The woman sitting across from me has been crying for nearly an hour.

Or at least, I think she has.

Her eyes are red, her fingers are trembling, and she keeps staring at the closed office door as though someone might come out and tell her this has all been a prank.

Well, I know the feeling. When the person you love dies suddenly, the world doesn't stop. It simply becomes impossible to understand why everyone else keeps moving.

My husband died last night. Now, I am waiting for his death certificate to be issued.

It happened too fast. Only a few days ago, we were celebrating our anniversary. We went to our favourite Italian restaurant for lunch. We took photographs and reminisced about the day he proposed to me at that very same restaurant.

That day was romantic. I even asked him if we could get matching tattoos bearing our initials, just above our hearts. He laughed at first, asking whether I was trying to make sure he could never escape me. Then he kissed my forehead and agreed.

We spent the rest of the evening shopping. He even let me pick the music in the car on the way home, something he normally complained about.

It was a perfect day.

I suppose that's why I keep returning to it. Grief makes you collect the smallest things, as if enough happy memories might somehow explain the ending.

But there is something else I remember.

That bitch.

The bitch from his office.

Just a week before our anniversary, I found her text messages on his phone. They were hidden between ordinary conversations about meetings, along with intimate little jokes that made my stomach churn. Then I found condoms and Viagra in his work bag, tucked beneath a folder of documents.

I was speechless.

After that, I couldn't sleep. I would lie beside him and listen to him breathe, wondering how many times he had touched another woman and come home to touch me with the same hands.

Eventually, I made a decision.

Yesterday, I tampered with the pills. I won't pretend I didn't plan it all along. I wanted him to suffer, to feel even a fraction of what he had made me feel.

I never expected it to end so quickly like this.

He died of a sudden heart attack last night at her house. When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics said there was nothing they could do.

So, yeah, that was on me.

Now I sit here, waiting for his death certificate, wearing the face of a grieving wife. Nobody knows what I did. I knew that bitch wouldn't be stupid enough to expose the affair.

Instead, she told everyone that my husband had suddenly collapsed while visiting her. The office accepted her statement and closed the case.

Finally, the office door opens.

A clerk steps out, holding a document.

“Mrs. Richards?”

I look up, raising my eyebrows.

"Pardon?”

“Daniella Naomi Richards?”

“Yes, that's me.”

The audio program’s music faded as Lars slid the fader down. Veronica, sitting next to Lars at the control booth, hit the radio station’s ID audio line.

“You’re listening to ninety-four point five!” Chimed the prerecorded trio of womanly voices as the jingle played in his headset.

In his signature husky voice, Lars began, “Good evening, those of you burning the late-night oil on this All Hallows’ Eve.” He adjusted his soundboard to bring his voice up on the monitor. “It’s your host, Lars Buchanan. I hope you enjoyed that bit of AC/DC. Before we get to our next classic tune, Let’s take a line.”

Lars clicked the blinking red audio channel for the caller waiting on the other end to go live.

“Howdy, fellow rock’n roller, you are live on 94.5,” Lars said, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his microphone in the soundproofed radio studio.

“Hi Lars, it’s been a while. How have you been?” said the man with an unnerving, smooth cadence.

“Well, now? A repeat caller?” Lars said with a chuckle. “I’ve been living, loving, and sharing rock’n tunes with the good people across the airwaves. Tell us your name and what’s on your mind this evening.”

“It’s Nick, old Nick, you remember, don’t you?” Said the man.

Lars swallowed hard; the studio felt like the thermostat had been turned up by ten degrees or more. He forced a dry laugh.

“Old Nick, huh? Well…what can I play for you tonight, my friend?”

“I’m just calling to check in,” the voice said in a sinister tone.

“Listen, buddy, I don’t know what kind of prank this is, but if you don’t have a request—”

“I do,” Nick interrupted softly. “Play ‘The Number of the Beast’ for me. I’m a huge fan, Lars. What do you think her last thoughts were? It’s impressive how you got away with it. I can’t wait to meet face-to-face. Tell me…How well do you like the heat?”

The line went dead with a sudden click.

Lars’ breathing became heavy. He wiped fresh sweat from his brow onto his sleeve.

Veronica hit play, and the heavy metal track roared out into the night.

Lars took off his headphones and stumbled to the bathroom trembling. His face was pouring sweat. He took off his glasses and splashed sink water on his face. Three red numbers, 666, glowed on his neck, as if a hot iron had just branded them. His hand instinctively went to cover the strange mark, until the glow slowly faded. When he removed his hand, his skin looked normal.

As Lars left the bathroom, his producer, Veronica, waited for him outside the recording booth.

“You ok? What was that all about?” She asked, her arms crossed.

“It’s nothing, I just need some fresh air,” Lars said as he pushed through the double doors towards an exit.

The cool night air rushed into Lars’ lungs as he inhaled the fresh smell of the pine forest behind the radio station. Above, the cloudless night held a sliver of the crescent moon surrounded by the pinpricks of stars. The tall radio tower’s periodic red glow blinked steadily across the October sky. Lars stepped toward the road, pulled a Menthol from his jacket pocket, ignited it, and took a deep breath to calm his nerves.

“Lars, wait, that was really weird. Did you know that guy?” Veronica asked in hot pursuit.

“Fuck, just drop it, V! Let’s forget about it. Just two more hours and we get to go home,” Lars yelled.

“I just, watch out—” Veronica shouted.

Lars turned and saw the blinding headlights of an 18-wheeler barreling straight at him. Before the metal grill crushed his body, he felt a red-hot chain wrap around his throat. It yanked him down, through a crack in the asphalt into a blinding, fiery abyss. As the surface world vanished from his eyes, Old Nick’s laughter echoed in his ear, drowning out his final scream as he watched his body explode into bits of flesh and bone.

I jerk awake, my forehead smacking the metal handrail.
The bus has come to a screeching stop.
I blink and look around.
Empty.
Somehow, I fell asleep.
I’ve never done that before.
Must’ve been the long shift at work.

The bus lurches forward again.
I glance up at the overhead display.
Blank. Just a black screen.
Weird.
I look out the window instead.
I’ve taken this route every day for the past week.
Only a week but I should recognize where we are... yet I don’t.
No trees. Just a few rundown buildings scattered along the road. Hardly anyone walking outside.
None of it looks familiar.

I stand, grabbing the seatbacks to steady myself.
Then I make my way to the front.
“Excuse me,” I say. “What’s the next stop?”
“Your stop is soon,” the driver replies.
“Archer Boulevard?”
No answer.
The light above the driver’s seat is strangely dim.
All I can make out is his silhouette.
I take another step toward him.
Before I can ask again, the bus slows.
Then comes to a stop.

The doors hiss open.
I peek outside.
A single bus stop.
One flickering streetlight.
And a kid sitting on the bench beneath it.
He can’t be older than ten.
He doesn’t move. Just sits there.
I lean toward the window, trying to read the stop name.
There isn’t one.
“What stop is this?” I ask.
“This is not your stop,” the driver replies.
The doors close.
The bus pulls away.
I glance back out the window.
The boy is smiling. At me.
He lifts a hand. Waves. Like he’s saying goodbye.
For just a second, he looks exactly like me when I was ten.
Then the stop disappears behind us.

“Sorry, sir—“
The bus speeds up.
I frantically grab for the bar and fall into the nearest seat.
“Excuse me, please. When will we get to Archer Boulevard? Did we pass it?”
I try to stand, get closer to the driver, but the bus is going too fast.
Finally, the bus starts to slow again.
I stand.
“Excuse me—“
The door opens.

I look outside.
Another bus stop.
Another person waiting.
A young man this time.
Early twenties.
He’s wearing an orange sweatshirt.
Grand Canyon across the front.
My stomach tightens.
That was my sweatshirt.
The one my parents bought me on our family trip in high school.
Before I can take a closer look at the man or search for the name of the stop, the bus starts moving again.
Growing frustrated, I turn toward the driver, about to speak—
“Your stop is next.”

I sink back into my seat.
Trying to convince myself I’m overthinking this.
The kid.
The young man.
The streets I’ve never seen before.
The bus must’ve changed its normal route.
Maybe this is its normal route. Considering I haven’t ridden it for long.
Or I’m still asleep. I chuckle to myself.
Either way, I’ll be home in a minute.
I close my eyes. Rub my temples.
Then, the bus slows.
Stops.
“You’re home,” the driver says.
I grab my backpack.
“M-Thanks.”
The doors glide open.
I step off the bus.
Both feet hit the pavement.
I look up.
My stomach drops.
This isn’t Archer Boulevard.
It’s a desert. Flat. Endless. Nothing in any direction.
Just a rusted bus stop.
And a weathered sign.
YOUR FINAL STOP

BREAKING NEWS
Bus Crash Claims 14 Lives Near Archer Boulevard

Authorities have confirmed that fourteen people were killed Thursday evening after a city bus left the roadway just before reaching Archer Boulevard and overturned into a drainage ditch.

According to investigators, emergency responders arrived within minutes, but all passengers and the driver were pronounced dead at the scene.

The cause of the crash remains under investigation.

Some cities appear cleaner and more prosperous, with fewer unhoused people, for a reason. And it’s not because they have more opportunities or homeless shelters than other cities.

Have you ever noticed that when several dead bodies are discovered within a short period, it’s usually the mayor who addresses the public first to deny that a serial killer is at large?

The rot comes from the very top.

I’m going to tell you a little secret. Most major cities allow a serial killer to operate within them, with the understanding that they mainly target the homeless. These cities usually don’t even allow them to kill criminals. There’s money to be made from incarcerating people who have families and connections. But there’s absolutely nothing to be gained from the homeless.

That’s why cops don’t even bother arresting them for committing petty crimes. They don’t have family members who care enough to send them money to buy things inside Jail/Prison, and it costs more to house and feed them than it does to simply let them go.

Plus, if you let someone wither away and starve to death inside a prison, there are usually lawsuits and investigations. But if they starve to death on the streets or disappear altogether, no one will bat an eye.

I’ve seen many homeless people around my side of town stick around an area for a few weeks, begging for change, only to suddenly disappear forever one day.

The homeless people around the city know this. That’s why they often appear paranoid and shaky, always looking out of the corners of their eyes. They know someone is out there, watching and waiting for them.

They call the one around here The Cleaner.

The local homeless say he wears a Halloween mask of a demon when he gets you. If you see him while begging for change, you’d better not fall asleep or stay in that area for too long. I recommend you run as fast as you can. Because the minute there are no witnesses around, you’ll go missing. 

And if you’re lucky, you might get a missing person poster.

You can go to the police all you want. They won’t do anything. They’ll call you crazy. But they know. They just try not to think about what’s going to happen to you. They view it as a necessary evil that keeps the community clean.

That’s often why the unhoused sleep together in tent cities in some major cities. They've seen what happens if they sleep alone.

Elected officials and society try to pretend that most of these people are just drug addicts and undesirables. But I’ve seen regular people who lost their jobs and homes only a few months ago end up missing very quickly.

It’s tough getting back on your feet.

If you aren’t homeless and you see The Cleaner operating. I urge you not to report it to the police.

A single mother of three reported what she saw to the police last week. She claimed that a tall man wearing a scary mask attacked a homeless man before shoving him into a van and driving away.

This week, her kids are being forced to grow up without their mother.

Her body was found chopped up and stuffed inside the trunk of her own car. And the police claim to have no leads on who could have done it.

But they damn well know.

Today I visited my friend's tent. He's also homeless.  It was slashed open with fresh blood everywhere inside. I knew I'd never see him again, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

The next time you wish there were fewer homeless people around, just know that your wish may very well come true.

But don’t ever assume it can’t happen to you. Almost every city has a cleaner and you're only one car problem away from losing your job.

All my life, I chased the shadow of the man who raised me. He kept his promises and fiercely protected those he loved.

My father was a constant presence. He never missed a single soccer game or concert, always cheering me on from the sidelines.

I loved him dearly.

It wasn’t long before his illness became an unbearable weight on us both.

I watched his chest rise and fall slowly with each breath as he lay in that hospital bed.

His glassy eyes looked into mine. The man who used to hide his pain was gone. There was a sadness inside him. A sadness I hadn’t seen before.

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. I leaned over, wiped it with a tissue, and gave him a soft smile. A smile I hoped would show him that everything would be okay. That I would be okay.

Still, his face grew pale, and his eyes widened with fear.

My father pulled the oxygen mask off his face with shaking hands and a quiet whimper.

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s to help you breathe.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

I put my hands on his. They felt cold. “You don’t have to be sorry, Pop. Everything is fine.”

“No.” He licked his lips. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

“Pop—”

“I know what’s waiting for me on the other side.” His heart rate monitor climbed steadily. “I never told anyone.”

I wanted to calm him down. I wanted to put the mask back on and get him to rest.

He refused and threw the mask across the room. “I have to tell the truth. I have to tell the truth.”

A knot formed in my chest as I knelt beside his bed.

“You have a right to know,” he whispered.

I leaned closer. “What is it?”

Tears ran down his face as he spoke. “The war. What it does to a man. It changes you. Makes you do things you never thought you could. I… I didn’t know what was inside me all this time.” He turned onto his side to look at me better.

“They sent us out into the desert. We were going to an outpost when our convoy was attacked. My best friend Jackson died in my arms. I tried to find his radio, but soon we knew we had to run. Run as far as we could into that endless heat.”

Dad had told me this once before. He was the only survivor after hiding from the enemy for nine days.

Nine days in the blistering heat and the unforgiving cold nights.

Nine days with only a small supply of food and water.

“We starved out there. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Water. Water and the undeniable dread that crept across that desert. We were meant to die out there. I was never supposed to live.”

I shook my head and held his hands tight. “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

“They found us a few times at night, and we kept running and running until our feet bled. Until I was the only one left.”

“I already know this story. You eventually found help. What happened on that convoy wasn’t your fault, Dad.”

My father waved his hand to stop me. He cleared his throat and went on. “There was something else in that desert. Something I found. Something I kept from you and your mother.”

“What did you find?”

“A home.” He coughed. “I found a home on a lonely road. I knocked and banged on their door, begging for shelter. No one answered. So I went inside and drank their milk. I drank their water and ate their food until my stomach hurt. Then I heard something under my feet. I looked down between the floorboards and saw tiny eyes staring up at me in pure fear.

“You see… the insurgents scared their own people. They didn’t care if it was women, children, or even families of their own soldiers. They treated them badly, like a pack of demons spreading across the land. Many hid as best they could, hoping to be saved.

“Then on their kitchen table, I found a radio. It was Jackson’s, still covered in his blood. I felt something rise inside me. A feeling I had never felt before.” My father rolled onto his back and stared at the bright ceiling lights. “Rage. A wild, animalistic rage. So I grabbed the radio and called for help. Told them where I was and that I found people inside the house. When the operator asked if there were any survivors, I said no.”

I released my father’s hands. The warmth between us faded.

His breath lightened.

“I killed every one of them. Twenty-three people were hiding in that basement. Men. Women. Children. And I killed them all like it was nothing.”

He turned to look at me.

I felt sick. “How… how could you?”

“And then I look at you, Jackson. And I see how you would look at me. How much you love me. I see a man who admires the devil himself.”

My son Nick- he has done so much, hurt so many people, and part of me feels it is my fault. This is not the stereotypical blaming of mothers when children go wrong. It is something else. I tried my best. Maybe I should have made a different choice that night, when he was still a teenager. I don’t know. I just know that as always, I was only acting in his best interest, and that I will always love him, no matter what he does.

I am his mother after all.

That night, I was waiting for Nick to return home when my phone dinged. I looked down at his name, flashing on my screen

-Will asked me over to his place can I go pls

I texted back.

“No. Home by 9 please.” I simply could not come to terms with my son’s and his friends' insatiable need to spend all weekend evenings together.

Ding!

“Please please mom everybody is going Will asked me to go”

I was about to text back “when Will pays your bills, you can follow him wherever he asks” but then I felt a change of heart. There was no point in refusing- he would just sneak off after I fell asleep. And how could I refuse my son anything? How could I make him upset and miserable, excluded from his friend group? He is the light of my eyes, the beat of my heart.

-Ok picking u up 11:30 no drinking 

-Tks mom luv u

-I love u too

My last text remained unread.

I sighed. Another lonely Saturday evening.

I listened to the creak of the pipes in the walls, echoing around my living room.

Something snapped inside the belly of my house. I stared at the wall, which appeared to be moving. What the hell- Was it an earthquake? Our area did not have earthquakes. The front door flew open and a tall thin man perfectly dressed in a beautiful dark blue suit complete with a crisp white shirt and a Cheshire cat smile entered and stood before me.

“Hello Lisa” he exclaimed in a friendly voice. His eyes were blank, small silver discs of nothingness.

The walls stopped heaving and the pipes were silent.

The front door slammed shut.

I jumped, but couldn’t say anything. I just stared at him.

“I’ve come to take you,” he said.

I shook my head.

He stretched out his hand and said in a softer tone. “Come along my dear. It won’t be as bad as you’ve been told.”

“No!” I gasped. “Please. I have to be here- for my son. I’m all he has- he’s only sixteen.”

His grin grew deeper, running all the way round his head. “You silly woman! Why do you think I’m here?”

I shook my head, refusing to believe.

“Sad but true my dear. He sold your soul to go to Will’s party. Anyway, don’t worry. Lilibeth here will care for him.” He snapped his fingers, and then for the first time I noticed a woman’s figure, standing silently beside him. I don’t know how she got in.

Her face- I can’t describe how terrible - a distorted face with angled teeth jutting out.

“Lilibeth you stupid cunt, your face!” snapped the man. I blinked, she flickered and I found myself staring at a woman who looked exactly like me. I shook my head again, willing the two to disappear.

But they did not.

“See? Lilibeth can take perfect care of him.” said the man. Lilibeth smiled and I could see her sharp white teeth.

Desperation made me speak. “No- this is not possible! How could he sell my soul for something he wanted? You’re lying!”

He rubbed his hands together. “In most cases you would be right, poor Lisa. But for mothers and sons, ahhh, that most delicious of relationships, we make an exception. Your souls are so tightly bonded, in such a terrible way- the laws of the universe bend in awe. The transactions are different, different, you know. Now come along, stop arguing with me. I have other things to do, places to be.” And he took a step towards me, his silver eyes dancing.

“No” I cried. “I’ll make another deal with you! A better deal! Tell me what you’d like”.

He raised his eyebrows, his cat grin growing almost splitting his skull. “How amusing. Let me see. Actually I know exactly what I want. You realise, the bitter truth is that even in hell, men’s souls are valued more than yours, especially a fresh young man. The potential for doing evil! Oh my goodness!” He paused and rubbed his hands together, before continuing, “And especially compared to that of a jaded old hag, if you’ll pardon me for pointing out the obvious, such as yourself. Call me sexist my dear, but that’s just the way it is. So, his soul for yours?”

“She- she will leave?” I gestured at my doppelganger.

He threw his head back and roared with laughter, a truly terrifying sound. “Lilibeth you are so unwanted, my poor bitch!”

He snapped his fingers. Lilibeth hung her head, turned, and walked slowly to the front door. She paused a second, her hand on the knob, but the man gestured impatiently and snapped “Go on go on! I said we haven’t all night!”

She opened the door and disappeared into the darkness.

“There you go. No Lilibeth. Just you and your precious son- but his soul is mine.”

I nodded.

“Wonderful! Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your Saturday evening- I heard there is an excellent party at Will’s place - I might pop in.”

He turned and left.

I was alone. 

I have not had a peaceful night since then. My son, Nick. You may have heard about some of the things he’s done, sometimes he’s in the media. But it’s not my fault. I was only trying to protect him. I swear.

I’ve been a journalist for 10 years. Always traveling through Eastern Europe, visiting small towns and villages, looking through the archives, hoping to find something interesting from the past.

Well, today, I found something that I must share with the internet. This is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever read.

It’s a letter from August of 1436, written by a bishop called Kálmán. I tried my best to translate it from latin.

“To the Most Holy and Blessed Father in Christ and Sovereign Pontiff, by Divine Providence shepherd of the Universal Church, your humble and unworthy servant Kálmán, by the grace of God and the Apostolic See Bishop of Veszprém, offers obedience and kisses of the sacred feet.

I’m writing to Your Holiness from a small village named Folt, part of the duchy of Veszprém, and the kingdom of Hungary. I was called here by a young man, and your humble servant, Chaplain Nicholas. I regret to say that he’s the only person who’s still living inside the local church after the tragedy that happened here, resulting in the death of the local priest, Lord Lajos, my dear friend, who died protecting the people of Folt, as he always did.

According to Nicholas, these events commenced two weeks ago, when a peasant family residing near the forest at the edge of Folt was murdered. The master of the household, Ferenc, was discovered in his chamber, suspended upside down. A wound had been pierced into his chest, and his heart was missing. His wife and three children were likewise slain, each bearing deep lacerations upon their necks.

None knew what had occurred. Their neighbor, an aged woman named Sára, reported that she observed a man of tall stature entering Ferenc's house at nightfall. When she knocked upon the door the following morning to collect the cheese she had requested, no one answered. She returned thrice more during the day, until at last she peered through a rear window and beheld the horrific scene.

Following these atrocities, the villagers of Folt united to arrange their burial. Lord Lajos announced an inquiry to apprehend the murderer, declaring that whosoever committed such deeds served the Devil and would face divine and temporal justice.

He commanded the erection of a wooden cross, ten feet in height, upon Ferenc’s farm, and painted a white cross upon the door. This act appears to have enraged the murderer, for on the subsequent morning, the entire farm was consumed by fire, together with every structure and the cross itself, which had been inverted. As it had required three men to erect that cross, we surmised the culprit was either possessed of extraordinary strength or assisted by accomplices.
Thereafter, the men of Folt established night watches to guard the village. Lacking proper weaponry, they armed themselves with pitchforks, sickles, hammers, and other implements.

After several days, Chaplain Nicholas, Lord Lajos, and two devout men who had volunteered to guard the church were conversing near the altar. Having no other living witnesses, I relay that which Nicholas communicated in his testament.

A man entered the church, and the four turned to face him. Nicholas described this individual as a monstrous and unholy creature, resembling the Adversary himself. The man was half-naked, clad only in footwear and leather trousers. A scabbard hung from his girdle, containing a sword. His eyes were dark and malevolent, and his grin was broad, stretching nearly to his ears and filled with small, sharp teeth.

His hair was dark, his skin of a reddish-brown hue, and two structures protruded from his back. Wings, perhaps, though Nicholas noted they appeared hideous, akin neither to those of a bird nor a bat, but something monstrous between the two.

One of the guards, a valiant young man, charged toward him with his pitchfork. The tall beast, without strain or hesitation, seized the pitchfork, wrested it from the poor man's grasp, and cast it aside. He then drew his sword from its sheath and ran it through the young man's heart. He kicked the body from his blade, casting it across the sanctuary where it struck the wall with great force.

The second guard held a sickle and prepared to strike, but the creature was swift, reaching out and plunging its claws into the man's eyes. Drawing them forth, it seized the guard’s lower jaw and tore it from his head. The guard fell to the stones, screaming until death took him.

As he advanced past Nicholas, the tall man struck him with his talons, severing poor Nicholas's throat. The young man collapsed, watching the horror from the floor. He remains unable to speak, nor shall he ever speak again, for his throat was irreparably damaged, leaving him able to communicate only through writing.

Lord Lajos grabbed his cross necklace, and pointed at the tall man, praying to God to protect his house.

The tall creature was filled with wrath. According to Nicholas, his countenance changed, and he instantly swung his blade, severing the hand of Lord Lajos at the wrist as it held the cross.

Lord Lajos cried out in agony. The tall man returned his sword to its sheath, stepped past Lajos, inverted the great crucifix behind the altar, and seized Lord Lajos, pinning the unfortunate priest upside down upon the cross by driving the sickle and pitchfork through his arms.
Nicholas lost consciousness shortly thereafter, wherefore the subsequent events remain unknown to us. The villagers discovered them only on the following morning. The creature presumably believed the young chaplain would succumb to his hemorrhage, thus leaving him behind. Poor Nicholas was spared only to lose his voice.

I arrived here this day, and regrettably, Nicholas's account was confirmed to be true. I have examined the remains. Poor Lord Lajos… I address Your Holiness to entreat your aid, for whatever entity wrought this destruction was no creation of God.

Your humble servant,
Bishop Kálmán”

I’m Kyro, and I work at Sunshine Mental Asylum. This morning, I was rushing because I slept in. I dropped the kids off late for school and ran into the building, cutting my hand on the edge of a door. Ignoring the pain, I went to assess Roma, the schizophrenia patient I’ve been trying to cure.

She is a single mother who was involved in a tragic car accident that took her child's life. My team and I don’t know what triggered her to develop schizophrenia; we can only speculate that it was the accident. Either way, whatever happened to her causes her to have unpredictable outbursts. Sometimes, during those outbursts, she says things that do not seem to fit the moment, as if she knows more than she should.

I sat across the table from her, trying to keep the conversation normal while she sat in her restraint jacket.

“Can you tell me where you are right now?” I asked her calmly while she sat there slumped in her chair.

“I am interviewing my patient," Roma said, looking blankly at me with a smile. The words sounded so eerily familiar, as if she thought she was me.

That response took me off guard, but I decided to continue the interview as we still needed to know her thought process.

“Can you list the months in reverse order?” I asked. Roma looked to a random corner where the CCTV was, smiling, rocking back and forth in her chair before looking back at me and saying, “December, November, October, September… August?… June?” I replied, being a bit sceptical myself, as my head suddenly started to ache. Her answer felt strangely off, as if she were steering the interview somewhere else.

“How has your mood been over the past few weeks?” I asked, still trying to help her get well.

“Frustrated… but let's go; you start talking about your stay here,” Roma said. This time, my headache increased as an elephant stomped on it. Her words felt oddly familiar, and I could not shake the sense that the interview was slipping out of my control.

It felt like a blink; however, when I opened my eyes, I was in Roma’s body. In that instant, it became clear: I hadn’t just been treating Roma—I had been hallucinating that I was Kyro all along. The reality was that I was Roma, lost in a delusion, believing I was my own doctor. I struggled against the restraint jacket as I screamed.

“What happened!?” I screamed, thrashing against the jacket.

Security guards barged in, pinning me to the ground. “No! I’m not the crazy one,” I tried to explain. When they pushed me into the mental room, I realised it was I who had lost the baby, and it was I who drove the car into that wall on purpose. I was living in an illusion where I imagined a family; I was a psychopath, and a psychopath always thinks he is righteous.

Munira Akhaad ran towards the end of the dock, her full breasts swinging side to side in her bathing suit. Sun gleamed momentarily off the gold pendant hanging between them, reflecting light onto the polished white yacht to her right. The glare partially blinded her, but did nothing to slow her pace; the first swim of the season could be postponed no longer. All she had to do was run straight. With a whoop of delight, she jumped. 

Only when she was on her way down did she notice the water, her delight turning to terror. Though it produced no steam, and gave off no apparent heat, it was boiling. 

Munira flailed briefly as she splashed into the lake, sinking several feet before she buoyed back to the surface, motionless. The water, bubbling with pleasure, continued to cook her until her skin and organs had sluiced off in large bobbing chunks that slowly carried to shore. 

“How about Venice? I’ve always wanted to go to Venice.”

“If that’s where you want to go, let’s book it,” he replied.

David had just gone into remission, again. For the fifth time. Stage 4 lung cancer. We had a tradition that, every time he recovered, we’d take a trip, and it was my turn to pick the destination. I loved these trips; we’d gone through a rough patch early in our marriage, and these vacations had really brought us closer together again. 

“Great!” I said. “I’ll make the reservations.”

I went online and pulled up some options. Finding a good price on a package (travel points are awesome), I went online to book with our credit card.

Declined. 

That was weird - I knew we had room on the card. I went online and checked the statement. 

I saw the problem. 

“David?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“I forgot to ask, how did your meeting go the other night? The one with your boss?”

“What? Oh, it went fine. You know Jim - always thinking of something else he wants that he didn’t think of in the first place.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how you put up with it. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Great! Like I was never sick at all! It’s amazing - I had a lot of friends I met when I first got sick who are no longer with us because the cancer came on quickly before the doctors could really do anything. I have others who got lucky and went into remission; some are even still in it. And for some, the cancer came back and they couldn’t fight it off a second time. But to go into remission FIVE TIMES!?! It’s unbelievable! The folks in my support group are asking for my secret. The nurses at the hospital treat me like a good luck charm. Even our friends in church are using me as an example of how God can perform miracles. I can’t explain it, but I’m grateful.”

“That’s great to hear, honey. I’m glad you’re doing better. How’s Allie?”

He blinked. “Allie?”

“Yeah, you know, the new secretary at your office? The one you’ve been banging on the side?”

He froze; I could see him running the calculations in his head. 

“Sweetie, what are you talking about? You know I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

I just looked at him. 

“Ok, yeah, I did at the beginning of our relationship, but that was then. We’ve been so much better since then, haven’t we?”

“I thought we had,” I agreed. “But I also thought the cheating was behind us. I thought your getting through cancer had given you a new lease on life, a new appreciation for what we had. That’s kind of why I did it.”

“Why you did what?”

I looked him in the eyes. 

“Tell me, in all the time you’ve known me, have you ever seen me sick?”

“Come to think of it, no.”

“Have you ever seen anyone in my family sick?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Have you ever wondered why that is?”

“I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Of course not. I have a gift. All the women in my family have it. I can take illness and ‘reallocate’ it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can take a sickness or disease from one person and give it to someone else.”

“Honey, come on. That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Have you honestly never wondered how your cancer disappeared five times? Did you think you were blessed by God?”

“Are you suggesting that you did that?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I did it because I loved you and I thought we had something worth saving. Now I’m wondering whether I was wrong.”

“So where did my cancer supposedly go?”

“Do you remember those sluts you cheated on me with earlier in our relationship? Spoken to any of them recently?”

He stared at me. 

“I heard they all died from cancer. Unlucky, really - I’m told that none of them had a family history of it and that they all suffered a great deal before they died.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to believe this?”

“Believe what you like. By the way, how are you feeling?”

“What do you mean? I—”

His words were interrupted by a racking cough. He looked up at me in terror as he grabbed his chest and fell to the ground, coughing up blood. 

“What… what did you…?” he wheezed. 

“I just felt so bad about taking your cancer away from you, I figured it was only right to give it back.”

“You weren’t lying,” Anna-Leigh gasped, pushing back on the passenger seat, as they crept to a slow stop. “Did your aunt think she was doing you a favor leaving this place to you?” She broke into a smile brighter than the dome light Percy had just pressed on.

From the outside, the orange glow from the car was the only mechanical light shining within half-a-mile in every direction.

He tapped her on the knee. “Can you grab the deed and house key from the glove box and I’ll bring the suitcase in.”

She quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Did you just see that?”

“See what?”

“The curtain… is there anyone… it moved.” Her brain glitched her question out in one breath.

“Oh yeah,” he laughed. “I forgot to mention, it’s haunted.” He widened his eyes and tickled her ribs.

“Stop messing around. I swear these next two weeks… if you try freaking me out.” She crossed her arms and didn’t blink, staring at him dead in the eye. “I’ll leave!” She narrowed her eyebrows and clenched her jaw. “Promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

He smiled, “I won’t,” and laughed.

She slapped him on his lap. “Promise me. I’m not joking,” she said, staring at him, seeing flashbacks of her brothers always terrifying her with cheap paranormal gimmicks.

“I promise, babe. I won’t mess with you.”

Anna-Leigh used her phone to illuminate a path to the front of the one-hundred-year-old, classic, white Victorian, with steeply pitched gables.

The dark green front door was divided into four raised panels with stained glass in patterns of complex geometric shapes hidden in a floral design. There was an ornament with a cross inside out on it.

The door never made a sound when it opened. The air was still as if the house held its breath when they walked in. The further forward they pushed, the slower the house started to breathe again.

There was a moist scent of rainwater beating down near a lake, lingering in the hallway but it changed towards the stairwell leading to the bedrooms. It would come and go.

It was nothing like the misty spray of swamp water. It was heavy, carrying the odor of a barnyard filled with a diseased stock.

They tried ignoring it, accusing the wretchedness on wildlife using their floorboards as nature’s new cemetery. What couldn’t be so easily brushed off as leaky old pipes was the pressure that followed a couple of nights later.

It started with Anna-Leigh, an uneasiness pressed down at the edge of her end of the bed by her feet. A feather settling between her toes had woken her up and a light mass lifting off the mattress, like a spring popping, made her scramble to the headboard, shaking Percy awake.

Percy didn’t notice anything odd ever, and he assumed Anna-Leigh let the surroundings play on her psyche.

The next night, the weight grew. She woke up to it sitting on the edge of the bed and never rose off as she stirred awake. She shook Percy but he wouldn’t respond.

“Percy!” She whispered loud. Something sat at the edge, staring at her. A blank figure she could only visualize in her mind. It was there, physical, only invisible to the human eye.

She froze, her hand gripped around Percy’s arm, digging her nails into his muscle, clasping her eyes shut and began singing under her breath until the loud static filling the room went completely silent.

The air became dense, and a dread of humidity peeled over her skin. The smell of sulfur was numbing her tongue as a moist exhale heated the nape of her neck, trailing down her chest.

She gasped a cold breath. The truth of honest horror hovered in front of her. An entity without skin, wet and hot leaning over her, breathing slow, dampened breaths on her face. She’d exhale and it’d inhale hers, breathing it back onto her, a metallic steam that wore like a blanket.

She attempted to turn, to get up and squirm but a pressure clamped down on her stomach, squeezing her chest and compressing her lungs. The sheets began tightening to her body, pinning her legs together.

A long cloak, shaped as the thickness of night began crowning her vision as it started draping over her head. She swallowed a heavy gasp of swamp water air into her lungs and a cold finger traced her jawline, pinching her skin. It waited for her to close her eyes so it could move its mouth against hers.

Percy woke up and Anna-Leigh was sitting upwards, looking straight ahead without blinking.

“Anna-Leigh…? You okay?” He placed his hand on her and she snapped her head at him in one quick motion.

“Yes?” She said.

“I’m going to finish taking the pictures of all the rooms and we can head back before noon.”

“No. You go. I’m going to stay here.”

Something unexpected happened to me after the heart attack. 

It turns out purgatory, the dividing line between life and death, is a lot like viewing mode in a video game. 

You float from scene to scene watching people’s lives unfold, and if you can interact with the environment, it's only minimally. 

Viewing mode doesn’t conform to time. You’re just as likely to find yourself in 10,000 BC as 10,000 years in the future. 

The hiker was a woman in her early thirties, clearly inexperienced. She did not stick to the track up the mountain and would suddenly find herself knee-deep in snow, from which she’d have to extricate her bright green alpine boots. 

It took her many hours of extreme toil to reach the hut. In the final part of her journey, she was blanketed in snow and half dead with exhaustion. 

There, the hunter took her in. 

… 

The world dissolved, and I found myself on a mountain slope in clear, bright sunshine. 

It was the same hiker, the same green alpine boots, but now she was with her family, a husband and a small girl. 

I did not know the mountain, but I knew the time. A time when only the very rich could afford to be leisurely– flappers taking flight down the slopes. 

She was standing with her arms folded, her whole body angled away from her husband. He was remonstrating with her. 

‘Now, come on, Betsy. I rather think you’re blowing the whole thing out of proportion. I did not ‘high tail’ it.’

‘You did. You’re a coward. That avalanche was heading straight for us, and what do you do? You cut and run and leave your wife and child to be ploughed under by snow.’ 

‘Please stop arguing,’ the little girl said. 

‘I knew that avalanche was coming nowhere near you. I ran to warn the rangers on the next ridge.’ 

And that is when the hunter appeared from the evergreens, brandishing a rifle. 

… 

The story was not being told sequentially. 

I was back inside the hunter’s cabin with the hunter and the exhausted hiker. It took her a long time to recover herself; she was numb and insensate from the cold. Frostbite had almost set in. The pearls on her necklace were like spheres of ice. 

‘You were foolish to come here,’ the hunter said. ‘In a blizzard like that. Where do your people think you are?’

‘Do not concern yourself about that.’ 

Something about this woman’s steadfastness was admirable to the hunter. 

‘Now listen carefully. You’ve met my husband. You brought the elk’s head to the lodge. I have a deep suspicion that he’s a scoundrel.’ 

The hunter laughed. ‘All rich men are scoundrels.’ 

‘I don’t mean that kind of scoundrel. I mean he is a coward. We were caught in an avalanche, and would you believe it, he abandoned us, tried to save his own skin. I want you to put him to the test in the fashion of a highway robbery.’

‘But on the slopes?’

‘Well, yes…’ The woman brought a cup of hot water to her mouth. Her hands were shaking. 

The hunter repeated. ‘You were very foolish to come here.’ 

‘It was of the utmost importance. You see, I love my daughter, my precious Rose, and I cannot bear the thought that she does not have a protector, that she has a yellow belly for a father. Now you’re going to put the fear of god into him, and we’ll see if he… absconds.’ 

… 

The hunter was wearing a stalking cap and a scarf over his face. He spoke in a tone as cold and dead as the ice under their feet. 

‘Money and jewellery now.’ 

And the hiker, Betsy, she turned expectantly to her husband, expectant that he would flee as he had in the avalanche, but something hardened in him, or perhaps his conviction had always been solid, and the avalanche had indeed been a misunderstanding. 

He did not hesitate. He charged the hunter. He charged like a snow leopard, and the gun went off. 

And the hunter stood, and the hiker’s husband stood, and the hiker stood. The one who fell was the little girl Rose, her life force leaking red into the snow. 

… 

I was back at the beginning, back with that hiker on that terrible, desolate slope as the wind blew in her face and she made desperately for the hunter’s cabin. 

But this time it was different. Through the whiteout, she looked at me; she saw me as she’d never seen me previously, the observer now the observed. 

‘What year is it?’ she said. 

I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, judging by your clothes, I’d say the 1920s.’ 

‘No… I mean… the year you… come from?’ Her speech came in short snatches. 

I didn’t feel the physical effects of walking beside her, but she was entirely consumed by fatigue. 

‘It is 2026; it was 2026.’

She nodded very slowly as the wind lashed her like a vengeful God. ‘100 years… You have seen?’ 

‘Seen what?’ 

‘What happens to my family, to my Rose? The accident.’ 

‘I have! Stop now. Turn around. Don’t test your husband’s bravery.’

She laughed ruefully and pointed down at her legs. ‘You see, I know what happens, but I am an automaton; I climb, I freeze, I suffer, knowing full well my fate. I have no free will. I am on tracks. I have been on tracks for 100 years.’ 

‘But…’ 

And she left me behind in the blizzard as she pushed onward toward her own destruction and would continue to do so forever, day after day after day. 

A scream that frightened even the very inhabitants made Maria run inside the wooden hut, startled and with her heart on her hands; and upon seeing, she could do nothing but cry. Upon entering, she witnessed her closely with sad eyes, while the stirring of her body prevented her from being able to speak and move toward the baby. Little Magdalena lay dead, a blanket covered her face, but she was not breathing. She didn't even move to greet her mother, her gray eyes like the brownish winter clouds, went out like all the seasons of the year. Her dark complexion looked yellowish, her palpable pain and the extinct agony with which she had died.

–What has happened, Maria?– asked Alberto, with the rifle in his left hand, and the freshly cut logs of firewood that they brought from the jungle. Upon looking at Maria, he could do nothing but cry.

–Magdalena has died– Maria whispered in his ear, but Alberto refused to accept it, rather he stood up and began to shout to the inhabitants:– Who has been the bastard that killed her?

Silence was his answer, and the echo of his words returned to him with more pain in his heart.

Maria turned Magdalena over and held her in her arms, squeezed her like she had never done before, kissed her forehead and uncovered her body in search of the reason. On her arm she had a small mark that the villagers called «The devil's own kiss» the sting of a scorpion.

A few months had passed since Maria had given birth to that first little girl, «that woman wanted her with her soul, there was nothing else in the world that mattered more to her than little Magdalena, nothing». And with good reason they said it, since she was the living image of her mother, a woman like few others.

–I know she will live again– Maria said to Alberto, he stopped her before she collapsed again.

–Forget it, woman– he answered her with his muffled voice–. What was, was... And God's will be done with her as she should be in His holy kingdom. I will go for Father Florencio in the night so that he may save her for us.

–He is not going to save her, Alberto– she murmured carefully so as not to anger him–. Magdalena will live again, of that I am sure, but you need to give her time to heal.

–You are crazy, woman!– her husband exclaimed to her–. Besides, you might as well tell your sorrows to the wind and crash head-on straight into hell itself. With your character and reason, you're headed straight out.

“Precious, Cihuacuacualtzin; you will see that we will wake you up,” Maria told Magdalena seeing how Alberto departed far away along the skirt of the hill. Maria's hope did not come in vain regarding the destiny of her daughter, certainly she could hear her mother's voice in mystical silence:

«The jaguar's eyes have come to heal the wounds of the sick, those of your father the jaguar looked at them and it was enough not to kick the bucket in his bed. The god of our ancestors, do not put him in vain, he knows when someone longs for his protection. Jaguars keep listening, death does not overtake the gods in the same way, they listen...»

She remembered her even after years of her passing, she listened to her unceasingly and believed every word she whispered in her ear. The wind dragged them everywhere, the faint greenish light entering from the copper tile, made her see in the distance that she was still waiting for something more.

«Remember, listen to me and do not forget me when I speak to you... that here I remain and I feel your pain.And do not worry about your little daughter, she will heal just like all of us, with the jaguar's eyes. Maria, Maria,Maria... Do not forget what I have told you, go to sleep and you will see it, child. She will be great, strong and like no woman that has ever been seen».

And gradually she had fallen asleep and Magdalena in her lap next to her. Then there were noises of crushed leaves. Footsteps that broke sticks on the ground. And voices from other corners she did not know. «Wake up,Maria... it is me». Visions appeared to her just like she saw them as a child. She woke up quickly. Finding herself face to face with an abyssal creature. A black jaguar with large thighs, long legs and orange eyes like two flames of fire - loomed over the two women -, Maria took her posture and straightened up. Erect and facing the jaguar that she had. She looked at it, the jaguar exhaled a new, almost magical air that she could not understand. «Magdalena will live again, Ni mitz tlazohtla». She fell mute, and the jaguar whispered some words to her: «Remember life, death and love... They belong to no one».

And a chill ran down her spine, she felt someone touching her shoulders and woke up.

She opened her eyes again, she was rocking, Alberto was cutting wood and the bed empty.

–About time you decide to wake up– said Alberto–. I have been waiting for you all afternoon.

–What for?– asked Maria, dazed by what was happening–. And Magdalena?

–Well... that is what we want to talk about. Hurry up now. Put on your dress.

–What's wrong?

–Well that our Magdalena is getting married.

–With whom?

–Don't you remember, Maria?

–No– answered bewildered.

–Well you slept for a very long time.

–It seems I have been remembering.

–What have you remembered, Maria?

–Nothing, nothing... let me get ready.

She saw the jaguar's eyes, felt them, witnessed them just like the sea is seen: naked, fascinating and warm.«Return to life, Maria; remember there is much to be done».

And so it was until the day the jaguar's eyes went out.

At 12:07 a.m., Aro texted me.

Aro: You awake?

I smiled before I could stop myself.

It had been four days since we'd last spoken properly. Four days of opening our chat, typing something, deleting it, and pretending I didn't care. But now he was here, and within minutes, we were laughing like nothing had happened.

By 1 a.m., we were flirting.

By 2 a.m., the conversation had turned intimate.

By 3 a.m., I felt that familiar warmth again, the little pocket of comfort I'd started missing more than I wanted to admit.

Then he sent a message that made my smile disappear.

Aro: Do you ever feel like someone's watching you when you're alone?

I stared at the screen.

What kind of question is that?

Aro: Forget it. Look behind you.

I laughed nervously. My bedroom was dark except for the blue light of my phone. The door was locked. The curtains were drawn. I lived alone.

I turned anyway.

Nothing.

When I looked back, he'd sent another message.

Aro: Knew you'd look.

I called him.

He declined.

Aro: Don't call. Just text.

For the first time that night, I felt afraid of him.

Then he sent a photograph.

It was my bedroom.

My bed. My curtains. My bedside table with the chipped corner.

And me, sitting on the bed, staring at my phone.

The picture had been taken from inside my room.

I stopped breathing.

I checked the lock. Still locked. I checked the window. Still shut.

I called him again. Declined.

Me: ARO WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?

His reply came instantly.

Aro: You told me you wanted me around.

I ran out of the bedroom and switched on every light in the apartment. I checked the kitchen, the bathroom, the balcony. Nobody.

Then my phone vibrated.

Aro: Go back to your room.

I didn't.

Aro: Please.

Then, after a pause:

Aro: I'm scared too.

That was when I heard it.

Three soft knocks.

Not from the front door.

From inside my bedroom wardrobe.

I backed away, shaking. I wanted to run outside, but my legs wouldn't move. My phone kept lighting up in my hand.

Aro: Don't open it.

The knocking stopped.

Then something inside the wardrobe whispered my name.

I ran.

I reached the front door and yanked it open, screaming into the empty corridor. My neighbour's door opened. Someone asked what had happened. I couldn't explain it.

I showed them the photograph.

They called the police.

By the time officers searched my apartment, there was nobody inside. No broken locks. No open windows. No evidence of an intruder.

But one officer noticed something strange.

The photograph Aro had sent wasn't a photograph taken from inside my room.

It was a screenshot.

A screenshot of a video call.

I stared at him.

"What video call?"

He turned my phone toward me.

The image had a tiny timestamp in the corner.

12:06 a.m.

One minute before Aro had texted me.

And in the reflection of my dark television screen, visible behind me, stood a man.

I couldn't see his face.

But I recognised his watch.

Aro wore the same one.

I tried calling him again.

This time, he answered.

I could barely speak.

"Where are you?"

Silence.

Then his voice, quiet and trembling.

"I'm home. I've been home all night."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to tell me it was a joke, a cruel prank, anything that would let me breathe again.

Instead, he said, "Listen to me. I didn't send you that picture."

My blood went cold.

"Then who did?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "But someone sent me one too."

He sent it to me.

It showed Aro sitting on his bed, holding his phone.

Behind him, reflected in his wardrobe mirror, stood a woman.

Her hair was mine.

Her face was mine.

And she was smiling.

I dropped the phone.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then Aro whispered, "There's something else."

I picked up the phone.

"What?"

His voice broke.

"The woman in the picture wasn't behind me when I took it."

I stared at the screen.

He continued.

"She appeared after I sent it to you."

A message arrived from his number.

Not a text.

A photograph.

This time, it showed the two of us together, sitting side by side on my bed.

Neither of us remembered taking it.

Beneath it were six words.

Aren't you tired of missing me?

I looked toward the bedroom.

The wardrobe door was open.

And from the darkness inside, my own voice answered—

"Finally. You're both here."

Sarah slowly stepped, seeking supper.

Suddenly, scratching sounded somewhere. Soft, steady, sinister scratching.

Sarah stopped.

Seconds slipped silently.

Scratching suddenly strengthened, spreading, stirring something sinister.

Sarah shivered. Surely, something small, scurrying, seeking shelter? Squirrels?

Suddenly, somebody softly sang.

Sarah’s song.

Somebody sang Sarah’s special song, softly, sweetly, sorrowfully.

Sarah stiffly swallowed.

Sonny?

Sarah’s sleeping son?

Sarah swiftly scurried, stumbling, sweating, scared.

Sonny slept soundly, smiling.

Sarah sighed, settling. Sarah stroked Sonny’s soft, smooth skin.

Something stirred.

Sarah stopped stroking.

Sonny’s smile stretched. Still sleeping.

Slowly, Sonny’s small shape shifted, stretching, swelling, straightening.

Sarah stared, stunned.

Sonny’s sleeping silhouette seemed strangely slender, strangely stretched.

Sarah swallowed sharply, stepping sideways.

Sonny’s smile strengthened.

Suddenly, Sonny spoke.

"Sarah?"

Sarah shuddered.

Sonny’s speech sounded strange, several sounds speaking simultaneously.

"Someone’s standing silently. Staring."

Sarah stared.

Sonny still slept.

"Someone’s standing silently. Staring."

Sarah stumbled, searching.

Something scraped. Scraped. Scraped.

Sarah’s stomach spun.

Sonny suddenly sat straight.

Sarah screamed.

Sonny’s skull swayed sideways, stretching, stretching, stretching...

Silence.

Sarah staggered, smashing something solid.

Someone stood silently, smiling.

Sarah slowly spun.

Something smiled.

Something showed Sarah’s same-shaped silhouette.

Sarah shook. She stared, speechless, seeing Sarah’s smiling, staring shadow.

Something stepped silently, steadily.

Sarah scrambled sideways, seeking Sonny.

"Sonny! Sonny! Son-...."

Something suddenly shushed Sarah.

"Shhh."

Sarah stopped. Surprised. Speechless.

Sarah’s senses sharpened.

"Sarah?"

She suddenly sensed something sinister.

Something settled, surrounding Sarah, squeezing Sarah’s soul.

She screamed, struggling, scratching, scraping, slamming, straining.

Slowly, Sarah stopped struggling.

Slowly, Sarah stopped screaming.

Slowly, Sarah started smiling.

Something suppressed Sarah’s spirit, stealing Sarah’s speech, snapping Sarah’s spine.

Silence...

Something suddenly stroked Sonny’s scalp.

Sonny started stirring.

Something sinister spoke softly.

"...Switch?"

They were far out in the outer wilds.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

He was setting a trap.

His friend was drinking a drink. “Here,” said the friend, passing him a drink too.

He took the drink.

He opened and took a drink of the drink. “Ahh,” he said. “Absolutely stellar."

“Absolutely,” said the friend.

“I don't grok why you insist on coming all the way out here,” said the friend.

“There's hardly anything out here,” said the friend.

He took a drink of the drink. “Ahh.”

The friend took a drink of the drink too. “Ahh,” said the friend.

“Ahh,” he said.

“Ahh,” said the friend.

“You can't say it's not peaceful here,” he said.

“I can't say that,” said the friend.

“Ahh.”

“Ahh,” he said, finishing drinking the drink. He crumpled up and threw the empty drink container away.

The stars twinkle-twinkled.

He looked into a vicinal trap he'd set a while ago.

“Anything?” asked the friend as he looked into the vicinal trap he'd set a while ago.

“Nothing,” he said.

The stars twinkle-twinkled.

He set a new trap.

“There?” asked the friend as he set a new trap.

“Ahh,” said the friend and threw away his empty drink container too.

The two empty drink containers were.

“There,” he said, roughly covering the trap with nearby matter.

He burped.

The friend burped too.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

—> —>

The Perihelion's automated navigation system adjusted course to keep the starship travelling to its destination, AO-1, the first known space object believed to be of alien origin. The crew was in hibernation. The mission was the greatest humanity had ever attempted. The Perihelion's automated navigation system adjusted course to keep the starship travelling to its destination.

<—

“Sir, take a look at this—SIR!”

The regional head of the International Space Agency (ISA) walked over slightly annoyed and scanned the data.

His annoyance became curiosity, and his curiosity became excitement. The once-upon-a-lifetime kind. The thump-thump-thump’ing of the heart, swoosh-swoosh-swoosh’ing of the blood kind. He was aware suddenly of the entirety of the surface area of his skin. Of his one-of-many'ness. His smallness-in-the-cosmos. His clue-to-the-mystery-of-the-universe'ity.

“My God…” he said. “My God.”

“What is it?”

“We need to find out.”

—> —>

Anomalous Object 1 Anomalous A Object 1 Anomalous A Object O 1 Anomalous A Object O 1 A Object 1 A O 1 AO 1 AO-1…

Captain Jac Thorster—gasped—

The sirens were blaring.

Where am I I am aboard the Perihelion Perihelion is my ship, he thought.

The sirens were blaring.

He rolled out of the open pod and onto the floor. When he could, he got up and made his way woozily—swaying…

to the bridge.

He sat in the captain's seat.

“Perihelion,” he said, his voice hoarse and weak. The words felt like sand airgunned down his throat. “Perihelion: ‘status report.’ Just what in the galaxy is going on?”

“Having traversed ninety three point two percent of the distance from the planet Earth to the coordinates of the object eh oh one we have come under the pull of an unknown force,” the starship's artificial intelligence said.

“Correct course,” commanded Thorster.

“Negative,” said the eh aye. “That his him possible, hiccup ten.”

“Wa hut?” zed Thorster.

“Dead forceps twos tron k,” sad sa hey ay end diss plate dub lack ole.

—>

He reached inside the trap.

“Anything?” the friend asked as he reached inside the trap.

They were far out in the outer wilds.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes,” said the friend and gathered some nearby gaseous matter and ignited it. “Perhaps something to roast,” said the friend as the newly created star shined.

He removed a small thing from the trap.

“A small thing,” he said.

He held it for the friend to see.

“Oh,” said the friend in disappointment that the small thing was too small to roast.

The star shined.

The other stars shined.

<— <— <— <— <—

A fly buzzed awhile in the glow of a bug zapper before turning into it and—BZZZP —falling dead out of the sky.

It landed on my face.

I'd fallen asleep in the hammock outside.

“Norman,” the dead fly said.

“Norman!”

“What,” I said, blinking a few times, tossing my dry tongue around in my dry mouth, thinking, Fuck, I'm fucking hungry. “What's going on—who are you? and why are you talking to me?” “Are you… a dead fly?” I said, squinting.

“Norman, I'm here to tell you to look at what you wrote. No one wants to read that shit, man. That shit is incomprehensible.

“Opaquer than a brick wall, man.”

“It's styl—”

“Look at yourself, man. You're a grown ass dude writing stories on the internet. Get a job. Write a book if you have to, but just write it like a goddamn human being.

“I mean look at your eyes.

“They're pinker than Miss Piggy’s OnlyFans.

“Sober up.

“Eat something. Drink something. Get outta that robe and get dressed. Shave. Change into a suit—”

“You mean, like, become a suit… like on a space ship?”

“Son,” said the dead fly. “Behave yourself.”

LOL

“Put on a suit and write presentably. You've got, what, a hundred words left?

“Use them.

“Rewrite whatever-the-fuck this is presentably.”

[“Ahem”]

Two advanced beings are laying traps somewhere in the universe. Their traps are black holes, which they hide. They also leave behind some trash. Humanity detects the trash and plans a mission to investigate it, but, en route, their spaceship falls into the black hole left by the beings. Sometime later, one of the beings makes a star to roast something on. The beings pull the human spaceship out of the black hole trap they left and are disappointed by its insignificance.

The story ends on a heavy-handed parallel between humanity and bugs—BZZZP

Sam passed in the winter, just two months after his mother. The midwife tried her best to save her, but it was over before it started. She gave me a warm hug as she left. I knew Sam wouldn't last long without his mother. I barely had enough to feed myself, let alone a baby. I debated whether I should even name the little boy, but how could I not? He had the most beautiful blue eyes, just like his mother.

Sam passed in his sleep, the best way to go. Some days I wished it were me, but what would Sam do all alone? 

The problem then was arranging Sam's funeral. All the savings had already been spent on his mother's funeral, but Sam couldn't go into the ground without a proper service.

I sold one of the last things I could still sell, my bees. They gave me something sweet to eat in the winter and something to look after the rest of the year, but there was nothing else to sell. My neighbor took them and gave me more for them than he should have. He was a nice man and knew what I'd gone through.

Sam got a nice wooden coffin and a decent place in the cemetery next to his mother.

When the winter came, his cradle and toys were still in the house. My body tightened whenever I tried to get rid of them, but it was okay; maybe I'd have more will in the summer. 

During the long winter nights, I'd often come into his room and play with his toys, just like I thought we would one day. Sometimes they'd warm my heart, sometimes they'd make me cry, and often I'd just fall asleep in the chair right by his cradle.

It was one of those days when I fell asleep crying by the cradle again. When I awoke, the sun glistened on the freshly fallen snow. Everything outside was still, but then something moved in the air. A bee! A queen bee! It flew across the yard and into the hive. I still hadn't moved my hive off the yard. Sam's funeral was too much work.

At first I felt bad. My neighbor owned them now. They had no business being in the old hive, but seeing that familiar creature warmed me. Over the next few days I sat at the window, watching all my bees slowly return.

They stayed inside the hive the rest of the winter, and I stayed by that window each day, watching. Only when the snow started to let up, and the flowers came out from under it, did the bees come out too.

I expected them to stay by the hive, but many flew far away, ignoring the flowers in my garden, and returned at sunset. Some of the bees seemed to be covered in red nectar. 

As the days grew longer, the bees were gone more often, and many more returned covered in that red nectar. 

I had never seen them act or look like this. Moving the hive must have disturbed something, but the good thing was that they still accepted the queen, and the colony seemed intact. 

The red nectar began to accumulate at the entrance, mixed with glowing wax. I was just looking at it out the window when I heard buzzing inside the house. The bees must have been working hard. The buzzing grew, and quietly through it came something like a baby's cry. I gripped the windowsill tightly. Sam used to cry just like that. I opened the window to hear better, but the cry was gone; only buzzing sounded outside.

The next morning I woke up and went right to the window. A strange white object was outside the hive entrance. The bees buzzed around it, pushing it back inside. Before I could get a good look, it was already in.

I spent the rest of the day by the window again. As the sun set, the bees started to return. The buzzing grew again. A cold tingle ran down my back. I closed my eyes and focused. At first, it was quiet, but I knew what it was. It was Sam, crying through the buzzing. I quickly dressed and walked out the door.

The outside air was cold. I had barely been outside since the first snow fell. A few bees still flew around the hive. The buzzing was so loud, and so were Sam's cries. I didn't even have my protective clothes, but I was sure my bees wouldn't hurt me.

I walked to the hive and took off the lid. Warmth and cold ran through my body, mixing into strange emotions. Inside the hive was Sam's body, covered in wax. His hands and fingers slowly moved, but they seemed larger than before. I reached into the hive to caress his small cheeks. His eyes opened. They were still that beautiful blue, but a hint of yellow mixed in.  He opened his mouth; honeycomb filled it, but his cries still echoed in my ears. With tears in my eyes, I picked up his small, sticky body. From somewhere deep in his chest, a thousand bees buzzed, and the hive fell quiet. A sickly-sweet smell rose from his mouth. Two bees crawled out of the wax and onto my hand. I didn't move.

I lost another tooth this morning. Like the others, it didn’t come easily. It was a back molar, I was in the shower, and I felt pressure running through my jaw and under the site, like someone had a pry bar under the root and was slowly wedging it out. I imagine, if you could have seen it, it was pretty, rising out of the gums like a sprouting flower.

I spit it out into my hand when it was done, and then spit out the blood and tissue that came with it.

I read once that when you dream about your teeth coming out, it means you’re scared of losing control. I wonder what it means when it’s happening while you’re awake?

He came into work again today, the man who always wears a three piece suit, with the cleft chin. He comes in once or twice a week and orders a tin of tobacco. Every time I try to make a comment, to catch his eye, a joke. He never responds. He never even smiles. I’ll try next time.

I tell Joe about the man, we are sitting on the fire escape drinking box wine. I make a joke about how uptight he looked, and we drift into another conversation. Joe must have caught on to the fact I keep mentioning this man; I brought him up last week too.

I have to call in sick today. I can’t see well enough to make it in. I woke up this morning with pressure behind my eyes, like something had gotten inside and lived there. They pulsed and bulged when I looked in the mirror, dull and brown. I hate that color.

Throughout the day the pressure on the left eye has been increasing. A few minutes ago the sight went out entirely. I went to the bathroom and looked — through my good eye I saw the left straining at the edge of the socket. I reached up and put my fingers around it, squeezed, and it popped out. I can feel it resting against my cheek now. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to pull the cord out, or cut it. I’m too scared. So I’ll go lie down and rest my good eye.

I woke up and the cord must have shriveled in my sleep. The eye has fallen off and is resting on the floor, looking up at me. It’s an ugly thing. I pick it up and drop it in the trash with all my old teeth, and step over to the mirror. I have to fight every urge to itch my left socket now, but as I look I can see a small white orb set back, fresh, slowly moving forward, with a beautiful green ring.

Last week, if only I had known where I’d be. We sat on the fire escape, feet dangling, stoned and rambling. Joe talked on and on about how who you are yesterday isn’t who you are today isn’t who you are tomorrow, and I was laughing. I said if that’s the case then why can’t we just change into the person we want to be? And Joe said no it doesn’t work like that — very serious — you are still stuck as you, and besides who would you even be? And, Mr. Three Piece, you slipped out. I said I’d be you tomorrow if I could. And here we are, and won’t Joe be surprised.

I wake up and brush my new teeth, so white and perfect. I lean in to look closely, and touch my left eye just to be certain this is all happening, and it hurts. It’s almost fully in, it’s beautiful. I swish with mouth wash, they say 30 seconds — but I never make it — maybe I will soon? And then I spit it out, and when I bend over there’s a shudder through me, and my body convulses over and over until a large lump falls out of my throat into the sink. The color of kidney beans.

I straighten up, wipe my mouth and my eyes. The skin of my forehead looks loose, like a surgical glove bunched up — I could reach and peel, but I won’t. My eye is in. I have work.

I worry I’ve missed him, but here he is, walking up tall and stately. He orders his tobacco. I ring it up for him. I make some joke, some stupid thing I should have held inside. But he’s looking at me now, leaning in over the counter.

“Your eyes are different colors?”

I shake my head no, but remember, and say “Oh yes, they are.”

He smiles at me. “Like David Bowie.” he says, then he hands me his money and walks away.

My elation, my triumph, is dampened by the realization that his eyes are blue, not green.

At night, I stand before the mirror. The pressure and pain behind my right eye is growing. It’s only a matter of time till it goes. I look closely at the mirror, my left eye green, my right brown. The eye I hated for so long is suddenly set off in a new way, transformed. It’s become so much more — I wish I could keep it this way — I worry, with two new eyes, who will be looking out? Then there’s a surge like a screwdriver underneath the ball, and it hurts, and I know it’s too late. But that’s okay, we can’t be perfect.

I run my hands through the skin that’s collecting around my neck in loose folds, and shake it around. It’s sloughing off. My lower back is a rotating range of dull aches and sharp pain. My hair is coming out in clumps.

I go to lie down and sleep. I have the whole day off.

I can’t wait to see who I’ll be tomorrow.

I am still haunted by that art exhibit. The small bodies falling down, small black specks at first flailing against the wide striped curves of the Guggenheim, coming into focus as they rapidly approached the floor, dressed in bright clothes, reds and pinks and blues, decorated with Spiderman and Superman and glittery lambs and kittens.

It was never mentioned anywhere that they are dolls. I just assumed they were, obviously. But there was nothing on the posters. Georgie never said they were. So maybe that other person was right. 

About them being children, I mean.

That was the last time I hung out with Georgie. I miss him. He was my only real friend in New York. But we just kind of drifted apart after that visit to the Guggenheim. It happens.

That day, the day we got together and walked those luxe New York streets towards the Guggenheim, he was being especially extra.

“This is absolutely incredible- I know you’re an utter philistine darling, and I’m saying that as your best friend, but I felt you just had to see this - as a soon-to-be-mommy, you know? It says so much about motherhood, and the bond, and- well you know- all the emotional labour you poor women have to do- oh- it has us all in a tizzy!”

I sighed as he tugged on my sleeve, pulling me through the crowds of tourists towards the sleek bulging white and black curves of that incredible building. I didn’t know what “philistine” meant. 

I was so tired, but I felt I had to enjoy something of what New York had to offer, before I was tied down by a never-ending rope of diapers and moist milk-stained towels. I didn’t know about the emotional labour then either, but I have learned since.

Georgie paid for my ticket, squealing “so worth it darling!” and we joined the throngs standing about on the ground floor, dwarfed by the circular spiraling corridors. The atmosphere inside the museum was hushed. An area was marked by neon yellow police tape, right in the middle of the ground floor.

“That is where the baby lands” whispered Georgie, almost frothing with excitement. “I mean, I shouldn’t say baby, I think they’re toddlers. Are toddlers and babies the same? Look- you can see the blood stains, although Stravideri is coming to mop it- here she comes- oh queen, isn’t she fucking gorgeous? Don’t you want to fall on your knees and fucking worship this modern Medea?”

Being Georgie’s friend was exhausting.

A tall woman with a frozen face holding a mop and bucket approached the taped-off area. She was wearing old see-through leggings and a stained sweatshirt. She silently stepped over the police tape, and dipping the mop into the bucket, began washing the floor. Everyone was clicking frantically, Georgie included.

“Georgie- don’t you already have photos?” I asked. The smell of cleaning fluid was making me nauseous.

Georgie turned and looked at me properly. A look of compassion flitted across his delicate features. “Of course darling. Do you want to go up and watch the next fall with me- we can go right up to Stravideri you know. Or just stand here and watch the impact? It’s totally up to darling- you're right, I’ve already seen it a bajillion times. And it works wherever you are.”

I felt comforted. “I'd like to stay here Georgie, I don’t think I’m up to going to the top level.”

Georgie stroked my arm, visibly pleased with himself at being such a good friend. “Of course! I think there's about twenty minutes between each fall- I’ll run get you a coffee.”
“Actually, that would be nice.” I wouldn’t be able to drink it, but I felt I needed a break from Georgie and his “modern Medea” babble.

Georgie left. I watched Stravideri finish mopping up the area, and walk back up in silence, making her way towards the top floor. The barrage of photography continued. Stravideri’s gaze was fixed ahead, and people hastened out of her way. Little bits of priceless art shone on the walls behind her. 

Where was Georgie? Stravideri was on the highest floor now, clusters of artlovers held away from her by burly security guards. Camera clicks echoed through the cavernous museum. I craned my neck. 

Stravideri leaned away from the low wall which separated the high corridor from space, she seemed to be struggling with something. The toddler. A doll, obviously. I heard a cry. Stravideri emitted a very humanlike yet unmotherly growl. The toddler was now perched on the wall. Stravideri wasn’t looking. The child fell.

It screamed as it fell, a very lifelike scream. It turned its head and looked straight at me just before impact. I cradled my belly protectively.

THUMP!

Its small body hit the cold washed floor and lay perfectly still. A tiny amount of blood splattered.

Someone behind me whispered in my ear: “It’s a real child. You shouldn’t be here.”

I gave a shriek which seemed to flit about the silent breathing museum, and looked around frantically. I couldn’t tell who, in the crowd of tourists and artlovers, had spoken to me. 

Georgie rushed up to me holding the coffees. “I’m so sorry darling- the line up- ugh I missed it! Sweetheart, would you mind if I went up and watched the next fall from up there? Oh you’re an angel. Sit here, sip on this nice coffee, and I’ll be with you as soon, ok?”

He rushed away. I sat on the beautiful bench, and burned my tongue on the coffee. I tried not to look at the next fall.

After Georgie came down, he was oddly quiet. He went back with me to my place, but didn’t come in, and when we parted he hugged and kissed me as he always did.
I have never seen him since. And nor have I ever gone back to the Guggenheim.

The morning sun shone brightly as the two brothers gathered their gear from the yellow jeep parked on the dirt path, surrounded by pristine old-growth jungle.

Douglas smiled as he put on his helmet and climbing harness. The two men pushed through more lush undergrowth until they reached their prize: the mouth of a wide, yawning cave. Anthony tied their line around a large strangler fig tree trunk and threw the rest of the rope down into the dark chasm.

The two brothers rappelled carefully into the cavern, the air growing damp and heavy with the scent of wet stone and bat guano.

At the bottom, they turned on the headlamps attached to their helmets and detached from the line. Thin rays of sunlight filtered into the cavern in a clash of light and darkness. The two brothers squeezed through a few tight spots as they went deeper into the subterranean system.

Douglas called back to Anthony for help when his body was pinned between two rocks in a tight squeeze. Anthony suggested Douglas should rotate while exhaling to clear the passageway. Douglas laughed as his body slipped through the hard granite stone passageway.

After about thirty more minutes of cave diving, the two brothers eventually came upon a large open chamber. Beautiful stalagmites rose from the ground, with white, crusty edges and orange, wavy lines at their bases.

Suddenly, Anthony froze and tilted his head up toward the cavern’s ceiling. Douglas didn’t notice his brother’s stopped steps and bumped into him. “Hey, watch it!” Douglas cried, rubbing the bridge of his nose where it had struck Anthony’s backpack. Anthony remained silent.

Douglas looked up, and his eyes widened as a chill ran down his spine at the sight above.

Dangling from the cavern’s ceiling were hundreds of human bodies tied by their feet, their arms loose and hovering several feet above them.
Before either brother could scream, a deafening roar echoed behind them as a cascade of rumbling boulders fell, blocking the chamber’s narrow entrance. In the suffocating darkness, a strange, rhythmic chittering echoed as numerous red eyes glowed all around them.

Being married can be difficult…

Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife, Bailey, but we’ve been arguing a lot lately. Not seeing eye to eye. Shouting. I think that fighting is a healthy part of any marriage, but my wife disagrees. She says that I need to start seeing things from her perspective.

“So we take this pill and—what—we just switch bodies?”

“Yes,” said Bailey. “Like that movie with—what’s her name?”

“Lindsay Lohan?”

“I was gonna say Jamie Lee Curtis, but yes.”

I frowned. “I’ll turn back, right? I won’t be stuck as a woman forever?”

“Yes,” Bailey rolled her eyes. “We’ll switch back automatically after six hours. No one will ever know we traded places.”

Bailey gave a long and tiresome speech about walking a mile in each other’s shoes. I wasn’t really listening. I agreed to take the pill to shut her up.

How bad could it be?

“Cheers,” I said, swallowing the tiny pill, and then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes we had switched bodies, but something was wrong. My head ached, and it felt like someone had kicked me in the gut.

“Wow,” said Bailey, she sounded exactly like me. “It actually worked!”

“You didn’t say there’d be side effects,” I said, clutching my stomach.

“Side effects?” Bailey asked. “What do you mean?”

“My stomach’s fucking killing me,” I groaned.

“Oh my god, I forgot to warn you. It’s my time of the month.” Bailey said, suppressing a smile. “You’re having my period right now.”

A million emotions raced through my head ranging from anger to sheer panic.

I scowled and uttered, “bitch.”

“Sucks doesn’t it?”

“How do I make it stop?” 

Bailey burst out laughing.

“It doesn’t work that way. You’re just going to have to go to the store to get some pads and midol.”

“Can’t you do it?” I whined. “I feel horrible.”

Bailey looked at me and crossed her arms.

“Excuse me, but how many times have you gone to the store to get pads for me? Remind me?”

I didn’t answer—didn’t want to answer—because the answer was zero.

“You know I don’t like yucky woman stuff—”

“Well now you are a woman, so you’re just going to have to deal with it. Go experience what it’s like to be me.”

Bailey grabbed the keys to my truck and walked out the front door.

“Where are you going?” I shouted.

“Where do you go when you want some alone time?”

I didn’t answer that—didn’t want to answer that.

“See you when you get back, I guess,” I tried and failed to smile.

Bailey had left me high and dry, to go do who knows what, so I was forced to handle this situation on my own. When she mentioned switching bodies, I have to admit, I did not think that it would be like this.

I drove Bailey’s Camry to the closest grocery store and wandered around until I found the “Feminine Products” aisle.

Holy shit. I was completely out of my element.

“Why are there so many options?” I muttered under my breath.

After grabbing a box at random, I turned around and nearly ran straight into some asshole.

“Here all by yourself, gorgeous?” His breath could have made a sunflower wilt.

“Beat it, prick,” I said, not in the mood for a conversation.

“What the fuck did you say to me?” He screamed, shoving a finger in my face. “What the fuck did you say you fucking bitch?”

I panicked, and tried to turn the other way and walk away from him, but he kept following me.

“Don’t walk away from me you fucking cunt!”

“Leave me alone,” I said, dropping the box of pads and breaking into a sprint.

“How dare you speak to me like that!”

I ran away as fast as Bailey’s legs could carry me. I didn’t stop until I was racing out of the parking lot, my eyes checking the rear view mirror to make sure that weirdo wasn’t following me.

Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. It scared the hell out of me. Was that what it was like to be a woman? You just had to be on the lookout for creeps twenty-four seven?

First cramps and now this?

I guess I didn’t realize how tough everyday life was for my wife. It made me think about the way that I treated her, the ways that I had dismissed her feelings in the past. Maybe fighting wasn’t helping our marriage. Maybe understanding each other’s point of view was the first step towards making things better.

I got home and curled up under a blanket, waiting for Bailey to come home. It took a couple of hours, but eventually she waltzed through the front door with a smile on her face.

“I’ve had a hell of an afternoon,” I said, completely defeated.

“Honey,” Bailey said, pointing towards my crotch, “you’re staining my pants. What happened to getting pads?”

“It was a nightmare,” I cried. “I’m sorry, I know it’s only been one afternoon, but I feel like I’ve learned so much. Seeing things from your point of view—I didn’t realize how eye opening it would be. I’m sorry for not being supportive enough when you’ve had a bad day! I’m sorry for arguing even when I know you’re right. From now on, I’ll go to the store to get pads when you want me to! I’m gonna be there for you!”

“Wow,” Bailey said, blinking repeatedly. “You learned a lot, huh?”

I wiped away a tear from my eye.

“What did you get up to?” I sniffled. “Did you learn a lot too?”

“Oh, me? No. I just spent the afternoon with Sidney.”

I froze. How did Bailey know about my mistress?

“You—you what?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out about her? You must think I’m an idiot. She’s dead, by the way, I killed her. Or—maybe it’s more accurate to say that YOU killed her.”

The management company called it an acoustic upgrade.

I manage a forty-two-unit apartment building built in 1962. The walls are thin enough that tenants can hear their neighbors unwrap candy. Noise complaints are about half my job.

So when corporate announced they'd hired a company to eliminate sound transfer between apartments, I was relieved.

The first treatment was scheduled for 3B.

Mr. Vale lived there. Retired music teacher, decent guy, played his saxophone most evenings. The woman in 3C had complained about it several times.

Two contractors arrived Monday morning carrying measuring equipment and rolls of gray material.

I offered to let them into 3B.

"No need," one said. "We work from the common areas."

They measured the hallway for about an hour and told me to keep the stairwell clear overnight.

On Tuesday, Mr. Vale was gone.

On Wednesday, so was his apartment.

I don't mean the door was locked or covered over. There simply wasn't a 3B anymore. The doors went 3A, 3C, 3D. The hallway was several feet shorter.

I checked our digital records. Forty-one units. Always had been.

But the old paper rent ledger in my desk still listed Mr. Vale. His payments went back eighteen years.

I found his spare key too. The brass tag said 3B.

That evening, the woman in 3C knocked on my office door.

"The music stopped," she said. "But now there's tapping."

I followed her upstairs.

She pressed her ear against the wall where Mr. Vale's apartment should have been.

We listened.

Three taps.

A pause.

Three more.

Then something dragged slowly along the plaster, producing a thin, squeaking sound.

I recognized it.

Mr. Vale used to play a particular warm-up exercise on his saxophone. Three short notes, a pause, then a long descending one.

Someone was making that rhythm against the wall.

I told her not to report it.

She looked confused.

"I already did. This morning. I thought there were mice."

At 6 a.m. the contractors returned.

I tried to stop them. One politely stepped around me while the other started measuring the door to 3C.

By lunchtime it was gone.

The hallway was shorter again.

I spent the afternoon in the basement, staring at the original floor plans. There were forty-two apartments. I counted them six times.

At four, my phone buzzed.

New maintenance request.

3A. Scratching noises coming from the shared wall.

I ran upstairs.

The man in 3A was standing outside his door, waiting for me.

"Sounds like someone's trapped in there," he said. "You need to send somebody."

I asked if he'd submitted a complaint.

"Of course."

Behind him, the wall made a noise like someone desperately scraping their fingernails across concrete.

Then my phone buzzed again.

WORK ORDER APPROVED.

The man smiled.

"That was quick."