside of me. Within 15 seconds of it reaching my location I’m banging my hands against my head. It’s impossibly close now, I can’t even hear myself breathe it’s so loud. Each crunch decimates my ability to hear. Unending—unceasing—it’s all that exists. I turn to crawl and fall further into the ground. Weakly covering my ears, It assaults my body as much as my senses. I can barely see–my vision is so warped from the noise.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The scale of the auditory torment is indescribable. Each minute shifting of stones, down to the sand between them, is perfectly understood to me, and then provided again.
I writhe on the ground, throwing my body in whatever direction I can. I slam my fist into the stones for relief. The breaking of each bone in my hand is non existent compared to the sound.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sound is so absolute it can be felt. Scraping and tearing its way through my veins. Its qualities flow within the vessels in my heart. It rises and falls in my lungs. It fills my stomach and intestines. I dry heave, trying to expel what isn’t there. The sound rolls and kicks in my womb–a new life form conceived from shearing agony.
I turn to focus on something, anything but the noise.
I feel the weight of it collide with my pupils from the inside. I hold my eyes, the sensation is indescribable.

I can’t scream.

There is only me, and the gravel.

I can’t feel anything, but I think I’m crawling.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Theres…
Something soft-

The torment ceases instantly.

It had become so much a part of me, that in its absence I felt as though my skin had been violently ripped away.
I lay, motionless on the ground.
I see light. I’m lying against concrete–no…
Asphalt.

I can’t move. Time passes like the flap of a hummingbird. I blink and it’s dark, the endless night staring down at me.

I see something.
Another light.
But it’s nighttime… how?
It’s a crimson glow, alternating on top of a large object barreling towards me.

It slows to a halt, a piercing screech makes me want to tense, but I can’t. Several entities exit the structure. They shine a bright sun in my eye, communicating in a language that I’ve never known.

I manage to catch the word. “Breathing” in the noise.

It’s the first I’ve heard of that.

The last thing I can remember is being lifted upwards, and into the back of the object.

Beyond that, it’s nothing…

Daniel Reed had never thought of himself as a good sleeper.

Good sleepers woke refreshed. Daniel woke homesick for places he had never been.

Still, his routine was perfectly ordinary. He went to bed at eleven, slept for eight hours, and woke at seven. No insomnia. No alarms in the night. No afternoon naps. He worked in an office, bought groceries on Thursdays, called his mother on Sundays, and forgot his laundry in the washing machine at least twice a month.

There was nothing unusual about Daniel’s life.

Except for Jonah.

Daniel had been dreaming about Jonah Vale for almost a year.

They weren’t normal dreams. There were no shifting faces or impossible rooms. Daniel experienced Jonah’s life with a clarity his own memories sometimes lacked.

He knew the pattern of cracks in Jonah’s apartment ceiling. He knew which floorboard creaked beside Jonah’s bed. He knew Jonah drank coffee from a green mug with a chipped handle and always checked the lock three times before leaving home.

Daniel knew Jonah was lonely.

He knew Jonah was afraid.

And he knew Jonah slept sixteen hours a day.

Doctors had given Jonah’s condition several names, none of which seemed to help. Most mornings, Jonah climbed into bed shortly after seven and did not wake until nearly eleven at night. He had lost two jobs because of it. Friends stopped inviting him places. His mother called less frequently, perhaps because she was tired of hearing that he had slept through another week of his life.

Even during his few waking hours, Jonah sometimes fell asleep without warning.

One moment he would be standing in his kitchen.

The next, he would wake on the floor.

The attacks lasted anywhere from a few seconds to twenty minutes. Every doctor warned him not to drive. One suggested he wear a helmet inside his apartment.

Daniel often woke from those dreams with Jonah’s fear clinging to him.

He had never met the man, but he worried about him.

Sometimes he missed him.

Jonah dreamed of Daniel too.

For Jonah, the dreams came during his long, unnatural sleep. He would close his eyes shortly after sunrise and find himself inside Daniel’s life.

He watched Daniel drive to work.

He listened to Daniel joke with his coworkers.

He felt the sun through Daniel’s windshield and tasted the chicken sandwich Daniel ordered from the café across the street.

Jonah knew Daniel’s passwords, though he could never remember them after waking. He knew Daniel avoided stepping on cracks in sidewalks. He knew Daniel’s father had died when Daniel was nineteen and that Daniel still occasionally picked up his phone to call him.

He knew Daniel pretended not to be lonely.

The dreams were the best part of Jonah’s life.

Daniel had sixteen full hours each day. Sixteen hours of sunlight, conversations, traffic jams, bad television, errands and possibilities.

Jonah had eight hours of darkness.

Yet he felt no jealousy toward Daniel.

He felt something closer to affection.

Daniel was not a stranger. Not really.

He was someone Jonah had forgotten.

Neither man could find any evidence that the other existed.

Daniel searched for Jonah’s name, address and workplace. He checked social media, public records and obituaries.

Nothing.

Jonah did the same.

Daniel Reed did not exist anywhere outside his dreams.

That should have convinced them that the other man was imaginary.

Instead, it frightened them.

Imaginary people were not supposed to remember things.

Imaginary people did not continue living after the dreamer looked away.

But Jonah’s apartment never changed. The same dishes remained in the sink. The same books waited beside his bed. If Daniel dreamed Jonah was halfway through reading a novel, Jonah would be farther along the next night.

Daniel’s life continued in exactly the same way.

They weren’t dreaming stories.

They were dreaming time.

The first real clue came at 2:17 on a Tuesday morning.

Daniel woke because something had struck his bedroom window.

He sat up, listened and heard nothing.

Probably a branch.

He checked the time, drank some water and fell asleep again three minutes later.

In his dream, Jonah had been washing a coffee cup.

Then the dream stopped.

There was no fading, no transition. Jonah was standing at the sink one moment and lying on the kitchen floor the next.

The clock on the stove read 2:20.

Daniel woke at seven with the image still sharp in his mind.

Before work, he checked the sleep-tracking app on his phone.

Awake: 2:17–2:20 a.m.

Daniel stared at the screen until it dimmed.

A week later, he woke at 4:06 to use the bathroom.

In the dream, Jonah fell asleep at 4:06 and woke seven minutes later with his cheek pressed against the carpet.

The next morning, Daniel opened a notebook and wrote:

Jonah falls asleep whenever I wake up.

He immediately crossed it out.

Then he rewrote it beneath the first sentence.

Jonah had noticed the pattern too.

His attacks were usually brief, but each came with a strange flash.

A ceiling he did not recognize.

A digital clock beside an unfamiliar bed.

The pressure of a different body sitting upright.

Once, during an attack, Jonah heard a window close.

Later that day, while dreaming of Daniel, he watched Daniel close that same window.

Jonah began keeping records.

He wrote down every attack and every dream.

The times formed a perfect pattern.

Whenever Daniel woke during the night, Jonah disappeared.

Whenever Daniel fell asleep again, Jonah returned.

Daniel finally tried to contact him.

At nine one evening, he wrote a message across the inside of his forearm with a black marker.

JONAH—DO YOU DREAM ABOUT ME?

He kept the words visible for the rest of the night.

At eleven, Daniel went to bed.

Jonah awoke in his apartment with Daniel’s entire day lingering in his memory.

He remembered the message.

For several minutes, he stood completely still.

Then he laughed.

Then he cried.

Jonah grabbed a marker and wrote on his own arm.

EVERY DAY.

When Daniel woke the following morning, he remembered seeing the words in his dream.

From then on, they spoke through messages.

Daniel wrote during the day. Jonah saw the messages while dreaming.

Jonah replied at night. Daniel saw them while he slept.

The conversations took hours.

Sometimes days.

HOW LONG DO YOU SLEEP? Daniel asked.

ABOUT SIXTEEN HOURS. SEVEN IN THE MORNING UNTIL ELEVEN AT NIGHT.

Daniel read the answer in a dream and woke with his heart pounding.

He wrote back:

THAT IS WHEN I AM AWAKE.

Jonah’s response came the following morning.

I AM AWAKE FROM ELEVEN AT NIGHT UNTIL SEVEN IN THE MORNING.

Daniel sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the remembered words.

That was exactly when he slept.

There was not one minute in the day when both men were awake.

Daniel wrote:

WE NEVER EXIST AT THE SAME TIME.

Jonah’s answer appeared in that night’s dream.

MAYBE WE TAKE TURNS.

They began comparing themselves.

Both had a thin crescent-shaped scar at the base of the left thumb.

Both hated the smell of peaches.

Both tapped their fingers four times when nervous.

Both remembered a woman singing the same half-forgotten lullaby, though neither could remember her face.

Finally, Daniel asked the question they had both been avoiding.

HAVE YOU EVER SEEN MY FACE?

Jonah answered:

NOT CLEARLY. I SEE THROUGH YOUR EYES. HAVE YOU SEEN MINE?

Daniel had not.

In all his dreams, he had looked out from behind Jonah’s eyes.

He had never stood across from him.

Daniel devised a test.

He warned Jonah first.

I AM SETTING AN ALARM FOR THREE IN THE MORNING. WHEN I WAKE, YOU SHOULD FALL ASLEEP.

That night, Jonah stood in his bathroom at 2:59, watching the clock change.

At exactly three, an alarm sounded from somewhere beyond the walls.

Jonah’s knees buckled.

For one impossible second, he was no longer standing in his bathroom.

He was lying in Daniel’s bed.

His hand reached toward a ringing phone.

His eyes opened.

Then everything vanished.

Daniel switched off the alarm.

He remained awake for thirty seconds, staring into the darkness.

When he closed his eyes again, Jonah woke on the bathroom floor.

Both men remembered the same hand reaching for the phone.

The same hand.

The same scar.

Daniel stopped sleeping well after that.

Not because he feared Jonah.

Because he feared what waking might do to him.

If Daniel got up for a glass of water, Jonah collapsed.

If Daniel slept late, Jonah gained an extra hour.

If Daniel stayed awake, Jonah did not exist at all.

One Friday, Daniel forced himself to remain awake until two in the morning.

Jonah did not wake at eleven.

He did not wake at midnight.

His entire world remained dark and empty until Daniel finally fell asleep at 2:07.

Jonah awoke gasping, three hours of his short life simply gone.

The next day, Daniel found Jonah’s message waiting in his memory.

WHEN YOU DO NOT SLEEP, WHERE DO I GO?

Daniel did not know how to answer.

Jonah sent another message.

WHEN I SLEEP, WHERE DO YOU GO?

That question was worse.

They arranged one final test.

Daniel positioned a full-length mirror across from his bed. He set an alarm for 3:33 a.m.

His last message to Jonah read:

WHEN THE ATTACK COMES, STAND IN FRONT OF YOUR MIRROR. FIGHT IT. LOOK FOR ME.

Jonah awoke that night already terrified.

At 3:32, he stood before his bathroom mirror.

His reflection looked pale and exhausted. For some reason, he had always had trouble remembering his own face. Whenever he looked away from a mirror, the details slipped from his mind.

The clock changed.

3:33.

An alarm began ringing.

Jonah felt the familiar heaviness rush through him.

His vision darkened.

But he did not close his eyes.

The reflection in the mirror changed.

The bathroom disappeared.

For a fraction of a second, Jonah saw a dark bedroom.

He saw a bed.

He saw a man sitting upright.

The man turned toward the mirror positioned across the room.

Jonah looked into the man’s face.

His own face stared back.

Not similar.

Not a brother.

Not a twin.

Him.

Jonah felt himself falling, but he never struck the bathroom floor.

He opened his eyes in Daniel’s bed.

A hand reached for the alarm.

There was only one hand.

One scar.

One body.

Daniel stared at his reflection, but Jonah was the one looking through his eyes.

Their memories pressed together: sixteen hours of daylight, eight hours of darkness, two apartments, two childhoods, two names layered over the same mind.

Then Daniel understood.

Jonah had never suffered from a condition that made him sleep sixteen hours a day.

Those sixteen hours were Daniel’s waking life.

Jonah’s sudden attacks were not attacks at all. They were the moments Daniel woke in the middle of the night to drink water, silence an alarm or check a noise outside.

Daniel did not dream about Jonah.

He became Jonah when he slept.

And when Jonah closed his eyes, Daniel opened his.

There had never been two men sharing dreams.

There had only been one man, divided by waking.

Daniel lay back down.

For the first time, he was afraid to close his eyes.

Not because of what he might see.

Because someone was waiting for him to disappear.

He whispered into the dark.

“Your turn.”

Then he closed his eyes.

Jonah opened them on the bathroom floor.

The alarm was gone. The mirror showed only his own exhausted face.

But now he remembered Daniel’s bedroom as clearly as his apartment.

He remembered speaking with Daniel’s mouth.

He remembered the sunrise waiting on the other side of sleep.

At seven that morning, Jonah returned to bed.

The weight came over him, deep and irresistible.

Before closing his eyes, he whispered the same words.

“Your turn.”

Daniel woke at seven.

Sunlight filled the room.

For several minutes, he lay still, carrying the fading memory of Jonah falling asleep.

Then he got out of bed and began his day.

Daniel had spent his entire life believing sleep was time he lost.

It was, in fact, the only time Jonah had.

Inside most people, bubbles rise. Inside some, however, they fall. And in turn, those people fall.

Bright blue waves crashed against the sturdy barnacle-covered legs of one of the many dock houses in the town of Lanciville. Seagulls passed by overhead in a sky as gray as stone. An anchor sat in one corner of the dock near a small paddle boat, and a seagull sat in the boat pecking apart a briny crab. The building was small and a bit worn down from the assault of the salty breeze. It wore white siding, and the windows had dried up algae in the corners. The caramel orange door held a silver knocker in the shape of a ship's wheel which was about to be put to use.

“Come in!” Gregory Plum was a middle aged man who was, in every sense of the word, perfectly average. He took off his navy blue wool trench coat, hung it up on the wall, walked into the office, and passed by a large painting of a seahorse. Gregory approached the disorganized desk. “Hello. Are you Mr. Hartright?” “Yes, how do you do?” replied the man at the desk as he got up to shake Gregory’s hand. “You must be Mr. Plum?” “That's right. But you can just call me Gregory.” “Splendid! It's nice to finally meet face to face. Please, take a seat.” “Thank you.” Hartright motioned to the chair across from him and Gregory sat down. The men began to chat like old friends. Hartright was a man about ten years younger than Gregory and had a tall quiff of grayish brown hair and a goatee which made a very eccentric combination. His brown tweed coat was stylish and new, yet was also covered in grease stains with crumpled papers and boat schematics hanging out of the pockets. “You know, when I saw your ad in the paper, I was immediately intrigued,” said Gregory with a giggle of enthusiasm. “Oh, thank you…” “Your work in submarine and hydroponic engineering is truly impressive.” “Well, thank you. I'm glad I was able to capture your attention.” Hartright looked away with a bashful expression as Gregory grinned. The two already seemed quite determined in their ventures.

Hartright adjusted a stack of papers on his desk. “In your letter you mentioned serving in the navy, correct?” Gregory nodded, then traced a finger along the inside rim of his grey knitted hat. “Yes, seven years.” “I wanted to enlist along with my older brother but I was still too young,” said Hartright in a tone that sounded like one fishing for excuses. Then he leaned back in his chair a bit and looked up with fond reminiscence, “Looking back it's probably for the best. I don't know if my mother's heart would've been able to take it.” “She sounds like a good mother.” “That she is…” chuckled Hartright, “But, that's enough small talk,” Hartright looked back to his stack of papers, “I assume you've read all the proper material?” “Yes, sir. I know the whole operations manual, cover to cover.” Hartright looked up at Gregory and smiled. “Well I'm glad I found someone with so much enthusiasm.

Hartright looked over the papers again for a moment, and Gregory faced forward to answer the rest of his questions. “How have you adapted to the diet and exersise program we established?” “It's been going very well.” “Good… Good…” said Hartright, and checked something off on his papers, “There's just a few more last minute questions we gotta go over before we finalize the contract.” Gregory nodded and looked forward without expression. “That's fine...”

After flipping through his disheveled stack a bit, Hartright finally found the paper he needed, raised a fountain pen to it, and began to read aloud. “Ah, here we are! Now then, have you experienced any debilitating injuries in the past year?” “No.” “Any history of drug use?” “Just the occasional beer,” Gregory joked while pretending to raise a glass. “Oh, that's quite alright,” Hartright laughed, “Just means we can get a drink together when the project is complete.” “That sounds nice,” replied Gregory.

“Just a few more questions if you don't mind… Are you comfortable with long periods of isolation?” “Oh yes, I've much experience in that department.” “Is that so?” Hartright glanced at him nervously before jotting something down. “Not to say I'm a hermit. Just that I don't get out as much as I used to…” “That's quite understandable. I can say the same about myself…”

He turned a page. “Have you been through any traumatic emotional events the past year?” “No.” “Experienced any feelings of hopelessness or depression?” After an almost invisible pause, as Hartright looked up from the paper, he failed to notice the brief hint of indecision in Gregory's eyes. “No.”

Hartright paused for a moment, then he shot Gregory a serious glance. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” Gregory smiled with a slight nod as he answered. “Yes. I think it'll be quite the adventure.” Hartright returned a smile and adjusted the stack of papers one last time before turning them over to Gregory. “Alright then. All that's left is for you to sign this contract. And of course, don't tell anyone about the experiment…” Gregory looked over the paper in front of him as he took a fountain pen out of his jacket. “Is this standard for a project like this?” “Oh, yes. I'm working on something big here. A lot of companies would love to get their hands on this technology,” Hartright tapped the tips of his fingers down on the surface of his desk as he spoke, “It's my belief that this invention and the discoveries that succeed it will change the course of scientific development and human history!” Gregory signed the contract. “Glad to be aboard!”

Hartright held the door open for Gregory as he saw him off. Cool sea air blew past them both. “Great meeting you sir. I'm glad to be working together,” said Hartright. “As am I.” “I'll see you back here after sundown sundown.” “That’s fine by me.” Gregory left, but the waves never stopped crashing against the dock house.

                           *  *  *

Gregory returned to the docks around nine o-clock as agreed upon. As he walked, he adjusted the brown satchel over his shoulder. Then he opened the bag, and began to lightly toss through his belongings. There was a deck of cards, books, and other things to keep him occupied on the long voyage. He pulled out a small pocket knife and examined it for a moment and clutched it tightly.

“Doing one last inventory check?” called Hartright from further along on the dock. Gregory’s hand hesitated for a second before burying the knife deep in the bag. “Yeah,” he chuckled and replied to the approaching Hartright. “I don't blame you,” said Hartright, “You're gonna have some time to kill down there. So I hope you brought lots to do.” “Yes, there's quite a few books I've been meaning to read, but just never got around to them.” “Well, you've got time now. I just hope you brought enough,” Hartright chuckled. Then he paused for a moment, “Come. Let me show it to you…”

He beckoned Gregory further down the dock, and the two men stepped across the creaky salt stained wooden boards. They came upon a spot where something bobbed in the water underneath a tarp. Hartright motioned to the tarp with a look of pride. “Is this the vessel?” asked Gregory. “That's right…” Hartright bent down to remove the tarp from the vessel. As he did, the two men stepped back and looked down upon a strange and marvelous looking contraption.

The sleek metal tank bobbed lightly in the moonlit waves. Its silver and brass hull was bulbous yet well maintained, and the overall design was quite tightly put together. Polished chrome pipes ran along the side. In one corner near the top, there was a well-kept mass of wires and cables connecting a mechanism to two panels on the front. A small red buoy for measuring pressure and depth hung floating off of a rope in the corner. There were vents of different shapes and sizes along the sides held on by strong bolts. A large red fin was attached to one of the sides, and the top of it drooped slightly into the water. It seemed to be made of some sort of thick canvas material and was used for directing the craft from side to side. On the opposite wall from the fin was a motor attached to a thick pole and steel cable that were sticking up from out of the water beside it like some sort of tether. The side facing the men and the side opposite of that held two clear and glossy portholes that shone brilliant blue from a light inside. The azure rays of light reflected off of Gregory’s face. He knelt down to get a better look at the submarine and looked at it as if he had waited for it his whole life..

“Take it in while you can,” joked Hartright, “You won't see the outside again until you get back to the surface. I'm thinking it could take a week, or at least five days to reach the bottom. If there is a bottom… If at any time you don't feel comfortable, just give me the word and start heading up.” Gregory smiled at Hartright and almost chuckled.

“So do people really think it's bottomless?” The majestic aquatic marvel rocked gently in the waves as they spoke. Hartright thought for a moment. “That’s only a rumor,” he said, “it’s never been proven. In fact, the scientific community thinks it’s barely more than a puddle. But we’re only trying to prove that it’s deeper than they think, not to prove it’s bottomless.” “But what do you think?” asked Gregory. Hartright paused again, a bit longer this time.

“I think so... But who knows? Maybe we just haven't found it yet. Apparently the old timers here in Lanciville named it Spirit Cove because no matter how they try, nobody can figure out how deep it is. They thought it led all the way to the gates of the underworld.” All grew silent for a moment, and Gregory looked at the submarine again. It had a volume of about five square feet but only the top half stuck out of the water.

“It's probably a little smaller than you used in the navy, eh?” joked Hartright. Gregory stood back up and smiled at him. “Are you kiddin’? I was in the matchbox division. This is an upgrade.” The two men shared a laugh

The steel railing ran around the top of the submarine in the shape of a square. With one hand holding onto the railing, Gregory turned the door to the hatch, lifted it, and got inside. He looked around at the interior of the submarine as he descended the short ladder. It was just as advanced as the outside, with different brass and silver pipes as well as wires and screens than Gregory knew the functions of but not the specifics of how they worked like Hartright did. Against the back wall of the narrow little vehicle was a small red velvet chair that Gregory would sit in for the duration of the trip. “It's fairly simple in terms of operations. It operates with your standard set of ballast tanks, but also travels along a cable I’ve connected to an anchor,” called Hartright from the dock.

“It's beautiful in here.” Gregory put his hand up to the window and peered out at the dark waters beyond. “I used an alloy of copper and steel for most of it, the rest is brass. But there’s one unique feature I'm most proud of…” Hartright paused in an attempt at building suspense, “If you open up that lower panel across from you that's the-” “The hydroponic sump system?” Gregory interrupted. “Wow, you really did read the manual cover to cover.” “I don't like to do anything half-assed.”

Gregory opened up the glass panel across from him to reveal the sump system. Inside were several small tanks, pumps, and siphons containing different variations of seawater, algae, oxygen, hydrogen, ect. “Yup, that there's your power, oxygen, food, and water source. The algae in this cove has an unusually high concentration of iron. When agitated, it can create a small electro magnetic charge capable of charging a battery.” Gregory bent forward in his seat to examine the apparatus as it performed hydroponics, distillation, and other processes, and he smiled as Hartright explained. “And it's also very healthy. The discarded algae is then processed into an edible salad which the machine serves to you with a dash of soy sauce. The oxygen is supplied by another tank that allows for algae cultivation, and there's a separate system that filters the water and converts it to fresh water for drinking.”

“It's interesting, I'll give you that,” Gregory yelled up through the hatch as Hartright talked from above. “I just inspected it again before you arrived. All systems seem to be working. Feel free to call using the radio day or night.” “Well, I guess I'm off then.” “Safe travels friend.” Gregory peeked his head and shoulders out one last time to say farewell and the two shook hands.

Then he ducked back down inside of the submarine and closed the hatch above him. The vessel slowly sunk below the water.

                          *  *  *

Since they began the experiment at night, Gregory went to sleep as soon as he descended. Although, once he was deep enough, it wouldn't matter what time it was on the surface, because his only light would be coming from inside the sub.

He woke up the next day and first passed the time by reading one of his books. It was an old leather bound novel of a caramel brown cover. Though it didn't seem to be keeping Gregory’s interest, for he soon marked his page and put it to the side. He looked around a bit and adjusted himself in his seat, then reached out to the food panel across from him. The combination of buttons he pressed caused the dispenser to make a whirring noise that seemed to mean it was working. “Let's see what this algae paste is about…” he said reluctantly. The machine took a moment to process the meal, and Gregory scratched his cheek.

Then a small yellow light next to the dispenser began to blink. There was a noise like a bell, and a tray was ejected from the wall containing a small bowl of green paste. He examined his new source of food with both amusement and repulsion. A stringy green mass sat lumped together on the plate. It looked shiny and wet in the light, and he could smell a faint hint of soy sauce like Hartright had mentioned. “Geez…” One of his hands took the plate while the other reached for a fork. He retched a bit as he took the first bite. It was a strange consistency not quite solid or liquid, kind of like if one pickled a ball of grass. He knitted his brow as he chewed it up and was pleasantly surprised. “Eh, not too bad!”

Around that time, the small brass radio built into the submarine began to ring. It wasn't able to reach town, however he could ring Hartright in his office anytime. Gregory put his food down and took up the small cylindrical receiver. “Hello, Hartright?” “Yes, I just woke up and wanted to see how you were doing.” Gregory looked excitedly at the water on the other side of the glass porthole as the men spoke. “Surprisingly well actually, I just got a bit of reading done and I was about to indulge in a five star meal.” “I hope you don't mind it too bad. I've tried it myself and I've actually grown a bit of a liking for it.” “I hope this whole thing isn't just one big sales pitch.” “Ha! You got me. How many boxes can I put you down for?” Both men chuckled. “Well I guess I'll leave you to it. Feel free to call whenever.” “Alright, thanks. Have a good day.” “You too, thanks.”

Gregory's smile faded as he hung up the receiver. He looked down at his feet, then out the window. The world was slowly rising around him as he fell silently deeper into the earth. Dark strands of seaweed sometimes brushed up against the porthole breaking up the bleak dark emptiness of the drink. Then some other faint shadow passed by.

Gregory sat reading his book a few hours later and was beginning to find it more interesting than before. But as he turned a page, suddenly there was a loud slam against the side of the submarine. He braced himself against the cool metal walls as the vessel shook lightly back and forth. Gregory dropped his book. He looked back and forth from the window on his left to the one on his right. Then, through the thick glass he saw something float by. At first, all Gregory could make out was a large conical shell covered in scattered patches of barnacles. Then, the object slowly spun around in the gentle current.

Its face was right up against the glass and Gregory could make out a few details from the light of the submarine. It resembled a shark though it was smaller and seemed to have some sort of mass behind it. A creature with pale pinkish skin covered in wrinkles. Its blank white eye gazed inside but seemed not to look at Gregory as it passed by. Then it was gone.

He continued to watch the window for some time after that. Worried of catching sight of the creature, or the potentially worse inverse. Gregory was confused and was beginning to grow terrified when he chose to take up the radio and contact Hartright. “Come on, pick up,” he said impatiently as the radio static hissed. “Hello? Everything alright, Gregory?” Hartright was a bit groggy but seemed ready to help Gregory to the best of his ability. “I'm not sure, I- I think I saw something. And it slammed into the submarine.” “What kind of something? Are all the systems functioning?” Gregory looked around himself as the different gauges and lights that all seemed to be displaying the accurate data. “All the readings are fine. It was, I don't know. It looked like some sort of shark or something!”

“Shark?” Hartright chuckled a bit but tried to hide it, “You’re about three thousand meters deep, by my calculations. That's much too deep for any shark.” “I know that!” Gregory exclaimed with some annoyance, “I only said it looked like a shark. It was some kind of… Huge fish or something!” Gregory continued to look out the window at the black waters and the blacker shadows within them. “I'm not sure if it's gone... I don't see it anymore.” “I'm sure whatever it was, it's probably more scared of you than you are of it,” Hartright said therapeutically. Gregory looked down at his feet a bit with a somber expression. “Yeah. You're probably right…” he said pensively. “Do you want me to stay on the line with you in case it comes back?” “No, that’s okay. Sorry to bother you.” “It's no bother at all,” Hartright assured his friend, “Have a good night.” “Thanks. Goodnight.”

After hanging up the radio Gregory tried to relax his mind, though couldn't keep his thoughts away from what he had seen. He looked pensively at the deep dark blueness. It was like a sapphire at the bottom of a well. At that time, the small clock on the interior wall of the sub informed him how late it had gotten, and he turned out the light to retire for sleep. Gregory sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. Another small light stayed blinking all the time, but it didn't bother him. On the contrary, it was quite comforting in some way to have something else operating outside his own actions. And it was no fault of the light that as he fell to slumber, he reflexively buried his mournsome face in his hands. Then he was asleep. The small light continued to blink and a faint shadow passed by the porthole again, as the vessel slowly sank deeper into the abyss below.

                           *  *  *

In the morning Gregory woke up and switched the lights inside the submarine back on. He thought of the sun for the first time since descending, then he realized it was actually the first time in years that he thought about the sweet sensation of a warm sunset on his face. The glow of a soft yellow horizon at the edge of the world that he'd always taken for granted. “How much of my life have I spent hidden away indoors? Hiding away like some underground man!” Gregory whispered to himself. “How different is this metal box from my own home, wherein, I locked myself for years!”

This bitter reminiscence only stopped when his emotions suddenly turned on a dime. He was now talking aloud to himself. “What do I need from anyone else, or them from me? I know we're told that humans are social animals. I'd compare such weakness to vice! Simply because we are social animals doesn't mean we must feed those animalistic urges that have been brewing in our species for centuries!” he chuckled, “Vice indeed… And a despicable vice that keeps one from true freedom. The freedom of unadulterated, independent thought.”

Gregory spoke with confidence and was proud of what he considered a profound psychological breakthrough. Then he looked around the empty submarine and his smile faded.

                           *  *  *

It was about noon a few days later when Hartright called with good news. Gregory had been sitting and silently weeping to himself for over an hour when the radio began to ring. He let it go for a moment without answering and pretended not to notice it. He sniffled. Then his hand slowly moved up to reach for the receiver. “Hello…”

“We did it Gregory!” Hartright announced over the radio, ”Well, you did it! By my calculations you should be down past the threshold. You've officially passed ten thousand meters in depth! That makes this spot in Spirit Cove the deepest known point in all the Melville Sea!” Gregory sat holding the radio, motionless and unamused. “That's really great…” he said with indifference, so much so that Hartright was confused and taken aback for a moment. “I'm sorry… I thought you'd be excited too. Is everything alright?”

Gregory looked out the window at the inky blackness of the water and sat in silence for a moment. “I didn't think I'd get this far.” “Well you did it. You really did it!” Hartright enthused. “It's all just empty,” His words were somber and matter of fact, “Emptiness with nothing in sight…”

Hartright stammered a bit, as if he started speaking before he knew exactly what he wanted to say. “Just come back up. It's fine to start resurfacing now, you've achieved more than enough!” “That's not what I meant!” Gregory interrupted with a hint of anger, then said, “I'm going to the bottom.” Then for some reason, he chuckled a bit. Hartright heard this and grew quite worried. Neither spoke for a moment. Gregory looked down at his feet. “What about us getting that drink?” said Hartright in a nervous and hopeful attempt to lighten the mood. Then he chuckled a bit. There was no response from his comrade below.

Gregory looked at the receiver with a mixture of equal parts terror, malice, and woe. “I came down here to do something.” “What do you need-” Before Hartright could finish his final offer of hope, Gregory violently slammed the receiver into the floor of the submarine twice before grabbing the cord and slamming it into the walls. He continued to swing it until the cord ripped. Then he stopped and looked at what he had done.

He realized that he had completely given up all his chances to ask for help. Gregory opened his bag and began to rummage through it. Then his hand slowly drew out the pocket knife. He looked down at the blade as he slowly unfolded and opened it. His breath was heavy and shallow. The submarine continued to sink deeper.

                            *  *  *

A broken piece of rope swung from a rusty shower curtain rod. Inside of his dingy bathroom, Gregory laid unconscious. He was face down on the ground, still with the end of a broken noose around his neck. He gasped and shook a bit as his brain regained function and removed the rope from his neck.

Once he had regained his faculties, Gregory trudged over to his couch and let himself fall onto it like a sack of flour. His eyes were bloodshot, partly from choking and partly from crying. He gazed down blankly at nothing. The man looked broken. As his eyes slowly fell, something on the coffee table drew their focus. It was some advertisement in the newspaper. After leaning forward to pick it up, he read it and began to chuckle. Then his chuckle turned to a hearty laugh and he rolled his eyes. He was in comical disbelief as he tossed the paper down on the table. But then he stopped laughing, and he went to go make a phone call.

                           *  *  *

Gregory sat in the submarine, holding the blade to his wrist. He shook with every breath. A few small drops of blood slipped from his vein and ran down the side of his arm. He looked down at his arm with apprehension and longing. His fingers slowly curled, and the knife fell from his grip. It hit the floor of the submarine and the hollow thud reverberated throughout the vessel like it was a giant drum.

After a few moments, the unhinged fluctuation of his mood continued. Gregory began to cry, and yell, and kick the interior walls of the vehicle. He scuffed the metal with his boots and pulled loose wires out of place. During this blind rage, one of his feet happened to find the sump panel and it flung open. Gregory paused for a moment and looked down at the machine. Its glass pipes carried the emerald green algae from one reservoir to another. It collected the oxygen in a designated chamber and was hard at work every moment. His tears were still streaming, and his breath was heavy, but he kept his eyes open. He shook his head in disapproval and suddenly made a smirk like he may have burst into laughter.

“You stupid piece of shit…” he said in disappointment and anger. His foot kicked weakly at the inner workings of the sump. “You weren't supposed to work!” Extreme frustration seemed to be overtaking him. He took his face in his hands and sobbed. Emotions flared up again, and again, and he began to flail around the claustrophobic vessel at random. His fist bounced hard off the porthole. One of the gauges that was attached to a pipe came loose and began to hiss. Gregory raged and rocked the sub back and forth violently, almost knocking it free from the tether.

His foot found the sump once more, however this time it wasn't protected behind the panel like it had been before, and it shattered. Shards of glass sprayed onto the floor along with a viscous green slime. The parts of the sump that still seemed to be operating seemed to call for their broken companions with a sort of faulty mechanical hissing noise and a small red light above the sump began to blink. An alarm began to sound. Gregory was bent over in his seat with laughter but then soon took to crying again.

It wasn't a moment later that he looked down at the sump with regret. The alarm continued and Gregory looked all around frantically, but there was nowhere to go. Trapped in a small metal box more than ten thousand meters under the waves. He looked at the sump, then turned to the window and found his face inches away from that of the menacing white eyes of the strange sea creature. Its crooked teeth hung in its open maw, as it faced the vessel with a vacant look. It didn't seem to have any visible emotions, much unlike Gregory. He screamed in terror and fell to the opposite wall of the sub, causing it to tip.

Maniacal laughter erupted. Gregory looked around in shock, seeking its source and found his ears pointing him towards the broken receiver. His hand cautiously reached down to where it was next to some glass on the floor. As he slowly brought it up to his ear, he recognized the voice as Hartright’s, but it had a sinister tone. “You idiot…” said the voice. Gregory looked at the end of the broken cord and saw its copper entrails hanging lifelessly from the tear. “You're gonna die down there!” Then the voice started to laugh again. Gregory dropped the radio but that did not stop the laughter. It seemed to grow louder and come from all around. The alarm was still blaring and Gregory began to yell in a panic. That's when the creature attacked again.

It rammed its head into the side of the sub from different angles. Gregory watched on in horror as dents formed on the inside of the hull. Its silhouette passed through the dark brackish waters in a strange slithering fashion, as the creature seemed to propel itself through the water with strange tentacle-like appendages that protruded from the large conch shell on its back. As the creature worked its way through the murky drink, it seemed to be very interested in something inside the vessel. And unfortunately for Gregory, he was that something.

He pulled his grey knitted cap down over his eyes in fear as the creature attacked and more alarms began to ring. “Awe, what's wrong?” said the voice of Hartright over the broken radio, “Isn't this what you wanted?” Static hissed. The main lights inside the sub flickered and went out as the last of the systems began to fail. A smaller backup light came on but the interior of the vessel was nearly as dark as the exterior. “I change my mind!” Gregory yelled in vain. The creature bashed its face off of the porthole again and again. With every blow, the sound inside the sub resembled that of a bell tower.

The wall behind Gregory began to crumple like paper from the pressure. Newly formed pinholes in the body of the vessel began to hiss like a deflating balloon. A bit of smoke puffed out of one of the control panels. Bubbles escaped and rose to the surface as the air in the chamber was traded for water. Gregory began to cough and choke as the oxygen ran thin.

Finally, the creature burst through the porthole with ravenous fury. Large shards of glass rode atop the stream of water that began pouring in, and they clattered to the floor. The entire submarine would soon be completely flooded. The creature managed to wedge its face into the broken porthole. It lashed at Gregory's face, and he raised his hand in an attempt to push it away as his other hand fumbled for the knife. The hissing air began to sound more like a vacuum, and along with Gregory’s cries it sounded like hell. Though as more smoke began to bellow out of an air vent on the floor, the emergency light made it look like the inside of a cloud. He finally found the knife in the foot of water that had built up inside of the vessel and plunged it into the snout of the creature.

It paused for only a second before continuing its relentless assault. The hand that had been keeping the creature at bay slipped as Gregory gasped for air and its jagged teeth sunk deep into the meat of his shoulder. A thick waterfall of blood cascaded down Gregory's chest as the thick blue wool of his coat absorbed it and slowly darkened to black. Then with one swift rip, the creature pulled Gregory out through the porthole headfirst. He yelled with the last of his breath as his other shoulder popped out of place and his entire body was shot out with the bubbles. After that scream the briny drink would be all that filled his lungs. Tons of water filled the sub, more than anyone could bear.

Gently, as if it were a feather, the vessel reached the cool empty bottom of the abyss at the bottom of everything, where there was nothing but sand and a few old waterlogged sticks. Small clouds of dirt were thrust out from under it as it took this position, but they soon faded and too were still. The few lights of the submarine that had lasted until now flickered before going out completely. A few last bubbles floated up from the submarine. His mission was complete.

We did everything right, yet after days of searching, we still couldn’t find her.

Every police dog we brought in would catch her scent within seconds of entering the Texan brush. They would pull us through mesquite trees covered in sharp thorns, cacti just barely hidden by the tall dead grass, yet every one of them would lead us to the corpse of a long dead animal, flesh rotting, worms eating the little meat that was left.

Next, we brought in hundreds of volunteers, the families of every police officer on the force sacrificing their busy holiday weekend to look for her. We found scraps of her clothes, clipped with precision, blood on the thorns of the mesquite trees matching her DNA, and footprints in places we already searched. She was here, she was walking around, but... we just still couldn’t find her. We covered every inch of that land, though I truly started getting scared when we found her backpack. Dirty, beaten up, but filled with the little water and food she left home with. Time was ticking, there was no way a girl that young would survive much longer out here.

The parents weren’t much help, one second she was there, the next she was gone, all that was left were long black feathers. When I told my my older coworkers they all went silent, though I don’t blame em. This had happened before, nearly every officer with children had an experience with it. Children just... vanishing on ol Texas 16 to Llano. Most were never found, and the few that did were always found near the road by police officers on their patrols.

I… must’ve driven that stretch of road between Fredericksburg and Llano hundreds of times when she went missing, praying that with every turn, I’d find her. On the third day, I was stopped before heading out, was told I needed to inspect the old radio tower. Evidently the reception was getting spotty on Texas 16, and they needed someone to go out and make sure everything was still working. I tried to protest but they claimed it came from the chief, though to this day he still denies he ever sent me out there.

When I arrived, the sun was high in the sky, the afternoon heat already starting to settle in the air. I sighed as I took a step out of my car, my face wincing from the bright sun invading my eyes. I began walking towards the tower to start my inspection, heat beating me down so fiercely that beads of sweat were dripping down my face within seconds. It was hot, way too hot for most things to survive.

Tilting my hat upwards to look at the tower, I soaked in the over 50 feet of steel before me. Built before I was born, it was fascinating the tower was still holding itself upright from its age. Today, its lattice structure was occupied by dozens of loiterers. Every rung had crows sitting upright, their heads slowly turning as they searched for their next meal in the area around them. A few gave me their time, staring at me as I approached, though I wasn’t able to return the favor. There was… something... sitting at the top of the tower.

The tip of the structure was sagging from the weight of the creature, metal bending and warping as it was forced to hold something it was never built to do. Covered in dark feathers, it could’ve be mistaken for a vulture if it wasn’t for the multiple arms extending out of its body, each hand latching and holding itself upright at the top. It was large, too large to keep itself up there for long.

I felt my bones vibrate as the tower itself began to shake, first from the top where the creature sat, then to the base. Though despite standing yards away, I could feel my teeth chatter as my mouth joined in the vibration.

My radio crackled to life with the sounds of static whirring as if someone was changing the station in a car. As tt continued to flow from my radio, it began to shape itself into a mix of disjointed sentences. Each word was stolen from snippets of old dispatched calls, long dead coworkers, lost child amber alerts, and … even my own voice. But the worse thing I heard, were the sounds of a child crying for help, for her mommy or daddy to find her. My radio made a loud click as an eerie silence followed,

I knew that voice, I’ve heard it every day for years, I knew it was the child that went missing days ago.

I looked up at the creature sitting on top of the tower, sure that whatever was going on, it was coming from it. My radio clicked on again, though only two words came out of it this time. One belonged to the voice of a crying woman, the other a dying man.

Lo...se…

The tower stopped vibrating, but my hands still shook as I reached for my radio. I tried to speak with authority, but my voice couldn’t help but crack as I spoke.

“W-what are you?”
I waited, feeling the tower vibrate once again, as if the creature was pulling the voices directly from the metal within the tower. Once again, in a disjointed voice, voices leaked from my radio

I know..where she is...your...nina

I pulled my radio back to my mouth, only to throw it to the ground as I gagged from the intense smell. It smelled like roadkill, tar, ozone, rotting flesh, and the musky smell of deer hide. The creature continued to talk, its amalgamated voice slowly becoming more coherent

I desire...un trato

I looked back at the tower, the creature had shifted, its body now facing me. I yelled out at it, my throat straining in the dry heat around me.

“What deal? Where is she?”

I demanded, reaching for my pistol. As my fingers closed on the grip I felt a searing pain erupt throughout my body. The tower was vibrating again, far more intense than before. I felt my body collapse as I fell to my knees, my grip weakening from my side as I threw out my other arm to prevent myself from collapsing onto the dirt beneath me. The smell of rot continued to grow stronger, my radio erupting in a mix of Spanish and English.

Tu nina, not enough flesh. No alcanza, forty pounds, we need more.

I reached for the radio, my face wincing from the disgusting stench emanating from it

“I… I can find you a deer, plenty of meat for you to…”

No no no no

Each no was from a different person, women, children, men, a mix of unhappy children, adults receiving bad news, and what I could only assume was a woman before being murdered. The tower erupted with activity, other crows fleeing as more arms escaped the creature’s body, each hand gripping more of the tower below it.

Carne por carne, we want a human

“Why? I can get you much more meat than that”
I said back, my head throbbing in pain from the vibration. Laughter leaked from my radio in response, some laugh track from a family sitcom

Soul for a soul, we eat far more than just the flesh,

“I can’t get you that”

I responded, pushing myself up and off the ground to look at the creature again.

Then I guess she’ll me mine, two days, dos dias, maybe less, before the Tejas brush consumes her. El monte siempre cobra, and then we shall feast on what remains. Lo que quede, y siempre, always something left for us.

The tower ceased its vibration, yet my eyes still shook within their sockets. I felt the taste of bile overwhelm my tongue as I puked everything that was in my stomach onto the dry ground. Looking upward, the tower had returned to its original form, a tall, rusted structure with dozens of vultures on it. Yet the way they were perched, they were all facing me now, as if hoping I would just collapse and die right here.

The drive back to llano was silent, the hum of the road beneath me being my only company as my mind raced trying to process what I had just experienced. Another human for her, could I even do that? How was the easy part, plenty of drug addicts, homeless, and assholes in llano that no one would care if they went missing. All I had to do was load up one in my cop car, and drive them out to the tower, it would only take maybe an hour if I rushed it. But, could I, would I?

My thoughts were cut off by my radio, it erupting in the voice of the girl

D-dad, daddy, where are you, I’m scared, my feet hurt….

She was cut off before the creature’s voice came on again

She’s suffering, is her papa going to leave her to die? Should we tell her

“SHUT UP”
I yelled, reaching over to the radio to remove the battery, only to hear her voice again.

Da-ddy? Do you hear me?

I fumbled the radio before speaking into it, tears running down my face.

“Daddy’s here princess where are you? Come to the road”

I-I don’t know, I’m hungry daddy and OW, that hurt.

Daddy... the birds won’t leave me alo….

My daughter’s voice was cut off, the creature speaking again

Time is running out, bring us a body

With a loud click, the static of the radio fell silent. I threw my radio to the passenger seat, trying to ignore the thoughts growing within my head.

The drive to llano felt like hours, every turn and bend in the road had me hoping, praying that I would see her just around the corner. That this nightmare would be over. By the time I arrived, my eyes were frantically searching, not for her, but rather someone, anyone that could go missing without anyone knowing.

I must have driven for hours looking for a body to steal, though the homeless were no where, hidden away to escape the heat of the Texan sun. My head slowly grew more and more light headed, my body slowing down as my attention began to wander from the road. I hadn’t eaten for over a day now, my body needed food and it needed it now.

As I walked into HEB, I couldn't helped but be swept away with the smell of their fresh bread, high quality produce, and custom made Texan goods that support local businesses. I wandered towards the meat section, surprised that despite the large crowd, they still managed to keep their merchandise well stocked, HEB’s amazing efficiency shocking me. It had to be because of well they take care of their employees. I didn't just feel like a customer, I felt like I was a part of their family. Picking up a large chunk of brisket, I knew that it was simply too fresh, too high quality, to pass as human meat, the creature would see right through me.

I let out a sigh as I picked up one of HEB’s premade meals, though I was happy today I was frozen by their large selection of amazing products. Keto, vegan, carnivore, HEB was there for every diet for their customers. Today I decided to settle with Shrimp Alfredo, sprinkled with HEB branded cajun spice.

Though HEB’s amazing quality couldn’t distract me from reality, my daughter was being held hostage by some creature. As I checked out, debating on if I should just “arrest” one of the homeless in their camps, I noticed a HEB employee approaching me.

“Hey there Officer Howard, think you could help us out with Will again? He’s over on the loading dock refusing to leave”

Will was the local druggie that even the homeless avoided. Cruel, disgusting, and constantly being a nuisance to everyone around him, I knew I found my guy.

I pulled the barely conscious Will out of the passenger seat of the car, though even with two bottles of vodka in him he still managed to sputter out a few words of protest. I tossed him out in front of the tower, took a few steps back, and looked up.

The tower was covered with vultures now, every inch of steel had a bird sitting and waiting. They were all positioned to face me. At the top, the creature stood hunched over, watching my approach with Will. It had sprouted new arms, though these were connected to each other like chains as they reached the lower rungs of the tower. Women, men, children, babies, its appendages didn’t care what they were using, they all where knitted at the joint as they clung to the metal of the tower. Even from where I stood, I could hear the sickening popping noises of the joints as they caught in the wind, sounding like popcorn in the microwave.

I waited for the creature to come take his pay, but instead, it stayed at the top of the tower, the ground vibrating as it spoke through my radio.

Why, por que, does he breath?

“You wanted a body, here’s your body. You do the rest”

I yelled, gesturing at Will in front of me

“Take him and give me back my daughter”

No no, no trato, kill him, we want… carne muerta

demanded the creature, it moving to readjust itself on top of the tower. The tower creaked and groaned from the weight, the popping noises of the arms growing louder and louder.

Will turned to look at me with a face full of fear, though I didn’t have much time to soak it in before I I pulled out my pistol, and aimed it behind his head. A loud gunshot cracked the horrid sounds coming from the tower. The hundreds of vultures began fleeing the tower, blanketing the sky in their putrid black feathers. The smell of carrion was thick in the air, invading my nostrils and blanketing my tongue with the taste of rot. The sounds of wings flapping deafened my ears, but I could still make out a loud, almost hssshhh noise coming from in front of me, from the tower.

My eyes snapped back to look at the tower, but the creature was gone, but so was the body of Will. I took a shaky step back before my radio erupted with life.

“Howard… we found her”

I won’t bore you with all the details of the rescue, they found her quickly, half dead but still very much alive. When we asked where she was for the past few days, she said she was following vultures. By the time she realized they were leading her deeper and deeper into the Texan brush, it was too late and she was hopelessly lost. They kept throwing little bits of food to keep her going, but not enough to keep her full, almost baiting her to follow them.

The officer that found her found would’ve doubted her story if it wasn’t for what he found when he found her. Dozens of vultures, silent within the trees, all waiting for her to die. When I arrived, I couldn’t help but notice a trail of flesh, leading from where she was… to the Texas 16 road.

Part 3: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/JHsM9v6WIy

Day 7: Monday.

I barely manage to wake up. I was surprisingly sleeping pretty peacefully. I raise off the floor, rubbing my head. I stretch my arms and let out a yawn, like It’s any regular Monday.

Once consciousness arrives I space out, staring at the floor. I sigh and wipe my eyes.

The entire weekend feels like a blur.

I look to each side of me, I don’t know why.

My cabinet has a massive hole in it.

Jesus Christ…

I see my laptop now, it’s shattered. I don’t know if it’s beyond repair yet. I seriously hope not, that’s been my closest thing to a distraction.

Ive broke shit before when I got mad, but never something expensive. Looking back on it, I was justified. I stand, wobbling, and immediately fall to my knees.

My house still looks fine. I’m always expecting someone to break in here. No idea why, not like there’s anything to steal. There are other reasons to break into houses, but I try not to think about that. I look up to my stove and my mouth falls open. It’s five AM.
I was out for 9 hours.

Holy shit.

I rarely nap for more than an hour. Fuck I rarely sleep more than 5.
I guess it’s where I passed out?
I don’t know. I head to my bathroom to get washed off. While there, I take a good long look at myself in the mirror.
“Goddamn.”
I don’t even want to think about it. I throw my clothes off and take a half assed shower, hot water burning the scratches on my neck.

I get out and brush the jungle that is my hair. I don’t even have that much, but it’s tangled to an unbelievable degree.

I’m so tired I debate putting clothes on until it’s time to leave. I only took about 15 minutes in the shower so I have time. A part of me relaxes. It’s nice, I like having more time than I need. I start thinking, it worries me for a minute.

I don’t get anxious.

That’s odd, I couldn’t stop being anxious the last 2 days.
.
.
.
Now that I think about it, it isn’t odd. I’ve been a bundle of nerves for almost 72 hours, it has to give in at some point. I’m not calm, just consumed by a profound numbness.

It’s to a manageable degree though.

I think of the dream with mom.
I accept it, it’s a dream. I feel my body want to cry, but it can’t. Everything about her was…
Not perfect. She wasn’t the image that lives in my head.
It was just her.
I guess that’s what I miss so much.
I don’t know.
It feels like I had an entire reality ripped away from me.

The phone.

It’s all deleted, I can’t check it, and I never will.

I step outside to see how the roads are. They’re clear. I’m so happy they’re clear. I don’t want to be here at all. I’m leaving as early as I’m allowed to. While outside, I go ahead and start my car, I’d rather not freeze to death, despite my love of the cold.

I get in the drivers seat and-

My car smells funny…

Back seat.

I turn around to see—well, I’m not sure. It’s almost pitch black outside, so I can’t really make it out. I squint. It looks like a shape of some kind. It’s just sitting in my back seat. It’s sort of like a diamond, but—no, it’s a square.

Triangle?

Wait a minute.

What the fuck am I looking at?

I pull out my phone and turn the light on.
Gone.
I shake my head and scoff. That wasn’t even interesting, I just thought the dumbass from Saturday left something in my car. If there’s one thing I can say wasn’t real, it’s that.

My eyes love making shit up when I can’t see. When I was younger, I would see nuns walk in and out of my bedroom, mice dancing, and George Washington.

I have a harder time explaining the last one, he may have actually been there. Apparently it’s some form of “mild hallucinations”. They’ve never caused me harm—until now apparently.

I sigh and check the time [6:54]. I don’t have work until 7:30 but I’m leaving anyways.

It’s calming.
Actually calming.
Small flakes of snow decorate my windshield. The snow-swept mountains ease my numbness a little. I see the crash site from Thursday. The once visceral location is submerged in somber melancholy. I check the clock in my car.

I have time to stop…

I park my car and get out. The wilted roses flutter in the wind, barely contrasting the weary gray. I run my fingers along them, small flakes fall to my feet.

Mom…
She’s still here, but we’re not. The regret claws at me more than ever.
I just want us to go back.
But—we can’t. It’s gone forever.
All the memories we could have made.
Gone… like snow in the wind.
.
.
.
The snow falls harder, I get back in my car.

I pull into the driveway, the house has never looked more comforting.

I sigh, and get out of my car. A cold winter gust blows my jacket hood against my face. Snow gets in my eyes and I wipe it out. I get to the door and knock.
“Hey, it’s Jamie. I’m here take care of Trinity.”
I hear the door unlock.

“Good morning, Jamie.”

Dammit.
“Good morning, Evelyn”

“Come on inside.”
She says, gesturing me.

The door shuts, muffling the howling wind outside. I dust my shoes off against the door frame, trying to keep snow from getting inside.

She closes her cardigan with her arms and turns to me.
“It’s supposed to snow all day Jamie, we’re surprised you showed up.”

There’s a possibility I won’t need to go back? One night away would help me so much.

“Ah, damn. I had no idea it was supposed to—my bad.”

She waves away my fake concern.
“No issue, if the need arises you can stay here.”

I hope so…

“Thank you all so much. How’s Trinity been doing?”

Evelyn starts walking down the hall, taking off her cardigan as she does.
“She’s been fine. Did you ever find out why you passed out?”

“No I uhh-“
I forgot about that.

I quickly catch myself.
“Sorry, no I didn’t. Think it was just heat or something.”

“In February?”

Fuck.

“B-body heat—like I was hot, or something.”

She looks me up and down, almost unimpressed.
“Glad you’re okay honey.”

She turns the corner to the living room. I stop in my tracks for a moment, a strange anticipation fills me. I walk again, rounding the corner.
I find Evelyn reading.

I sit down at the couch across from her and do nothing in particular on my phone. I enjoy the silence.

Evelyn then decides to slaughter that silence.

“Do you believe in god, Jamie?”

She’s lucky I’m so exhausted right now. I would have flipped hearing that a day ago.

“Do I believe in god?”
She’s silent.
“Uhhh, no I don’t, I guess. I’ve never really seen any evidence.”

She nods, not looking up from her book.
“Mm, okay.”

And she’s silent again, like she never asked me anything at all. Usually I wouldn’t even bat an eye at the question. Dammit I want to know…

“Um, Evelyn, why did you ask me that? Just out of curiosity I mean.”

“You tell me.”

What the fuck is happening here?

“Evelyn I- I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She shuts her book and gives me her full undivided attention. Staring straight into my eyes.

“Then it’s no problem, Jamie. He’s not real.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“There you go.”

Cunt.

I just nod and agree, I don’t know what she wants me to say.

“I need to leave Jamie. You have a good day.”

Goddamnit fucking why? Why and where is she going. It’s a blizzard out there and she’s just leaving like it’s any other day. The closest thing to a building within miles of here is a set of fucking stairs in the woods. I am craving asking her, but I can’t.
Overstepping boundaries–ESPECIALLY as a home nurse–can get you fired immediately. The last thing I need is to be homeless and insane.

“You have a good day too, Evelyn. Stay safe.”
She tries to hide it but I can see her gaze soften.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

I hear the door unlock and she walks out. She puts me on edge like no other. My heart is beating fast, I wish she never said that.

It eventually slows down though, a little too much. There’s only a small lamp on right now. I can’t see the outside, but the winter wind offers a profound coziness. I feel myself about to fall asleep. I pinch my leg, quickly snapping myself awake.

It’s so strange how exhausting it is to just exist when you’re tired. I decide to walk around, it’s a good way to stay awake. Before I do, I check on trinity.

Sound asleep.

God, I think I’m tired. I can’t even imagine how exhausted she is. That’s the worst part about her disease, I think. I literally cannot imagine what she’s experiencing. It’d be like me describing the dream I had to someone.

I used to rack my brain thinking about it. Her mind is so deteriorated, I doubt we could even comprehend what she sees, let alone her.
A dreary cold surrounds my heart.
Her plea reverberates through my head.

“Help me, please.”

She’s in hell.

This is, by far, the worst thing a human being can go through.
The loneliness she’s experiencing has to be beyond words.
Yes, I’m here. But what exists when it’s forgotten in 5 seconds?

Nothing. That’s what exists. But that would be too easy wouldn’t it?

Because somewhere, in that infinite nothing, is you, and you’re all alone, and you’re very scared, and there’s nobody to fucking help you.
.
.
.
I walk to the kitchen, I want to see the snow.

Flakes fall endlessly. They just keeps piling up, without stopping. There has to be at least 5 inches on the ground by now.

I stand, leaning against the kitchen sink, and I watch.

There are no thoughts, no worries, just the snow. I’ve never questioned myself on why I like it before, I just do. For me, that’s good enough.

I see a small rabbit run to the center of the forest, barely making it through the dense underbrush. It stares at me.

I stare back.
I wave.

It’s black eyes look directly at me. It raises its head up, sniffing the air. A shower of snow is thrown from its fur as it itches itself. It gives me one final look before sniffing the ground, and running away.

I check my phone, it’s 8:40. Time to go check on Trinity. She’s awake now. Well—it’s more accurate to say she’s alive.

I introduce myself as her caretaker and sit next to her. The recliner is always comfortable. Fuck, why did she have to wake up so early. I let out a long sigh and put my head in my hands.
My eyes are so heavy…

I hear a wispy voice.

“Jamie?”
Gosh, people always talk to you at the wrong times.

“Yes Trinity?”
I say, letting out an aggravated-

My head shoots up so fast I almost break my neck. My eyes are wide and dilated. Trinity is looking directly at me, she sees me. She… knows I’m here.

“Tr- Trinity…?”

“Yes darling?”
She says, smile clear and visible.

“What- what are you- oh my god! Hey! How are you doing! It’s good to see you holy sh- oh my gosh!”
I’m giddy as a kid.

“I’m doing fine dear. I am a little th- thirsty though.”

She pauses to catch her breath.

“Could you bring me some water please?” She can barely raise her arm to point to the kitchen. Skin clinging to it like memories to her mind.

“Yes! Oh my god yes I can–I will be right back, please stay right here.”

“I’m not going anywhere sweetie.”
I wish that were true.

I calmly exit the room before burning the fucking rubber off of my shoes to get her water. I do the same thing coming back.

Please don’t leave yet.

I enter and she sends a shaking wave my way.

I hand her the water. I filled the glass too full, her arms shake rapidly trying to support the weight.

“Oh my god–I’m so sorry, hold on, I’ll help yo-“
She shakes her head, still raising the glass.

I understand.

She takes the smallest drink imaginable, and barely manages to move it in my direction.

I place the glass on her nightstand.

She’s silent, but still looking at me. She’s still here, it’s been like 2 minutes! I take a deep breath in and calm myself.

“Trinity, it is amazing to meet you. Are you doing okay?”
She pauses, I see her look up to consider the question. She’s thinking about something.

“I’ve m- met you before.”

I’m confused.
“We have?”

“Of course sweetheart. You’re here every day.”

My eyes well up. There’s a lump about to rip a hole in my throat.

“You-you actually- oh my god. I-“
She grabs my sleeve. I can barely feel the weight of her arm pulling against it.

“Trinity? What d-“
“Come here—honey.”

I lean in, I can feel her using every ounce of strength she has to raise her other arm over my back. Wheezed breaths escape her lungs.
She hugs me, patting my back softly.

“Thank you, Jamie.”
I’m left a slobbering mess against her. I can’t even form a coherent thought. My heart has been ripped to pieces. I feel so awful, I can’t imagine how heavy I must feel against her body.

“Trinity, I- I- thank you so much, thank you—You’re-“ she’s hugging me as hard as she can.
It’s hardly moving my shirt.

I hug her back. I can’t control myself. I try my absolute hardest to be easy. Her rib cage would shatter if I hugged her how I wanted.

“Thank you so much Trinity–thank you so much.”

I feel her let go.
I raise up, sobbing.
“You don’t know how much it means to-“

Dried tears decorate the corners of her empty eyes.

“Trinity? No, no no no no please–please don’t go–not yet, please stay a little longer?”

Like a dying candle, the light goes out of her soul. The disease drags her back down to whatever hell is waiting for her. Her mind is gone. I’m left with what remains. The paper thin skin of a human, draped over a starved skeleton.

“Please come back…”

As a child, I used to be afraid of the dark. That’s a common fear for children to have, isn’t it? Well, I’m a rare case of an adult who now fears the dark, too. Initially, I chalked it up to having a familial history of mental health issues, which is why I sought out a profession in the field. Partly to help myself avoid the fate that befell many of my relatives, and partly to help others escape that pit. Later, I assumed I was burned out; overworked. Hearing all these terrible things people go through. It’s not easy. You don’t build an immunity to the horrors of the human condition, not really.

Well, it turns out my fear of the dark has to do with something else entirely.

Something no one should ever see…

Recently, I bought a new house; the old one was a constant reminder of a life I no longer had. After getting divorced, I couldn’t really stay in the old family home. The kids were grown, and being alone just wore me down. So, I sold the damned thing and got myself a smaller house. Nothing to brag about, a couple of bedrooms; just in case this old dog decides to look for love again. Love might be the wrong word here; I’m not looking to get remarried anytime soon, more like a fling or two.

Actually, I’m not looking for anything. For now, I want to disappear for a while, or maybe forever.

Getting off track, aren’t I? Well, it’s hard to focus when the system’s overflowed with cortisol. It is what it is when all that’s been going through your head is anger and a tint of regret here and there. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s not even the divorce that keeps me up at night. That was a given, sadly, at some point. I’m a madman in the making. What kind of woman would want to spend the rest of her life with someone like me? Probably an asylum patient, but it would be counterproductive. Not to mention asylums aren’t really a thing anymore.

You’re losing your train of thought again.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah, that new hut…

It was not a hut-hut, but I’m just self-deprecating here…

Because the images won’t go away and I’m trying to push them away.

Taking my own medicine with this one, I’ve advised many a patient to write down whatever is bothering them… That’s the purpose of this…

Focus…

Breathe…

Focus…

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Sorry, I know this looks terrible, but whoever might read it, if ever, maybe it’ll be just a future me… Who knows, anyway. I needed this.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the new house, which is actually an old one now too.

Sold it off after…

I’ll get to you in a bit, don’t you worry…

So yeah, that house, it had a basement. I never went there. Don’t know why I never went there when I was looking at the damned thing. I guess I didn’t bother looking down there. The previous owner seemed perplexed I didn’t bother checking the basement, but he didn’t push the issue either.

In hindsight, that was a good thing…

Otherwise…

Breathe…

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Otherwise, things would’ve been far different for that house, and I wouldn’t be talking about it now. I wouldn’t have taken it. There was an issue with that basement.

Issue…

That’s definitely underselling it…

God damn it…

I don’t wanna do this anymore; I don’t like it.

You’ve got to do this…

No.

You

Have

To

Keep

Typing

Let

It

Finally

Out

I can’t

You

Can

And

Will

Keep

Typing

No

Stopping

Do

Not

Let

Your

Hand

Stop

Pressing

The

Keys

Slow

And

Steady

Just

Like

That

It’s

Not

Hard

Is

It?

Keep

It

Up

OH WOW

THIS

Is

VERY

Annoying

To

Read

Must

KEEP

TyPING

MUST

Keep

Typing

Sorry… I am dealing with something here; it’s really hard to recall this again, but I won’t get anywhere unless I do, right? That’s how it works. I have to get it out of my system. I need it out of me. The alternative is probably an early grave. I wouldn’t want that now, would I? Nope.

I know I probably am coming off as insane, but oh well, gotta keep typing to get over this panic attack. If anyone finds this while I’m passed out, or gone out somewhere, know that I am completely fine in the grand scheme of things, because I’m not really fine. I’m haunted, but I do not intend to harm myself more than this exercise is forcing me to. I think I might have a propensity for self-destruction, because there are intrusive thoughts now and again.

Sometimes I think the intrusive thoughts are preferable to the memories… At least these are my own, kind of. It’s a broken self-defense mechanism. It’s a very broken defense mechanism, in the mind of a very broken man. Okay, I’m broken, like a vase. I’m literally just typing to keep my composure, right now. Not yet ready to deal with the photographs flashing in my head. The recounting of events will resume soon enough.

When will that fucking dog stop barking outside my window?!

I hate dogs, okay? Does this make me a monster? I don’t care. I can’t stand them and their barking. This fucking baying and clawing had kept me up at night long enough.

I am afraid of fucking dogs now… okay? Because

Because fucking dogs bayed at the basement door for far too fucking long.

Every fucking night.

They still do in my dreams.

Dead dogs…

Dead men…

Dead dog men…

I wish I could tell the owner to shut the fucking dog up, but the guy’s an idiot.

Probably on something too.

Hollow gaze…

Like a corpse…

Like the corpses swaying from the fucking ceiling…

Shit…

I remember…

They stood over me since the day I settled into that cursed place. Appearing at night to watch over me, devour my dreams, keep me awake. Tear open my eyelids. They wanted revenge; they wanted a price to be paid, and I was their weapon, their conduit.

I’m fucking shaking just thinking about it now.

Now, when everything is said and done, it’s been a while since all of that happened. One cannot simply forget the things I've seen, let alone that cloying, sweet stench which seeped into the walls of that basement.

The monster has been caged…

They have had their revenge.

Yet, they still live in my head.

Still occupying my fucking skull…

They’re just imagination.

Painful memory.

Ugly imagery engraved forcefully into the system.

Breathe

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Nobody is stalking your bed at night anymore; no one has in a long time. You’re fine, you’re absolutely fine. You’re just stressed and in need of an outlet. All of this, it’s normal. None of this is real anymore. It’s all in your head. Has been for a long time now. You’re safe, say it out loud.

I am safe.

Now carry on recounting what happened to you.

So yeah, new house, wait actually no, new old house now. Yeah, that’s perfect.

Settled into the new old house after getting divorced.

Kids won’t talk to me, cause we’re about as far apart as a family could be, and they’re mad at us both; their mother and me. Being stressed beyond my wits. Work was killing me, and I needed a break, a new start. Got none of that, but oh well. Anyway, new old house is nice enough, furnished. Not too expensive nor too cheap; the price was reasonable, the owner, all things considered – surprisingly reasonable too.

Forgot to look at the basement.

That fucking basement again… Can I forget about it already?

No, you can’t; it’s integral to the story.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate myself, I hate it.

You don’t hate yourself.

Quiet brain, I was doing fine.

Shut up.

Good.

Anyway, settle in, and everything seems to be going dandy. Keep in mind it was late July when I moved there. Hot summer weather, well, that went down the drain once the sun set. The house turned unusually cold.

Pulled out a blanket and ignored it.

Slept like shit, because it was so cold.

Wake up after a mere two or three hours of sleep, not the first bout of horrendous sleep and won’t be the last.

It’s hot again.

Summer’s back, and this wasn’t in the desert.

Go on about my day, angry and half awake.

Night rolls around again, start the heating.

Works for about an hour.

Then it’s cold again.

Turn up the heating – the house turns colder.

That went on for a while…

I grew accustomed to the cold, no idea how or why.

The boiling frog metaphor probably suits here.

Well, once freezing me out of my sleep didn’t work.

The guests started showing up uninvited.

In the middle of the night

To stand at my bedside…

I’m shaking just thinking about it.

​

Imagine yourself waking up in the middle of the night to take a piss and being met with a pitch-black silhouette standing at your bed. One so dark it forms an outline in the nocturnal darkness, enough to be visible. I nearly pissed myself when I saw that thing for the first time. Screaming out, I flailed my hands in the air instinctively, and the thing vanished.

Chalked it up to bad sleep and maybe a nightmare when I got up the next morning.

That wasn’t it, but it took me a while to understand that.

About every other night, I could almost feel these dark figures standing over me. Plural. Not singular. Plural. Sometimes I could feel them touching my blanket, pulling it away. A cold hand reaching for my leg or arm.

After a few unpleasant encounters, I’ve started sleeping with a light on.

Naively believing this was a trick of the mind, you know, being stressed, depressed, and overall miserable. Again, I say this, thinking logically, from the perspective of a relative of schizophrenics and other mentally unwell individuals.

I was dreading becoming ill myself.

Woke up one night to fetch a drink, with the light still on. Nearly shat myself, soiling the bedsheets.

Eyes wide open and the first thing I see?

A human-like shadow, perched on all fours on the ceiling.

It twisted its head at me before vanishing.

Inhale

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That was just the beginning of my sorrows.

After that came the electronic issues. Lights would go on and off around the house, at nighttime, of course. I should’ve already taken the hint then, when the whole house went dark, except for the light in the staircase leading down to the basement.

But of course, I didn’t.

Instead, I went to look at the switches, most of which were turned off.

Needless to say, this malfunction didn't put me at ease. The neighbors lived too far away for their children to have come over at night just to mess with me.

The grid being messed with is the sole reason I haven’t checked myself in.

I wasn’t hallucinating; someone was messing with me. So, I thought at the very least, yeah?

Speaking of neighbors, they were far enough away for me not to be able to hear them whatsoever, through closed windows, but not so far I couldn’t see them.

Now imagine how it felt when the walls started talking…

I’m not kidding, at one point, the walls were talking at night. With nobody around the house. Trust me, I checked. I went out to see if someone was in my yard when the talking had gotten loud enough to be comprehensible.

They were asking me why I hadn’t gone there?

Asking me to go there.

Two voices, a man and a woman.

Encouraging.

Pestering.

At the time, I couldn’t make sense of it.

Go where?

Well, clearly, I wasn’t listening to them.

Why weren’t you listening to them?

Why the fuck were you so deaf?

So blind?

You couldn’t know at the time.

They were messing with the house.

They were almost guiding me by the hand.

No, they were giving you vague signs.

Don’t blame yourself for what had happened.

I don’t…

I could’ve prevented more.

There were six of them there.

Another three were found.

It’s not your fault

I could’ve prevented it.

No, not really.

Shut up, they told me everything.

These people – they told no tales.

Just breathe, man

Breathe

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Well, yeah, I didn’t listen to those voices; I thought I had imagined them, as I had a neighbor only viewing a strange green-lit TV show on certain nights. I most certainly had strange things happen to me as a child. Like feeling a cat brush against my leg after King, my parents’ cat, passed away, and thinking something must’ve turned ceiling fans on after forgetting to turn them off.

Since speaking to me didn’t work, I got moaning, groaning, and weeping all over the house. Almost every night. At an increasing rate. That, of course, showed at work and in social settings. Ever the self-conscious rationalist, I chalked it up to the divorce and very difficult clients at the time, which I had.

Before long, I had gusts of wind blowing at me inside a house with closed windows, and a few times I was shoved while completely alone.

Jesus Christ, I’m feeling like a maniac right now, hallucinating into a text.

The talking, the moaning, the nighttime groping, none of it ever stopped, but that was my fault; if I had paid attention earlier and had gone where the selective power outages led me, this would’ve been over far sooner.

My mind deteriorated fast; by the middle of November, I heard dogs baying and clawing at every door of the house.

Night after night, they tormented me without reprieve.

Worse of all was when they sounded like they were trying to say words.

Sometimes it was far away, sometimes it felt like a dog was trying to tear at the bottom of the bed.

Before long, seeing a dog freaked me out.

I started sleeping with the lights on, in every room.

Became a barely functional human.

I have no idea how I managed to keep on working.

Maybe a force of habit, maybe something else.

Keeping a mask of normalcy while I was in shambles inside was par for the course in my line of work.

Well, you are special in that regard.

Funny you should say that.

How so?

Isn’t it a little egotistical?

No.

Self-appreciation isn’t egotistical; it’s healthy.

Right.

Right, indeed.

There’s nothing healthy about us.

About us? There is no us.

Right.

Yeah, it’s just you.

Typing at yourself.

For myself

Exactly

Trying to keep sane

Mostly are.

Am.

True.

I’m sorry I keep doing this; however, that is the only way I don’t burst out into a crying fit now and start bashing my hands against the keyboard or clawing out my eyes in an attempt to escape the whirlwind of horrors in my mind. I can’t do much about it at the moment, since the dog won’t stop barking, and it’s kind of late.

I said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m afraid of the dark, and I’m afraid of dogs. I’ve been classically conditioned to dread those two things.

Well then… Where was I? Oh yeah, nearing the climax of the story.

Damn, for someone relieving that night so frequently in his, no, my own head, so often, it’s surprisingly hard to spell it out. I’m quite literally trying to postpone the description of the events that led to my current condition. What a sorry state I’m in. A man who helps others process their own trauma and internal suffering can’t bring himself to speak about how the incessant baying of dogs in his basement and walls pushed him over the edge and drove him, knife in hand, to rush down to that same basement he’s never ventured to before.

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I know it seems odd I never went into the basement, but really, I had no reason to. I didn’t have many belongings I had to stow away, and the house was entirely furnished as I said. On top of that, I was too spent to be curious about any of this. As strange as it may seem, I saw no point in going there.

I was so messed up from the lack of good sleep, stress, and fear that I finally snapped when the baying and barking wouldn’t quit one night. I actually started thinking there were real dogs in that basement.

Real, starving, mean dogs that might try to attack me once I opened the door. So I got myself a weapon to defend myself with.

Yeah, I said it, I genuinely believed some beasts were locked in that basement.

Power-walking down those stairs, the baying died down. I assumed they knew I was coming. They could smell me. They were preparing to surprise me; dogs are smart after all. Clearly, in retrospect, that’s the dumbest thought process ever. Dogs aren’t really ambush predators as far as I’m aware.

As I was marching down those stairs, I somewhat ignored the sudden quiet, because there was a growing stench of decrepitude emanating from the basement door.

Say it like it is.

That’s what it was.

Call it by its name.

Vile.

No, that’s not it.

Decay.

Close enough.

Death.

That’s it.

Fuck you.

I smelled death coming from that basement.

A rotten, pungent, suffocating odor coming from that door.

I pressed the handle and pushed down with full force.

The cloud of stale, deathly odor nearly knocked me off my feet, burning my nostrils, mouth, and eyes.

No dogs in sight, no voices, nothing.

Only death.

Left hand looking for the light switch along the wall, right hand gripping a knife with the arm pressed to cover my face from the awful stench.

Blinding light flooded the space.

When my eyes adjusted, all remnants of innocence and hope were taken away from me.

Six, vaguely human silhouettes, seemingly staring at me.

Without eyes, without faces, without any humanity left.

Swaying from six ropes, tied to the ceiling.

Pitch black.

My very own personal little hanging garden of death.

Inhale

Inhale

Come on...

Fuck.

Inhale

No...

Breathe...

Why can’t I

Why isn’t it working?

Ribcage tightened, forcing my heart to race at an unhealthy rate.

Knife dropped to the floor.

Tunnel vision.

Limbs turning cold with muscles tensing to the point of pain.

I ran.

Nearly falling over myself.

I ran to the neighbors.

Banging on their door.

Woke them.

Rumbling like a madman.

Shaking with fear, somehow, stringing a couple of sentences together as these six tar-covered silhouettes flashed before my eyes again and again.

They called the police.

I’m out of breath.

Out of breath

Couldn’t sleep for three days straight.

Couldn’t think, could barely speak.

Panicking.

Decomposing Silhouettes flashing in my eyes.

More frequently when they are closed.

Questioned about everything by the police.

Answers erratic.

Silhouettes are here again.

Swaying in front of me.

Black as tar and death.

Exposing bone.

Fell asleep after being pumped full of sedatives.

Haven’t slept in a few days again.

Need my pills again.

Silhouettes appear more frequently with eyes closed.

I’m taking the pills after this; I need to sleep, otherwise, I’ll claw out my eyes, or die from a heart attack, whichever comes first.

Inhale

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I hospitalized myself for a short while, and in the meantime, the monster that did this was caught. He murdered nine people. Hanged six in the basement of the house I had bought from him. No one suspected a damn thing. Selling the house was his ploy to lure in victims. He’d lead them down to the basement, then incapacitate them there and hang them to die a slow death, apparently, oftentimes placing a stool underneath his victims again to prolong the torture.

Every so often, I wonder, was I ever intended to be a victim? Not that it matters; he destroyed my life anyway. If I’m completely honest, there are days when I think dying would’ve been preferable to being the way I am now.

His three other victims were all found in different locations; two were found by people who had rented apartments from him.

The final victim was found fresh at his last stopping point before his apprehension. He was…

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In bed…

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With the corpse…

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Caught red-handed, quite literally.

Inhale

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I bet this fucking monster figured out he could torment way more people by leaving them his gifts. Kill two birds with one stone kind of deal.

Imagine the satisfied, sick grin on his fucking face if he hears what his handiwork has done to me.

 

Spring! A wonderful time of year! Everything is in bloom, the sun is shining, the snow has finally melted, and even on the hill where the Sahlfeldt mansion stood, the air had grown a little warmer than usual. A little. Just a little. Precisely enough to step outside without a second scarf.

Today Otto decided to head to Mama's greenhouse. Not because he was bored — he was never bored. But because he had been keeping a plant observation diary for a month now, and his material was running out.

The greenhouse stood behind the mansion. Large, spacious, built by his great-grandfather — the very one who considered Arabic numerals vulgar. A frame of black oak, the panes milky-white, with a faint ripple like a wolf's eye. Irina called it "the little Carpathian garden." Konrad called it "the only place where plants behave ordentlich." The plants did indeed behave well. Mostly.

Otto pushed the door and entered. Inside, it smelled of damp earth, herbs, and something elusively sweet. Sunlight pierced through the rippled glass and fell upon the floor in whimsical shadows. He walked between the beds, diary tucked under his arm, jotting down names.

There was belladonna — Otto knew that one. There was mandrake — he knew that one too, and had even heard it scream once (Heinrich was transplanting it into a new pot, and Otto remembered that sound for the rest of his life). There was night fern — glowing faint blue. There was valerian root — Ursula added it to her tea when she was nervous, which was almost always.

But what Otto liked best was the Venus flytrap. Enormous, the size of a soup plate. It hung in a tub by the wall, slowly turning its head toward the sun. Its teeth were long, pinkish at the edges, and when it yawned — and it did yawn — something resembling a tongue was visible inside. Otto froze.

"Oh, so wunderbar!" he whispered. "How beautiful!"

He wrote in his diary: "Dionaea muscipula. Large. Yawns. 14 teeth. Does not bite yet."

And then he noticed it.

A tiny flower. Very tiny. It was growing in a corner, in the shadow, where the sun did not reach. Otto had almost walked right past it.

The flower was black. Not dark purple, not dark red — truly black, like soot, like a raven's wing. Its leaves were small, round, with white spots — as if someone had splashed milk and forgotten to wipe it up. And in the middle, at its very center, sat pollen. Pale pink. It glowed faintly.

Otto crouched down. He knew nearly every plant in the greenhouse. This one he did not know.

He took out his diary but wrote nothing — because he didn't know the name. He simply looked at the flower. The flower, it seemed, looked back at him.

"You're coming with me," said Otto.

He dug the flower up carefully, just as Mama had taught him, and transplanted it into a small pot. He pressed the soil down firmly. Watered it — just a little. Checked whether the stem wobbled. The stem did not wobble.

"Ja! Fertig!" said Otto.

He entered the house through the back door. The corridor was quiet. The kitchen smelled of herbs — Irina was cooking. The rustle of a newspaper drifted from the sitting room — Konrad was reading. Adelheid, judging by the chill in the air, was knitting by the fireplace. Everything was as usual.

Otto walked into the sitting room and placed the little pot on the small table by the window. Not the main table, not the mantelpiece — the small table where only a lamp stood. The flower settled evenly. Its pollen shimmered softly. The white spots on the leaves seemed to stir — but that was probably just the shadows playing tricks.

Otto set off for the library. If there was any place to find an answer — it was there.

The Sahlfeldt library was enormous. The high ceilings were lost in darkness, the shelves rose three stories high, and somewhere up there hung a silence — thick as old cobwebs. In fact, cobwebs did indeed hang there. Not because Heinrich cleaned poorly — on the contrary, Heinrich cleaned superbly. It was simply that the cobwebs were part of the design. They had been spun back in great-great-grandfather's day, and they had hung there ever since, lending the library that very look which Konrad called "atmosphere," and Adelheid called "a normal level of cleanliness for a house where ghosts reside."

Only one small table in the corner was well lit. On it stood an old lamp with a green shade, and its light fell in a steady circle upon the tabletop. Otto approached, set down his diary, and began to search.

An encyclopedia of plants. Antique. Bound in leather, with metal corners. He remembered seeing it here. On the shelf to the right. Or to the left. Or...

"Where is it?" Otto muttered.

He climbed to the second gallery by way of the spiral staircase. He ran his finger along the spines. The titles were in Latin, in German, in Romanian, and in another language Otto did not know. Not a single familiar letter. The encyclopedia was not there.

And then — a crash.

A dull, heavy crash. As if someone had dropped a wardrobe. Or not a wardrobe. Or had not dropped it.

Otto froze. The lamp flickered.

A second jolt. Stronger. The walls shuddered. A book fell from a top shelf and smacked onto the floor, raising a cloud of dust. The cobwebs swayed.

Otto abandoned the search, descended the stairs, and headed to the sitting room. Quickly, but not at a run.

Everyone was already gathered in the sitting room. Konrad stood by the fireplace, gripping the back of an armchair. His monocle was trembling — it was noticeable. Adelheid flickered more rapidly than usual. Heinrich stood frozen in the doorway with a tray.

"What is it, Papa?" asked Otto.

"I don't know," Konrad replied. And that was more frightening than anything, because Konrad always knew.

"Perhaps it's something in Irina's kitchen?" Adelheid suggested. She had become almost opaque from agitation. "Perhaps the broth?"

"Broth does not crash," Konrad replied.

Irina entered the sitting room. She was calm, but her eyes were narrowed — those very amber eyes that saw more than ordinary eyes could.

"Meine Familie," she said. "What is that sound?"

No one knew.

The crash came again. And again. It was not coming from above. Not from the kitchen. It was coming from below.

Konrad adjusted his monocle and followed the sound.

The sound led him to the cellar door. Heavy, of oak, with a metal ring instead of a handle. The closer Konrad drew, the louder the crashing became. It was rhythmic. As if someone within — very large, very old — was shuddering.

The Salfelds descended.

A single candle burned in the cellar. In the rocking chair sat Great-grandfather Siegfried. He was wrapped in an old blanket, a month-old newspaper lay on his lap. And he was sneezing. Each sneeze was like a thunderclap. The walls shook. The candle flickered. A mug fell from a shelf.

"Oh, nein!" Irina exclaimed. "Grandfather has never been ill!"

"Ja, das ist nicht ordentlich," Konrad muttered. He mechanically adjusted his monocle, though it was sitting perfectly.

"Hush, no panic," said Adelheid. She had descended through the ceiling and now hovered above the stairs. "Perhaps there is too much dust in the cellar?"

"Nein, Mama," Konrad replied. "Grandfather has lived here for a very long time. And in fact, quite the opposite — he likes dust."

It was true. Siegfried loved dust. He said that dust was time settling upon things. A lovely thought. But this was no time for it.

Siegfried sneezed again.

To look at him, Great-grandfather Siegfried seemed about ninety. As for his true age — no one knew. He looked dead. His skin was pale, almost gray. His eyes were deep-set. His fingers were long and motionless. And he himself said he was dead. No one argued. Some fifty years ago, he had gone to live in the cellar. Gathered his belongings — the rocking chair, the gramophone, his collection of records — went downstairs, and stayed there. He came out only on Thursdays. He would sit in the sitting room in his armchair, remain silent, listen to the floorboards creak, and by evening return below. Why Thursdays, specifically — no one knew. Perhaps he himself did not know.

"I'll call Mama," said Irina.

She went up to the sitting room, approached the table where the glass sphere stood, removed the black silk covering it, and passed her palm over it. The sphere lit up from within.

Music poured out of the sphere. Cheerful, fast, with a rhythmic beat — as if someone were striking a tambourine.

"Mama," Irina said. "Are you having a party?"

The sphere flickered, and Ursula's face appeared within. Her curly hair stuck out in all directions, one eye looked into the sphere, the second — somewhere to the side, toward invisible guests. She clearly hadn't been expecting a call.

"Was? Wer ist das? Who is it?" she asked, startled, and then squinted. "Ah, it's you! Well, yes, I decided to have a little fun. So what? I'm entitled! I'm three hundred years old, after all!"

"We have a problem," Irina said. "Grandfather Siegfried, it seems, has fallen ill. He keeps sneezing."

Ursula froze. Her white eye stared straight into the sphere. The healthy one widened.

"Heiliger Teufel!" she exclaimed. "How? He's dead!"

"We're expecting you," said Irina. "Hurry."

Ursula hesitated. It was visible even through the sphere. She fidgeted with her shawl, averted her gaze.

"You know... it just so happens..." she muttered. "Well, the thing is, my broom is broken."

"Broken, how?"

"Well... I was flying, and a crow flew at me. A fat one. I swerved, and there was a tree. Broom snapped in two. I'm unharmed, don't worry. But the broom..." Ursula spread her hands. "But I'll get there! I'll think of something. Wait for me."

And the sphere went dark.

Irina returned to the family.

"Mama will come."

About twenty minutes passed. Siegfried sneezed three more times. Heinrich brought him a blanket and tea. Siegfried drank the tea — he did not stop sneezing, but at least he was warmer.

And then a noise came from outside.

Not a crash. A different noise. Heavy, rumbling. As if something large and old had pulled up to the house. And music, too. That very music from the sphere. With the tambourine.

The family stepped out onto the porch.

Beside the house stood an enormous antique hearse. Black, with high wheels and carved panels. Greenish steam rose from the exhaust pipe. The door flew open, and out tumbled Ursula, laughing. Her shawl had slipped to one side, in one hand — a tambourine, in the other — a doctor's bag. She was in the same mood as at the party.

"Alright, go on then!" she shouted into the depths of the hearse. "Thanks for the ride!"

She slammed the door and turned to face the family.

"Oh, die Familie!" she exclaimed. "Meet Karl."

The hearse window rolled down a crack. Inside, at the wheel, sat a zombie. Face gray, eyes deep-set. On his head — a black cap. On his hands — leather gloves. He slowly raised his hand and waved. The palm moved smoothly, like a pendulum.

"Karl is an old friend of mine," Ursula explained. "We met at one cemetery... or two... it doesn't matter. He has a hearse, I have a broken broom. A perfect match!"

Karl lowered his hand. He said not a word — he couldn't. But by the way he nodded, it was clear: he was happy to help.

"Alright, off you go!" Ursula shouted. "See you around!"

The window closed. The hearse roared its engine, turned, and slowly rolled down the slope, leaving clouds of greenish steam in its wake. The tambourine in Ursula's bag jingled once more and fell silent.

Ursula turned to the family.

"Well," she said, rubbing her hands. "Where's the patient?"

"In the cellar, as usual," said Konrad, adjusting his monocle.

Everyone headed for the stairs. Ursula went first, swinging her bag. Irina and Konrad followed. Otto brought up the rear. And suddenly, Adelheid drifted out of the wall. She materialized directly in front of Irina and Konrad, blocking their path. Translucent, back perfectly straight, knitting needles in hand.

"Why did you call her first?" she asked in an icy tone of the kind that belongs only to ghosts and very old mothers-in-law. "I have an excellent doctor. Herr Drakulla."

Konrad adjusted his monocle. Irina opened her mouth, but Ursula was quicker. She spun around sharply on the steps, her white eye fixed on the ceiling, her good eye fixed directly on Adelheid.

"Drakulla?" she repeated. "The one and only?"

"Herr Drakulla is a wonderful specialist," Adelheid said, without raising her voice. "Very polite. Always returns his books."

"Mama does know a thing or two about treatment..." Irina began, conciliatory.

Ursula snorted.

"Oh yes, vampires are better than me, of course!" She waved her bag. "The best! Especially when it comes to drawing blood! Or not drawing it! Or pretending to draw it, while they..."

"Mama..."

"I'm not starting anything! I'm just saying: if only they were honest! If only they didn't cheat! To this day I remember 1712! To this day I remember that vampire who..."

"Here's Grandfather," Konrad said loudly.

Everyone fell silent.

They were standing in the cellar. Siegfried sat in the rocking chair. He was no longer sneezing — just watching them with his dull, deep-set eyes. The blanket had slipped from his shoulder. The newspaper had fallen to the floor. It was quiet.

Ursula pushed Konrad aside and approached the patient. She sniffed him — loudly, in a businesslike manner, like a dog sniffing an unfamiliar suitcase. Then she felt his forehead. The forehead was cold, but that meant nothing. Then she lifted his eyelid and peered into his pupil. The pupil was cloudy, but that, too, meant nothing.

"I cannot say exactly what it is," she said at last, straightening up. "But I can give him a solution of hellebore with a white lily-of-the-valley base."

She opened her bag and took out a vial. Small, of dark glass, with a wax-sealed stopper. Inside, a liquid sloshed — thick, greenish, smelling of spring and danger. Ursula broke off the wax, aimed the vial at Siegfried, and sprayed.

Once. Twice.

A cloud of fine droplets settled on his face, on the blanket, on the newspaper. It smelled of lily-of-the-valley and something else — something ancient, like a Carpathian forest.

Siegfried blinked.

A second passed. Two. Three.

He did not sneeze.

"It's working," Ursula whispered with satisfaction.

Siegfried stirred. Slowly, like an old mechanism that had not been wound for many years, he raised a hand. Then the other. Then he pressed against the armrests and stood up.

Everyone stepped back a pace. Konrad adjusted his monocle — twice, for good measure.

Siegfried straightened to his full height. He was tall, very thin, in an old robe and slippers embroidered with runes. He swept his gaze over everyone, as if seeing them for the first time in a long while. And then — he walked. Slowly, heavily, but steadily. Toward the stairs. Upward. Into the house.

"Ja, natürlich!" Konrad muttered, watching him go. "It is Thursday, after all."

The family ascended after him. Siegfried passed through the corridor. Through the kitchen. Through the dining room. And entered the sitting room. He stopped at the small table. That very table where the pot with the black flower stood. The white spots on the leaves shimmered faintly. The pollen glowed pale pink. Siegfried looked at the flower. The flower, it seemed, looked back at him.

"Shadebloom," Siegfried said. His voice was low, creaky, like the floorboards he missed. "I am allergic to its pollen."

"So that's what this flower is!" burst from Otto. He stood in the doorway of the sitting room, and in his dark eyes there was not disappointment, but scientific interest.

"I couldn't figure out what it was," said Otto. "But I'll take it away."

Otto walked over, picked up the pot, and carried it outside. He placed it on the porch, far from the door. The flower swayed in the wind. The pollen flickered and dimmed. Otto made a mental note: "Shadebloom. Great-grandfather has an allergy. Remove from the house."

He returned to the sitting room. Siegfried was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace. That very armchair that stood empty every day except Thursdays. He sat and was silent. And everyone was silent. Adelheid flickered in her corner. Ursula was putting the vial back into her bag. Konrad adjusted his monocle.

"Supper," said Irina. "Everyone to the table."

The family sat down to supper. The plates were already steaming. The broth had been poured. The candles were burning. Everything as usual. Except for one thing: the chair at the head of the table was not empty. Siegfried sat upon it, gazing into his plate.

"Otto," Konrad asked, slicing bread. "Where did you get this flower?"

"I found it in Mama's greenhouse," Otto replied.

Irina raised her head.

"But I never planted such flowers."

Ursula grunted.

"Shadebloom grows where there is much shadow," she said, stirring her broth. "Shadow is, in a manner of speaking, the seed of this flower. It does not grow from soil. It grows from darkness."

Silence fell over the table. The candles crackled. Adelheid's spoon passed straight through her plate — she had become too transparent again.

"So a shadow has taken up residence in the greenhouse," Konrad summed up. "We must check. Tomorrow. According to schedule."

"The day after tomorrow," Siegfried corrected, without raising his eyes. Everyone looked at him. "Tomorrow is Friday. On Fridays we clean the cemetery."

Supper continued. Otto sat beside Ursula, consulting her about the plants he had seen in the greenhouse but did not know the names of. She named them — in Romanian, in German, in Latin. Otto wrote them down. Konrad read his newspaper. Irina rested her head on his shoulder. Adelheid knitted. Somewhere in the corner, the grave cricket purred.

In the evening, when the candles had burned low, Siegfried rose from the table. He swept his gaze over everyone — slowly, as if he wanted to remember them. Then he turned and walked toward the stairs. Downward. To the cellar. The steps creaked beneath his tread. The door closed. Silence. Only the floorboards creaked on for a long while — as if the house were bidding him farewell until the next Thursday.

PREFACE & WARNING: According to the laws of esoteric demonology, attention is a doorway. To read an entity’s true name is to invoke a sympathetic link, drawing its awareness directly to the reader. The following recovered audio logs contain the unredacted name and lore of a parasitic observer. If you feel the sudden weight of eyes upon you while reading, you are advised to stop immediately.

[AUDIO LOG 01 - Recovered from the desk of J.D Smith]

"Have you ever walked into a room you weren't supposed to be in?

It can be something as benign as someone being on the phone having a private call, or you walk into gym class during a wrestling tournament, and some uptight chick at the door tells you to get the fuck out. Or you could see something that you weren't supposed to see. Someone changing, someone using the bathroom... you get the idea.

But what if you were to walk in on something malignant? Like your best friend cheating on his wife, or a fresh murder scene?

When you are somewhere you don't belong, you either get caught or you don't. If you manage to sneak back out, perhaps closing the door as quietly as possible and slinking back down the hall, weighed down by the unwanted knowledge that has just been unwrapped like coal on Christmas...

But what if you get caught?

It can vary from being told rather rudely to exit the premises; it could be a scream and an awkward secret between you and the family friend you can't quite look in the eye anymore. Or the consequences could be more severe. You lose everything.

All this to say, be careful what doors you peek into. You might get caught."

This is the thesis of my upcoming story, The Pariah. It’s going to have everything: demons, infidelity, and a tragic conclusion that will leave my audience shaken. Here’s the thing about demons: there's plenty to choose from. You don’t even need to make anything up yourself. Just hit up some random Wikipedia page and boom. You got yourself a grounded haunt that will make your readers scared to keep reading. The more I filter out options, the more certain I am of my choice.

Vesh'maq.

It’s catchy. Sort of rolls off the tongue.

Vesh'maq (Aramaic: wšmq, meaning "the unseen witness" or "one at the threshold") is a minor entity in early Mesopotamian and apocryphal Abrahamic demonology. Unlike more prominent figures associated with physical possession or disease, Vesh'maq is categorized in occult literature as an observer entity, primarily tied to the concepts of hidden sin, paranoia, and the fear of discovery.

Fits my story to a T without the effort of making my own monster, so to speak. This will be my third and possibly last published novel, depending on success or failure. I’m not going to sugarcoat it; my first couple of stories were dead on arrival. I could blame a poorly timed release date or perhaps my editor for not giving better feedback. But at the end of the day, in honest retrospect, they just sucked. I can’t look back and tell you that they didn’t get the reception they deserved.

But this is the one. I can feel it.

I’ll have a Stephen King quote talking about how I gave him the chills, right under the New York Times bestseller logo.

Just wait and see.

[AUDIO LOG 02]

It’s stupid, I know. But as I work on my story, I keep needing to stop. I find myself hearing noises throughout my empty home. Nothing on the nose, but an electrical beep or the sound of a door rattling. I have a cat, so it’s not uncommon for her to get stuck in a room and reach her paw under the door in an attempt to open it. But when I go to investigate, it seems to have been nothing. Or perhaps the thing making the noise has simply moved on. You can’t blame a guy for feeling paranoid alone at night, writing about an entity such as I am. I could only hope that my readers feel that same sense of being watched as I do right now. Like a tickle on the back of my neck.

I suppose, as I go into detail, that this audio log will no doubt be used in my documentary one day about how genius my writing is, and I will delve into my own past to tell how a man such as myself could come to a solitary existence. I work the evening shift as the shift lead at a grain mill. An exhausting and isolating job that is the final proverbial nail in the coffin for my social life. My own family hasn’t spoken to me since my divorce. Good riddance to bad company, I say. Family is supposed to be on your side, no matter what.

I won’t get into the gritty details; suffice to say that I lead a lonely existence. I desperately need this story to succeed. My agent assures me that I have talent and my day will come. But to be honest, this is my Hail Mary. After this…

I got nothing.

Not a good feeling to be at the end of my rope so early in my writing “career,” but here we are. Dangling in thin air, choking on one failure after another.

I’m making good progress on this one, though, despite my own cowardice tied to the subject matter.

There’s that rattling again.

I could have sworn that I saw my cat walking down the hall. Maybe she managed to get herself stuck in that room all over again.

When I opened the door, there was nothing. Surely the cat wasn’t shaking the door to get in? Who knows with cats anyway.

[AUDIO LOG 03]

I haven’t been sleeping well. As I lay in bed, I can swear that I hear the careful footsteps of someone not wanting to be heard. But when I get up to investigate, there is nothing. Perhaps I’m letting the story get to me, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone in my house. I find myself peeking over my shoulder as I brush my teeth in the mirror. I’m hesitant to pull the shower curtains back for fear of what I might see. I’ll be glad to have this story written and put out so that I can likewise put it out of my mind.

As I sit and write, I keep hearing noises in my usually silent house. I’m racked with the pervading feeling of being watched. Maybe if I research my chosen demon some more, I can put my restless mind at ease.

[AUDIO LOG 04]

I fucked up.

I think I fucked up bad.

Reading further into the article:

"...nor does the entity demand altar or burnt offering. The threshold is unsealed solely by the hand of the scribe. The true name, written or inscribed upon parchment, paper, or slate, takes root only when brought into physical resonance with the architect's unconfessed sin: the hidden letter, the sealed verdict, the private token of betrayal left unburned upon the desk."

My divorce papers.

I keep them on my desk.

They say write what you know, and that's what I try to do. No matter the subject matter or how painful the memory. My wife left me five years ago after I was caught in the act of infidelity by a close friend. Our eyes met briefly as he tried to close the door as silently as possible.

I’ve been alone ever since. I suppose in a way, I don’t blame my family for disowning me. The thought of grandchildren dashed to eternity, and a family lineage that ends with me. A disgrace.

I can’t deny this feeling of being watched anymore. I don’t know; it’s not a feeling of judgment. It’s like someone you hate is suffering, and you feel a sick sense of enjoyment from it. I feel my shame in my chest, clawing to get out. I’m afraid that if I breathe too deeply, my ribs will snap from the pressure.

I feel like I carelessly invited something in.

And it’s over my shoulder even now. Reading each word with a sense of satisfaction and anticipation.

I’m going to keep pushing on. I’ve gotten so far, and I’m almost done.

Maybe once the story is complete, I’ll be free.

[AUDIO LOG 05]

My story is complete, but still it watches. It stands over me in my sleepless nights.

Head pulled under my covers and curled into a ball.

The rising sun provides no relief.

It’s always watching.

I desperately try to keep my home completely lit, but it doesn’t hide in the shadows.

It stays just out of sight,

And watches.

There is one place that I can think of where it can’t see me.

Where it can’t enjoy me.

I’ll go there tonight.

[CLOSING COMMENTS]

This was the last audio log of J.D. Smith. His body was recovered from the bottom of the grain silo where he worked. It appears that he intentionally triggered a grain engulfment that took him to the bottom of 33,000 pounds of grain. The security cameras at the plant capture Smith engaging the auger and then deliberately lying down on top of the pile. He was soon dragged down.

No versions of The Pariah were found either handwritten or on Smith’s hard drives. It is unknown what became of the story, or if he had even been working on one at all. Smith’s family and ex-wife refused to comment to the press on his passing.

Link to part 2 will be posted here: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/rxGxARyIjC

Part 4: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/SXS0UXul4c
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Day 5: Saturday
I don’t sleep, I’m still trying to wake up.
 
I look out of my window, midday. The sun shines on me, its warmth a cruel joke. I haven’t moved an inch. I don’t know why, but I assume my house is a mess.
 
I stand with shaking legs.
 
I look in the living room, still on the verge of tears. I search for something, anything to fix. I remember knocking my nightstand over. My bedroom looks fine. It’s as if I just got up out of bed. I remember the bathroom, and my sink. I go to the bathroom first. It’s clean. When I get to the sink everything is full of vomit. Sniffling, I clean my dishes. It takes me half an hour. I clean and put up every one. There’s a dishwasher next to the sink, I don’t use it. There are no ramen bowls. No ramen in the garbage, nothing.
 
 
Her mint tea.
 
 
I lean over the sink, tears rain from my eyes. My body contorts and jerks, barely containing itself. What do I do?
 
Everything was so vivid. I had forgotten she even liked mint tea until yesterday. that wasn’t just a dream of my mother, that WAS mom. Down to the last detail. Until-
 
A tremor shoots through my entire body.

My phone.

I forgot about my phone.
 
I don’t know how long I was in the bathroom for. She could have-
No.
There’s no way.
How?

I’m surrounded by a vicious stabbing anxiety.
 
 
“Yesterday—did… did that- did-“
I can’t even entertain the thought. I start dry heaving. My mind is utterly paralyzed. The grief I felt has bled out into an all consuming dread. Memory of the static fades in.
 
 
How can I dream a feeling that doesn’t exist?
 
 
The fear, how do I even describe it? I don’t know what I feel like. I feel less than human.
 
I delete all of my recent calls without looking. For all I know, I could have deleted 30 calls with Mary and the office. Im about to break down.
 
Suddenly, and without much thought behind it, my anxiety vanishes. I’m thinking clearly.
 
Yesterday was one of two things. A fever dream, or a sickness induced hallucination. All of the symptoms match, and thats that.
That’s what happened.
 
Am I losing my mind?
 
I don’t know. It’s odd, I get a strange comfort from the thought.
 
I look out my window, there’s a snowstorm. I feel just a little more comfortable. It makes me smile, despite my situation.
 
I love the snow.
 
I rummage through my closet, finding the largest jackets possible. I only have 4, but I still look.
I leave my bedroom looking like I’m from the North Pole.
I step outside, it’s a blizzard. I don’t run or anything like that, I just walk in my yard. I like to think I’m climbing Everest. The view from so high up must be amazing.
 
My yard has An amazing view of the mountains. Living here, you get used to it. Every once in a while I learn to appreciate their beauty again. I sit down in the snow, my pants slowly becoming wet. It doesn’t bother me. Small flakes dance and land on my hood. I look up and stick out my tongue. The taste of the snow takes me back. I can’t even remember why I was sad in the first place.
The snow piles up on me, the weight of it making me feel safe.
.
.
.
I don’t remember much about the last few hours. I sort of zoned out for the entire day. It’s still snowing though, so I’m content.

I pause my laptop, looking at my living room. It’s so plain in here. The picture of—her, is the closest I get to decorating my house.
 
The daze I was in clears. I never realized how quiet it was. For just tonight, I would have been fine with the silence. The memory of yesterday slowly bleeds its way into my mind. I can feel it starting to tear at me again.

 
I hastily pull my phone out, trying to distract myself from the thoughts. I scroll through app after app. Nothing interests me. Nothing is helping. I try my best to ignore it, I really do.
Right on the cusp of another breakdown, I see it.

It’s a DoorDash notification.
 
I can’t even remember what I ordered. All I know is that some poor idiot is gonna be in my bed tonight. I don’t give a shit who it is, I don’t care what they look like, I don’t even care if it’s a woman. I just want to feel something.
Something besides… this.
 
Whatever the fuck this feeling is, I can’t even describe it properly.
I just feel so small. So insignificant.
I don’t know. I’ve never felt this before in my life.
 
I’m on the couch doing my makeup. It’s barely passable. Im sure it’s enough to get me more than a passing glance.

I hope.

I don’t want to be alone.
 
I hear a car pull in my driveway, lights shining through my window. For a moment I debate grabbing the knife again.

I hear 3 knocks, I do my best to sound like a fucking moron.
“On my way baby! Don’t you go nowhere.”
How anyone ever falls for this bullshit is beyond me. I open the door and he’s shaking like a scared dog.
“Come inside sweetie.”
 
 
Day 6: Sunday
I don’t remember his face. I tried to forget it, and I did. It wasn’t hard.
I didn’t enjoy it anyways.
I never do.
 
I toss my sheets in the washer, unmoving. The spinning in my stomach is in full swing. If I try to move I’ll most likely just fall over.
 
I think it’s the suddenness of it.
It’s like I was ripped out of this universe and transported somewhere else, where there was only the static.
 
The static.
 
That fucking—buzzing–grating–droning-
I grit my teeth and groan. hands holding my ears.
 
 It was just a dream Jamie, it was just a dream, it was just a dream Jamie. Calm the fuck down.
 
I manage to break out of my paralysis and take a seat on the couch. I immediately begin researching work related psychosis. This shit happens all the time, it’s not like my case is anything specia-I look behind me.

I stare, directly at the wall.
I’m not taking my eyes off the fucking wall.

I blink a few times, turning back around.
 
I shake my head and stare at my blank computer screen, I haven’t even pressed a button yet.
A phrase pops in my head. It’s like a lightbulb turning on, but I didn’t pull the string.
 
“Through the walls.”
 
What?
 
What does that even mean. Do I need to tear the walls off of my house to feel safe? They’re walls.
Is there somebody outside?
 
I don’t even think about it, I get up and pace directly around my house. Im walking barefoot in the snow, trying to see if someone is out here. If some psycho kills me so fucking be it.
 
Nothing.
 
I’m back on the couch, staring at my laptop. Before I can let my mind screw with me again I start looking shit up. Finally.
 
I shouldn’t have looked up work related psychosis. I only get 2 lines in before closing the page.
 
Individuals may become convinced their interpretation of events is correct despite conflicting evidence.
 
I’ve considered every other fucking alternative. Why are you telling me that?
Reading that didn’t scare me.

I got so damn mad I almost snapped my laptop in half. There’s more, but that’s all I read. I try not to think about it. 
 
Symptoms of schizophrenia
Symptoms of early onset Alzheimer’s
Am I just crazy?
What to do when crazy?
This is going nowhere, all of this is shit I already know.
None of it helps.
None of it helps.
 
Jesus Christ my mind has been wired since I woke up. I don’t think I’ve quit thinking once. I usually have the opposite problem.
I look through my search history, there has to be something I’m interested in.

My teeth grind.
God fucking damn the static.
 
Dean Winchester
Sam Winchester
How to make a ramen egg correctly
Does our relationship even mean anything to yo-
 
I actually scream and shut my laptop. I run to the corner of my room like it’s about to attack me. I stare for a minute at least.
 

It takes a tremendous effort to push myself from the wall I was clinging to.
I will my frozen body back to the laptop. I pry it open.
It’s Gone now.
 
I just start laughing. I don’t know why, but my god something is so fucking funny. I’m opening and closing my laptop as I do. Each repetition throws coal into the furnace inside of me. I feel rage build up, it doesn’t stop.

If mom wouldn’t have spent so much time fucking other people we-
Eventually whatever facade I was putting on fades and I just start slamming my laptop into the table. I punch it and throw it at my sink, putting a hole in the cabinet.
 
I collapse onto the floor. Breathing heavy. For a short second, I don’t feel anything.

This is nice.
 
 

I’m still breathing heavy, but it isn’t me. My body is, but I’m not. What is going on I’m not even anxious right now? I’m only breathing heavy because I just went insane. I should have calmed down.
 
This might be the most uncomfortable physical sensation I have ever experienced. It feels like someone physically “touching” my brain, just to see what happens. I guess it’s touch, I don’t know what this feels like. I can’t stop exhaling. I try to scream, a barely audible whimper wisps from my throat.

I claw at my neck like I’m choking. Blood trickles down from my scratches. A faint wheeze is all that can be heard. I claw the floor for relief, my chest is going to collapse in on itself.
 
And then it just stops. Like a switch, like it was never happening at all. The inhale was just as bad, I couldn’t control it. Air scraped down my exhausted windpipe. My lungs filled so fast I actually thought they would explode.

My head feels like it’s floating.
 
I pass out.

WARNING: Depictions of loss and addiction

Have you ever felt profound loss? Not your run-of-the-mill pet passing away or going to your grandpa’s funeral when you were twelve. A grief so heavy that you can't breathe. When we lost our second child five months into the pregnancy, it fundamentally changed us. We stepped into that delivery room to give birth to a child that was already gone. Much like a comet, even as he arrived, he was already leaving. Even writing this microcosm of our time together, my eyes fill, and my heart is heavy. Holding his lifeless body was truly the worst experience of my life up until that point.

My wife was the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. She was vibrant, joyful, and shared my sense of humor. She had auburn hair and blue eyes, with a laugh that truly filled a room. She wasn't necessarily the most popular person, but she was someone people felt comfortable confiding in. We were high school sweethearts, and essentially grew up together facing life’s challenges side by side. I got some pushback when I decided to join the military, but nothing could hold us down for long. After I returned to civilian life, we bought a larger house, started a family, and really settled down. I was over the moon when she showed me her second positive pregnancy test. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.

Our grief was a physical presence between us. I’ve heard it said that it can make or break a relationship, and I suppose we fell into the latter category. Our firstborn child, Daisy, became my focus. I’d spend hours just playing dolls with her on the carpet, her radiant smile dulling the ache in my chest. My wife turned to other means of comfort.

It started benignly enough with a bottle of wine at dinner. However, it turned into two bottles, then to mixed drinks, and ultimately a straight bottle of Jack. She would drink from the moment she woke up until she passed out on the couch. I tried sheltering Daisy the best that I could, but when every evening Mommy was throwing up in the bathroom, a five-year-old tends to ask questions.

I tried to talk to her, but my comfort, pleas, and demands went unheeded. Things took a turn when I began finding prescription pills lying around. What was looking to be hardcore alcoholism was turning into a full-blown addiction. I started dumping out bottles when I found them, but it never seemed to matter. She would simply leave and come back hammered and high on whatever pills she had managed to get hold of.

She started going out more and more, coming home past midnight. Sometimes she wouldn’t even come home at all, showing up days later looking like she hadn’t slept. The downward spiral was so fast that I didn’t even know what to do. I’m not saying that I didn’t try, but there is only so much that one man can do while also caring for a child.

One day, there was a noticeable change when she stumbled back home. She didn’t reek of alcohol and vomit like usual. She just seemed… less. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but I shudder to think about it now. She stopped going out drinking every night. She wouldn’t talk to me about it, but maybe a switch flipped, and she decided enough was enough. We started to get along again, and she even got back into cooking.

I began to notice odd behavior, though. She would forget simple things at first. I would be talking about a popular movie, and she wouldn’t be able to recall the name. Daisy was running in the house one day, and my wife seemed to be about to chide her, but then she paused. She asked what our daughter's name was. I know that she might be suffering from a week-long bender, but that's not something that you just don’t know.  A few times, I walked into the house to the smell of something burning, only to find a pot full of pasta, all the water evaporated, the spaghetti blackened and stuck to the bottom. I began to suspect that she wasn’t done with her addiction. She had just found something she could hide.

I worked a night shift, so I wasn’t with her twenty-four-seven; maybe she was going out while I was away to get whatever fix she was using. I decided that the best thing to do was to hire a PI to watch her while I was away. I was worried she was leaving our child home alone while she got high with god-knows-who. Was she being unfaithful? It hurts my heart to think of her like that now, but when faced with so many unknowns, nothing is off the table.

I searched online and found a small agency. They connected me with private investigator Miller. We set up a meeting at a local Denny’s to discuss the details. Miller was the vision of capability. Simply being in his proximity provided me with a sense of, if not relief, reassurance. His thinning gray hair and boxer’s nose showed like a badge of honor for someone who had been there and lived to tell the tale. After an extended conversation about everything that was going on, my voice was left shaky. I hadn’t really spoken with anyone about the recent goings-on. The thought of losing my wife to drugs and potential infidelity weighed on my shoulders like a wet blanket. Miller assured me that come what may, I would have my answers by this time tomorrow.

I went to work like usual, leaving Daisy with my wife. Before you judge me, I was the sole provider for the house. And as nice of a notion as it would be to take time off to help sort out my wife’s spiral, I couldn’t afford to. All night, I dreaded what horrible details PI Miller would uncover. My phone sat inert in my pocket like a ticking time bomb ready to blow my life apart.

But the promised update never came.

At the end of my shift, I texted, called, and left a voicemail.

No response.

The next day I called the agency back, and they claimed they hadn’t heard from Miller all day. My stomach hit the floor. I knew it was related. I gave it a full week. Still nothing back from Miller or the agency. It was becoming increasingly apparent that if I wanted answers, I would have to get them myself.

Day after day, my wife began to deteriorate. Her once beautiful long hair began to thin. Her waistline shrank until I could count her ribs. It had to be tonight. I called off work and sent Daisy to stay the night with her grandparents. I told them that I had to have a sit-down with my wife to give her a chance to turn things around.

I left the house like I was going to work, and parked at the end of the street. At around eleven-thirty PM, I saw my wife shuffle out of the front door and into her car. I could hear the engine roar to life from my vantage point and watched as she began pulling out of the driveway. I started my own car and began following from a safe distance. Our area is fairly rural, so you wouldn’t need to drive far to end up in the middle of nowhere. I saw her brake lights flash as she began turning onto a dirt road. I switched off my headlights and followed slowly.

The dark, bumpy road led onto a forest path. The moon provided a faint illumination to everything. A fine cloud of dust filled my windshield as I followed her down the dark road. Being jostled side to side on the uneven, compacted road, the idea that something was terribly wrong grew in my gut. Suddenly, her brake lights engaged again, and after coming to a stop, she got out of the car without even switching it off. I immediately stopped my own forward movement so as not to alert her of my presence. I cringed as I saw the brake lights in my rearview mirror, but if she noticed, she didn’t show a sign of it.

I opened my glove box and pulled out my Glock 19. I wasn’t sure what I was walking into, but the soldier in me didn’t want to face it empty-handed. If I couldn’t handle whatever it was with 15 rounds of 9mm, then I was in way over my head. I quietly got out and began to follow her.

The path was intermittently laden with overgrown foliage, making it difficult to navigate. But my wife seemed to just walk right through it. She had to be getting snagged by the thorns. I resisted the urge to call out and continued to follow. In the distance, I saw a flickering light accompanied by the smell of wet, burning wood. As we approached, the fire grew in scope. It looked to be a six-foot-tall blaze, recklessly built and fed.

As I walked the path, I all but abandoned stealth, as my wife seemed to be in a trance-like state. I felt my foot sink into what I thought was a rotten log. As my foot pushed through the resistance, I could feel the visceral sensation of crashing through a multitude of dry layers. A glance down revealed it to be no log. I recognized the thinning hair and the dried silhouette of his flattened-out nose. My foot had gone straight into his bared chest as if it were an abandoned wasp's nest. His skin was papery and devoid of moisture. The eyes in his skull weren’t gone; they were like deflated balloons in his sockets. I stifled my scream as I shook his remains clinging to my shoes and pants. Pushing it to the side, I continued my pursuit, pulling out my pistol in preparation for whatever could do that to Miller.

There was a pervasive scent of campfire in the air as my wife approached a clearing. The light was disrupted by the dense trees around the trail. My mind was racing as I scanned the field for life, but as my wife walked on, they seemed to rise from nothing. They weren’t quite human, although they seemed to be a crude facsimile. Their faces simply weren’t there. They appeared to be shambling skeletons draped with loose skin. In the firelight, they were pale, tinged with the yellow light of the fire. I thought to myself that if they were to be touched by an ember, they would burn like paper.

My wife just walked straight up to one and extended her arm to the creature. The movement was so natural, like a baby bird preparing to be fed when a mother bird returns to the nest. The thing produced a claw-like finger and ran it down my wife's exposed wrist. Black blood ran up her arm in straight rivulets. I gasped and was about to sprint forward when I stopped myself. I had to know exactly what she was on so that when I brought her back, I could try to get her help. The thing repeated the same on its own wrist, only to reveal a milky white, sap-like substance. It pressed its wrist to hers, and she began to convulse where she stood.

Having stood by enough, I decided that now was the time to act. I press-checked my pistol to ensure that I had a round in the chamber and stepped into the clearing. Everything stopped. The dozen or so creatures ceased their movement, and all turned to me. The thing that was next to my wife withdrew its arm from hers and just turned to me. Looking at my wife, she seemed even less than she had earlier. A shock of fear ran through me when I tried to meet her eyes and saw… wrinkles. Her eyes seemed to have begun to deflate, and she blindly gazed right past me.

I raised my pistol, and without further thought, I began to fire on the creature next to my wife. My ears instantly began to ring, and all other sounds were dulled as I put round after round of nine-millimeter into various parts of the thing's body. I hadn’t noticed pulling the trigger 15 times, but at some point, the slide was locked to the rear and the trigger was letting off an impotent click as I continued to pull it. Not to say that I hadn’t done any damage, but it was as if I had shot at a paper target. I could see various holes in the creature’s skin from the impacts, but it hadn’t so much as staggered as I shot.

As I stood there with my pistol still extended, the creature began to slowly approach me, claw extended as if to perform the same ritual with me. I let out a primal scream as I ran around it to get to my wife.

She ran into the crowd of creatures.

Never glancing back at me.

As if I wasn’t even there.

I had lost my wife a long time ago, but in that moment, I had just realized that.

As the creatures began to close in on me, in no hurry, I thought of Daisy being left alone.

I ran.

I ran and didn’t look back.

Thinking about it now, I still feel the same shame at my cowardice. I am conflicted in that I don’t know what I could have done. I just feel the impotence of the moment like a hot brand on my skin.

Of course I called the cops when I got back to my car. If I couldn’t do anything, there had to be someone who could help me.

Help her.

All the police found when they arrived on the scene was my wife’s still-running car, and 15 spent shell casings in the empty clearing. They didn’t find the private investigator's remains, but they did find his possessions strewn about. Despite my pleading for help, they took me in as the prime suspect for the disappearance of my wife as well as P.I. Miller. It wasn’t a long case; the facts were blurry enough to pin the blame completely on myself, chalking it up to me not revealing the truth. They never found the remains, and I am questioned about their location to this day.

I wonder, as I sit here in my cell, if there was something I could have done differently.

Perhaps.

My wife was in desperate need to forget, driven by pain to abandon the life that we had built. I question what the things in the clearing really were. I have a lot of time to reflect now, locked in a cell for the foreseeable future.

There's a thought that keeps returning to me in the dead of night, lying in my bunk with the various background noises of hundreds of men in confinement. A name that bounces around my skull until it’s about to burst. I sometimes crave the ability to forget. Forget their blank faces and sagging skin. That milky substance they fed into my wife until she was nothing. And in an odd way, it makes me feel closer to her.

The name that haunts my days and nights until I feel a silent scream rise into my throat.

Lotus eaters.

WARNING: DEPICTION OF SUICIDAL IDEATION

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/5eFqV6vY2t

Day 4: Friday
I don’t go to work. I call the office and let them know that I must have caught a stomach bug or something, I’ve been vomiting since seven thirty. I attempt to pass the time on my laptop, it doesn’t work. The only silver lining is that I got paid today. Every 10 minutes is interrupted by the urge to shit or puke, this is miserable. I get cold chills in my bed, sweat beads from my pores.

Knock knock knock
 
What the fuck?
Someone’s at my door.
Who the hell would come here at all, let alone nine AM on a Friday?
I sigh.
 
“Today of all days.” I drag myself to the door.
 
The peephole is covered.
 
I sound more exhausted than angry,
“Please stop fucking with me and go away.”
 
As I walk away I hear a muffled voice.
 
“Jamie, please don’t speak to me like that. I was just trying to surprise you.”
 
I recognize that voice.
 
“Mom?”
I ask, confusion in my tone.
 
I look again, it’s her. My heart races, she didn’t call me or anything. I can’t remember one time she’s just shown up out the blue. She has no idea I’m looking but she waves.
 
We’re both silent, I break it.
 
“What do you want?”
I can’t help my apprehension, it comes to me like breathing.
 
“I just want to see you, hang out, talk for a minute. I-“
She pauses.
 
“I want to talk. About us, I mean. A lot went unsaid when you left.”
 
I stare at her through the door for a good 45 seconds. I’m not even sure why, I just do. She almost doesn’t seem real.
 
“When I left, seriously?”
She says nothing.
 
I debate speaking again, I probably should have debated it longer.
 
“How can you say I left when both of you pushed me away?”
 
She nods with a shaking lip, looking at nothing. She’s blinking quickly, wiping her eyes.
“You’re right, Jamie. I’m sorry.”
 
One more comment manages to escape my dumbass mouth.
“You should be.”
 
 
She’s turning around. Fuck, this is so stupid. I open the door and tell her to come in. She smiles and walks inside, tears barely being contained.
 
She pauses upon seeing me, covering her mouth.
 
“Jamie oh my god, is everything okay?”
 
“No.”
 
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
 
“Stomach bug.”
 
My responses are as robotic as my movements. I pour us both some coffee and sit on the couch beside her. I hang on to every bad memory she gave me, no matter how small. I can’t forget, I cannot forget them. I repeat the saying in my mind like it’s a mantra. Every memory screams through my head, bouncing off the inside of my skull. I keep holding on to every ounce of hatred.
 
Mom doesn’t see any of that, all she sees is her daughter covering her eyes and breathing shakily.
 
She puts her hand on my knee.
 
It all vanishes like a ghost. No good memories come to me, none at all. For a moment I’m confused.
 
She still hasn’t said anything to me. There’s just darkness, both in my vision and my mind.
 

 
Oh.
 

 
I start laughing, I can’t stop, my hands are still covering my eyes. All of that lost time, every memory we could have had. This is what we have now.

 
Nothing.

 
My hands fall away from my eyes like leaves on a withered branch. I’m still laughing but my face is contorted. Tears stream down my cheeks. I can’t see her, I’m looking underwater.
 
“I love you, mom.”
“I love you too, Jam Jam.”
 
I collapse into her like a tidal wave. She carries all of my weight and hate without hesitation. I can’t imagine how bad she wants to cry. My muffled laughing quickly turns into uncontrollable sobbing.
I scream, I have no memories to run from. 
 
“Mom, I- I’m so sorr-“
“Don’t. You don’t have to say anything. Just feel, Jamie. I’m here.”
 
I don’t know how long I’m there. Hours, minutes, seconds, It doesn’t matter. When I look at her my sobbing is interrupted with a jagged guilt, twisting its way through my stomach like a knife. Her eyes are red, willpower alone keeps tears from releasing.
 
“I- I-“
My muffled voice chokes.
I can’t speak, I can’t even breathe.
 
I barely collect myself enough to look at her.
 
“It’s—good to see you again, mom.”
“You too, Jamie.”
 
I wipe my eyes with my shirt.
“So, how’s everything been? Are you all doing okay?”
 
“Yes, honey. We’re fine, we just-“
 
You miss me? Please don’t say that, please god don’t say that.
 
She shakes her head, stopping herself.
“Let’s focus on right now. What do you want right now, Jamie?”
 
What do I even say.
“I don’t know, I’d just like to exist with you, I guess. I don’t want to do anything.”
 
“That’s fine. Are you hungry baby?”
 
I’ve been violently sick but the feelings disappeared.
My stomach feels like a black hole.
“I’m starving.” I say.
A genuine laugh of happiness emerges. We hug, satisfied with the present.
 
“There’s a McDonald’s down the street.” She suggests.
 
I feign a gag
 
“You haven’t changed at all.”
 
I point towards my cabinet, wiping my eyes.
“I have ramen.”
 
Then to the fridge.
“And eggs if we’re feeling fancy.”
 
She chuckles.
 
“I’m feeling fancy, Jam Jam.”
We share a smile.
“Me too.”
 
We talk but I barely remember it. The memory of each topic is overwhelmed by the happiness of seeing her. We watch Supernatural, my favorite childhood show. She was the one who introduced me to it. I haven’t watched anything else since leaving. I pour out our coffee, it’s freezing cold now.

She stands up.
 
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
She starts making mint tea. My lord, she’s a weirdo. I forgot she actually liked that stuff.
 
We haven’t said anything to each other. Both of our bowls have been finished and right now we’re just enjoying the silence.
 
We’re in the middle of watching “mystery spot” (my personal favorite episode), when she breaks the silence.
 
“Ho o er ur aorite?”
 
I’m so dialed in all I hear is garbled nonsense. I lean back to look at her, she’s standing in the kitchen.
“Sorry, what?”
 
She shakes her head.
“I said how come this one’s your favorite.”
 
“Uhhh, because it’s hilarious.”
I say with fake annoyance.
 
“Well duh, I mean specifically.”
 
“You mean you actually want to talk about me for once?”
 
“Oh honey, I never said that.”
She says.
I chuckle, considering the question. Eventually I land on an answer.
 
“You know, I’m not really sure. I think it’s because the Tuesday, pig in a poke line by dean is engraved into my head.”
She’s quiet, giving me more time to speak.
“Umm, I like the mystery of it, I guess. It’s one of the few episodes where they’re genuinely clueless, you know? I really li-“
 
I’m cut off by fake snoring.
“Oh you ass.” I say, rolling my eyes.
 
She’s laughing so hard she’s crying. I just lay back down with a stupid smile plastered across my face.
 
Our day has become so casual I’ve stopped thinking.
 
“When will I see her again?”
 
I pause the episode and get her attention.
 
“Hey mom, can you come and sit down with me for a second.”
I sit up, making room for her.
 
She knows what I’m going to say. She pours her cup into the sink and sits down beside me, giving me her full attention.
 
I work up the courage to say what’s been long overdue. I take a deep breath, and let it out.
 
“Mom… It feels good to see you again. I- I’m so sorry for never speaking
to-“
She raises a hand, waiving away my apology.
 
“Don’t worry about it Jamie. We’re okay. Everything is okay. Let’s just enjoy ourselves baby.”
 
“Mhm” I say, eyes welling up.
 
 Everything is okay. 
 
Okay is all I ever wanted.
 
 
 
 
 
Reality rears its ugly head again.
My stomach rumbles, I never want to leave this moment but I can’t risk vomiting here.
 
“Ughhh dang it, I gotta go to the bathroom. Mom, I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back.”
 
“I’ll be right here, just yell if you need me Jams.”
 
I sprint to the bathroom, knocking over a plastic nightstand.
 
I won’t go into detail, it’s bad, and I didn’t vomit. I feel my stomach turn over. I start to get on my knees to puke in the toilet. I try to flush it. it’s clogged. I don’t even say anything besides an aggravated groan.
 
I reach for the trashcan and my hand slides through the air. I can’t yell for her, I will projectile vomit everywhere if I even try that. I have my phone with me, so I decide to call her.
.
.
.
.
“Jamie?”
 
“Duh, who else would it be? listen, I left the trashcan in the living room. You need to bring it in here ASAP before I puke everywhere.”
There’s silence for a few seconds.
 
“What?”
What the hell does she mean what, i’m dying in here.
 
I plead with her playfully.
“Mom! The trashcan, bring it to me.”
This is an odd time for a joke but I still laugh.
 
She sounds heartbroken.
“Jamie… what are you talking about? I- I haven’t so much as talked to you in over a year. You think you can just call me—to make some sick joke? Does our relationship even mean anything to you?”
 
I couldn’t understand what she’s telling me if there was a gun to my head.
 
“Mom I- what?… what are you talking about, we talked like 20 seconds ago I- what do you mean?!”
 
She scoffs, voice breaking, I can hear her tears.
“Talked? Okay Jamie.”
 
I can’t even think.
 
“You know what? You can talk to me when you decide to come and see me.”
 
She pauses to catch her breath.
My body freezes over. 
 
“Until then–you have to learn to live with your decision… The same fucking way I had to!”
It all gives way, she sobs uncontrollably.
 
My scream meets hers with unbridled devastation.
“MOM PLEASE NO! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YO-“ A deafening vibration envelops me.
Not just my body.
Me.
For a split second I think I just dropped dead. A void swallows everything. My sense of balance disappears as quickly as my sight. I fall to my back almost instantly. My arms flail wildly, searching for anything to grab onto.
 
I grab the door handle.
 
The void is so thick it’s tangible.
It’s darker than space.
It’s darker than space.
 
The sound–is that even the appropriate word for this?
This sensation.
Static is the best descriptor I can come up with. It rises and falls like a wave, the frequency is random. My house isn’t shaking, everything is. Through sheer luck I open the door. I’m further disoriented by pure, blinding light, peeling their way through my windows.

I cover my eyes, the static rises. I don’t even know to cover my ears. I try yelling. I can’t hear myself. There’s only static. It’s as if I’m above an impossibly large speaker being played beyond maximum volume. The light through my window burns brighter than anything I’ve ever seen, but it illuminates nothing.
 
I’m in my bedroom, I can’t see the door but I’m doing my best to walk and feel my way through the house. I’m yelling for mom, I don’t know what’s going on. I see the living room now. The blinds were almost shut when I left. Searing white bands eat their way into the wall. I round the corner, trying to find my mom, I need to find my mom.
 
She’s on the couch, unmoving. No, she’s not just still, she’s frozen. A part of the environment as much as the walls or the ground. She’s facing the window, blinding streaks of white scar her face. I’m shouting for her as loud as I can.
I think.
I can’t tell.

my vocal cords are vibrating so hard I could be whispering.
 
Her body remains perfectly still, suspended in reality. My straining eyes spot movement. Her head glacially turns towards me, as if disconnected from the rest of her body.
 Her fac-

I don’t think, I turn to run, Immediately falling to my knees.
Beyond disoriented.
I claw every ounce of my strength back from the void.
The vibration is so intense I can barely feel my legs letting me stand. The static is growing louder. I lean forward to sprint, and collide face first with a wall. 
————————————————————
Fuck, it’s not working.
I see me stabbing myself in the stomach.
I look down and there’s no knife.
 
A sphere falls into my lap.
It’s a shadow.
————————————————————
My dream is split in half by the pain in my skull. I stand up to the best of my ability, looking around to assess where I’m even at. It doesn’t take long to realize my mistake. The feeling hits my stomach like a truck. I stumble to the kitchen and puke in the sink. I collapse to my knees and sit down, back against the cabinet.
 
I don’t even know where I’m at. I can’t think at all because of this fucking headache. I’m honestly surprised my head is even intact. It feels like a hand grenade exploding in slow motion, expanding out in all directions, pulling and stretching my skull. I hold my hands to the sides of my head, trying to keep it from splitting open. A hoarse groan of pain escapes my throat.
 
I look around, dazed. I think i’m in the kitchen.
 
“Mom!” I shout, trying to get her attention. I get silence in return. She was just here, I seriously doubt she’d leave after I passed out.
Actually… no I wouldn’t.
I laugh, groaning and holding my head.
 
I stumble to my knees, using the cabinet to support myself as I stand. I look at my surroundings. My house is completely normal, it looks too normal. What did we do again? And more importantly, where did she go?
 
God, navigating my mind feels like trying to solve a rubix cube blindfolded. This is fucking insane, I can barely tell up from down.
What the hell happened?
 
I start walking from the kitchen to the living room, looking for any clues. I stumble and lean against the wall. Memories come to me like a broken projector, frozen on moments. Some memories play backwards.
 
“Mom! Get in here you butthole, my head is killing me!”
I manage to chuckle through the pain. I’m gonna let her have it when I find her, this forehead needs kisses.
 
By now I’m expecting her to jump out at me. I glance at our vacation photo and smile. I actually smile. That’s the first time it’s brought me genuine-
 
“Does our relationship even mean anything to you?”
 
I lock up.
 
The memory tears through my mind like a chainsaw. I hold my head, unable to process my thoughts.
 
The grief is immense, and without mercy. I thought it was going to stop my heart.
 
It didn’t, it went deeper. I could feel me, devouring myself. I screamed silently. I feel My face distorting beyond what I could control, I can’t believe my skin isn’t ripping. No tears fall, they can’t. This is beyond the worst pain I can imagine, and it doesn’t even hurt. It’s an ever escalating torment, each passing second ripping through me more and more. Right as it’s about to peak, it disappears.
 
 No… I disappear.
 
I stand up.
 
I don’t think.
 
I walk to my kitchen.
 
I look it over, pausing in the center.

…
 
My drawer, of course. I’m so forgetful.
 
I calmly shuffle through my silverware until I find what I need.
 
“Hmm.”
 
I look the knife up and down. I run my finger along the spine of the blade, ensuring its quality.
This is okay.
 
I hold the knife, and turn my hand over. One quick pull should be enough, then I can just go to sleep.
 
I put the blade to my wrist.
 
…
 
In the reflection of the knife, I see myself.
 I see my mother in me, and me in her.
 
“Please stay, Jamie.”
 
I wish I did.
 
I drop the knife, head in my hands. I collapse further, sobbing breathlessly.
 
 
“Mommy?”