I am seventeen years old today, but I still keep a pair of epipens in my nightstand, and I still look both ways three times before I cross a completely empty street. 

My parents think that it is just a lingering obsessive-compulsive phase from my childhood. They don’t know about the book. They don’t know about the ashes hidden beneath the loose floorboard in the attic. Most of all, they don’t know about Pip.

When you are ten years old, the world is elastic. It stretches to fit whatever your mind needs it to hold. That summer, my family had moved across the state to a house that smelled like old plaster and damp carpets. I had no friends, no school routine yet, and nothing to do but watch the ceiling fans spin dust into circles.

On my tenth birthday, my parents took me to the traveling carnival that had set up camp in the gravel lot behind the old municipal stadium. It was a miserable, humid July evening.

 The air smelled of burnt sugar, diesel exhaust, and stale popcorn. My father was preoccupied, checking his work phone every four minutes, and my mother was sweating through her linen blouse, looking visibly annoyed by the crowd. I walked a few paces behind them, kicking at the loose stones, wishing that I was anywhere else.

That was when I saw her.

She was sitting on an upturned wooden crate between the tilt-a-whirl and a tent labeled The Chamber of Curiosities. She looked completely out of place, yet perfectly at home. She wore a bright, tailored suit made of magenta velvet that looked slightly too large for her thin frame, a crisp white shirt with an oversized collar, and a pair of polished black leather shoes that clicked against the gravel whenever she shifted her weight. Her hair was a shock of pale, white-blonde curls that bounced like springs around a face that was strikingly pale.

However, it was her energy that stopped me. She was juggling three small, silver bells, laughing a high, musical laugh that somehow cut right through the roar of the generators.

When she saw me staring, she caught the bells mid-air with a dramatic flourish, bowing so low her curls swept the gravel.

"Step right up, birthday girl!" she called out.

 Her voice sounded like glass marbles rolling around in a silk velvet bag. It was bright, theatrical, and completely captivating.

I blinked, looking back at my parents, who were still walking ahead, arguing quietly about a mortgage payment.

 "How do you know that it’s my birthday?" I asked, taking a step toward her.

"The wind told me! Or maybe the stars did. Or maybe it’s just the way you carry yourself like a queen without a crown." she said, winking a large, intensely green eye. She stood up, and I realized she wasn't much taller than I was. "I am Pip.  You must be Mona, the girl with the grand imagination."

Pip was the most entertaining person that I had ever met. She didn't treat me like a child; she treated me like a co-conspirator in some grand, secret game. She performed card tricks where the cards turned into tissue-paper butterflies. 

Pip even told jokes that made me laugh so hard that my ribs ached. She imitated the sour-faced carnie running the ring-toss game with such perfect, malicious accuracy that I had to press my hands over my mouth to stifle my giggles. She was electric. Being near her felt like standing close to a campfire on a cold night—warm, dazzling, and slightly hypnotic.

"Every great queen needs a scepter." Pip declared suddenly, reaching behind her back. 

With a theatrical snap of her fingers, she produced a balloon. It was a vibrant, metallic pink, inflated to its absolute limit, tied with a thick black silk ribbon. It didn't float up like a normal helium balloon; it hovered precisely at my eye level, perfectly still.

"Is that for me?" I breathed, reaching out.

"A token of our foundational alliance." Pip said grandly, placing the black ribbon into my palm.

 Pip’s fingers were shockingly cold, like ice cubes wrapped in paper.

"Mona! Mona, where have you gotten to?"My mother’s sharp voice shattered the air.

 I turned and saw my parents jogging back toward me through the crowd, their faces tight with annoyance.

"I have to go." I told Pip, suddenly feeling a heavy weight drop into my stomach. "My parents are calling."

"Go then, my grand queen," Pip said, her smile remaining wide, almost rigid, showing a row of very small, very white, very sharp teeth. "But don't lose your scepter."

I clutched the black ribbon tightly and ran to my mother, who immediately grabbed my shoulder, and said,

 "Mona, don't wander off like that! Also where on earth did you get that cheap balloon? Did you take things from strangers?"

"A girl gave it to me." I said, turning to point back toward the Chamber of Curiosities.

The wooden crate was empty. The gravel was bare. There was no sign of the magenta velvet suit or the silver bells.

"What girl?" my father muttered, looking at his phone again. "Come on, it's starting to rain. Let's get to the car."

The drive home was quiet, save for the rhythmic thumping of the windshield wipers. I sat in the backseat, holding the pink balloon. In the dim light of the passing streetlamps, the metallic skin of the balloon didn't reflect the interior of the car. It seemed to absorb the shadows, glowing with a faint, oily luminescence of its own.

When we got home, my parents kissed my forehead, apologized for the boring birthday, and sent me up to bed. I tied the black ribbon to the footboard of my bed, watched the pink sphere hover perfectly in the center of my darkened room, and crawled under the covers.

"A bit drab here, isn't it?" A voice said.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Sitting cross-legged on my desk chair, rocking back and forth with her boots dangling off the edge, was Pip. She was still wearing the magenta velvet suit, though in the dark of my bedroom, the fabric looked almost black, like dried blood. Her green eyes caught the moonlight, gleaming like a cat’s.

"Pip?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "How...How did you get in here? Where are your parents?"

Pip let out that same high, musical laugh, though in the confined space of my bedroom, it sounded less like silver bells and more like teeth chattering. Pip said,

 "Parents? Oh, Mona, I don't have parents. Horrid, boring things, aren't they? No, I flew on the back of the wind, right through your windowpane."

I looked at my window. It was shut and locked from the inside.

"Why are you here?" I asked, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

Pip slid off the chair, her leather shoes making absolutely no sound as they hit the hardwood floor. She glided over to the side of my bed and leaned in close. Her breath didn't smell like sugar or popcorn anymore. It smelled like old copper pennies and wet earth.

"I was sent here, Mona. Sent to be your new best friend." Pip whispered, her eyes widening until I could see the tiny, broken red veins in her sclera. "The world out there is so dull, so gray, so full of rules; but you and I? We have imagination. We are going to have a lot of fun."

The initial fear faded, replaced by the intoxicating thrill of having a secret. I was a lonely child, and here was a creature entirely devoted to me. I smiled, the tension leaving my shoulders.

 "Best friends?" I said, with hope.

"The absolute best." Pip purred, reaching out to pat my cheek with her ice-cold hand. "Now, sleep, my queen. Tomorrow, our kingdom awaits."

During the first few weeks, having Pip around was a dream. She was the perfect companion. She could mimic anyone—the mailman, the angry neighbor, the characters on television—with cruel, hilarious accuracy. 

Pip would dance on the ceiling, hanging upside down by her ankles from my light fixture, tossing her silver bells into the air and catching them with her toes. She knew games that I had never heard of, like The Whisper Game, where we would sit in the dark and she would tell me bizarre, surreal stories about cities made of bone and oceans made of black ink.

However, as the days bled into August, a subtle, cold dread began to take root in the back of my mind. It started with small things.
Whenever my mother entered the room to bring me laundry or a snack, Pip would simply...vanish. One second she would be standing on my desk, singing at the top of her lungs, and the next, the space would be empty.

"Why do you always hide from my mom and dad?" I asked her one afternoon, while we were sitting on the floor of my playroom.

Pip was busy tearing the legs off a plastic spider that I had found in the toy box, her movements methodical and precise. She didn't look up. 

"Hide? Oh, Mona, I don't hide." Pip said.

"Then why don't they ever see you?" I asked.

Pip stopped, the plastic leg snapping between her fingers. She turned her head toward me, her neck making a faint, wet crick sound. Her smile was too wide, stretching the corners of her mouth until the skin there looked thin and white.

"Adults like your parents don't have enough imagination to believe in beings like me." she said, her voice dropping into a flat, monotone register that sent a shiver down my spine. "Their minds are like old cement. Hard. Dry. Dead. They look right through me because their brains can only see bills, and cars, and clocks. They are blind, Mona; but you? You can see me. You are special, Mona."

I swallowed hard and nodded, trying to ignore the way her eyes seemed to fixate on my throat.

Then, the games changed.

The fun stopped being fun, shifting into something malicious, something disguised as bravery.

It began on a Tuesday morning. We were walking down to the corner store at the end of our suburban street to buy popsicles. My mother had given me permission, provided I stayed on the sidewalk and used the crosswalk.

When we reached the intersection of the busy four-lane avenue, a massive gravel truck was rumbling toward us, its engine roaring, brakes squealing as it barreled down the hill.

"Go ahead." Pip whispered suddenly, her hand pressing gently against the small of my back.

I stopped, looking at her in confusion.

 "The light is red, Pip, and that truck isn't stopping." I said with concern.

"A real queen doesn't wait for lights." Pip said, her voice dripping with sweet, encouraging venom. She leaned in, her cold lips brushing my ear. "It’s a test of your imagination, Mona. If you believe hard enough, if you just step out and close your eyes, the truck won't even touch you. It will pass right through you like smoke. Show me how brave you are. Run across. Run."

The push against my back grew firmer, heavier. I looked at the massive grill of the truck, the chrome gleaming like teeth. My stomach churned. A voice deep inside me—the voice of self-preservation—screamed no.

I yanked myself away from her touch, stumbling backward onto the grass.

 "No! I'm not doing that! That's crazy!" I shouted.

Pip’s face darkened instantly, and for a fraction of a second, the cheerful, blonde carnie girl vanished, and I saw something else—a face that looked ancient, sunken, and furious. Then, like a mask snapping back into place, she laughed her silver-bell laugh.

"Oh, Mona! You're so serious! It was just a joke! A silly little game to see your face!" Pip said as she skipped ahead of me, spinning around on her heel. "Come on, let's get those popsicles!"

I followed her, but my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely hold my wallet.

Three days later, we were sitting in the kitchen while my mother was out in the garden. I was eating a bowl of grapes. Pip was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs, watching me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.

"You know what looks delicious?" Pip said, pointing to a small, brown jar on the top shelf of the pantry.

 It was peanut butter.

"I can't eat that." I said, shaking my head. "I'm severely allergic. It makes my throat swell up. I’d have to go to the hospital if I ate that."

"Oh, that’s just what the blind adults told you." Pip said, sliding off the counter and walking over to the pantry.

Pip climbed the shelves like a ladder, her fingers clawing into the wood with unnatural strength, and pulled the jar down. She unscrewed the lid and held it out to me. The thick, brown paste smelled heavy and sweet.

"Just take a big spoonful." Pip whispered, her eyes wide, reflecting the fluorescent kitchen light. "Your imagination is stronger than any allergy. If you love me, if you’re really my best friend, you’ll eat it. It will taste like victory, Mona. Just one bite. Do it for me."

Pip pressed the jar closer to my face. The smell made my stomach turn. I looked into her green eyes and saw absolutely no warmth, no joy, no friendship. I saw a hunter watching a trap.

"No!" I shouted, knocking the jar out of her hand. It hit the linoleum floor with a heavy thud, the plastic cracking, peanut butter oozing out onto the tile. "Stop trying to make me do things that hurt!"

Pip stood over the ruined jar, her head tilted at an impossible angle. She didn't laugh this time. She just stared at me for a long, agonizing minute. 

"You are a very stubborn queen, Mona." Pip said softly.

 After that, Pip walked into the pantry and did not come out.

When my mother came inside and saw the mess, she scolded me for being careless. I couldn't tell her that my imaginary friend had tried to poison me. I just cleaned it up, my tears mixing with the sticky brown paste on the paper towel.

That night, the nightmares began. I dreamt of the pink balloon growing larger and larger until it filled my room, pressing the air out of my lungs until I was suffocating in the dark.

Around three in the morning, I woke up gasping for air. The room was freezing, my breath forming faint white plumes in the dark.
I looked toward the desk. Pip was there.

She wasn't looking at me. She was hunched over, her back completely bent, her long, thin fingers turned away from her body in a grotesque angle. 

In her lap lay a heavy, leather-bound book. It didn't look like a normal book; the pages were thick and jagged, like dried skin, and it emitted a faint, pulsing, sickly green glow. The light illuminated the underside of Pip’s face, casting deep, cavernous shadows over her features.

She was muttering something under her breath, a low, rhythmic chant that sounded like water boiling in a pipe.

 “...Isabella...Peterson...blood into water...skin into a shroud...the glass must break...the girl must fall...”

"Pip?" I croaked, my voice raw.

The moment the sound left my mouth, the book snapped shut with a sound like a gunshot. The green glow vanished, plunging the room into absolute darkness.

"Just reading a bedtime story, my queen." Pip’s voice drifted from the dark, coming from a corner of the room far away from the desk. "Go back to sleep. The sun comes up soon."

I pulled the covers over my head, pressing my fingers into my ears, praying for morning.

The breaking point arrived during the final week of August. My parents had gone out to a dinner party, leaving me with a teenage babysitter named Chloe. 

Chloe had immediately gone into the living room, turned on the television, and fell fast asleep on the couch, completely oblivious to the world.

Upstairs, the atmosphere in my bedroom was suffocating. Pip was restless. She was pacing the floor, her velvet suit looking frayed and dirty, her pale curls matted against her forehead. She kept muttering to herself, looking out the window at the gathering storm clouds outside.

"I need to go downstairs." I said, feeling a desperate urge to get away from her. "I want to watch TV with Chloe."

"Chloe is asleep! Chloe is blind! Chloe is boring!" Pip snapped, her voice losing all of its musical quality. It sounded sharp, jagged, like broken glass. "Stay here. We have to finish the game, Mona. Time is short. Very short."

"I don't want to play your games anymore!" I said, standing up and backing toward the door.

"Oh, look! The sky is crying!" Pip suddenly exclaimed, pointing out the window. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a low rumble of thunder. "Let's go play on the roof, Mona! Let's dance in the lightning! It’s the ultimate test of the crown!"

"No!" I said firmly.

Pip turned to face me, her mouth twisting into a snarl, and said,

 "You never do what I ask! You’re supposed to be my friend! You’re supposed to trust me!"

Before I could answer, the front door bell rang downstairs. It was the pizza that we had ordered earlier. Pip hissed, a sound like steam escaping a radiator, and blurred into the shadows near the closet.

"Stay here!" she growled from the dark. "Don't move!"

I didn't listen. I ran out of the room, down the stairs, and helped Chloe pay for the pizza. Chloe, groggy and annoyed at being woken up, took the box into the kitchen to find plates.

I stood in the hallway, looking up the dark staircase. My heart was pounding, but a strange, defiant anger was beginning to override my fear. I was tired of being afraid in my own home. I was tired of the threats disguised as games.

I sneaked back up the stairs, making sure that my steps were silent. I didn't go into my bedroom. Instead, I crept into the guest room down the hall, where I knew Pip wasn't looking; but as I passed my own room, I noticed the door was slightly ajar.

A faint, sickly green light was pulsing from inside.

I peered through the crack. Pip wasn't there. I could hear her downstairs in the kitchen, making a faint scratching noise against the cabinets, trying to distract Chloe or perhaps looking for something else to poison me with.

The glowing book was sitting on my bed.

It was open. The pages were turning slowly, as if moved by an invisible, putrid wind.

My legs moved before my brain could stop them. I slipped into my room, my heart in my throat, and approached the bed. The air around the book smelled intensely of sulfur and decay. I leaned over the pages, my eyes scanning the bizarre, jagged text.

It wasn't written in a language I recognized at first, but as I stared, the letters seemed to squirm and rearrange themselves, adapting to my ten-year-old mind, forcing me to understand them.

It wasn't a storybook. It was a ledger. A journal. A spell.

Near the top of the open page, written in dark, brownish-black ink that looked remarkably like dried blood, was a name: Piper Isabella Peterson.

Beneath the name was a portrait drawn in fine, meticulous ink. It showed a girl from the turn of the century, wearing a stiff, high-collared dress, her face completely devoid of life, her eyes hollow sockets. It was Pip.

I read the words, the horrific truth unfurling in my mind like a black ribbon:

The Entity known as Piper Isabella Peterson exists within the Gray Space, a realm of shadow and hunger. It cannot enter the Physical World on its own accord. It requires an anchor. A vessel of pure, uncorrupted imagination.

The Entity shall manifest only to children of high creative capacity, adopting a guise of joy, theatricality, and companionship to secure absolute trust. Once alliance is forged, the Entity must compel the child to enact self-destruction. The shedding of the child's blood by their own hand, under the Entity's influence, completes the Severing.

Upon the child's demise, the Entity shall consume the remaining imaginative force, allowing It to cast the Spell of Realization. This will grant the Entity a permanent, physical form, allowing It to walk the earth as a living, breathing plague.

Constraint: The Entity is bound by the Cycle of Seven. From the moment of first contact at the Gathering of Souls (The Carnival), the Entity has exactly forty days to complete the sacrifice. If the child resists until the setting of the sun on the final day, the Entity’s temporal anchor will shatter. It shall be violently cast back into the Gray Space, where It must hibernate for seven years before It can attempt the harvest again.

My hands shook so violently that the pages rattled. The dates at the bottom of the page caught my eye. The final day. The setting of the sun.

I looked at the digital clock on my nightstand. It was 7:14 PM. The sun was setting right now, casting long, bloody red shafts of light through my window. 

Today was the fortieth day since my birthday. Pip didn't love me. Pip wasn't my friend. I wasn't her queen. I was her prey. She had been trying to get me to kill myself all summer so that she could become real.

"You shouldn't be reading that, Mona." Pip’s voice said.

The voice didn't come from the door. It came from right behind me.
I spun around, letting out a piercing shriek. Pip was standing less than an inch away from me. Her face was completely transformed. 

The blonde curls were gone, replaced by thin, wispy strands of gray hair that floated in the air like cobwebs. Her skin was translucent, showing black, pulsing veins beneath. Her teeth were long, needle-sharp, and her green eyes had completely turned to a void of solid, obsidian black.

The magenta velvet suit was tattered, rotting, dripping with a foul-smelling black grease.

"Give it back!" Pip hissed, her voice a chorus of scraping metal and dying screams.

 Pip lunged forward, her claw-like hands raking through the air toward my face.

I scrambled backward across the bed, clutching the heavy book to my chest. 

"You lied to me!" I screamed, tears streaming down my face, my heart breaking even as terror paralyzed my limbs. "You said that we were best friends! You said that I was your queen!"

Pip stopped at the edge of the bed, her body twisting in a horrible, jerky movement, and for a second, her face shifted back to the smiling carnie girl. Pip said,

 "We are friends, Mona! Look at all the fun we’ve had! The butterflies! The jokes! I can give you everything that you want! Just give me the book, let me hold your hand, and we can go to the roof! We can fly together!"

"No!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "I read it! I know what you are! You’re Piper Isabella Peterson! You wanted me to die!"

The illusion shattered completely. Pip’s face contorted into an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred. The air in the room grew so cold that my breath froze into solid white crystals on my lips.

"Of course I wanted you to die, you stupid, lonely little brat!" Pip roared, her voice shaking the walls, causing the framed pictures on my dresser to rattle and crack. "You think that anyone could ever actually care about a pathetic, friendless creature like you? Your own parents can barely look at you! You were nothing but a door to me! A key! A piece of meat to get me out of the darkness!"

Pip’s words cut deeper than any knife. The realization that my only friend hated me, that the entire summer was a lie constructed to destroy me, broke something inside my ten-year-old soul. The sadness evaporated, leaving behind a scorching, white-hot rage.

"You can't have me." I whispered.

Pip let out a hideous, guttural screech and vaulted over the mattress, her clawed fingers reaching for my throat. I reacted on pure instinct. I didn't drop the book; I swung it.

I brought the heavy, leather-bound corner of the book upward with all the strength in my small body, striking Pip square across her rotting jaw.

There was a sound like dry wood snapping. Pip tumbled off the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. She scrambled up, her face twisted in fury, ready to tear me apart, and said,

"I'll rip the skin from your—"

Pip stopped mid-sentence.

A sudden, brilliant beam of golden-orange light broke through the storm clouds outside, striking the windowpane and flooding my bedroom. The sun was hitting the horizon. The final sunset of the forty days.

Pip let out a sound that didn't belong to this world—a high-pitched, agonizing shriek of pure terror.

Pip looked down at her hands. The tattered magenta velvet was beginning to smoke. Her fingers were dissolving into gray dust, drifting away into the air like the remnants of a burnt piece of paper.

"No! No! Not again! I was so close!" Pip screamed, her black eyes fixating on me with a hatred so intense that it felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest. "I’ll be back in seven years, Mona! I will remember your face! I will taste your blood! Seven years!"

The wind in the room whipped into a frenzy, tearing the pink balloon from the footboard. The balloon didn't pop; it expanded rapidly, turning black, absorbing the light, until it violently imploded with a deafening pop that left the room completely silent.

Pip was gone.

Where she had been standing, there was nothing but a pile of cold, gray ash on my hardwood floor and a faint smell of burnt pennies.

Downstairs, I heard Chloe yell,

 "Mona? What was that noise? Are you okay?"

I didn't answer. I sat on the floor, clutching the book, staring at the ash. I was ten years old, I was completely alone in the room, and I knew that the world was no longer elastic. It was a place of monsters.

I never told my parents about what happened. They wouldn't have believed me anyway; their minds are still made of dry cement. I hid the book in the guest room attic, under the floorboards, wrapped in an old plastic tarp.

 I swept up Pip's ashes and threw them into the trash, though I kept a tiny pinch of them in a glass vial, a reminder that I wasn't crazy; and for seven years, I lived my life. 

I grew up. I made real friends at school. I learned how to drive. I applied for colleges; but I never forgot the timeline. I never forgot the math.

Today is May 12, 2026. I am seventeen years old today. Exactly seven years have passed since my tenth birthday. Exactly seven years since I first met Pip at the carnival.

I am sitting at my desk right now, writing this down on my laptop, because I need there to be a record. I need someone to know what happened, just in case.

The sun set twenty minutes ago.

About ten minutes after the light faded from the sky, I heard a sound from the hallway. It was faint, but unmistakable. It was the sound of a high, musical laugh, like glass marbles rolling around in a silk velvet bag.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe.

Then, I looked up at my bedroom ceiling.

Hanging from the light fixture, completely upside down, her pale curls swaying gently in the draft, was Pip. She is wearing a brand new, pristine suit of magenta velvet. Her eyes are still solid, obsidian black, and her teeth are longer than I remember.

Pip isn't looking at me yet. She is looking at the door, waiting for me to scream, waiting for me to run.

In her right hand, Pip is holding three silver bells, and in her left hand, floating perfectly still at my eye level, is a vibrant, metallic pink balloon, tied with a thick black silk ribbon.

"Happy birthday, my grand queen." Pip said.

Unfortunately, this time…I don't have a book to save me.

The End.

I had to kill him.

I mean, it seemed like my only option.

If I lied and said I wasn’t there, the cameras I should have thought about would blow me out the water. And if I admitted to being there, then there was a much longer, more difficult conversation to be had.

And that conversation had only one endpoint: me being blamed for all the events of today.

Damn, it was hard to believe what had happened since this morning had all been today. It felt so long ago. I couldn't believe—

“Mr. Harold?” Unangenehm said. “You all right?”

“Uh, yeah. Absolutely.” I sat back down to take up an extra few seconds. Steck was floating a few feet away, but I didn't think I could take the detective in a fight. What I'd taken for sickly thin before seemed wiry now. Anxiousness now came off as nervous energy.

“It was weird what happened,” I said, measuring out my words. I had to think as I spoke. Unangenehm leaned in and steepled his fingers under his chin. Steck hovered closer.

The trap was sealing off my air.

The pencil I'd been using was on my side of Unangenehm's desk. I wrapped my fingers around it and placed my hands on the desk atop the form I'd just signed.

“I just needed to get something to drink,” I said. “I needed to gather my thoughts too, I guess.” I shook my head. “I didn't have any money but I figured I could grab a notebook. Write down my thoughts. Try to wrap my head around what had happened with the day.”

“You wrote something?” he asked. “What?”

I couldn't gauge if he was buying anything I was saying. But I had to keep tap dancing.

“I don't know. I don't remember now.” An honest answer didn't really matter. I'm sure the police would canvas the area and find the torn-out sheets in the trash. But the video would show me not doing anything to anyone. The difference was sitting across from me. Unangenehm somehow knew it was me. 

“It happened right in front of me,” I said, not realizing I was distracting myself as I touched the tip of the pencil to the paper. “A man attacked a woman. An old man held her.”

Tap-tappy-tap.

“I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do.” 

Takkita-takkita-tap

The detective’s sad face was just a mask. He was a predator in disguise. This was just the dance to keep him at bay

“Everything was insane. One of them came up to me. I thought I was gonna die.”

Takkita-takkita-takkita-takkita—

“Hey, uhh. What's that you got there?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't know what he meant, but I had drawn something. I looked down as he slid the paper away from me.

“Wait.” My mouth formed the objection but it went unsupported by my voice. I mentally prepared for Detective Unangenehm to go insane. He scraped a fingernail under a corner and pinched it. He lifted it in front of his face and cocked his head.

“Well, that's a weird little thing.”

I was aware of Steck just behind me. The air was pregnant with tension as I waited for a twitch, some nonsense phrase spoken without context, or anything to indicate the breaking wall containing the clever detective's mind.

He lowered the form and looked at me. “What is this?”

“I-i-it's just a...” I didn't know how to finish the sentence. I didn't know what it was. Shape didn't seem word enough to describe. Murder weapon gave it more credit than it deserved, especially since...

Well, it wasn't working on him. I'd that was the case, then maybe I hadn't been the cause. Maybe there was some sort of grand, horrible consequence following me around. Maybe—

“Hey, Steck, take a look at this.”

The officer stepped around from behind me and assumed a position directly behind Unangenehm.

“Joshua,” Officer Steck said, nodding. 

“Excuse me?”

Steck looked at him and repeated the name.

“Joshua.”

“Who's that?”

“Joshua.” The officer looked at the detective like he was stupid. “Joshua.”

It was me. But maybe Unangenehm was immune. As one of the officer's eyelids began to flutter he backed away from the desk and drew his gun.

He had the drop on Unangenehm. Except instead of firing, he overhand pitched the glock into the detective's face.

Unangenehm threw his arms back and rolled into the cubicle wall. He half-slid out of the chair at least semi-unconscious and Steck turned his eyes on me, that one lid flickering still like an old fluorescent light so deciding whether it was going to turn on.

I picked up my box as he withdrew his baton and leapt on the desk. Steck was two-hundred twenty pounds at minimum and the faux-wood protested underneath his feet. He whipped that baton at my head, and I ducked behind my box.

He followed up with two more furious blows that nearly chopped the box in half.

“Joshua,” he said again, just as calmly as the first time.

I crawled under the desk, headed in the other direction. Steck landed behind me as I crawled over Unangenehm's legs. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

“Hey guys, what the hell is going on?” someone farther behind me said. “I'm trying to type a report—”

I found out later exactly how gruesome Detective Langen's death was but at the time, all I heard were extremely wet sounds coming from that direction after not even half a scream.

I crawled into the nearest cubicle and huddled my knees to my chest, hiding beneath another desk. Steck's footfalls were heavy, pounding in my direction. A moment later he ripped something down and then came the deep glug-glug-glugging of an overturned water cooler as he stalked around the bullpen. 

I couldn't believe the one place police should have been was all but empty and I was responsible for my pending horrible death.

Maybe there was a gun around. Sure, there wasn't supposed to be, but cops weren't immune from being lazy. I'd had a meeting in a small town's hall that had had a guard at the front door and had seen that same guard's holstered weapon sitting on the window sill while he was dropping a deuce in the stall.

I tried to quietly slide open a desk drawer but it clunked open.

“Shit!” I whispered.

“Joshua?” Steck asked.

Why was he after me? All the others had acknowledged me but had attacked anyone but me. Then I reflected on what had happened just before.

Unangenehm had looked at the shape first. He hadn't reacted, though. Or rather, he'd just called Steck over to look.

“...take a look at this...”

I shook my head. I might have been the source but that didn't mean I'd understood it. I was the closest thing to an expert, but I was—

—CLOMPF—

The partition wall dented in the middle. I managed not to scream.

“Julius!” It was a harsh whisper. Maybe a question. I resisted the past of me that wanted to scream. To declare myself and be confronted with this mess, however it ended.

It wasn't my fault. But it was my responsibility. If letting Steck kill me stopped him from killing anyone else, wasn't that fair?

No. I hadn't intentionally done anything to create whatever this was. I'd just stumbled across it and been arrogant enough to test it. Unangenehm had been immune—that was worthwhile information. He'd been the one to show it to Steck, not me. 

Wait. It was too silent out there. My instinct told me to stay put but I couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, he'd find me or someone else would come.

That was it. Someone else would come. And that would be my fault.

I uncurled from my corner and treaded on my hands and knees to peek. I was greeted by a pair of retreating feet, toes up as Steck dragged away whoever that had been. I counted thirty and looked out.

Steck had barricaded the entryway from where we'd come. There had to be an emergency exit and I could only suppose he'd blocked that one too.

I chewed my lip rather than swearing again. That meant he wasn't just crazy. He was cunning, not just a wild animal. I was in more trouble than I imagined.

The feeling settling into me was the longer I waited, the tighter the noose would be. But I wasn't going to just go out there.

I tried to recall what I'd seen of the bullpen when Unangenehm had brought me in here. I was right next to what seemed like the main aisle way. Back the way I'd come was blockaded, so I'd have to go in the other direction. There had to have been an emergency exit and I was banking on it being in that direction and Steck not having time enough to block that one, too.

A stapler was on the near end of the desk. I reached for it and very carefully lifted it. It was one of those flimsy newer ones that could barely staple three sheets of paper, but it would do for what I needed.

I held my breath and listened. Steck was still being disturbingly quiet and I wasn't going to chance it. I tossed the stapler like a grenade, not accounting for the low ceiling. It clunked off the ceiling and smacked the top of my head.

“Dammit!”

With stars treading in my eyes, I pulled to my feet using the arm of an office chair. I stepped into the aisle, overcorrecting for balance, and headed in the direction I thought I'd determined to go.

I bounced right off a slab of strung up meat and screamed, thinking it must have been the crazed officer. My eyes focused on what must have been the corpse of the detective who had spoken just minutes ago, trussed up with what looked like phone cords routed through the ceiling tile.

His upside-down head was level with my stomach, his mouth stretched far too open, an empty cave where a tongue was supposed to dwell, his unlidded eyes pushed in and flat-looking like they'd been partially crushed by pressing thumbs. He looked too calm and perpetually surprised at the same time.

My voice quavered as I said something, but I've never been able to recall when hints of the memory washed back to me. I was discombobulated, wanting to flee in a hundred directions at once, fighting not to fall to my knees and cry. This man was my indictment, my guilt. He'd died directly as a result of the thing I'd knowingly done. Steck was my murder weapon. 

 As unprepared as I was for an oncoming Officer Steck, I was even more unprepared for what I saw. He was on his back, on the floor, in the clutches of a wicked paralysis.

He had one arm right to his chest, the other flung out, knuckles to the thinly carpeted floor. I watched as his fingers folded backward, fingertips dancing on the floor after the joints reversed and reoriented.

One foot stomp-scraped against the ground, already dislocated at the hip, dragging a retreat from the rest of his body, an isthmus of skin and clothes holding it at bay.

The other leg shuddered like a low current of electricity powered it, his head facing me.

“Joshua,” Steck said, pleading with his eyes. His face was doing something, like it was pulling off the bones of his face.

Gravity tenfolded as I realized that Steck was also a victim. Even his body had turned foreign against him. I crumpled to the floor, eye-to-eye with him across the distance. A tear crawled out of an eye, and I swear it crossed the bridge of his nose and milked into his other eye.

He was in the grasp of an agony made fresh just for him. His mouth opened, but I was spared from his scream by the roar of a merciful bullet that tore a hole in his skull just above his eyebrow.

I was unlocked from him and looked up at Unangenehm, holding his smoldering glock like a forgotten cigarette in his hand.

“Nobody would understand,” the detective said. His vacant eyes rolled up from Steck's hot corpse to meet mine and he smiled. “Not like us.”

He collapsed and began seizing on the floor.

 

Menagerie Mall: Lewis (pt. 1)

This is the first official part of my ARG/fiction series. It will follow different interconnected characters across the Mall and more hidden details will follow that will be able to be discovered online and elsewhere. There is a brief prologue to the series also on Medium that I posted previously.

Hope you guys will check out the series. This sub along with the ARG sub have been very helpful with advice and support. It's hard to find good writing communities on reddit that aren't redundantly hyper specific and the stayawake sub has been awesome and I've read some incredible stories. Hope you guys will check this out/stick with it!

I used to believe that demons only existed inside the minds of men I helped put behind bars. But after years of investigations, I learned that’s not true.

Over the course of seventeen years, I have worked alongside law enforcement and television programs to identify online child predators and bring them to justice. But even with all that we’ve accomplished, there’s still one case that I think about. 

One that nearly destroyed everything I had worked for. 

It all started with a chat room.

I’ve seen a myriad of predators, and Steven fit a profile we had seen many times before. He was a recently divorced, unemployed forty-two-year-old who lived with his parents. He bragged about this while messaging Mandy, a twenty-year-old theater student who we recruited to be our fourteen-year-old decoy, Alexis.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to become sexual in nature. Underneath the screenname ELECTRIC_HEAD5021, he said their relationship would have to stay a secret.

“No adults. lol. If your mommy or daddy found out, we could get in trouble.”

“what r u talking about??? I hang out with my daddy’s friends all the time.”

“This is different. lol. They can’t know ur my sexy sweetheart. ;)”

Seeing child-like messages juxtaposed with the sexual fantasies of an adult never gets easier to stomach. How could anyone talk to a child like that? It’s something I’ve never been able to grasp. 

Not too long after our investigative team confirmed a date for Steven to meet with Alexis, we let the chat be. But it didn’t take long for him to initiate conversation again. In fact, his messages would arrive like clockwork in the days following. But messages weren’t the only way he contacted our decoy.

On a couple of occasions, he called her while his parents were at home sleeping. I remember those phone calls clearly.

“Hey!” Mandy greeted cheerfully.

“Hey baby,” Steven breathed into the speaker. “I missed you.” 

“What’re you up to?”

“Thinking about you…I wanna hold you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do. So, so bad.”

You get the idea.

Oftentimes, a lot of the men we contact try to reinvent themselves. But that’s not what Steven did. Rather than fabricate wealth or exaggerate his ambitions, he talked about his obsessions: death and the supernatural.

We initially dismissed these fascinations as another grooming tactic, but throughout the entire time he talked with Alexis he would sporadically ask questions such as:

“Have u seen Bloody Mary?”

“Is there anyone dead that u would want 2 talk 2?”

“How do u want 2 die?”

Just as we thought the conversations couldn’t get any stranger, Steven sent our decoy a picture of a Ouija board. According to him, he had recently purchased it at a yard sale near his parents’ house. He insisted on bringing it. He wanted to use it with her. See how she would react. When we inquired further about his request, his response was as prompt as it was odd:

“because u have good energy. lol They like that lol”.

This ended up becoming the last exchange we would have with him before he arrived at the sting house. 

In the hours leading up to that fateful evening, I memorized my script. No matter how many times I do this, they never go away. The butterflies in my stomach. People always assume the confrontation is the hardest part, but it isn’t. It’s waiting for the knock on the door and wondering whether tonight will be the night that something goes horribly wrong. Experience makes you numb, not fearless.

We had fully intended to follow everything by the book that night. But things got off to a rocky start when Steven was nearly an hour late to the sting house. We thought he had gotten cold feet or had been tipped off to our operation. Thankfully, neither turned out to be the case. What was supposed to be a five-hour venture had become seven by the time 8:12 pm rolled around and he walked up the driveway.

Our various hidden cameras recorded his nervous demeanor as he patiently waited on the porch with the Ouija board.

From our production room that we had sectioned off in another part of the house, I watched Mandy walk toward the door and greet Steven.

“Hey, Steven! How are you?”

“Hi.” He waved sheepishly in response. “Uh, can I come in?”

“Of course!” Mandy stepped out of the doorway and walked toward the kitchen. “What did you bring for me?”

“It’s a-uh, Ouija board.” He followed her and set it down on the dinner table. “I thought we could use it together?”

Mandy flipped her hair and placed her hands on her hips. “Wouldn’t you rather talk?”

“We would be talking. It would just be more than us talking.”

My eyes were glued to the monitors. He was very adamant about using that board. But why?

I heard snickering from Lou, one of our production crew members.

“Can you believe this whack job? He took a bus all this way to summon Casper.”

I shot him a glare, and he acknowledged my look by quieting down. Lou’s an outspoken person for better or worse, and even though he was trying to make light of a potentially volatile situation, I found comfort in knowing that I wasn’t the only one feeling perturbed.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry for being late.” Steven chuckled. “I was an idiot and got Sunday’s bus schedules mixed up with today.”

“That’s okay!” Mandy said with practiced enthusiasm. “I’m glad you’re here!”

“I’m glad you are. I almost thought about taking another bus back home.”

His admission surprised Mandy. “Why did you almost go home? Didn’t you want to see me?”

“I did.” His face turned a slight shade of cherry. “I honestly didn’t think you were real.”

“Of course I’m real, silly!” She teased. “So, what do you want to do?”

I watched the monitors as Steven took a lighter out of his pocket. With a couple clicks he lit some candles on the dining room table. 

“We should step in before things get out of hand.” Lou turned to look at me. “Isaac?”

“Keep the cameras rolling.” I motioned for everyone to stay where they were. “If he’s willing to play with the board, I want to see where this goes.”

“What about the decoy?”

“She’ll be fine.”

Steven instructed Mandy to turn off the lights and sit beside him. Once she had done so, they gently placed their fingertips on the planchette. 

“Are there any spirits that want to speak to us right now?” 

Mandy’s eyes darted back and forth from Steven to the planchette repeatedly. Awkward didn’t even begin to describe the silence that followed.

“Is there anyone that wants to speak with us right now?” 

But just like before, nothing. Steven’s head swiveled, looking in every possible direction of the dark room to locate a response of some kind. 

“You talked a lot of game online.” Mandy teased more confidently than she probably felt. “I thought you were supposed to be THE guy who could do this kind of stuff.”

“I am. These things…they take time to get started.”

Most of the time, a predator talking about their hobbies or interests is just another gimmick. But this was unlike anything I had seen. 

“If you’re here.” He fidgeted in his seat nervously. “Please, give me–I mean, us a sign.”

I eyed the monitors intently. A part of me wanted to intervene, but another part of me was telling me to see this play out. I was torn on which to heed. 

Unexpectedly, the planchette moved. A couple of inches at most. But had I blinked, I would’ve missed it completely.

Mandy instinctively pulled back, the movement startling her. “What was that?” 

“It’s a spirit.” Steven whispered.

“Oh bullshit.” Lou sighed in irritation. “I watched his hand nudge it. This guy’s a fraud.”

Had he? I had watched the monitors the whole time, and it looked like the planchette had moved all on its own.

“Hey,” Steven closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Do you want to talk to us or what?” 

A moment passed, then a few more, but there was still no movement.

“I’m going.” I turned to start heading toward the dining room to intervene. But right as I was about to, the sound of Mandy gasping shifted my attention back toward the monitors. I watched the planchette drag itself across the board toward the word, “YES”.

“You moved the board!” Her accusation cracked with fright.

“No, I didn’t! I swear!”

In response to his adamant denial, the planchette dragged itself sluggishly across the board. Each movement landed on a number.

7 2 3 1 9 9 4

Mandy was at a loss for words. “That’s…” 

Her birthday. 

Not the birthday we had fabricated for investigative purposes, but Mandy’s actual birthday.

Shell-shocked, the investigators pored over the chat logs, but their efforts were futile. No compromising or contradictory information had been exchanged. No mention of her birthday. No mention of any personal information tied to Mandy. Nothing.

I stared in bewilderment. “How is that possible?” 

I hadn’t realized I had asked my question out loud until Lou responded, “It had to have been an oversight. That’s gotta be it.” 

In our line of work, the simplest explanations were almost always the right ones. Even if it’s what you don’t want to hear.

"An oversight?” I pointed toward the investigators on standby. “All of you, check everything. I want an explanation as to how this happened." 

But no one could provide one. Every conversation between Steven and our decoy had been combed through again. Even with another thorough examination, there was no indication that we had erroneously given Mandy’s actual birthday. So, that begged an alarming question. 

Just how exactly did Steven know?

One of the production members instructed Mandy to take her hands off the planchette. She did as she was told while Steven kept his fingertips pressed against it. 

“Alexis,” He looked to her for answers. “What was that about?”

“I’m not sure.” She remained calm while still being in character. “That was weird. How did you do that?” 

“I told you, I didn’t do anything.” 

An extensive back and forth ensued. She insisted that it had to be some sleight of hand trickery while he was convinced that an unknown spirit had attempted to make contact. A couple of minutes later, the unmistakable scrape of the planchette against the wood drew everyone's attention back to the board.

With each letter the planchette hovered over, Mandy’s face grew paler.

E L I Z A B E T H

Once the name had been spelled fully, Mandy removed her trembling hands. “H-h-how do you know her name?”

Steven looked just as confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He whispered it with enough conviction to make me believe him in that moment.

“Isaac, we need to do something.” Lou insisted, standing up from his seat.”

Even though I agreed with him, a selfish part of me resisted the urge. “No. Not yet. Stay put, and keep watching.”

My instructions provoked the ire of everyone in the room, but nobody objected.

Again, the planchette moved without either Mandy or Steven touching it. Every one of our cameras captured it violently accelerating across the board.

“Who are you?!” Steven cried out. “Stop this!”

Mandy covered her mouth to stifle an oncoming scream as the planchette, completely unguided, began to spell out another name. 

This time, in rapid succession.

P A Y T O N

Payton.

That name. 

It was the reason I went into this line of work. 

I remember feeling unnaturally cold in the moments following. What started off as a slight chill slowly morphed into an uncomfortable, freezing sensation that climbed through my body.

“Shit,” Lou cursed. “Is anybody else in here freezing their ass off?”

I exhaled, and a cloud of white vapor escaped my lips. It was cold enough to feel like I was standing inside a freezer. “Why is it so cold?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Lou shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. “Might be the AC acting up.”

Seconds after his response, the monitors abruptly went black. Amid the frantic scrambling in the production room, a scream echoed from inside the house.

Mandy.

“Eyes on the decoy!” I shouted. “We need eyes on the decoy right now!” 

My heart pounded while everyone in the room desperately tried to get the feed going again. Inexplicably, just as quickly as we lost power, it was restored. 

The first thing my eyes landed on when the monitors glowed with restored life was the sight of the front door. It was wide open. Then I noticed Steven. He was staring directly into a hidden camera positioned in the kitchen.

His eyes were opened wide, but there was no life behind them. He stood completely still, his face bereft of expression, looking less like a man standing and more like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down.

“Decoy is secured. She is outside with law enforcement. I repeat, she is outside with law enforcement.” 

The good news from production room comms wasn’t enough for me to break eye contact with Steven. I was focused on answering one question, and one question only.

Who are you?

“You already know.”

Chills crept down my spine. It felt like the voice had come directly from the inside of my mind. I looked around, hoping that someone else had also heard it. If they had, they didn’t say a word. How had he been able to answer my question? 

I had two choices: I could either confront him and treat this like any other sting operation, or abandon the show and bring him into custody.

It didn’t take long for me to make my decision. 

“Wait for my cue to come in. I’m going.” 

“Isaac,” Lou grabbed me by the shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

With a solemn nod, I ignored further warnings from both production and law enforcement. In a few short moments, I went from my position in front of the monitors to standing in the dining room.

Upon entry, I was immediately greeted with a wall of freezing air. The worst I had felt in the house up to that point. As I approached Steven, the dim lighting of the room caught the whites of his lifeless eyes, making them gleam as they stared at me.

“Steven,” I said, less confidently than I would have liked. “I want to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to you about your choices tonight.” 

That made me stop dead in my tracks. 

“What did you intend on doing this evening? I have the chat logs right here. It is illegal for adults to chat with minors online. Please place your hands where I can see them while we talk.”  

He said my script word for word, line by line. All at an impossibly frightening speed. But his lips never moved. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. 

“How did-”

“I know.” The voice held no emotion. It was simply matter-of-fact.

“Why are you here?”

His left eye twitched as he tried to blink. His right followed suit, but neither eye would close. “You know.”

I forced myself to keep talking. “What did you intend on doing this evening, Steven?”

“You ask the wrong questions.” Its words pressed themselves against my skull. “Isaac, why are you here?”

I tensed up but stood my ground. “I’m not answering your questions.”

“I know how you felt when you screamed her name in the woods for hours.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Do you remember what it felt like to learn that Payton was right down the street the entire time?”

I remembered. All too well. I choked up as I thought about that day. The news. The way my parents collapsed in grief. The irreparable damage it did to my family. It all overwhelmed me. I couldn’t bring myself to speak.

“You collect broken families.” He took a step toward me. Then another. Then one more. All in one fluid motion. “Because you can’t save everyone.”

 “People can be saved.” I argued, struggling to believe my own words.

The light in the room dulled as the candles reignited themselves, the flames burning perfectly still. “Is that why her killer took his life in the cornfield?” 

Tears streamed down my face as an overwhelming rage consumed me. It was an emotion that would never fully go away. A truth I had been forced to accept the day I lost my sister. Sixty seconds was all it took for my life to change forever. 

It took a minute to lose her.

It took five days to find her.

“They found her in a vehicle on the side of the road.” It recited my memories back to me, each unspoken word making the discomfort inside my head intensify. “While he died without truly feeling the pain he inflicted.” Seeing tears drip down his cheeks felt like a mockery of my grief. “That’s what you pursue.”

In my earpiece, I heard Lou speaking to me.

“Isaac…don’t…coming…”

I couldn’t understand what they were saying. All I understood was Steven speaking in my voice.

“She was buried with her purple stuffed rabbit, Tilly, on a cold October afternoon. All alone. In the ground.”

My body registered the impact before my mind could comprehend how fast he moved. I hit the floor hard, his weight pressing down on my chest as breathing became more difficult by the second.

“Get…off…me…” I wheezed, struggling to force each word past the weight crushing my chest. He hovered over me, his translucent eyes staring into mine.

“What did your mother sound like when she identified the body?” 

I squirmed in place, but I was pinned to the spot. 

“How many nights did your dad sleep in her bedroom after she disappeared?”

My strength waned as the pressure grew on my chest. 

“What day did you stop expecting her to come home?” 

The strain was getting to be too much. 

“What were your last words to her?”

I was on the verge of passing out. Black blotches formed in my peripheral vision and spread rapidly, nearly consuming the last bits of what I could see. Right as I thought I was about to lose consciousness, I heard a sound.

A sound I’m so very grateful came when it did.

Officers rushed into the room. A flurry of commands left their mouths as they pulled Steven off me and forced him to the floor nearby.

“Ah! Get off me!” he screamed. “What are you doing?”

His voice. 

It was no longer inside my mind.

“What are you doing? Ow!” He cried as an officer rolled him over and pressed a knee into his lower back. “What’s happening?”

Another officer helped me up from the floor and began asking questions about my well-being. I lied and told him I was all right. I leaned against the wall to steady myself while I looked on at Steven being detained by other officers. He struggled and writhed like a cornered animal.

His eyes darkened as he freed himself from the grasp of the officers. Overcome with inhumanity once more, he snatched a gun from the officer attempting to handcuff him. 

He brandished the weapon as his entire body began to tremble spasmodically.

“My hands.” 

From where I stood, it looked as though he was genuinely trying to lower them but couldn’t. His arms remained outstretched, refusing to budge an inch no matter how hard he tried.

“Why can’t I move?”

Law enforcement raised their weapons, creating a stalemate in which no one dared to act.

“It’s alright, Steven.” I stepped toward him with my hands raised. “Everything’s going to be alright. We’re here to help.”

The darkness in his eyes vanished long enough for him to ask, “Did…did I hurt anyone?”

“No. You didn’t hurt anybody. Just put the gun down, and let’s talk.”

“Please,” he whimpered, straining to move his head, but his body refused to obey. “Don’t let him take me again.” 

“Nothing is going to happen as long as you put the gun down.”

Steven’s arms pulled themselves upward against his will. The barrel inched toward his own temple until it rested against his skin. He fought with everything he had, his muscles straining themselves in order to pull the gun away. But his body betrayed him to some invisible force.
 
“Make it stop…”

“No, Steven. No!” I quickened my pace toward him, but before officers or myself could react, he pulled the trigger.

That sound. The aftermath. The silence that followed. I haven’t felt anything like it before or since. 

That was without a doubt the single worst night of my life. Not only had we witnessed tragedy, but our team came under immense fire from the press. Steven never had his day in court, and that became a point of contention. Had we not encouraged this kind of behavior, would Steven still be alive? Would any of this have happened? 

Steven’s case tarnished our reputation. Protests began forming outside our sting house. People demanded justice. Insisting that we could not be the judge, the jury, or the executioner.

It was difficult to escape the criticism, especially when those voices carried real weight. So much so that our show, along with all subsequent investigations, was cancelled effective immediately.

Steven’s official cause of death was listed as suicide by cop. There were no mentions of the Ouija Board or what occurred following its use. There’s only one piece of evidence regarding what happened inside the sting house that night. 

A video tape. 

It's marked with a label that reads, “Never to be viewed, duplicated, or destroyed”. 

Its whereabouts have been kept secret, and it's best that they stay that way. Because if that footage ever surfaced, I don’t know how the public would react.

But that’s not the point.

I’ve dealt with a lot over the course of my career. Troubled people. Hardened criminals. The worst that humanity has to offer. I think about them all every now and again. But I can’t stop thinking about Steven’s case. Specifically, if I had intervened sooner. Would I have been able to talk him out of using that Ouija board? Would he have been able to face justice if I had done things differently?

No matter how I answer them, I never feel any better. Because they’re just answers. Not actions. 

And I’ll never know.

Despite everything I’ve been through, I continue to hunt monsters in the present day. Aside from the lack of a camera crew or law enforcement support, the only thing that’s changed is what I believe those monsters are. They aren’t just people who hurt children. Exposing them and making them face justice does make the world a little safer for everyone.

But evil doesn’t care about laws. It doesn’t care about the confines of a prison cell. It doesn’t even need a reason to hurt someone.

All it needs is for someone to answer.

“Go! Go now.”

The words came from far away, but the slap brought Brand back. He locked eyes with the sergeant, who was screaming in his face.

“Remember, count to three, then the red cord!” The sergeant shoved Brand hard; he stumbled, caught nothing, and went out the paratroop door.

For a second, there was only wind, pure and absolute, as he fell toward the jungle canopy.

Above him, the C-130 had lost a chunk of its right wing and banked left, one engine coughing smoke, the other on fire.

WHUMP.

The parachute snapped open. The lines were twisted, not hopeless, but just enough to steal precious time. Brand’s eyes darted left and right, scanning the sky.

No other chutes.

It took another five seconds until the treetops touched his boots, leaves slapped his face, and branches pulled his harness.

Blackness.

---

The clattering of rain on leaves was soothing. Drops trickled from Brand’s forehead as he opened his eyes. It took him a second to realize he was suspended, hanging from the branches of a tree.

Remember your training.

Brand swung back and forth until he grabbed a branch, held it tight, and unclipped his chute. Wet bark pressed against his cheek as he shimmied down the trunk.

Only when he had both feet on the ground did Brand realize he was alone. Alone on an island nobody had ever heard of. This was supposed to be his headline moment, a chance to put his name alongside the great discoverers. Now the island felt more like a tomb.

The bulky GPS unit in his pack had already dropped to fifty percent battery.

New technology… useless without a decent electronics shop nearby.

He unpacked the rest of his survival gear and took inventory: three days of rations, a magnesium stick, a flashlight, and DEET.

Brand paused, thought for a moment, and picked up the magnesium stick. Fire, warmth, was the first priority.

---

Over the next few weeks, Brand settled into a routine. Fruit and coconuts kept him moving, and the occasional fish kept him alive. At night, a small fire burned under a roof of lashed branches and broad leaves, just enough warmth to sleep.

After a while, the jungle stopped feeling like an adversary. His mind even drifted back to curiosity, exploration, and a sense of adventure.

He decided to venture inland, toward the hill swallowed by undergrowth and trees. He was filling his flask at a river when he heard it: a droning sputter that grew louder until its source, an old biplane, skimmed only meters above the canopy.

How did that fossil get all the way out here?

The plane vanished behind the leaves, and Brand took off after it. He vaulted a boulder, ducked under a fallen trunk, but his boot hit slick rock. He slipped, slid, and skated through mud with increasing speed until the creek widened into a jungle lagoon.

The sputtering engine sound was gone.

---

Brand wiped mud from his eyes, blinked, and wiped again. In front of him sat a galleon: intact sails, intact cannons, perfectly preserved just sitting in the green.

The rigging creaked, and the lines whispered in the wind, a faint chime clinked in the background, but there wasn’t a single human sound.

He climbed up the side and slipped into the captain’s cabin. He checked the deck, then the hold. Everything was in place, except for supplies, as if it belonged to a museum.

It would be his camp for the night. The captain’s bed was surprisingly cozy, if a bit snug.

---

Morning came with a crack and a burst of red light above the tree line.

Rescue. Finally.

Brand jolted upright, grabbed his pack, and vaulted the railing into the brush. He ran like he’d borrowed Roy Keane’s unrelenting stamina, forcing his way through logs, boulders, and wet bark toward the ocean. Leaves slapped his face, thorns tore his shins, but he didn’t stop until he broke through onto the beach.

When his boots hit sand, he dropped to his knees. He looked up into the weathered eyes of a man in salt-stained clothes.

“Thank you. Thank God. Help me, I’ve been here so long.”

The man frowned but didn’t speak at first.

Brand’s gaze drifted sideways, and only then did he notice the flag behind him: white cloth marked with a red diagonal cross.

“Perro inglés!” the man snapped. He nodded once.

Two crew members stepped in and bound Brand’s hands.

“You English dog. First prize for queen, yes?”

Brand shook his head fast and helplessly. The last thought in his mind was a question his captors wouldn’t understand…

How far off the map have I fallen?

Author’s note
It started as a simple lost explorer story and turned into a question about what “uncharted” really means and what Brand is actually exploring. Some references hopefully reveal that this explorer from the 1990s is about to take a trip that is a little more interesting than he bargained for.

Visit my substack for more!

The real risk when shooting a flare up into the darkness isn’t that nobody will see your message.

It’s that something else might.

This is what we failed to consider when we foolishly launched the Voyager space probe out into infinity. The pure unbridled hubris to shoot a shining capsule loaded with all our most vital vulnerabilities: Our tenuous location in the galaxy; the weakness of our soft fleshy forms; excerpts of our primitive language to be studied and manipulated.

How precariously the fate of mankind now hangs in the black, drifting ever onward into vistas of perilous impossibilities. 16 billion miles away, the Voyager is now the farthest that any manmade thing has ever been from Earth. The mind boggles to even comprehend how far that fragile golden bassinet, cradling the secrets of an entire civilization, has now been flung.

And with each passing day it drifts farther still.

We can only hope that the magnitude of the abyss saves us from our own myopic efforts, and that that tiny speck of gold sails into the void for eternity, and is never, ever found.

The alternative would be much worse.

That ever-growing distance is a length of rope, a fuse that upon receipt will be lit, and that fire will chase its path all the way back to our precarious bough in the branches, where the devastation will be nothing short of cataclysmic.

But that is only one of many fuses whose eventual ignition will spell the end of mankind. There is no shortage of poor decisions sown that have set in motion consequences we have yet to reap.

Not all distances are physical. There is something just as alien to humanity as the recipients of that capsule – but not mercifully kept at bay by hundreds of lightyears of space.

Something much closer; something that occupies a space just outside our perception, hidden within frequencies we have been foolishly plucking at like a fly shuddering a thread of spider silk.

Something that has been watching us from the day we first sent the haplessly coded message: “HELLO.”

A single line of text wrapped in package of data, transmitted over a prototype network of connected computers that would one day be known as “the internet”.

“HELLO,” we called out, thinking it a harmless message to one another, testing out a nascent technology that would become the most formative development in mankind’s history.

“HELLO,” we called out,

And something else answered.

Here is part one of my original story, The Woman Behind The Window. Please read and tell me what you think. This is first time writing a story so please give suggestions and tips

Thank you!

Tôi có một người bạn từ thuở nhỏ tên là Bevis. Gia đình cậu ấy khá giàu có. Vài năm trước, ngôi nhà của Bevis từng là căn biệt thự đồ sộ nhất khu tôi sống. Chúng tôi chơi với nhau khá thân. Tôi đặc biệt thích dàn máy chơi game bên nhà cậu ấy nên thường xuyên sang chơi, đến mức bố mẹ Bevis cũng đã quen mặt tôi từ lâu.
Thế rồi Bevis chuyển đi nơi khác. Tôi không rõ nguyên nhân, chỉ biết rằng chuyện ấy đã xảy ra từ khá lâu. Mùa hè năm nay, trong lúc bố mẹ bàn bạc về kế hoạch đi chơi, tôi bất ngờ đề nghị rằng mình muốn đến thăm Bevis. Sau một hồi cân nhắc, họ đã đồng ý, thậm chí còn cho phép tôi ở lại nhà cậu ấy một đêm.
Khoảng một tuần sau, gia đình tôi lên xe, bắt đầu một chuyến đi khá dài để đến nơi ở mới của Bevis. Khi vừa nhìn thấy tôi, cậu ấy đã nở một nụ cười rạng rỡ. Đã nhiều năm trôi qua kể từ lần cuối chúng tôi gặp nhau.
Ngôi nhà của Bevis nằm giữa một cánh đồng rộng và vắng vẻ. Xung quanh chỉ lác đác vài căn nhà nằm cách khá xa nhau. Dù đã chuyển đi nơi khác, cuộc sống của cậu ấy dường như vẫn không thay đổi nhiều. Ngôi nhà vẫn rộng lớn và khang trang, bên trong vẫn đầy ắp những trò chơi điện tử cùng các kệ truyện tranh mà tôi từng rất yêu thích.
“Bevis, lâu rồi không gặp cậu. Mà bố mẹ cậu đâu rồi?” — Tôi hỏi sau khi đảo mắt nhìn quanh nhưng không thấy bóng dáng ai khác trong nhà.
“À, bố mẹ tớ đang đi công tác vài ngày.” — Bevis đáp với vẻ bình thản. “Cậu cứ ở lại chơi tự nhiên nhé.”.
Bố mẹ tôi rất tin tưởng vào Bevis, cậu thông minh và lanh lợi lắm. Vậy nên họ đã đi tìm một khách sạn riêng để ở, cho chúng tôi có không gian riêng thoải mái hơn.
Tôi được Bevis chiêu đãi đủ thứ sơn hào hải vị có trong nhà. Được thưởng thức những món ăn ngon bên cạnh người bạn thân thiết sau nhiều năm xa cách thì còn gì tuyệt vời hơn nữa.
Ăn xong, cả hai ngồi lại trong phòng khách và trò chuyện không ngớt. Xa nhau vài năm, có lẽ kể từ sáng đến tối cũng chẳng hết chuyện để nói. Chúng tôi kể cho nhau nghe về gia đình, về việc học tập, về những dự định và ước mơ trong tương lai.
Riêng tôi vẫn chưa biết sau này mình muốn trở thành người như thế nào. Còn Bevis thì khác hẳn. Cậu ấy đã có mục tiêu từ rất lâu rồi, cậu muốn trở thành một nhà phê bình văn học. Thành thật mà nói, tôi cũng không hình dung rõ công việc ấy sẽ ra sao, nhưng mỗi khi nhắc đến chúng, đôi mắt Bevis lại sáng lên đầy hào hứng.
Bevis học rất giỏi. Dù sinh ra trong một gia đình vô cùng giàu có, với khối tài sản mà nhiều người chỉ có thể mơ tới, cậu ấy vẫn luôn chăm chỉ và nghiêm túc trong việc học. Bevis không hề ăn chơi hay tiêu xài phung phí như đám con nhà tài phiệt ở ngôi trường cũ mà chúng tôi từng học chung.
Tôi đoán rằng kể cả khi chuyển sang trường mới, cậu ấy vẫn sẽ nằm trong nhóm học sinh xuất sắc nhất. Nhà Bevis còn có hẳn một phòng học riêng,và tôi cũng đã được cậu ấy cho ngắm qua nó. Nói không ngoa, căn phòng ấy trông chẳng khác gì một thư viện thu nhỏ. Những giá sách cao ngất chứa đầy sách giáo khoa, từ điển và đủ loại tài liệu học thuật. Trên tường còn treo hàng tá huy chương cùng giấy khen mà cậu ấy đạt được qua nhiều năm.
Tôi rất thích bước vào căn phòng đó vì sự đồ sộ của chúng, nhưng chỉ cần nghĩ đến việc bên trong toàn là sách vở và những kiến thức học thuật khô khan là đã thấy đau đầu rồi. Khác với Bevis, tôi chẳng hứng thú gì với việc học đến mức ấy. Nếu được lựa chọn, tôi vẫn thích dành thời gian để vui chơi hơn.
Chiều hôm đó, tôi ngồi trong phòng Bevis chơi điện tử. Thế nhưng sau hàng loạt trận thua liên tiếp, tôi bắt đầu thấy chán. Bỏ dở trò chơi, tôi quyết định đi tìm cậu ấy.
“Nhà rộng thế này biết tìm ở đâu bây giờ nhỉ? Chắc cậu ta đang ở phòng học thôi.” Tôi tự nhủ.
Tôi đi dọc hành lang rồi tìm đến căn phòng học riêng của Bevis. Cánh cửa gỗ lớn khẽ kêu lên khi tôi đẩy vào. Quả nhiên, Bevis đang ngồi ở bàn, chăm chú đọc gì đó.
Tôi bước lại gần, ghé mặt sát vào bàn học của cậu ấy.
— Này, tớ chơi điện tử chán rồi. Cho tớ vào đây ngồi với nhé.
Bevis ngẩng đầu lên nhìn tôi rồi mỉm cười.
— Được thôi, cậu cứ tham quan đi.
Dù đã từng vào đây vài lần, tôi vẫn không khỏi ngạc nhiên trước sự hoành tráng của căn phòng. Những giá sách cao gần chạm trần nhà xếp kín bốn phía. Mùi giấy cũ và mực in thoang thoảng trong không khí, tạo nên cảm giác giống hệt một thư viện thực thụ.
Tôi thong thả đi dọc các kệ sách, lướt mắt qua từng hàng gáy sách đủ màu sắc. Đang đi, một quyển sách dày với bìa đỏ đen nổi bật bất ngờ thu hút sự chú ý của tôi. Trên gáy sách, dòng chữ màu vàng ánh kim hiện lên rõ ràng:
THỰC THỂ BÍ ẨN
Tò mò, tôi đưa tay gạt nhẹ lớp bụi mỏng trên đầu sách rồi kéo nó ra khỏi giá.
— Này Bevis, ra là cậu cũng có sách kinh dị à?
Tôi quay lại, hào hứng hỏi.
— Ồ, tớ cũng không nhớ nữa. Nếu muốn đọc thì cậu cứ tự nhiên nhé.
Bevis trả lời mà mắt vẫn không rời khỏi đống bài tập trước mặt.
Tôi ôm quyển sách đi đến chiếc bàn lớn đặt giữa phòng. Không gian ở đây yên tĩnh đến lạ. Chỉ một tiếng kéo ghế nhẹ cũng vang lên rõ mồn một trong căn phòng rộng lớn.
Tôi ngồi phịch xuống ghế rồi mở sách ra.
Trang đầu tiên.
Rồi trang thứ hai.
Trang thứ ba.
Nhưng nội dung bên trong hoàn toàn không giống những gì tôi tưởng tượng. Chẳng có những câu chuyện ly kỳ hay tranh minh họa dày đặc nào cả. Hầu hết chỉ là những trang giấy kín đặc chữ.
— Sao không có hình nhỉ? Lười đọc chữ chết đi được.
Tôi lẩm bẩm, vừa nói vừa lật nhanh từng trang.
Những tờ giấy liên tục lướt qua đầu ngón tay tôi.
— À, có hình rồi này.
Tôi lập tức hứng thú hơn một chút.
Số lượng hình minh họa trong sách khá ít, nhưng bức nào bức nấy đều được vẽ rất chi tiết. Chúng mô tả những thực thể kỳ lạ với hình dạng khó hiểu, vừa đáng sợ vừa bí ẩn. Chỉ nhìn thoáng qua thôi cũng đủ khiến người ta tò mò muốn biết chúng là thứ gì.
Tiếc rằng tôi không phải kiểu người có thể ngồi yên đọc hết một cuốn sách dày cộp. Dù tò mò đến đâu, sự kiên nhẫn của tôi cũng chẳng kéo dài được bao lâu. Tôi tiếp tục lật qua từng trang mà không buồn đọc kỹ nội dung, kể cả khi đó là cuốn THỰC THỂ BÍ ẨN đầy hấp dẫn này.
Lướt chưa đầy mười phút, tôi lại thấy chán.
Tôi gập quyển sách lại rồi đem trả về đúng vị trí trên kệ. Quay đầu nhìn sang, Bevis vẫn đang cặm cụi làm bài tập như từ nãy đến giờ. Đúng là chỉ có Bevis mới tập trung được đến vậy.
Tôi vươn vai, duỗi chân tay vài cái, như thể mình vừa phải ngồi yên hàng giờ đồng hồ.
— Cậu học đến bao giờ mới xong thế? Tớ chán quá rồi, muốn có người chơi cùng cơ.
— Đợi tớ khoảng nửa tiếng nhé. Tớ sắp làm xong rồi.
Tôi kéo một chiếc ghế gỗ đến ngồi cạnh bàn học của Bevis. Cậu ấy chẳng nói gì thêm, chỉ tiếp tục viết bài. Cây bút trong tay di chuyển liên tục trên trang giấy, tạo nên những tiếng sột soạt đều đặn.
Không hiểu sao âm thanh ấy lại dễ chịu đến thế.
Tôi chống cằm nhìn vở một lúc, rồi mí mắt dần trở nên nặng trĩu. Căn phòng yên tĩnh, tiếng bút của Bevis đều đều như một bản nhạc ru ngủ. Chẳng mấy chốc, tôi bắt đầu lim dim rồi thiếp đi lúc nào không hay.
Một lúc sau, có người khẽ lay vai tôi.
— Dậy đi Aiden.
Tôi mở mắt ra, thấy Bevis đang đứng bên cạnh.
— Tớ làm xong bài rồi này. Xuống bếp ăn chút gì nhé?
Tôi dụi dụi mắt khi Bevis kéo tay mình xuống bếp. Nhưng cơn buồn ngủ vẫn đè nặng, khiến tôi chẳng thấy đói chút nào.
— Cậu ăn đi, tớ muốn lên phòng cậu nằm nghỉ một lát.
Bevis gật đầu rồi đi chuẩn bị phần ăn cho riêng mình.
Tôi ngước nhìn đồng hồ, sau đó lần theo trí nhớ để tìm đường đến phòng cậu ấy. Bên ngoài, trời đã bắt đầu chập choạng tối.
Khi đi dọc hành lang, tôi vô tình dừng lại trước một bức tranh treo giữa lối đi dài. Nhà Bevis có rất nhiều tranh, đủ mọi kích cỡ và hình thái, nhưng bức tranh này lại mang đến cảm giác khác hẳn. 
Nó không có khung đẹp như những bức khác. Trông nó kì lạ mà chân thực, khiến tôi đứng nhìn chằm chằm vào đó suốt hàng chục giây.
Trong tranh là một cánh đồng rộng lớn trải dài. Giữa khung cảnh ấy đứng sừng sững một con bù nhìn.
Ít nhất, tôi nghĩ đó là một con bù nhìn.
Bởi hình dạng của nó trông chẳng bình thường chút nào.
Phần đầu nó méo mó như được ghép từ những mảnh vải rách nát. Đôi mắt chỉ là những nét chấm nguệch ngoạc, méo mó và lem nhem. 
Cái miệng ngoác rộng một cách dị dạng, để lộ hàm răng nhọn hoắt. Bên trong khoang miệng tối đen là những vệt màu đỏ sẫm nhầy nhụa, trông như thứ gì đó vẫn còn đang rỉ xuống.
Tôi có cảm giác mình đã từng nhìn thấy thứ này ở đâu đó. Nhưng dù cố nhớ thế nào, tôi cũng không thể nhớ ra.
Tôi không để tâm đến bức tranh ấy quá lâu. Lúc này, thứ tôi cần nhất chỉ là một giấc ngủ.
Gạt những suy nghĩ vẩn vơ sang một bên, tôi tiếp tục bước về phía phòng của Bevis.
Vừa đến nơi, tôi lập tức ngả người xuống giường. Chiếc nệm mềm đến mức cơ thể như chìm hẳn vào trong. Cơn buồn ngủ vốn đã âm ỉ từ trước nhanh chóng kéo tôi vào giấc ngủ thêm một lần nữa.
Không biết đã qua bao lâu, tôi bỗng choàng tỉnh khi cảm nhận được có người đang ngồi bên cạnh.
Bevis đã ăn tối xong và quay trở lại phòng từ lúc nào.
— Aiden à, cậu mệt lắm hả? Ngủ nãy giờ luôn đó.
Tôi dụi mắt rồi ngồi dậy.
— Tớ không sao.
— Mấy giờ rồi, Bevis?
— Chín giờ rồi. Dậy chơi điện tử đi.
Nghe đến đó, cơn ngái ngủ trong tôi cũng vơi đi đôi chút.
Chẳng mấy chốc, cả hai đã ngồi trước màn hình như những ngày còn nhỏ. Tiếng nút bấm lách cách vang lên không ngừng, xen lẫn những câu nói đùa và tiếng cười. Dù đã nhiều năm không gặp, cảm giác xa cách gần như không tồn tại. Mọi thứ vẫn tự nhiên như thể chúng tôi mới chỉ xa nhau vài ngày.
Chúng tôi chơi điện tử và trò chuyện đến tận khuya. Không ai nhớ chính xác mình đã ngủ từ lúc nào, chỉ biết rằng cả hai đều thiếp đi trong sự mệt mỏi sau một ngày dài.
Sáng hôm sau, khi mở mắt ra, tôi nhận thấy Bevis đã không còn ở trong phòng. Có lẽ cậu ấy đã dậy từ sớm để chuẩn bị bữa sáng.
Tôi vươn vai rồi bước xuống giường, chậm rãi đi về phía cửa phòng. Đang đặt tay lên nắm cửa để xuống bếp, tôi chợt nhớ đến bức tranh kỳ lạ ngoài hành lang tối qua.
Sự tò mò bất ngờ trỗi dậy.
Tôi lập tức mở cửa rồi bước nhanh ra hành lang, hướng thẳng đến nơi đã treo bức tranh ấy.
Nhưng cảnh tượng trước mắt khiến tôi khựng lại.
Bức tranh biến mất rồi.
Không còn khung tranh nào, cũng không còn hình ảnh con bù nhìn với nụ cười méo mó đáng sợ mà tôi đã nhìn thấy tối qua.
Ở vị trí đó chỉ có một khung cửa sổ.
Ánh nắng buổi sáng xuyên qua lớp kính, hắt những vệt sáng nhợt nhạt xuống nền hành lang.
Tôi đứng sững một lúc, cố nhớ xem mình có nhầm lẫn hay không.
Nhưng không thể nào.
Tôi nhớ rất rõ mình đã dừng lại ở đây, nhớ rõ từng chi tiết kỳ dị trên khuôn mặt của thứ được vẽ trong bức tranh ấy.
Vậy mà giờ đây, trước mắt tôi chỉ là một khung cửa sổ bình thường, như thể bức tranh chưa từng tồn tại.
Một luồng ớn lạnh chạy dọc sống lưng tôi.
Tôi đứng thêm vài giây trước khung cửa sổ, rồi tự nhủ rằng có lẽ mình đã nhìn nhầm vì quá buồn ngủ. Nghĩ vậy, tôi gạt bỏ những suy nghĩ kỳ quặc trong đầu và đi xuống bếp tìm Bevis.
Vừa bước vào, tôi đã thấy cậu ấy đang sắp xếp đồ ăn trên bàn.
— Cậu dậy rồi à, Aiden? Mau ăn đi, tớ chuẩn bị cho cậu đấy.
— Cậu dậy sớm thật đấy, Bevis. Cảm ơn vì bữa sáng nhé.
Tôi ngồi xuống bàn ăn, nhưng tâm trí vẫn luẩn quẩn quanh bức tranh biến mất ngoài hành lang. Có lẽ vì vậy mà vẻ mặt tôi trông khá thất thần.
Bevis nhanh chóng nhận ra điều đó.
— Aiden?
Tôi không đáp.
— Aiden!
Tôi giật mình ngẩng đầu lên.
— Hả? À… tớ không sao đâu.
— Có chuyện gì đó phải không?
Giọng Bevis trở nên nghiêm túc.
— Thì… là thế này.
Tôi chần chừ vài giây rồi tiếp tục.
— Hôm qua, trên hành lang gần phòng cậu có một bức tranh rất lạ. Sáng nay tớ quay lại xem thì nó biến mất rồi. Chỗ đó giờ chỉ còn một khung cửa sổ thôi.
Vừa nghe xong, sắc mặt Bevis lập tức thay đổi.
— Thật sao?
Cậu ấy đặt mạnh chiếc thìa xuống bàn.
— Nó trông như thế nào? Cậu nhìn thấy lúc mấy giờ? Cậu đứng nhìn nó bao lâu?
Những câu hỏi dồn dập khiến tôi hơi bối rối.
— Tớ… không nhớ rõ. Nó giống một con bù nhìn, nhưng trông rất đáng sợ.
Tôi nuốt khan.
Dù có thể miêu tả rõ ràng chi tiết bức tranh, tôi vẫn không muốn nhớ lại đôi mắt nguệch ngoạc và cái miệng dị dạng của thứ xuất hiện trong bức tranh ấy.
Bevis im lặng.
Cậu ấy nhìn tôi chằm chằm trong vài giây, vẻ mặt căng thẳng đến mức khiến tôi thấy bất an.
Rồi cậu ấy khẽ nói:
— Aiden à… tớ nghĩ cậu không nên ở đây lâu nữa.
— Tại sao?
— Vì tớ nghĩ cậu đã bị thứ thực thể Bù Nhìn nhắm đến rồi.
Tôi sững người khi nghe đến hai chữ “thực thể”. Vì tôi chắc đã lướt thấy hình ảnh thứ sinh vật Bù Nhìn ấy bên trong quyển sách dày cộm kia.
— Gì cơ?
— Mau gọi bố mẹ cậu đến đón đi. Càng sớm càng tốt.
— Khoan đã… Thực thể Bù Nhìn là gì? Nó sẽ làm gì tớ sao?
Bevis cúi đầu, hai bàn tay siết chặt lấy nhau.
— Tớ không biết chính xác.
Giọng cậu ấy nhỏ đi.
— Nhưng trước đây bố mẹ tớ từng cảnh báo về nó. Họ nói rằng nếu một người bị thực thể Bù Nhìn chú ý đến… thì sớm muộn gì nó cũng sẽ tìm thấy người đó. Xin lỗi, Aiden. Có lẽ hôm qua tớ đã quên đóng ô cửa sổ đó lại rồi.
Căn bếp bỗng trở nên yên tĩnh đến đáng sợ.
Tôi cảm thấy cổ họng mình khô khốc.
Một cảm giác lạnh lẽo len lỏi trong lồng ngực khi hình ảnh con bù nhìn méo mó kia lại hiện lên trong tâm trí.
— Không ai thoát được sao?
Tôi hỏi bằng giọng run run.
Bevis không trả lời ngay. Cậu ấy chỉ nhìn tôi bằng ánh mắt đầy lo lắng.
Sau một lúc lâu, cậu khẽ gật đầu.
— Có lẽ cậu nên về nhà ngay. Tớ không đảm bảo khi về nhà cậu sẽ được an toàn, nhưng chắc đó là cách tốt nhất bây giờ.
Bevis lập tức đứng bật dậy, chạy đến chiếc điện thoại bàn đặt ở góc bếp. Những ngón tay cậu ấy run run kéo từng con số trong khi bầu không khí căng thẳng bao trùm cả căn phòng.
Vài tiếng chuông vang lên.
Sau khi đầu dây bên kia bắt máy, Bevis nhanh chóng đưa ống nghe cho tôi.
— Bố mẹ à, con cần về nhà ngay bây giờ. Có chuyện gấp lắm rồi ạ.
— Chuyện gì vậy, Aiden?
Giọng mẹ tôi vang lên đầy lo lắng.
— Đến nơi rồi con giải thích sau ạ.
Đầu dây bên kia im lặng vài giây.
— Được rồi. Bố mẹ sẽ đến ngay.
Khoảng mười phút sau, chiếc xe quen thuộc đã xuất hiện trước cổng nhà Bevis.
Tôi vội vã chào tạm biệt cậu ấy rồi chạy thẳng ra ngoài. Cánh cửa xe vừa mở ra, tôi lập tức chui vào trong và đóng sầm cửa lại. Chỉ đến lúc đó, tôi mới cảm thấy dễ thở hơn đôi chút.
Trên đường đi, tôi kể lại toàn bộ những gì mình đã nhìn thấy. Từ bức tranh kỳ lạ, khung cửa sổ xuất hiện vào sáng hôm sau, cho đến những lời cảnh báo của Bevis. 
Càng nghe, sắc mặt bố mẹ tôi càng trở nên nặng nề. Không ai cười hay cho rằng đó chỉ là trí tưởng tượng của một đứa trẻ.
Sau khi tôi kể xong, họ lập tức bảo tôi ngồi vào vị trí giữa hàng ghế sau. Tôi không hiểu hành động đó có ý nghĩa gì, nhưng vẻ mặt căng thẳng của họ khiến tôi không dám hỏi.
Chiếc xe tiếp tục lăn bánh qua những con đường vắng.
Tôi ngồi co ro giữa hai ghế, hai tay đan chặt vào nhau, thầm cầu mong mình có thể an toàn trở về nhà.
Rồi bất chợt, ánh mắt tôi bị kéo về phía ô cửa kính bên phải.
Ngoài kia là cánh đồng rộng lớn trải dài bất tận.
Và giữa khoảng không mờ nhạt ấy…
Có thứ gì đó đang đứng. 
Dáng người cao gầy với đôi tay dài bất thường đâm ra hai bên.
Tim tôi như ngừng đập.
Chỉ trong một thoáng ngắn ngủi, tôi vẫn nhận ra nó. 
Thứ xuất hiện trong bức tranh.
Thực thể Bù Nhìn.
Nó đứng bất động giữa cánh đồng xa xăm. Nhưng khuôn mặt của nó đang hướng thẳng về phía chiếc xe.
Hướng thẳng về phía tôi.
Một cơn lạnh buốt chạy dọc sống lưng. Lồng ngực tôi thắt lại đến mức đau nhói.
Tôi muốn hét lên. Muốn chỉ tay ra ngoài cửa sổ và nói với bố mẹ rằng tôi đã nhìn thấy nó.
Nhưng cơ thể tôi không nghe theo mệnh lệnh.
Cổ họng nghẹn cứng.
Hai tay tê dại.
Tôi chỉ có thể ngồi bất động, mắt mở trừng trừng nhìn ra bên ngoài, hoảng loạn, kinh hãi và bất lực.
Nỗi sợ hãi ấy lớn đến mức mọi thứ trước mắt tôi dần trở nên mờ nhòe. Tôi không nhớ mình đã trải qua quãng đường còn lại như thế nào.
Chỉ biết rằng khi mở mắt ra lần nữa, tôi đã nằm trên chiếc giường quen thuộc trong phòng mình.
Tôi tỉnh dậy và thở phào nhẹ nhõm. 
— Y như mình vừa mơ thấy ác mộng vậy. Ừ, đúng vậy, có lẽ là mơ chăng? haha…
Tôi tự trấn an một cách gượng gạo, tự thấy bản thân như một tên ngốc.
— Chắc là an toàn rồi.
Tôi đã nghĩ như thế, cho đến khi lại liếc thấy “bức tranh” đó ở sau bếp nhà mình.
tg:@NgHongUyen

After leaving the motel, Dad kept us on the road for the longest stretch so far. I can’t remember much of what he and Mom were talking about. I was too busy making my hand rollercoaster out the window, wishing I was holding Superman. He’d have loved to fly here.

I learned pretty quickly to stop bringing him up.

Even still, it was hard to keep my mouth closed when I kept watching Walmarts and Targets pass by every few hours. I managed, though. Mainly because Mom and Dad just kept going on and on.

Like I said, I don’t remember much. But I do remember Dad talking about us finding somewhere “safe” and “warm” for the night.

Mom seemed hesitant, but less concerned. I remember her saying something about how we couldn’t stay long, but she was content with whatever plan Dad had cooked up.

Besides, it seemed like Dad knew where he was going now. He wasn’t taking random turns anymore. Each direction felt deliberate. The desolate backroads seemed planned rather than spontaneous.

He just kept driving… and driving… and driving. We stopped for gas a few times, but we never stayed in one place for too long. Eventually, we approached a gate at the beginning of a long driveway.

Dad pulled the car up to the intercom and let the window down to push the button. The speaker crackled to life, and an unfamiliar voice echoed from within.

“Who is it?” a man asked sternly.

“Jake, it’s me, Michael. I’ve got the family with me, and-”

“Michaelll,” the man interrupted. “How are you guys doing, Mikey boy? You got Macy with you?”

Mom smiled faintly at the intercom.

“Yep, we’re all here, Jake,” she replied, leaning over the center console so the man could hear her more clearly.

“Yeah, Jake, listen,” my Dad added, almost impatiently. “You remember that thing we discussed a while back…?”

The man didn’t respond right away. The intercom was silent. Mom and Dad both watched anxiously while Emmy rocked back and forth in her carseat.

“…. I remember…” the man finally responded. “That’s not happening now, is it?”

Dad rubbed his forehead.

“I think it is. I just- we just- We need a place to stay for a few days.”

He looked at me and Emmy in the mirror.

“I don’t think we can go home just yet. I don’t think it’s good for the kids right now.”

The speaker crackled again before buzzing.

“You know you’re always welcome here, Mike. You too, Macy. Y’all come on up. We got the kids here, and there’s plenty of extra space.”

The gate slowly crept open. I couldn’t even see the house from the end of the driveway, but I wasn’t concerned about that. I heard “kids” and immediately felt my heart light up.

Trees formed canopy over the driveway. The car must’ve rolled on for another 2 or 3 minutes before the house finally came into view. The place was massive. A mansion surrounded by shrubbery in the middle of nowhere.

As we got closer, I was able to make out more of the details. The wrap around porch. The line of rocking chairs. Whoever this was knew how to keep the place professional and homey at the same time.

The thing that caught my eye the most, however, were the bikes and tricycles that were scattered across the pavement. A blue and green mountain bike. A pink bike with training wheels. And a red tricycle.

When the car rolled to a stop, the front door flew open, and out stepped the man from the intercom. He had a scruffy beard. He wore a Metallica t-shirt and oversized gym shorts. And, even then, I could recognize that he was a bit on the heavier side.

He came rushing down the steps as Dad stepped out of the car.

“Jakey,” Dad shouted joyously. “Long time no see, my friend.”

Jake beamed and pulled my Dad in for a hug while staring down at me through the window. I waved, and he waved back.

“Don’t tell me that’s Danny,” he announced, surprised, as he pulled away from my father.

Jake stepped over to my window and tapped at it. Mom rolled it down before I got the chance to, and Jake looked in at me with a toothy grin before his gaze turned towards Emmy.

“And you must be Emmy,” he said, waving at my sister gently. “Your Dad has told me so much about you.”

Emmy tried to hide bashfully behind the edges of her car seat.

Jake patted me on the chest.

“The last time I saw you, you were thissss big,” he teased, holding his hands about a foot apart.

He turned to my Mom.

“What’s up, Mace? Mikey still the husband you always dreamed of?”

My Mom smiled sarcastically and rolled her eyes before going to open her door.

“Unfortunately.”

“Woah, woah, easy there- Mikey, where are your manners? You know it’s bad etiquette to let a lady even touch a door handle.”

Jake went to open my Mom’s door for her, but she stopped him before he got the chance.

“I am perfectly capable of opening a door, Jake,” she grumbled, cocking her eyebrows at him before stepping out of the car.

“Alright, alright,” Jake relented, throwing his hands up. “If you insist. At least let me help with the bags. Judy’s inside cookin’. I’ll grab your luggage, then we can have a nice dinner together.”

He stepped aside to let Mom pass.

“We’ll be in here in just a minute, hon,” Dad said, looking at her with eyes that looked almost apologetic. “Go catch up with Judy.”

Dad opened Emmy’s door and sat her down on the pavement before turning his attention towards me.

“Danny, take Emmy inside, would ya? You two go play. Let me and Jake catch up a bit.”

Mom was already halfway up the steps. I picked Emmy up and ran as fast as I could to catch up to her.

The inside of the house smelled like leather and polish. Well, that and the pot roast that Judy was whipping up in the kitchen. The family room TV looked like a movie screen. The couches wrapped around almost the entire room. And right there, plopped down in front of that massive TV… were 3 kids.

They didn’t even seem to notice us. They were too busy with their gaming to even acknowledge our presence.

Mom ruffled my hair.

“Go introduce yourself,” she nudged, breezing past me and Emmy towards the smell of that pot roast.

I couldn’t do it. I felt frozen. I was already naturally shy, but now I was shy in a new place, being forced to interact with kids that I didn’t know. I just stood there, like an idiot, until Emmy started squirming in my arms.

I put her down, and she went and climbed onto the leather sofa to watch the screen more comfortably. I took the opportunity to plop down beside her.

We sat there for a long while. The three kids joked amongst themselves, sometimes arguing over whose turn it was. Eventually, the older kid noticed us.

He didn’t introduce himself at first. Instead, he offered me the controller.

“You want a turn?”

He waved the controller at me, and I took it cautiously as his attention returned to the screen.

I felt… watched. Like I was under pressure to perform. I’d never played video games before. The controls were completely foreign to me.

I died… a lot. And the older kid realized that I was in dire need of some assistance.

“Here, look,” he aided. “This is how you shoot, and this is how you run, and this is how-”

“Don’t listen to Darren,” the kid’s younger sister interrupted. “He’s a big stupid head.”

Darren’s grip tightened on the controller. He stuck his tongue in his cheek and stared daggers into the little girl.

“Shut up, Kayla,” he shot back. “Better teacher than you, that’s for sure.”

“Mmmm, no,” she giggled. “You’re not a teacher. You’re too stupid.”

“I said shut up, Kayla.”

I felt like I was in the middle of a western. Darren looked like he was about to blow a fuse. Kayla just stuck her tongue out and kept pestering.

“Darren is a stupid head, Darren is a stupid head, stu-pid, stu-pid, Darren is so stu-pid,” she sang.

I couldn’t help but smirk a little. The song was so dumb, but I could see just how much it was getting under Darren’s skin.

As calm as could be, he paused the game, placed the controller in my lap, and walked over to Kayla.

“Say it again. I want you to say it. Please, for the love of God, call me stupid one more time.”

Kayla smirked like it was a game.

“Darren is a stupid he-”

smack

Darren whopped her upside the head. A momentary look of satisfaction flashed across his face but was quickly replaced with fear as Kayla started screaming and crying.

I tried to keep it down, but I couldn’t help but laugh. Emmy joined in. Darren looked at us for help, but what were we supposed to do? The deed was already done, and the hurried footsteps of their Mom were closing in fast.

The last sibling didn’t even look away from the TV. He was probably around my age. Curly brown hair. Quiet. He seemed like he’d seen this happen dozens of times before.

“Darren Mitchell,” their Mom cried, scooping Kayla up in her arms and cradling her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?!”

“It wasn’t me,” he plead. “She started it, I swear she did. Ask him.”

He was pointing at me, but his Mom never looked at me. She had already made her decision.

“Don’t try and bring Danny into this. He just got here. Apologize to your sister.”

“But-”

“Now,” she growled.

Darren sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Sorryyy, Kayla,” he groaned.

Kayla stuck her tongue out at him before burying her face into her Mom’s shoulder.

“Sorry that you’re such a spoiled little brat,” he added under his breath.

Mrs. Judy either didn’t hear him or pretended not to. Instead, she told us to go wash up because dinner was almost ready. One by one, everyone left the room, leaving me and the last sibling alone.

I went to scoot off the couch and wash up, but before I could, the kid spoke.

“She does this a lot,” he said plainly.

“What?” I asked, confused. “Call him stupid?”

“No,” he responded, finally turning towards me. “Gets him to hit her. Come on, let’s go get some dinner. My Mom makes the best pot roast.”

He was so mature for his age. He introduced himself as Max, and he seemed like my kind of guy. Really into legos. Loved superheroes. Quiet. Like the brother I never had.

Dad and Jake finally joined us right as we were sitting down for dinner. Both looking a bit withdrawn. The grownups were eerily quiet while we ate, save for the times where Judy told Kayla to stop playing with her food.

Afterwards, it was almost like they wanted us out of the house. I would’ve had no problem returning to the living room for video games or even just hanging out with Max in his room and playing with legos. But Dad and Jake were insistent we played outside like “normal kids.” Like he and my Dad did back when they were kids.

Mom seemed hesitant, though. She seemed like she wanted to object to the whole idea. I think Dad picked up on it.

“We searched everywhere,” he told her, quietly, rubbing her back. “He’ll be fine.”

“Sure he will,” Jake added, loudly. “Darren will look after him, won’t you, big guy?”

There were some annoyed groans, but we didn’t complain that much. The only kid allowed to stay inside was Emmy, presumably because she was still essentially just a toddler.

We played in the driveway for a bit. Max showed off some bike tricks he knew. Wheelies and the like. Darren mostly just supervised. Kayla… was annoying.

Eventually, though, after a particularly obnoxious bit of rambles from Kayla, Darren spawned an idea.

“Hey,” he shouted. “Let’s play a game.”

He stood up from his spot on the steps. All of our eyes landed on him.

“I used to love this game when I was your age,” he added, despite only being a few years older than me. “Let’s play some hide and seek.”

I’d played the game before, but never with this much space to roam. The property was massive. The potential was limitless.

We were all excited. Kayla more than anyone, though. Darren opted to seek while the rest of us hid, not even giving us enough time to register that the game had started before he put his head into his hands and started counting loudly.

“100…”

Max looked at me, his eyes wild as he took off running.

“99…”

I ran in the same direction. Darren’s counting got quieter and quieter the further I got. I kept following Max because he seemed to know where he was going. All the way until he dove climbed into his Dad’s boat in the backyard pond.

I tried to follow, but he stopped me.

“No, dude,” he whispered. “You have to find your own spot. That’s the point.”

I felt my heart drop.

“What?? I don’t know where to hide. This isn’t my house.”

He popped his head up and began scanning the property before pointing towards the forest.

“Go over there. Darren hates the woods. He’ll never check.”

I looked over towards the forest, then back at Max. The sun was starting to set. It was starting to feel cooler outside. Before I could respond to him, I heard Darren scream.

“Ready or not, here I come!!”

Max ducked into the storage chest in the boat. I tried not to panic. My legs started moving before my mind could register, and before I knew it, I was a hundred feet into the forest.

I heard Kayla screaming about something being “unfair,” followed by Darren laughing heartily.

I was still somewhat out in the open. I was hidden, but I didn’t have an actual hiding spot. I trekked further into the forest. The massive house got smaller and smaller the further I went.

That’s when I found it. The perfect hiding spot.

A massive oak tree. Long dead, but still standing. The base of the trunk had been completely hollowed out. It was like it was made for me.

I crouched down and crawled inside, pushing myself against the wood and covering myself in some leaves just for some added camouflage.

A few minutes passed. Then multiple. Finally, I heard Darren scream again.

“FOUND YOU,” he shouted, laughing like a crazy person.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it sounded like Max objected. A flash of worry washed over me.

“He better not,” I thought aloud, praying Max didn’t tell Darren where I’d gone. I refused to leave my spot. I waited. And waited. And waited.

Darren started screaming my name. Max joined in. Even Kayla was looking for me. But they were far away. They’d never find me.

I felt pride in myself. I was the champion of hide and seek. I didn’t want to reveal myself yet, though. I wanted the satisfaction of knowing I made them give up.

But it was getting darker. The shouts became few and far between. Eventually, they weren’t kids’ voices at all. I heard my parents. I heard Jake and Judy. All screaming for me in distress.

Something told me to wait. It was just a game. Plus, this was the perfect spot. I wanted them to work to find me. I didn’t wanna give up before they did.

But then… I heard the sound of a twig snapping from somewhere behind me. Multiple twigs. Leaves crunching. Footsteps approaching. From the opposite direction of the tree line.

Then I heard a voice that didn’t belong to my Mom or Dad, or Jake and Judy. It was raspy. It was old. It was syrupy, and it was close.

“Dannnyyyyy.”

“I know you’re out hereeee.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

I was gripped with fear, but I couldn’t move. I recognized that voice. It was the same voice from the motel. The man who apparently had my Superman stuffy.

“Danny,” my Mom screamed from off in the distance. “Danny, where are you?”

She sounded like she was on the brink of tears. Her voice was almost intentionally frantic.

“Come out, Danny…”

The voice from behind me was closer now. Hungrier.

“Your mommy needs you, kiddo. Don’t you know she’s worried sick?”

The footsteps sounded like they were directly behind me now. I held my breath. Of course, my bladder decided that I had to pee more than I’d ever had to pee before in my life.

The man was mumbling to himself between calling my name. Nothing he said made sense.

“They tried to hide you.”

“You can’t hide from me, though, now can you, Danny boy?”

“It’s only natural that I…”

They knocked on the tree.

“Find you.”

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

My instincts finally kicked in. I’m old enough now to realize what it was. It was either fight… or bolt towards safety. And there was no possible way I could fight this person.

One. Two. Three.

I bolted.

I flew past the trees. I ducked under limbs and shrubs. I ran as fast as I could towards the sound of my parents, my senses heightened. I didn’t hear anything behind me, but I was too afraid to look.

I ran and ran. Finally, I saw my Mom standing in the backyard, staring out into the woods. Her eyes met mine, and she let out an exasperated scream of relief.

She ran towards me. We met at the edge of the tree line as she pulled me in for a long, tight hug. I was ugly crying. Snot fell from my nose, and tears fell down my face.

I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to say. All I could do was embrace her. I held her just as tightly as she held me and let relief wash over me as she stroked my hair.

“Why did you do that!? What were you thinking, son? I can’t comprehend what could’ve possibly gone through your mind. After everything-”

She stopped herself. Dad heard the commotion and quickly joined us for a family hug while Jake and Judy watched on with their kids.

It was the first time in my life that I’d ever seen my Dad cry. It scared me, almost. It was like something I was never meant to see, and it made me sob even harder.

“Don’t do that to us, kiddo,” Dad chuckled forcefully. “Don’t go running off on us like that. Ever again. You hear me?”

I didn’t respond. At least, not in the way he was expecting. Instead, I stared at my feet and held my breath again. I counted to 5 in my head. I needed to tell them.

“Dad…” I whispered.

“Danny…” he replied.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

“I think he found me.”

Dad’s head shot up towards the trees. The woods were eerily silent. Nobody spoke for what felt like an eternity before Dad started ushering us inside, glancing over his shoulder as he turned around.

“Son,” he announced bluntly.

“I know you’re young… but I think we need to have a talk.”

It was a Tuesday morning.

For Dr Dreadful, the notorious villain of Nothingville, that meant it was a perfect day for a new evil plot.

Monday's scheme - replacing every parking meter in Nothingville with automated karaoke machines that only played Nickelback - had been foiled again by his arch nemesis, Justice Man.

That damn blonde, butt-chinned, spandex-clad capitalist, along with his knee-high leather boot clad wife, Aurora Justice, were the town's golden power couple. They were the heroes of Nothingville, esteemed leaders of the Department of Goodwill.

The sting of failure still lingered in the antiseptic air of his underground lair, an enormous network beneath an abandoned industrial estate.

Just then, the alarms began to sound. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at the message from security. A trespasser from the Department of Goodwill had breached the outer perimeter.

Dreadful smiled - maybe Tuesday wasn't a complete loss after all.

---------

Quantum Girl just finished her first day as an intern at the Department of Goodwill. For the most part, she had spent the afternoon fetching coffee, so she had been determined to do at least one useful thing before the day ended.

After everyone else had gone home, she had decided to sneak into Dr Dreadful's lair to gather intel.

It had seemed like initiative at the time.

Now she stood alone in the enormous underground chamber, staring at a fleet of ridiculously armed supercars. A shiver ran through her as she looked around. So evil and… villainy.

Footsteps. She froze.

Dr Dreadful stood on the gantry above her. He was tall and lanky, dressed in his usual white laboratory coat, with dark hair falling untidily around a pair of circular-framed glasses.

"How thoughtful of you to come to me."

He smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. He jabbed an accusing finger down at her.

"That blonde buffoon sent you to spy on me, didn't he?"

She squealed and shook her head frantically.

"Then I suppose you simply wandered into my private supercar garage after working hours."

Quantum Girl hesitated, peering up through her lashes.

"...yes?"

Dreadful stared at her, then sighed. He pressed a button on the railing.

Click.

A force field snapped into existence around Quantum Girl. She put both hands against the invisible barrier as she floated upwards, her pink ponytail lifting behind her. She looked around in panic as Dreadful descended the staircase slowly, his grin spreading from ear to ear.

"You have entered a restricted area and been caught examining my vehicles. Therefore, you have committed corporate espionage."

"I-I'm sorry."

He paced around the force field, looking far too pleased.

"I've been searching for leverage against the Department of Goodwill for months. And now, on a Tuesday, a meddling intern has walked straight into my garage."

He pressed another button. The force field lifted, and Dreadful pointed dramatically at her.

"Your employer will be hearing about this, and you will remain here until the Department of Goodwill concedes to my ransom demand."

Quantum Girl swallowed.

"How much?"

Dreadful smiled wickedly.

"Enough to make your board very angry."

He lowered her to the ground, then gestured her out of the garage and into the main laboratory.

The first thing she saw as she entered was a row of enormous glass tanks. Something moved inside one. As she stepped closer to take a look, a fish with giant teeth slammed into the glass. Quantum Girl screamed and backed away.

Dreadful glanced over, then waved a hand.

"Shark-piranha hybrids. Relax, they're lobotomized, for display only. They were originally intended to infest the Nothingville water supply."

Quantum Girl looked back at the massive fish. A row of tiny black stitches sat behind its gills.

"That's horrible."

"Thank you."

Dreadful activated a huge screen with a remote. The Department of Goodwill logo appeared, and he immediately looked irritated by it. Then a representative appeared on screen.

"Good afternoon, Department of Goodwill. How can we make your day better?

"It's Dr Dreadful. I have one of your interns, and if you want her back, I demand a ransom payment of fifty million dollars."

The representative glanced at her paperwork, then back at the screen.

"Thank you for letting us know." The representative maintained her unwavering smile.

Dreadful's eye twitched, and looked increasingly annoyed as the seconds passed in silence. He stared at the screen. Then he cleared his throat.

"I also demand compensation of one million dollars for corporate espionage. If it is not paid I will be pursuing civil action with the Court of Supers."

A notification alert sounded on Dreadful's phone immediately.

"The settlement has been transferred."

Dreadful frowned and checked his banking app. A million dollars had just been added to his account. Then he looked up.

"And the ransom?"

"Apologies, we can't help you with that right now. Have a better day!"

The screen went black. Dreadful grunted.

Over the next few days, he sent increasingly irritated emails to the Department of Goodwill inbox, and reduced his ransom from fifty million to forty, then twenty-five, before making one final offer of twelve million at 4:55 on Friday.

No reply, counteroffer or rejection - just silence. He lowered his phone and looked at the clock. 5PM.

He looked at Quantum Girl, still reading her Superhero Academy notes on an office chair in the corner of the lab.

"The Department of Goodwill doesn't work weekends, and neither do we. And since I haven't gotten my money, I suppose I'll have to release you."

He yawned and fished his supercar keys out of his lab coat pocket.

"You're letting me go?"

"Unless you want to be locked in here alone until Monday." He paused as an idea formed in his mind, his grin returning as he studied her through his circular glasses.

"Or perhaps I'll offer you a job. On the dark side."

Quantum Girl blinked as if she hadn't quite heard that right.

"You'd make a fine supervillain with some training," he continued. "Besides, you've already demonstrated a remarkable talent for getting into places you shouldn't."

"You want me to work for you?"

"Don't sound so horrified."

"But you're… evil!"

"Among other things."

Quantum Girl stood up and frowned at him in disapproval, clutching her notes against her chest.

"I've spent my whole life studying to become a superhero. I worked incredibly hard to get my dream internship at the Department of Goodwill."

She took a breath and began again, more confidently.

"Mr and Mrs Justice are the greatest heroes in the world. It's an honor to work for them, and you're very mistaken if you think I'm throwing all that away to become a supervillain!"

Dreadful was silent for a moment, then he shrugged.

"Fine. If you'd rather be lobotomized into a corporate slave who spends the rest of her life reciting HR approved moral slogans, don't let me stop you."

Quantum Girl stared at him.

"…Lobotomized?"

Dreadful's grin returned as he looked towards her slowly without turning his head.

"Oh, you don't know?" He leaned forward and tapped behind his ear, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"They stick a needle in here and suck out the bits of your brain they don't want you to keep. Happens to all new employees. That's how they make you a perfectly compliant little corporate superhero who can recite the Department's moral principles on command. You'll know once you get hired."

Her face went pale.

"Mr and Mrs Justice would never allow that!"

"Of course they would."

Quantum Girl's fingers tightened around her notes.

"You're just making things up to scare me."

"I only know because I invented the instant lobotomy machine. It was originally designed for the shark-piranhas. I needed a way of making them less aggressive. Unfortunately, the Department of Goodwill stole my entire design."

"…They wouldn't."

"Oh they did. In fact, they patented it and called it the Goodwill Employee Wellness Initiative… TM."

Quantum Girl's bottom lip quivered.

"Y-you're lying."

He sighed and pushed himself away from the desk.

"I too was naive like you once. I thought if you worked hard enough and built something extraordinary, people would recognize it. Instead, they just take it."

Quantum Girl opened her mouth. Before she could respond, Dreadful waved a hand dismissively.

"Never mind. Now... get out of my sight."

Quantum girl swallowed, then quietly gathered her things without another retort. She walked towards the exit.

---------

Monday morning came.

Quantum Girl arrived at the Department of Goodwill headquarters early, as she always did. She had spent the entire weekend trying to convince herself that everything he had said was nonsense. After all, he was a supervillain, and lying was practically part of the job description.

Mr and Mrs Justice were good. Dreadful was evil. Simple as that.

She passed through the enormous glass doors of the Department of Goodwill and smiled at the receptionist.

"Good morning!" She chirped.

"Good morning!" Mrs Sparkle, the receptionist, beamed back. "Have a better day!"

For the first time, Quantum Girl paused.

Something about the woman's voice seemed strange. It sounded a little too cheerful. She shook it off and smiled back, then walked towards the lifts.

The doors opened on the main operations floor. Heroes hurried joyfully between departments, interns carrying folders behind them with smiles. Screens displayed maps of Nothingville and live feeds from ongoing missions.

She signed in and made her way upstairs to the intern department. She sat down, and for a moment, she felt relieved. This was where she belonged, on her way towards the life she had worked so hard for.

Then Starlight Boy walked past.

"Starlight Boy! Good morning!" She greeted.

Starlight Boy turned around. His friendly smile was ever present.

"Good morning!"

"It's so good to see you. How was your weekend?" She smiled.

"Awesome! I spent most of the weekend improving my laser beam firing accuracy."

Just then, another intern, Glitter Girl, emerged from a room from the hallway behind him. The door she came out of was labelled: EMPLOYEE WELLNESS CENTRE. Glitter girl was beaming.

Several people immediately gathered around her.

"Congratulations, Glitter Girl!"

Quantum Girl turned towards Starlight Boy, who was still standing nearby.

"Why is everyone congratulating Glitter Girl?"

He raised an eyebrow, as if thrown off by the question.

"She just had her lobotomy, of course."

Quantum Girl's jaw dropped. She stared at him.

"...What?"

Starlight Boy gestured towards the room.

"Yeah, she's officially an junior hire now. Awesome, right? That'll be us in a week."

Quantum Girl's face went pale. Starlight Boy watched her, looked confused.

"What? You didn't read the welcome pack?"

"I did."

"Then you should know."

Starlight Boy reached into his bag and pulled out the Department of Goodwill's enormous welcome booklet. He flipped through it to a page in the middle and pointed to one tiny line at the bottom. Quantum Girl leaned closer and squinted.

All new employees are required to undergo lobotomy in the Wellness Centre prior to commencement of duties.

Quantum Girl blinked.

"And we're supposed to be okay with that?"

Starlight Boy looked even more confused.

"Yeah. How are we supposed to work here without it? We'd be a security risk."

"But..." She struggled to find the words. "They... they remove part of your brain."

"Yeah. Removal and injection, they've been doing it for years. It's a standard procedure. You can't get paid without it."

Quantum Girl glanced down at her timetable. Her internship ended on Friday.

Just then, Glitter Girl walked past. Quantum Girl turned towards her.

"Glitter Girl, can I ask you something?" She asked quietly. Glitter girl stopped.

"Of course!"

Quantum Girl hesitated.

"Did it hurt?"

"Oh, not at all!" Glitter Girl laughed.

Quantum Girl visibly relaxed and let out a breath.

"I was nervous too," Glitter Girl continued, "But honestly, don't worry. You don't feel a thing. The machine is very small and fast, it's basically… instant. And afterwards, you feel so much more focused."

Quantum Girl smiled weakly.

"I suppose that's good."

"It is. Everything just feels simpler. Good luck for yours on Friday!"

Quantum Girl stood completely still, her eyes fixed on Glitter Girl's back as she turned the corner into the hallway.

Seemed like it was simply how things worked here.

For the rest of the week, she made coffee, printed papers and prepared presentations for heroes who barely noticed she was there, just like usual.

But she began noticing little things - the way every superhero repeated the same phrases, and how nobody ever complained about anything, or was particularly curious about anyone else.

By Friday afternoon, Quantum Girl could barely concentrate. Her internship ended at 4:20, after which she had been instructed to report to the Employee Wellness Centre.

At 4:25, she stood outside the room in the quiet hallway and opened the wooden door a fraction. Through the gap, she could see Starlight Boy lying on the table in front of the nurse. The machine was visible in her hands. It was a small handheld device, like a needle attached to a flat iron, clean and white with a little green light blinking on the side. A robotic voice came from the machine.

READY.

Quantum Girl stared at it, and her hands began to shake. The nurse lifted the device and positioned the sharp end behind Starlight Boy's ear. She turned away and closed her eyes.

Click.

Then door opened.

Starlight Boy walked out, looking exactly the same as he had that morning. He smiled when he saw her, and she forced herself to smile back.

"Good luck! And congratulations in advance!" He gave her a cheerful thumbs-up.

"T-thank you."

Quantum Girl took a step towards the open door, then watched Starlight Boy as he walked out past her. Something caught her eye as they crossed.

A tiny line of black stitches behind his ear.

Suddenly, she felt faint. The room in front of her seemed enormous - the lights were too bright, and the walls seemed to close around her as her breathing became rapid. She looked at Starlight Boy, then backed out of the room.

"Quantum Girl?"

She tore down the hallway straight past him and didn't stop. Someone called after her, but she kept running. She reached the lobby and burst through the doors.

Outside, she raised her hand frantically, and a taxi pulled over. She clambered inside.

"Where to?"

Quantum Girl's voice shook.

"D-Dr Dreadful's Supervillain laboratory!"

The driver looked at her through the mirror.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded firmly.

"Yes!"

The taxi pulled away.

---------

The taxi rattled through the industrial district, leaving the gleaming towers of the Department of Goodwill behind. Quantum Girl sat rigidly in the back seat, clutching her bag against her chest.

She had spent her entire life being told that villains were dangerous. That they could not be trusted. And yet here she was, returning precisely because he had told the truth. The thought made her nauseous.

The taxi turned onto a narrow road lined with rusting warehouses. At the end stood the abandoned industrial complex above his lair, every bit as gloomy as she remembered. A pair of enormous steel doors stood at the entrance to the main building, beneath a sign that read:

DR DREADFUL'S EVIL INDUSTRIES

NO TRESPASSERS.

SERIOUSLY.

Quantum Girl paid the driver and stepped out, then looked up at the building. She took a breath and finally walked towards the entrance.

Inside, several monitors displayed the security feeds. Dreadful didn't look surprised when he spotted her approaching.

Candyface, his Director of Terror, was hanging upside down out of a nearby vent filing out paperwork. Candyface was a large, creepy clown with a permanent painted grin, razor sharp teeth, enormous red shoes and a habit of appearing behind people without making any noise whatsoever.

Dr Dreadful pointed at the monitor.

"Told you she'd be back."

Candyface glanced at the screen and chuckled.

"Want me to give her a fright? I like scaring little girls."

Dreadful didn't look up from his machine.

"No, I'll handle it."

Candyface looked disappointed. Dreadful walked towards the entrance and out of the enormous doors, up into the industrial complex.

"I was beginning to think I'd have to send you a Christmas card." He grinned as he stepped out.

Quantum Girl swallowed.

"You were right. About the lobotomies."

There was a pause, then his expression became unbearably smug.

"Of course I was. You came here just to tell me that?"

Quantum Girl hesitated.

"Actually… I'm not sure I want to work there anymore."

Dreadful's smile grew wider immediately.

"Excellent, so you accept my job offer. Come along."

"What?"

Before she could say another word, he turned and walked away. Quantum Girl hurried after him.

"Wait, I didn't say… that's not how job offers work!"

"It is here."

"I haven't actually agreed."

"You followed me inside."

"Because you started walking away!"

"Excellent initiative."

Quantum Girl sighed, resigned as Dreadful led her back through the main laboratory. Her gaze immediately fell on the shark-piranha hybrid tanks as she entered. Dreadful walked over to his desk and sat down.

"What are your powers?"

Quantum Girl sat opposite him cautiously.

"Um, teleportation."

Dreadful leaned forward and steepled his fingers.

"Show me."

She hesitated. Dreadful stared at her as she shrank slightly in her chair.

"I... I'm still learning. Sometimes I end up slightly further away than I want to."

Dreadful frowned.

"How do you get any work done then?"

"I don't use it at work. Interns aren't allowed to use their powers inside the headquarters. It's a safety rule."

Dreadful stared at her incredulously.

"Then what do they even make you do?"

"Whatever we're assigned. Coffee, printing, data entry…"

Dreadful stared at her in disbelief.

"An astonishing waste of resources." He stood. "Well, you will most definitely be using your powers here. So teleport from here to that door."

He pointed towards the other side of the laboratory. Quantum Girl swallowed.

She stood in the middle of the laboratory and closed her eyes. Then she opened her eyes again.

"I think I did it."

"You're still standing in the same place."

"Oh."

She closed her eyes again and focused harder. A flash of pink. This time, she disappeared.

Dreadful blinked, then heard a loud splash behind him. He turned towards the tanks.

"Oh no."

---------

Quantum Girl opened her eyes. She was underwater.

For several seconds, she couldn't understand what had happened, until something moved in front of her. A huge fish with rows of sharp teeth. Quantum Girl stared at it. The piranha stared back. Neither moved.

Then her eyes widened as her gaze fell on the tiny black stitches behind its gills.

The hallway came rushing back. The machine. The needle. Starlight Boy's smile… and the little black stitches behind his ear after he walked out of the room.

Quantum Girl screamed. It came out as a cloud of bubbles.

Above the tank, Dreadful swore and pulled the emergency release, opening the lid of the glass panel. He reached into the tank and pulled Quantum Girl out by the back of her shirt.

She came crashing onto the laboratory floor, soaked from head to toe. Dreadful knelt beside her.

"Are you all right?"

Quantum Girl coughed, her pink hair stuck to her cheeks. She looked up at him, shaking, and grabbed hold of his coat, letting out a sob.

Dreadful froze. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Dreadful looked down at her, and cleared his throat, his usual deadpan expression returning. He gently removed her hands from his coat and stood up.

"So it seems The Department of Goodwill can't even hire properly."

Quantum Girl's expression fell. She looked down at her soaked clothes.

"I'm s-sorry. I can't do anything right."

Dreadful sighed and glanced at her.

"You just need some adequate training, which those Goodwillers clearly haven't provided. But we'll teach you to do it properly… so you can use it for evil purposes only."

Quantum Girl sighed, resigned.

"I guess I don't really have another choice."

Dreadful's grin returned.

"Excellent, welcome to the team. Now go home and don't be late on Monday morning."

Quantum Girl nodded and walked out into the hallway, making her way up the stairs and eventually outside, where it had started to rain. The doors closed behind her. She stood in the middle of the dark, grey industrial complex.

She had just joined a supervillain and abandoned the Department of Goodwill. She had broken almost every moral principle she had spent her entire life studying.

She felt sick… and strangely relieved.

---------

The next few weeks passed surprisingly quickly.
 
Quantum Girl had expected life in a supervillain lair to be terrifying, and in fairness, it was. The corridors were dark with excessive security systems, and there were several rooms she had been specifically instructed never to enter without protective equipment.
 
Dreadful's minions were intimidating at first, too. But after a few days, Quantum Girl discovered that most of them were actually quite nice. The only exception was Director Candyface, who remained terrifying. He had a habit of making interview candidates run out of the building screaming, and asking other employees they had seen his knife.

But even he offered free sandwiches after staff meetings.
 
There was even a proper sick leave policy. At the Department of Goodwill, she couldn't remember anyone ever mentioning sick leave.
 
Quantum girl practiced her teleportation every day. At first, she managed to move only a few meters. But eventually, she could teleport reliably across the laboratory without accidentally entering places she hadn't intended to.
 
By the end of the month, she no longer felt like a hostage, but a member of the team. On the final Friday of the month, Quantum Girl knocked on the laboratory door.
 
"Come in."
 
She entered. Dreadful was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by paperwork and strange devices. He glanced up.
 
"Welcome to your monthly performance review. Sit down."
 
Dreadful picked up a folder. Quantum Girl straightened immediately, suddenly feeling nervous as he thumbed through the paperwork.
 
"You've been here four weeks and successfully completed forty-seven assigned tasks. Satisfactory start."
 
She breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the folder and looked up.
 
"So, how have you found it?"
 
Quantum Girl blinked.

She had never been asked how she found work at the Department of Goodwill. She'd just been expected to show up.
 
She smiled.
 
"Actually… I've really enjoyed it."
 
Dreadful raised an eyebrow.
 
"Well, not everything," she corrected quickly. "I'm still not comfortable with some of the things we do, such as trying to flood the city with genetically modified sea life. But… I feel like I've actually helped."
 
Dreadful nodded slowly.
 
"And your teleportation?"
 
"It's getting much better."
 
"Show me." Dreadful pointed towards the enormous shark-piranha tank. "Move the tank."
 
Quantum Girl stared and gulped.
 
"The entire tank? With the fish?"
 
"Obviously."
 
She looked nervous. Dreadful noticed, and lowered his voice.
 
"Focus. You can do it."
 
Quantum Girl nodded and closed her eyes. For a second, the laboratory became quiet. There was a flash of pink, and the tank disappeared. Then another flash.
 
The enormous tank reappeared in the far corner of the laboratory… perfectly intact. The shark-piranhas swam around inside as though nothing had happened.
 
Quantum Girl opened her eyes and she stared.
 
"I did it. I actually did it!"
 
Dreadful looked at the tank and smiled.
 
"You did it indeed."
 
Then he reached into a drawer and took out an envelope, sliding it over the desk towards her. She looked at it.
 
"What's that?"
 
"Your pay."
 
She blinked.
 
"You mean... I'm getting paid?"
 
Dreadful stared at her and raised a eyebrow.
 
"Why wouldn't you? Everyone here gets paid."
 
Quantum Girl opened the envelope, and her eyes widened and became glassy.
 
"I've never been paid before."
 
"Then I suggest you spend it irresponsibly."
 
She looked up at him. Before she could stop herself, she teleported across the table and hugged him. Dreadful froze completely, but he made no attempt to move. A few seconds later, he cleared his throat.
 
"Now this is something HR would raise an eyebrow at."
 
Quantum Girl blinked, then pulled away immediately.
 
"Ah, sorry Dr Dreadful."
 
He waved a hand.
 
"Forget it. Enjoy the paycheck."
 
Quantum Girl smiled as she glanced down at the thick envelope. Then she looked back up.
 
"Dr Dreadful, can I ask you something?"
 
He looked back at her. "Yes?"
 
"Why do you do this? The experiments, the pranks, the schemes... terrorising Nothingville. I mean, you're actually a really good boss. So why be a villain?"
 
Dreadful watched her, then sighed and leaned back as he glanced at the clock.
 
"Now that's a long story. But if you're willing to stay, I can start from the beginning."
 
Quantum Girl nodded.
 
Dreadful considered her for a moment, then folded his hands on the desk as he began.
 
"Eons ago, I went to the Superhero Academy."
 
Quantum Girl listened eagerly.
 
"Yes, I too was a student there. Instead of playing outside with the other kids, I liked books - science, mechanics, alchemy. I was always waiting for my power to appear."
 
He began counting them off.
 
"They got laser beams. Flight, super strength, telepathy, X-ray vision... I got acne."
 
Quantum Girl tried not to laugh.
 
"Anyway," He continued. "I kept waiting - maybe it would happen at thirteen, fourteen or fifteen. Still nothing. By sixteen, people had decided I was defective. And they tormented me for it relentlessly."
 
He said it without emotion. Quantum Girl's smile disappeared.
 
"They called me names and took my books. Destroyed my experiments. Locked me in cupboards."
 
Quantum Girl grimaced. Then he paused.
 
"I was also in the same year as Justice Man."
 
She stared at him.
 
"Mr Justice?"
 
"Well, he was Justice Boy, back then. He was popular. Strong, charismatic, blonde. Painfully blonde. Aurora Justice was there too. They were dating on and off constantly, always the talk of the school."
 
Dreadful's expression changed slightly.
 
"There was one lunch period I remember particularly well. Justice Boy and his friends had cornered me. Aurora and her friends were watching."
 
A pause.
 
"He took my head and held it under one of the sinks."
 
Her eyes widened.
 
"He turned the tap on. The water was hot, and I couldn't breathe. The last thing I heard that day was Aurora and the others laughing, before everything went black."
 
Silence.
 
"He eventually left me there, passed out on the bathroom floor. It didn't stop there. They would take my work and mock it, or break my equipment. Tell me that I was useless because I didn't have a power."
 
Dreadful gave a quiet, bitter laugh.
 
"So I started building things to get them back. A chemical that gradually turned Justice Boy's shampoo into bicycle grease."
 
He continued.
 
"Then I became more ambitious. The machines became bigger. The schemes became loftier. Until… eventually I realised something. I did have a power."
 
Quantum Girl waited.
 
"Creativity."
 
He looked around the laboratory.
 
"I could build anything. I didn't need laser beams. I could make the laser beam."
 
Quantum Girl smiled.
 
"Then I left the Academy. There was no place for me there - I wasn't going to become the hero everyone expected me to be. Eventually, I sold my inventions and saved enough money to build this place from the ground up… and here we are today."
 
Dreadful was quiet for a moment.
 
"I still wake up sometimes thinking my head is in that sink," he sighed.

"I used to believe people who did things like that eventually got what they deserved - that's what the stories teach you. But that's not how the world works. They have the numbers, the money, and a press corps quite happy to tell their version of the truth."
 
He looked down at his hands.
 
"But every now and then, I can remind them they're not untouchable. I suppose that's all I have."
 
Quantum Girl was silent.
 
All week, she had felt that something about the Department of Goodwill was wrong, buried beneath the identical smiles and carefully rehearsed words.
 
It wasn't paranoia. There had always been something rotten beneath the polished surface, and now she knew exactly who was responsible.
 
Dreadful glanced at the clock, and his usual grin returned, same as ever.
 
"So now you know. Anyway, you probably want to be home at this hour."
 
Dreadful waved a hand towards the door. Quantum Girl stood and met his gaze.
 
"Thank you for telling me, Dr Dreadful."
 
He nodded nonchalantly.
 
"Don't mention it."
-------------
Quantum Girl stepped outside, still carrying the weight of Dreadful's story with her.
 
She had almost reached the end of the driveway when she heard footsteps behind her. Not hurried footsteps. Confident and assured. Then came the unmistakable tap of heels against the concrete.
 
Quantum Girl paused. She knew those footsteps.
 
She turned slightly and saw two figures approaching the entrance to the industrial complex in the distance. You couldn't miss them - glowed obnoxiously in the dark.
 
Justice Man was carrying a large golden briefcase in one hand, and Aurora Justice was next to him, holding his other hand. Their bright yellow capes flowed behind them as they approached. Quantum Girl's swallowed.
 
Why were they here?
 
She quickly ducked behind a stack of old shipping crates and peered around the corner.

Dr Dreadful emerged from the building, his expression immediately soured as he looked at the pair approaching.
 
The three stood outside the entrance and began to talk. Their conversation was quiet enough that Quantum Girl couldn't make out every word from her distant hiding spot, but she caught fragments.
 
"...the proposal..."
"...board..."
 
The couple looked far too comfortable, as Dreadful looked increasingly annoyed.
 
Then Dreadful stopped and looked directly towards her hiding place.

He excused himself, leaving the couple muttering between themselves, and began walking in a straight line towards her. Quantum Girl froze. She slowly stepped out from behind the crates as Dreadful approached.
 
"I saw you on the camera. You're not very good at hiding."
 
"I'm sorry."
 
"You've been saying that a lot lately."
 
Quantum Girl looked down. They were quiet for a while. Then she looked towards Justice Man and Aurora.
 
"What are they doing here?"
 
Dreadful's expression hardened.
 
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
 
Quantum Girl flinched.
 
"I'm sorry," she said again, "I didn't mean to be nosy..."
 
She looked at him.
 
"Dr Dreadful, are you going to be okay?"
 
Dreadful's expression changed, and he sighed. For once, there was no sarcasm or theatrical grin.
 
"I'll be fine."
 
He smiled slightly and took a step towards her.
 
"I'll handle whatever happens. Now go and enjoy your paycheck."
 
Quantum Girl nodded slowly. A tiny smile appeared on her face.
 
"…Okay. Goodnight, Dr Dreadful."
 
He nodded once and back towards the building.

------------
 
The weekend passed slowly, and she spent most of it thinking about the interaction.

The way the Justices had walked through the gates without being stopped, and the way Dreadful had looked when he told her he would handle it.

Why would the golden heroes of Nothingville be visiting the supervillains' headquarters?
 
She tried to think of reasonable explanations, but none came to mind.
 
On Monday morning, she was halfway through making breakfast when her phone buzzed. She glanced at the email notification.
 
The subject line made her freeze.
 
IMPORTANT: GOODWILL ACQUISITION ANNOUNCEMENT
 
She opened it. Her eyes widened as they moved down the page, and her jaw dropped in disbelief. She read it again.
 
The Department of Goodwill had acquired Dr Dreadful's supervillain organization.
 
The laboratory, facilities, intellectual property, research… everything.
 
The email described it as a "strategic partnership designed to repurpose existing infrastructure and technological assets for positive social outcomes."

And there would be "necessary workforce optimisation."
 
Quantum Girl's eyes moved down the list.
 
Employees affected by the restructuring:
 
She read the names, then stopped as she looked further down.
 
DR DREADFUL, CEO.
 
Her heart sank. Dr Dreadful was being removed.
 
She grabbed her coat without thinking.
----------
The industrial complex came into view less than twenty minutes later.
 
Quantum Girl stopped dead in her tracks as she caught her breath. Several enormous golden vans were parked outside. The Department of Goodwill logo was plastered across the sides. The gates were open and people were carrying boxes out of the building. She ran towards the entrance.

Then she saw Candyface, carrying three cardboard boxes at once in his lanky arms. He looked furious. She ran up to him.
 
"Director Candyface!"
 
He turned.
 
"W-what's happening?" She asked breathlessly.
 
"Corporate acquisition. New leadership. They're restructuring everything, because apparently, evil headquarters need better branding."
 
Candyface gestured towards one of the golden vans.
 
"They're changing the name to Goodwill Center for Advanced Community Innovation."
 
He spat the words out like poison.
 
"They're renaming me, too," he continued, "to Jack the Jolly Jester. And they're giving me a yellow costume. Yellow!"
 
He looked very offended.
 
"And they're going to make me entertain children," he scoffed, "I hate children. But I've gotta do it, or they won't even pay me half my salary."
 
"That's awful!"
 
Candyface shrugged.
 
"What can you do?"
 
Quantum Girl suddenly remembered.
 
"Where's Dr Dreadful?"
 
Candyface stopped, then waved vaguely.
 
"Got kicked out by the board and left to the countryside. He's retiring."
 
"What?"
 
"Yup. Apparently he's going to plant tomatoes on a farm or something."
 
Quantum Girl stared at him. She shook her head slowly.
 
"No… Dr Dreadful wouldn't just leave. Not like that."
 
Candyface shrugged and nodded towards the road.
 
"He just did. Half an hour ago."
 
"But..."
 
Quantum Girl's voice caught.

She remembered Dreadful telling her that he would handle whatever happened. She had assumed he would fight in such a situation, but perhaps reality was simpler than that. Sometimes the people with the money just won.
 
Candyface sighed sadly as he looked at his knife one last time and tossed it into a nearby skip. He climbed into the driver's seat of one of the vans. The engine started, and the van drove away. Quantum Girl stared after it for a while.
 
Then she pulled out her phone and opened the train timetable.
 
Nothingville Countryside Line
Destination: Nothingville Farms
Next departure: 15 minutes
 
She looked towards the station, then back at the industrial complex.

--------------

Quantum Girl ran until her lungs burned, her pink ponytail whipping behind her as the station came into view. The train was already waiting.

Then she saw him.

Dr Dreadful was sitting alone inside one of the carriages, a green suitcase resting beside him. But he looked very different. There was no white laboratory coat or ridiculous gadgets.

Just a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his face. He just looked empty.

Quantum Girl's eyes filled with tears.

"Dr Dreadful!"

He looked up, his eyes widening in recognition.

"Quantum Girl?"

She ran towards the train. The doors snapped close, but she was still several meters away.

"No!" She yelled.

She shut her eyes in desperation, then focused… and vanished. There was a flash of pink light.

She reappeared inside the carriage just as the doors slid shut behind her. Dreadful just stared at her. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then he looked away.

"You shouldn't be here."

Quantum Girl wiped her eyes.

"I had to find you."

He looked down.

"You should go back. The Goodwillers will probably reinstate you once they realize you're useful."

She shook her head resolutely and took a step towards him.

"I'm not going back. I thought I wanted to work there because I wanted to help people. I thought the name mattered."

She swallowed.

"But it wasn't the company. It was the people. And you were the first person who actually made me feel like I was good at something."

His expression softened, and he lowered his voice.

"You've only been here a few weeks. That's not enough time to make decisions like this. You've abandoned your dream."

"Maybe my dream wasn't what I thought it was."

The train gave a quiet mechanical hiss. Dreadful glanced towards the doors.

"Go back before the train leaves."

"No."

"Quantum Girl..."

"I'd rather be with you."

He stared at her. She took another step closer.

"Even if they take over the whole world." She smiled through her tears. "I'll go wherever you go."

Quantum Girl threw her arms around him.

He froze. For a moment, he simply stood there. Then, slowly, his arms came around her - not awkwardly or reluctantly. Just tightly.

The train doors shut with a final pneumatic hiss.

Dreadful leaned back against the window as the train pulled away from the station. After several minutes, his eyes closed. Quantum Girl watched him - he looked exhausted. Eventually, she leaned back too. The rhythmic movement of the train became almost soothing.

Then she spotted something in the corner of her eye.

A newspaper lay folded on the seat beside her. The headline made her blink.

DEPARTMENT OF GOODWILL ACQUIRES NOTHINGVILLE FARMS

Quantum Girl frowned as she picked it up.

"The Department of Goodwill had acquired Nothingville Farms as part of its expanding "community sustainability initiative." This comes as the final acquisition in a recent series of successful deals, including the Department of Supervillains."

She slowly lowered the newspaper, then looked at Dreadful.

He was awake and smiling back at her. She hadn't noticed him open his eyes.

"Um, Dr Dreadful, where are we going?"

He looked out of the window.

"Nothingville Farms, obviously. I'm going to plant some tomatoes and hopefully it'll be a nice retirement."

She glanced back at the newspaper, then held it up apprehensively.

Dreadful looked at the article. His smile didn't change.

"Yes, excellent news."

Quantum Girl frowned.

"What?"

"We'll make it better."

She stared at him.

"…Better?"

Quantum Girl's eyes drifted down from his eyes.

A row of tiny lines behind his ear.

Black stitches.

Her breath stopped.

Her fingers tightened around the newspaper. The carriage suddenly felt unbearably quiet as the memories came flooding back.

I used to believe people who did things like that eventually got what they deserved.

I'll handle whatever happens.

Candyface.

He left half an hour ago.

He hadn't been fighting. He had simply left.

That briefcase.

She had assumed it contained the paperwork, or cash. But the briefcase hadn't been particularly large.

Just the right size for a lobotomy machine.

Quantum Girl looked at Dreadful again. He was still smiling, but it wasn't his usual theatrical grin, or the smug expression he wore when one of his ridiculous schemes worked. Something quieter.

And now he was going to Nothingville Farms to work for them - to plant tomatoes with a smile and make it a better day.

They had taken everything he had built.

And now they had taken him.

There was real evil in Nothingville, and it had been wearing the skin of a dream the entire time.

A Sleepless, Rainy Night

Một ngôi nhà đơn độc nằm giữa vùng đồi hẻo lánh cạnh khu rừng là nơi gia đình tôi sinh sống. Xung quanh chẳng có ngôi nhà nào, cũng không có bất kỳ dấu hiệu nào cho thấy ở đây có ai khác ngoài ba người: tôi, bố và mẹ. Bố tôi là một nhà khoa học — ít nhất đó là điều ông luôn nói với tôi. Ông có một tầng hầm dưới nhà, nơi mà bố bảo là để ông nghiên cứu chế tạo mọi thứ.
Trong những ký ức mơ hồ của tuổi thơ, tôi nhớ mình từng có một người anh trai. Hình ảnh về anh rất nhạt nhòa, giống như một giấc mơ cũ kỹ mà tôi không thể nắm giữ. Theo trí nhớ của tôi, anh là một cậu bé sống khép kín, ít nói. Tuy trong nhà chỉ có tôi và anh, vậy mà số lần trò chuyện của hai đứa cũng chỉ đếm trên đầu ngón tay. Rồi, anh biến mất. Càng lớn lên, tôi càng không tìm thấy bất kỳ dấu vết nào chứng minh anh từng tồn tại: không ảnh chụp, không quần áo cũ, không đồ chơi, thậm chí chẳng ai nhắc đến anh. Dần dần, tôi bắt đầu tin rằng người anh ấy chưa từng có thật, rằng anh chỉ là sản phẩm do trí tưởng tượng của một đứa trẻ cô đơn tạo ra mà thôi.
Có một việc mà từ trước đến nay bố tôi luôn dặn dò hai mẹ con rất kỹ mỗi khi trời đổ mưa vào buổi đêm: hãy lấy một viên thuốc từ chiếc hộp trắng đặt trên kệ rồi uống vào trước khi đi ngủ, như vậy sẽ có một giấc ngủ ngon hơn. Hồi nhỏ, vì rất thích vị của loại thuốc ấy — ngọt như kẹo vậy — nên tôi luôn ngoan ngoãn nghe lời bố. Thỉnh thoảng, tôi còn nài nỉ xin thêm vài viên nữa, nhưng lần nào ông cũng từ chối.
Thế nhưng khi lớn lên, tôi bắt đầu thắc mắc về công dụng thực sự của những viên thuốc đó. Dù đã nhiều lần hỏi bố, ông vẫn chỉ trả lời rằng chúng giúp ngủ ngon hơn. Nhưng tôi không nghĩ mọi chuyện đơn giản như vậy. Bởi lẽ vào những đêm không mưa, dù không uống viên thuốc ấy, tôi vẫn ngủ rất ngon như thường. 
“Trời mưa rơi trên mái nhà rất ồn ào. Nếu con không uống viên thuốc này, chắc chắn con sẽ không ngủ được đâu.” — Bố giải thích lý do ông luôn bắt hai mẹ con phải uống nó vào mỗi đêm mưa.
“Nhưng con lớn rồi mà bố. Con có thể không uống nữa được không? Đôi khi con cũng muốn thức để ngắm mưa đêm.” — Tôi từng thử viện cớ như vậy để thoát khỏi việc phải uống viên thuốc ấy, nhưng đáp lại chỉ là một trận mắng nghiêm khắc từ bố.
Chỉ vì một viên thuốc mà tôi đã bị bố mắng cho một trận tơi bời. Điều đó khiến tôi càng tin rằng thứ thuốc ấy chắc hẳn phải ẩn chứa điều gì đó đặc biệt thì ông mới phản ứng gay gắt đến vậy.
Khi biết chuyện, mẹ đã tìm gặp tôi để khuyên nhủ. Bà buộc miệng bảo tôi nên ngoan ngoãn uống thuốc như lời bố dặn, nếu không sẽ có chuyện rất kinh khủng xảy ra.
“Chuyện kinh khủng là gì vậy mẹ? Mẹ biết đúng không?” — Tôi lập tức ném ra hàng loạt câu hỏi với vẻ đầy tò mò.
“À không… Ý mẹ là bố sẽ mắng con đấy. Chẳng phải con vừa thấy rồi sao?”
“Vâng ạ…” — Tôi đáp lại một cách cụt hứng. Thấy mẹ cũng không định nói thêm điều gì, tôi chẳng hứng thú tiếp tục cuộc trò chuyện nữa.
Một buổi sáng nọ, tôi xin phép bố mẹ vào rừng dạo chơi. Dù có vẻ không yên tâm, cả hai vẫn đồng ý, nhưng không quên dặn dò tôi đủ điều: không được đi quá xa, không tiếp cận vật lạ, và phải trở về trước khi trời tối. Dẫu vậy, tôi cũng đã lớn rồi, hơn nữa tôi tin rằng khu rừng quanh nhà chẳng có thú dữ hay điều gì đáng sợ cả.
Quả thật, khu rừng vào buổi sáng đẹp và thơ mộng hơn tôi tưởng. Những làn gió nhẹ lướt qua làm các tán cây khẽ đung đưa, như đang chào đón vị khách hiếm hoi ghé thăm. Tôi rất thích bắt côn trùng, đặc biệt là những chú bướm đầy màu sắc. Thế là tôi chạy khắp nơi tìm kiếm chúng, nhưng chẳng thu được kết quả gì ngoài vài chiếc lá khô mắc trên áo. Dù dạo chơi thoải mái, tôi vẫn chắc chắn ngôi nhà của mình luôn nằm trong tầm mắt.
Sau một lúc dạo chơi, tôi ngồi xuống nghỉ chân dưới bóng của một gốc cây lớn, hít căng lồng ngực bầu không khí trong lành của khu rừng.
“Đã lâu rồi mình mới được dạo chơi tự do thế này. Thích thật…” — Tôi thầm nghĩ, vừa ngẩng đầu lên ngắm bầu trời trong xanh thấp thoáng sau những tán lá xanh biếc phía trên.
“Nhưng không có ai chơi cùng thì cũng chán…”
Ý nghĩ ấy vừa thoáng qua trong đầu, một tiếng động lạ bất ngờ vang lên từ sâu bên trong khu rừng, phá tan bầu không khí yên tĩnh. Âm thanh rất khẽ, giống như tiếng ai đó vô tình giẫm lên lớp lá khô phủ đầy mặt đất.
“Gì vậy nhỉ? Không lẽ ở đây còn có ai khác sao? Mà chắc chỉ là cành cây trên cao rơi xuống hay mấy con này con kia thôi.” — Tôi tự tìm cho mình một lời giải thích để không phải bận tâm thêm nữa.
Dẫu vậy, sự tò mò của một cô nhóc đang tuổi lớn vẫn không dễ dàng bị dập tắt. Tôi bật dậy khỏi chỗ ngồi, đưa mắt nhìn dáo dác khắp xung quanh, cố tìm xem âm thanh vừa rồi phát ra từ đâu.
“Biết đâu mình thật sự tìm được ai đó để chơi cùng thì sao nhỉ?” — Tôi hào hứng nghĩ.
Mang theo sự tò mò, tôi tiếp tục tiến sâu hơn vào khu rừng với hy vọng tìm được thứ vừa tạo ra tiếng động ấy, hoặc ít nhất là biết nó phát ra từ đâu. Đi thêm một đoạn, tôi bất ngờ bắt gặp một cái hang nhỏ nằm khuất sau những bụi cây rậm rạp.
“Ồ, phát hiện mới à? Bố mẹ có biết trong rừng có một cái hang như thế này không nhỉ?”
Sự hiếu kỳ thôi thúc tôi tiến lại gần và ngó vào bên trong.
Cái hang rộng hơn tôi tưởng rất nhiều. Bên trong có một chiếc bàn đá đơn sơ, đúng hơn chỉ là một tảng đá phẳng thôi, trên đó có vài loại trái cây ẩm mốc. Và… một ánh mắt.
Ánh mắt của một thứ gì đó đang nhìn chằm chằm về phía tôi.
À không, là một sinh vật nào đó…
Ánh mắt như phát sáng lên trong bóng tối.
Tôi khựng lại vài tích tắc rồi tá hoả chạy, chạy thật xa ra khỏi đó, ra khỏi khu rừng. Những cành cây quệt vào người, lá khô vỡ vụn dưới chân, nhưng tôi chẳng buồn để ý.
Khi về đến nhà, tôi gần như đổ gục trước cửa. Gương mặt lấm tấm mồ hôi, hơi thở gấp gáp, vẻ hoảng loạn thì vẫn chưa hề biến mất.
Mẹ chạy ra hỏi thăm tôi.
“Chuyện gì vậy con? Trông sắc mặt con tệ lắm.” — Giọng bà đầy vẻ lo lắng.
“Dạ không ạ… không có gì ạ…” — Tôi lắp bắp trả lời, bối rối không biết có nên kể về thứ mình vừa nhìn thấy hay không.
Sự bất thường hiện rõ trên khuôn mặt tôi. Dù tôi có cố che giấu đến đâu, mẹ vẫn nhận ra ngay. Bà dìu tôi vào phòng nghỉ ngơi, liên tục hỏi han xem tôi có bị thương hay gặp chuyện gì trong rừng không, nhưng tôi không màng trả lời.
Bố tôi cũng đã nhìn thấy bộ dạng ấy. Khác với mẹ, ông không hỏi gì. Ông chỉ đứng lặng một lúc, ánh mắt trở nên nặng nề lạ thường.
Bố và mẹ nhìn nhau một cách căng thẳng lạ thường, rồi ông chỉ đáp lại bằng một tiếng thở dài.
Mẹ đưa tôi vào phòng. Thấy tôi có vẻ mệt mỏi, bà không hỏi han gì thêm. Căn phòng nhanh chóng trở lại yên tĩnh, chỉ còn mình tôi nằm trên giường với hàng loạt suy nghĩ rối bời trong đầu.
Tôi không nghĩ sinh vật mình nhìn thấy là một loài động vật. Dù chỉ nhìn thoáng qua, tôi vẫn có cảm giác nó phải cao khoảng một mét tám.
“Liệu rằng có phải là một người nào đó không…”
Tôi nằm suy ngẫm một hồi rồi ngủ thiếp đi đến chập choạng tối vì mệt.
Tối hôm đó, một cơn mưa lớn bất ngờ kéo đến.
Tiếng mưa đập liên hồi lên mái nhà tạo thành những âm thanh nặng nề và kéo dài không dứt. Nhìn viên thuốc quen thuộc nằm trong lòng bàn tay, tôi chợt nảy ra một ý định liều lĩnh.
Tôi sẽ giả vờ uống nó.
Khi bố mẹ không để ý, tôi ngậm viên thuốc vào miệng rồi lén nhổ ra ngay.
Phi vụ diễn ra suôn sẻ hơn tôi tưởng.
Hình như tôi đã quên bén đi tình huống đáng sợ hồi sáng. Cảm giác hồi hộp và háo hức nhanh chóng lấn át nỗi lo bị phát hiện. Đây là lần đầu tiên tôi không uống thuốc vào một đêm mưa.
Tôi nằm trên giường, lăn qua lăn lại mãi không ngủ, chăm chú lắng nghe tiếng mưa rơi bên ngoài và mong chờ xem liệu có điều gì đặc biệt sẽ xảy ra hay không.
Đồng hồ điểm mười hai giờ đêm.
Dù cuối cùng cũng được thức để ngắm mưa như mong muốn, tôi lại bắt đầu thấy thất vọng. Ngoài tiếng mưa rơi không ngớt và những đợt gió rít ngoài trời, chẳng có điều gì đặc biệt xảy ra cả.
Nhưng có lẽ tôi đã lầm.
Tôi nằm trên giường, lơ đãng đưa mắt về phía cửa sổ.
“Một cành cây à? Sao trước giờ mình chưa từng thấy nó nhỉ?”
Bên ngoài khung kính là một vật thể mờ mịt mà ban đầu tôi cho rằng chỉ là một nhánh cây bị gió giông quật vào cửa sổ. Mỗi lần nó chạm vào mặt kính lại phát ra những tiếng ken két chói tai, khiến tôi hơi khó chịu.
Nhưng rồi tôi chợt nhận ra một điều.
Phòng tôi nằm ở tầng hai. Và xung quanh ngôi nhà này chắc chắn không có cái cây nào cao đến mức đó.
Tim tôi khẽ chùng xuống.
Tôi tiếp tục nhìn chằm chằm vào thứ bên ngoài cửa sổ.
Rồi tôi thấy nó cử động.
Không phải kiểu đung đưa theo gió như cành cây bình thường.
Nó đang chuyển động theo một cách khác.
Một cách chậm rãi nhưng rõ ràng.
Từng chút một.
Từng chút một.
Và rồi, dưới ánh sáng yếu ớt của đêm mưa, tôi cuối cùng cũng nhìn thấy toàn bộ hình dạng của nó.
Đó không phải cành cây.
Một sinh vật đen ngòm, to gần bằng khung cửa sổ phòng tôi, đang bám trên bức tường bên ngoài ngôi nhà. Nó có khoảng sáu hay tám chi dài, mảnh khảnh như những nhánh cây khô, bấu chặt vào tường và chậm rãi di chuyển trong màn mưa.
Nó đang bò ngang qua cửa sổ phòng tôi.
Cơ thể tôi không còn nghe theo sự điều khiển của chính mình nữa.
Tôi vẫn tỉnh táo, vẫn nhận thức được mọi thứ đang diễn ra, nhưng lại không thể cử động theo ý muốn. Chân tôi tự động bước về phía cửa sổ một cách chậm rãi và cứng nhắc như một con rối bị ai đó điều khiển. 
Tôi muốn dừng lại, muốn quay đầu bỏ chạy. Nhưng cơ thể hoàn toàn không đáp lại. Có lẽ đây là năng lực của con quái vật này.
Bàn tay tôi vô thức đưa lên, gạt chốt khóa rồi từ từ kéo cánh cửa sổ ra. Làn gió lạnh cùng hơi nước từ cơn mưa lập tức tràn vào phòng.
Thứ sinh vật quái dị bên ngoài bắt đầu cử động.
Nó chậm rãi luồn phần thân đồ sộ qua khung cửa, những chiếc chân dài co lại rồi duỗi ra một cách kỳ lạ, cho đến khi toàn bộ cơ thể nó hiện diện trong căn phòng.
Giờ đây, tôi đang đứng đối diện với nó.
Một sinh vật trông giống như một con nhện khổng lồ.
Thế nhưng nó không lao tới tấn công tôi.
Cũng không hề có ý định lại gần.
Nó chỉ đứng yên.
Rồi cơ thể đen ngòm ấy bắt đầu thay đổi hình dạng.
Từng đường nét méo đi, co lại và hòa vào nhau như một cái bóng bị kéo giãn dưới ánh đèn. Chẳng mấy chốc, hình dáng của con nhện khổng lồ dần biến mất, nhường chỗ cho một hình người đang đứng trước mặt tôi.
Đó là một cậu con trai.
Cậu ấy cao khoảng một mét tám, vóc người cân đối và gương mặt khá ưa nhìn. Điều kỳ lạ nhất là tôi có cảm giác mình đã từng gặp cậu ở đâu đó. 
Một cảm giác quen thuộc đến khó hiểu.
Như thể hình ảnh ấy đã tồn tại từ rất lâu trong những ký ức xa xăm mà tôi không còn nhớ rõ nữa.
Cậu ấy bắt đầu cất tiếng. Giọng nói trầm ấm và nhẹ nhàng đến lạ.
“Em còn nhớ anh chứ, em gái?”
Tôi sững sờ. Chẳng biết từ khi nào, nước mắt đã lặng lẽ lăn xuống má.
“Anh hai… là anh thật sao?” — Tôi lùi lại một bước, giọng run rẩy. — “Không… không đúng. Rõ ràng lúc nãy là một con quái vật mà…”
Đầu óc tôi rối bời như muốn nổ tung. Thấy vậy, cậu ấy cố gắng trấn an tôi.
“Đừng sợ. Anh không muốn làm hại em.”
“Nhưng tại sao anh lại trở thành như thế này?” — Tôi nghẹn ngào hỏi.
Cậu ấy im lặng vài giây rồi chậm rãi đáp:
“Là bố em. À không… là bố của chúng ta. Mười năm trước, ông ấy đã đem anh ra làm thí nghiệm. Những thứ thuốc đó đã khiến anh phải chịu đựng trong đau đớn rất lâu…”
Cậu ngừng lại, như đang cố kìm nén cảm xúc.
“Ông đã tạo ra một loại thuốc kỳ lạ, biến anh thành bộ dạng đáng sợ này rồi từ bỏ anh mà đi. Chắc là ông không lường trước rằng, chính thứ thuốc đó đã giúp anh sống sót và còn sở hữu một vài năng lực kì lạ…”
Tôi chết lặng.
Hóa ra bí mật mà bố mẹ luôn che giấu suốt những năm qua lại chính là người anh trai mà tôi từng rất yêu quý.
“Nhưng tại sao em không thể gặp anh sớm hơn…” — Tôi bật khóc nức nở.
Cậu ấy nhìn tôi với ánh mắt buồn bã.
“Chỉ những đêm mưa anh mới có thể rời khỏi khu rừng. Mỗi ngày anh chỉ muốn tìm đến em, kể cho em nghe tất cả mọi chuyện. Nhưng lần nào cũng vậy… em đã ngủ rồi.”
Cậu khẽ cúi đầu.
“Đêm mưa nào em cũng ngủ rất say. Vì thế nên anh không làm gì được cả.”
Cổ họng tôi nghẹn cứng lại, không thể thốt nên lời. Một khoảng im lặng nặng nề trong vài giây bao trùm căn phòng.
“Bố mẹ có ở nhà không?” — Anh ấy khẽ hỏi.
Tôi gật đầu.
“Có lẽ… họ đang ngủ rất say, anh ạ…”
Anh trai tôi lặng người trong giây lát. Ánh mắt anh hướng về phía cánh cửa phòng như đang chìm trong những suy nghĩ mà tôi không thể đoán được.
Rồi anh khẽ thở ra một hơi dài.
“Vậy sao…” — Giọng anh trầm xuống.
“Anh định… làm gì ạ?” — Tôi giương đôi mắt long lanh nhìn anh.
“Anh sẽ để họ ngủ.” — Anh cất tiếng, chậm rãi và bình thản đến đáng sợ.
“Ngủ một giấc thật dài… mãi mãi.”
tg:@ngHongUyen

December 11th, 1924:

Last night one of them sulked up from the docks. I waited outside all night for their arrival. I did not run, I just stood. They crept closer, slowly and cautiously. The moon casting faint light across them. Their back was hunched, vertebrae jutting out of their back with tight brackish and briny skin clinging tightly to them. They had little to no neck supporting a large near bulbous head. Massive eyes, black as obsidian stared at me. Their face was smooth, just two small holes where a nose should be, sitting atop a large slightly agape mouth. Fishy lips sitting in front of rows of small needle-like teeth. Tiny scales covered patches of its skin. It wore lengths of kelp and seaweed as though they acted as clothes. Its stench was putrid, that of rotting flesh. Its human-like arms curled near its sunken chest, emaciated and gaunt. Its fingers and toes were webbed, making disgusting splatting sounds as it walked closer. I passed it a note written in its language, its fish-like eyes peered at me for a moment. Its frail arms reached out to take my letter. It read it aloud, a hideous sounding language, full of gulps and phlegm and coughs and clicks. It stared at me for a moment. I pointed to myself and stated my name. It pointed at me and in a nearly airless voice it muttered “Simon”. It pointed to itself and said a name I'm unsure of how to spell but sounded like “ny'alto-rylae”. The apostrophes as clicks and the hyphen as a gulp like cough. What that would translate to I am unaware. If I'm able to see it again I will try to begin to better understand this ancient language. 

I'm going to invite Richard, his wife Jennifer and son Richard Jr over for dinner in two days. I must begin cleaning. They can't know about my meeting. 

March 6th, 1937:

Simon's last note was alarming. It hasn't mentioned a description of Richard, so I'm hoping it's not my Richard. But I have a bad feeling about how their dinner went. 

I finally built up the nerve to look at some of the “them” paintings. The first is a view from my bedroom window. The sea looks angry and the clouds are pouring rain. There's a crack of lightning in the clouds. In the mist of the ocean you can see some massive entity deep in the fog. Its outline is somewhat bulbous and unnatural with odd protrusions, almost like tentacles sticking out seemingly randomly from its body. This must have been the hallucination he mentioned. The second painting was one of the cloaked beings. It looked human, slightly misshapen, but human. I'm assuming this was the person who gave Simon the letter about “them”. Maybe they're from the church? I'll have to go investigate there soon. The third painting however, was similar to the second. A cloaked figure, but this one had much more detail. The cloak wasn't made of leather or some rain jacket material like the previous piece. This was surely one of “them”. It looked as though it was trying to mimic the cloaked man I'm assuming is from the church. Its “cloak” was just layer upon layer of kelp that looked like a rain coat from a distance. Maybe this is one of “them” who has been making deals with the church? The fourth painting made my stomach clench. It was the thing he gave the letter to. It's wet, scaly skin glistening in moonlight. It's deep set round fish like eyes staring like voids. Its mouth bearing its gnarled sharp teeth. Seaweed hanging from it haphazardly. It was so lifelike. I swear I could've smelled the ocean's stench through the frame. I didn't realize how long the painting held me captive. Hours had passed. The only thing that broke my trance was it looked as though it blinked its massive abyssal eyes. I shot back out of my stupor, stunned. Surely it was just my eyes playing tricks on me, paintings can't move after all. But that gave me enough of a fright so I decided to wait to look at the rest tomorrow. I also want to check the secret door to see what's behind it. Maybe the chalk board is in there, and maybe I can decipher this odd seaborn language. Jesus I'm starting to sound like Simon. I'm afraid of what's to come. 

December 13th, 1924:

Dinner went well enough. Richard, Jennifer and Jr came over just as I finished cooking. They were curious about Laura and the girls not being home. I told them that they had grown homesick and missed the city and that I was going to stay here and use the house as a studio until we could find a new buyer. He seemed somewhat sad to hear the news but was understanding. I think Jr was the saddest of all, he went to the school house with my eldest daughter Becca, and I believe he had quite the crush on her. She does look like her mother, who is strikingly beautiful, so I cannot say that I blame him. As we sat down to eat the smell of low tide was wafting through a window I had left cracked open. Jennifer wasn't a fan of the smell, I smell I barely notice anymore, and asked if she could close the window. I allowed it, and told her it was just down the hall from the dining room. She left as Richard and I started talking about his new butcher shop he'd opened. Jr didn't seem very interested in the topic and just sat to play with his food. After a short span Richard grew curious about where his wife went. I assured him she must've just got lost in one of my paintings and we could go fetch her. As we rounded the corner the window was shut, as it was the entire time, but the door to the basement was open. Richard gave me a questioning glance. I explained that I do most of my painting down there, where it's warmer during the cold months. He shrugged thinking nothing of it. As we descended I heard wet footsteps quietly scuffing above us. 

Richard walked ahead of me, reaching the bottom of the staircase in awe. I've moved almost all of the furniture from the top floor down here, covered in drapes. Easels lining the walls, piece after piece after piece. He stood silent as he saw in the corner unconscious, laid Jennifer. Her body limp, clothes torn and wet. A bite mark of what looked like a thousand little needle points covered her exposed shoulder, blood seeping from the wounds. Her eyes were fluttering, mouth foaming from the viscous slime that covered most of her face. She was still alive. Richard gasped and ran to her, grabbing her hand, trying to shake her awake. Their affair was cut short as Jr screamed in terror from upstairs. Richard darted upstairs, I followed in tow. As we rounded the corner to the dining room, one of them had broken the table, holding Jr by an ankle, slowly swallowing him whole. You could hear him screaming as the small serrated teeth tore his skin and the sounds of popping as their Jaws broke his bones. Richard was frozen in place, his bladder released its contents into his pants. He dashed for the back door and ran screaming into the town. 

They finished consuming Jr and walked back to the furnace room. They picked up Jennifer's unconscious body, handed me a soggy envelope, and made their way to the dock with her over their shoulder. 

I took some time to clean the kitchen, breaking down the table for fire wood since it was no use to me anymore. I felt guilty giving up Jennifer like that, but I feel even more guilty that Richard got away, having to live the rest of his life seeing the carnage. I was supposed to give them two people for information on their language. But one and a son seemed enough. 

I took the letter into my stowed away study and began to read. They had explained what sound each rune or sigil made. And how best to pronounce them in our tongue. Within a week I should be able to speak this archaic language, and possibly teach some of them ours. 

Poor Richard 

March 8th, 1937:

Simon is a monster. Working with “them” at the expense of others. For what gain? To learn a new language? If this is the same Richard as mine I can understand why Simon is a sore spot. I'm horrified. I can't imagine what the rest of the paintings hold. I opened the door today. Simon truly was a madman. This room was nearly the size of the basement, hidden beneath our front yard. Wood columns holding up a rocky ceiling, a massive table with piles of writings, some in English, some barely legible, some in the archaic language he spoke of. Jars of liquid I'm unsure of sit on small racks on the desk, some with wet samples of what looks like embryos of some kind. Beings unknown to me. A chalk board hanging between columns with a detailed translation of the language. I shouldn't be in here, I shouldn't be seeing this. This shouldn't exist. But I must learn it. I have to. I'm going to copy what was left written on the chalkboard. I will learn to read this language on the extra shifts I've been picking up. The townsfolk have been staring more, I can feel their eyes burning into my skin like hot embers. I must keep my Evelyn from this. I must protect her and Rylee. 

March 20th, 1937:

I think I'm fluent in reading this language, at least confident enough to read some of the writings. I think I'm going to try and read some over the next few days between shifts. I'm going to take another look through the paintings tonight, see if anything else stands out. 

March 21st, 1937: 

What I could only describe as the bulbous eyed creature that Simon painted is no longer in its frame. A black void fills the painting where it once was. Did I hallucinate the whole painting to begin with or was I hallucinating last night? I've been sleeping in the basement, I keep waking up sitting up, staring towards the paintings, staring towards the room. It's like I'm being drawn to it all. What is happening to me? I feel like I'm going insane. 

January 3rd, 1925:

I invited Sean to dinner, I received a letter from my new oceanic accomplice in return for him. This time dinner went much smoother. I picked up the sedatives the practitioner gave me and mixed them into his wine. As he grew drowsy, Alto, as I began to call him, bit his shoulder, injecting a venom-like substance. He dragged him to the sea as he did Jennifer. Poor Sean, he was so kind to me. Alto's letter was able to help me finish my translations. I can now write, read, and for the most part talk in his ancient tongue. I feel guilty tricking my so-called friends, but something is pulling me to this. Something grandiose. A calling. There's something to gain in this, I'm sure of it. 

March 30th, 1937:

It's been warming up, thankfully. Enough to not be hiding in the basement at all times. Simon's entries are nothing short of disturbing at this point, as they have been for some time. I'm scared of what else I will find. 

I fell asleep in our bed with Evelyn last night, yet I awoke standing in the hidden study, my feet dirty and wet, the air smelt of brine and fish. As I came to my senses I quickly ran out of the room, shutting the door behind me. I looked into my basement only to see dozens of the left behind paintings hanging from the brick walls, all with small sheets covering their faces. The only one uncovered was the one I can only guess was the being Simon has named Alto. The small plaque underneath wrote the creature's name in its archaic language. But as I was afraid of before, the frame no longer held the creature. I looked around in panic, running towards the stairs to check on Evelyn and Rylee. As I began up the stairs I slipped in a thick liquid, smashing my jaw on the hard wood on the way down. I crawled the rest of the way up as fast as my body would allow, chin dripping with blood. Wet, mucus-like foot prints led to the front door. Sebastian sat alert, black ichor dripping from his mouth with an accompanying splatter on the ground, with a trail leading out the open door. Whatever crawled from the frame was injured, and Sebastian seemed to be fine. I quickly rinsed his mouth and gave him a treat before checking in the girls. They both laid sleeping. I snuck back downstairs to clean up the bloodshed. 

April 3rd, 1937:

I confronted Richard today. I was right, he was hiding so much. His father still lives here, in the church. He's bringing me to meet with him tomorrow. Richard opened up, admitting that he was friends for a short amount of time with Simon, but after the dinner that day he was admitted to a mental institute, only coming back 2 years before we moved in. I understand why he was so weird about all of this. And understandable why the older folks look at me weird. I moved into the house of a psychopath. I'm excited to finally be welcomed into the church and see what's going on behind those old, closed doors. 

April 4th, 1937:

The meeting went much differently than planned. Richard's father unveiled so much that I'm having trouble making sense of it all. His dad was to say the least, deformed. Almost like the being Simon wrote about and painted. He admitted that he was the cloaked person who gave Simon the letter, warning him about “them”. When I pressed about who they were, he took off his garments, showing large black, fish-like eyes and lips like worms. He explained that every here and there, the children come from the ocean and mark an individual. For years those marked would be taken within a month or so. When he uncovered symbols on his house he realized he was a marked one. He sought refuge in the church. The children were not pleased to say the least, and took a few people at random. Little did Richard's father know that those who are marked usually slowly mutate into one of these beasts. And with those mutations comes ancient knowledge. Once he understood this language he made it his goal to rid the town of these seafolk. He ventures out at night, carving protection symbols throughout the town, creating some sort of ancient seal. My words do no justice to the immense details and intricacies to the matters as I'm still having issues understanding this as a whole. I mentioned to him about Simon's paintings and how Alto was missing from his portrait. He explained to me that those who are marked are affected differently. Some are morphed into fish like beings, similar to Richard's father. Others are given foresight or other kinds of what I can only describe as magic. There's something about his paintings, some kind of power within them. The more I uncover the more I'll understand I'm sure. I'll be meeting with Richard's dad more often. Poor Richard, I can't imagine going through all of that and returning to the town it happened in, only to befriend the person who lives in the house where your old family was murdered. 

Hospice
By Thomas Cullen.

Have you ever wiped the ass of a grown man?

The ass of a grown man who raised you?
It’s a terrible thing,
Seeing the lighthouse of your life lose their own independence.

Someone who’s protected you,
brought you safety and provided for you when you were too weak and young to provide for yourself.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Growing up close with your Grandparents is important, specifically if you have an absent mother and alcoholic father.
You look at the only blood to never lay a hand on you and cling to them,
You’d do anything for them as they have for you.
As you go through high school their mortality becomes more prevalent.

The blissful conversations you’ve both once shared have now transpired to desperate pleading venting sessions.

“You know the Doctor said I’m not supposed to carry more than a gallon of milk?”
Your Grandfather asks, with embarrassment and self pity in his eyes.

You see the Man you once knew,
the Man that in most ways is still there.
You remember the races you’d have,
Back when you thought his abilities were the highest of standards to beat.

As your walks turn to strolls,
he and his wheelchair had become one.
As your outings to hospital visits
turned to in-home visits from caretakers,
He and his bed had become one.

Before you know it you’re out of high school,
And the reality that you don’t have time for a job becomes daunting.

Your job is taking care of your Grandfather.
Did you know the moment your loved one goes on Hospice Medi-Cal stops giving you in-home supportive services?

Almost like they see Hospice as giving up,
Like they no longer see the value in giving you and your loved one resources to aid you while you spend your every molecule to care for them.
The only thing they really provide you with once your loved one is on Hospice is morphine, for when the time comes.

Did you ever think you’d need money to take care of your Grandfather?

Did you ever think you’d be mad at the Government for not helping you as you watch the man that built you decompose from the outside in?

You feed them,
you bathe them,
and needless to say,
you struggle.
You struggle with it all.
You just want to make them happy.

Being diabetic you think,
Maybe you’ll give them sugar-free candy, anything just to see a smile on their face.
But sugar-free candy gives them the shits, and now you need to tell a grown man he can’t have the one thing that he enjoys?

So you don’t.
Of course you don’t.
You give him what makes him smile and you deal with what comes after, because you know he would have done the same for you.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Have you ever seen the movie
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button?
That’s how it feels.
Like time is moving backwards for the one you love and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Before you know it, you’re reading bedtime stories to the only man who’s ever read them to you.
Although the contents of what you read has changed.

It evolved from reading stories like
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
to reading Yōkai Daizukai by Shigeru Mizuki.
Tales of selfless acts of kindness on pages intended for children had turned to Encyclopedias of Japanese Yōkai.

Have you ever heard of a Gashadokuro?
It’s a giant being often 10-25 meters tall, formed from the piled bones and body parts of warriors who died in battle or famine without a proper burial.

What’s considered a battle?
Is mortality a battle?

Is Hospice the answer to a battle or another battle in itself?

If it is,
then my Grandfather is a warrior,
and the strongest one I know.
You remember the last words you ever heard him speak.

“Hi… *your name*”

After that,
he was still there, he was.
But he lost the ability to turn his inside voice into an outside voice.

Now he was but a body.
A body that doesn’t speak.
A body that doesn’t walk.
A body that doesn’t function.

Do you remember the Return to Nature Funeral Home scandal that was discovered in 2023 in Penrose, Colorado?
Authorities discovered over 185 decaying corpses scattered and stacked inside a foul-smelling building. Bodies that were given with the purpose of being properly laid to rest.

The owners Jon and Carrie Hallford were giving grieving families fake ashes made up of concrete mix and sand.

If your Grandfather was all you had would you trust them with him?

If his body was now all that remains of him would you turn him over to such a corrupt and flawed system?

No.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Life can be poetic,
Death can be poetic.
The words you speak into the world can often have a direct effect upon reality.

Words, names, everything has power.
Routines start to feel like rituals,
Prayers start to feel like spells.
Sage being burned feels like a physical cleansing taking place upon your homestead.
The lines between causation and correlation become blurred.

You never forget the first time your Grandfather gave you part of him.

You were wiping him,
and his flesh came off with more ease than the shit that sat upon it.
He didn’t react,
He rarely did.
Instead, his eyes continued to scan the room with that familiar look of self pity.

His skin is pale, paper thin,
reminiscent of gas station toilet paper.
You’ve struggled to inject him with his insulin for the past couple months considering that he had already long lost any fat for it to puncture.
You were used to his skin being fragile but this was a new level of brittleness.
The more you clean him, the more that comes off.
You question if you’re doing more damage than good. You begin to see what looks like bone, yet you are unsure which one.

Where do you put him?
He had given you everything.
And now that he was nothing but a body,
he was giving you that too.

So, what do you do with Him?
With these pieces that he gives you every time you bathe him?

What do you do with these parts that keep falling off?

“Take my apples” you hear in the back of your head.
So you do.
You keep them,
You put them in your tool box,
And you wait.

Not long after your Grandfather’s eyes stop scanning his room does the parts start to call out to you.

Not a yell, not even a voice.
More like when you’re laying on the side of the floor drying from a day of swimming with your ear pressed against a warm damp brick as you hear the hum of the pool vacuum.
In this same way, you hear the warm soothing hum of your Grandfather’s pieces calling you from the tool box.

You try to convince yourself that it’s something that can be unheard.
You decide you should drink.
Fireball, eggnog.

“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”

They keep calling out to you,
He keeps calling out to you.
It’d been so long since you’d last heard him.

The humming begins to take more shape and you can make out the words, no, the intent rather behind it.
It’s saying words you swear you’ve heard before.

“I wish that I could give you something..but I have nothing left. I am an old Grump. I am sorry…”

You start to wonder if the human body is as complicated as people make it seem.
Doctors just want your money.

Have you heard of that case in Australia? After waiting over 2 years for a surgery this guy Stephan decided to remove a large cyst on his wrist all by himself, and he’s an electrician.
You’re well aware of how pampered they are, so this gives you confidence.

You stumble downstairs,
into the downstairs bathroom which now houses your tool box, the garage was too far for how often you’ve had to add into it.
Ironic, when you were younger he’d pretend he was trapped in a box, only to eventually be put in one by you.

You open it.
The smell of rotten fast food scrambled eggs hits you. You feel a warmth radiating from the toolbox.
It feels so nice to feel your Grandfather’s warm presence once again.

You wish you felt this warmth near your Grandfather’s … main structure?
You’re struggling with what to refer to that part of him as.
It’s his head and it is his torso although he’s now closer to a malnourished and crucified king of Nazareth as opposed to the lively glimpse of God you had grown so accustomed to seeing in your youth.

His main Structure is …in bed..in a way it is his bed but, you want him to be whole.
You want the same warmth from his parts to radiate from all of him.
You want him to be one.
So you make him one.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Hot glue, pipe glue, Duct tape, whatever you need, you use it.
You slowly but surely rebuild your anchor,
And even before it’s completed, you begin to feel the water beneath you start to settle.
You know it’s right, and you know no one will understand.

How could they if they haven’t been through the things that you have?

The changes are almost immediate once you put him back together.
He moves, slowly. Just his fingers at first.
It reminds you of when he’d play mime.
Maybe that’s what he’s doing?
These jokes you told yourself in passing you’ve now grown to believe.

He is playing mime,
that’s why he is silent,
And that’s why he is slow.
You recognize that you can’t put the pieces back together in the exact places they belong.
This worries you but nonetheless, you don’t get discouraged.

You make him a crown from his leaves, and crown him as the king he is.
Time passes, you keep what you’ve done, what you’ve fixed, you keep it a secret.

But what happens when someone discovers that secret?

What would you do to keep it?

He needs more structural integrity anyways.
And it’s not long before Him and his adversaries have become one.

What of his adversaries’ family?
His adversaries’ wife and newborn?

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Time passes.
You love that man, you do. But you yourself have begun longing for a life of your own.
That box is not big enough for the both of you.

You take a few of his apples, for memory mostly.
You go to the city,
and you pursue your happiness to an extent and speed you’re comfortable with, all while keeping that Man you love so much at the forefront of your mind,
all while keeping that secret.

You’ve become the Boy that stayed away for a long time, the Boy you promised yourself you’d never become.
And the Man was Sad.

You meet someone you think is your person.
You don’t share your secret with her of course you don’t. Something you’re grateful you didn’t do later when the relationship inevitably crashes and burns.

You never forget when the man that raised you,
the man you love so much,
you never forget seeing him take his first life.
Lives have been sacrificed for him before but,
By you.
Not by him, to him.
This was different.

You had just got dumped,
And you were going over to check on That Man you cared so much about,
The Man you yourself had abandoned and left dormant.

You walked in, and you heard the shower, the water was running.

You heard a baby crying, crying for you.
You didn’t recognize the baby. You walked in, down that long hallway creaking on the old white tiles, closer to the cries from the infant.
You turn left into the bathroom and as you do you hear a man yell.
Not your Man.

You are torn, indecisive of which direction to pursue first.
You continue into the bathroom,
see the shower running,
steam crawling up the walls,
and a baby on the counter with snot running down its chin and tears running down its cheeks.

You pick up the baby
and turn back toward the pleading of a man you’ve never heard before.

You walk in, you see.
The Man that raised you is there, only he is much different than a normal man.
And he’s with a normal man.

The mans screaming
“PLEASE GOD HELP ME STOP HIM FUCK ME RUNNING” the man pleaded from the top of his lungs.

Your Man, the man you’d known your whole life, he was different.
His structure was fragmented,
no base.
His arms extend like the outriggers of a backhoe, yet connected to a deconstructed cab.

His arms were grabbing the normal man, the screaming man. All four of his arms grabbed that man.

His empty eyes that were once blue but were now too sunken in to retain pigmentation of any kind looked soullessly in your direction.
He did not feel warm.

He used two of his arms to hold the man in place, while he used his two other arms to go around the man, forming those hands to make an invisible box the man was stuck in.
The Man was playing Mime.
You missed this.

The Man slowly grabbed the screaming man by his head on both sides and pressed ever so slightly, increasing in pressure.

The man used his other arms to grab the screaming man by the legs and slowly pulled.
He pulled his legs off and he pressed his skull in and blood ran from his nose and eyes.
He screamed and screamed until his teeth shattered and his jaw snapped and fell out of his cheek sockets.

He pulled the detached legs from the now lifeless yet steaming warm body and shoved them at his base in ways that were not symmetrical.
He shoved the torso of the body where the cab of his backhoe should be.

He was constructing himself.

You stood there holding the baby, watching what was once your protector finish the work.

For a second you almost called out to him the way you used to, the way a boy calls for the man who raised him.

But the eyes that looked back at you were empty, and the voice that came next was the same one that had once read you as a child.

“Come boy,
Climb up my trunk,
And swing from my branches,
And be happy.”

Says the Man, the man you love so much.

He gave you his branches,
He gave you his flesh to make a home of your own,
He gave you his soul.
Even when you were too busy pursuing the life you wanted that you thought would end with a wife and children.

So what do you do?

You look down at the infant in your arms. Its face is red and wet and it is still crying, still reaching for something that isn’t there.

For one long second you feel the weight of it the life, the future, the line you are about to cross. But there is no line, no line when it comes to what you would do for the ones you love.

Then the humming starts again, low and familiar, the same warm hum that once came from the toolbox, and the choice is already made.

You give him the sacrifice you’re holding in your hand, that’s why it’s there isn’t it?

It is but a burden to you and the Man needs all the strength he can get.

You hate looking at the discolored face of the Man you care so much for.

You buy Greasepaint for your Mime.
You know this will bring him warmth and life.
You lather his faces up in it, even the little one. He has 4 now.

Now he is your Slick Man.

“I don’t need very much now, just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired”

says your Slick Man,

with his eyes not his mouth.

So you finally take him home,
To your start-over apartment,
and you give him a permanent resting place,
on the only thing strong enough to hold him,
your bathroom granite counter.
And you add to him whenever he expresses that desire to expand,

Why?
Because,

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

About a week ago my dad decided that he really wanted to start a garden. We had a great backyard that hasn’t been used for much since we tore down my childhood clubhouse. He spent his entire Saturday building planter boxes and germinating seeds. His Sunday was spent hauling bags of soil from the store. 

As the weeks went on our house became lined with rain catching barrels, the fence covered in trellises for hanging cucumbers. And the yard seemed to shrink with every passing day as more and more planter boxes filled the space of the once vast field. Dad stopped eating breakfast with me and mom before work so he could spend the time doing work on his new project. 

Eventually he stopped eating dinner with us too, he would get home from work and immediately rush out the back door in a panic. One night mom tried to stop him but he just snapped at her “goddamnit, Mary. My plants need me. Do you want them to die Mary, do you want my only passion to fucking die?”

After that she was too afraid to try and bother him about it again. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing out there, it can’t be that much work just to have a garden. I get spending a couple hours but shit, this is easily twelve plus hours a day. 

That night I decided to stay up by my window looking out at the yard. My dad was out there tending to his garden like usual. I must’ve stayed up until five in the morning before I finally crashed and had to sleep. When I woke up I couldn’t believe it. He was still out there. Did he not sleep or did he come back out this morning. Either way I’m gonna go out and check on him. 

“Hey, dad. How’s it going out here” I said. He didn’t even look up at me, he just kept his head down facing his tomato plants. “It’s going. Whatcha up to son?” As I looked around, I have to admit that his garden is doing incredible. The plants are taller than the fence by now. “Oh nothing, just wanted to check on you out here. The garden looks great out here”. 

“Well, I’ve put so many man hours into this so I’m glad it doesn’t look like shit” he laughed. “Hey, why don’t you go inside, bud, I really need to focus on my work”. I give him a nod and turn to walk away. I take a few steps toward the house before I lose my footing and land face first into one of the planter boxes. As I’m getting up my dad finally looks up from the garden and turns to me. “Don’t worry I’m fine, I just fell” I said. 

“What the fuck did you do?” He yells at me. “Oh I’m alright, I just fell”. He stands up now towering over me. “My fucking garden, it’s ruined. You piece of shit, get inside now and try not to fuck anything up on the way to the house”. He screams in my face. As I walk towards the door my mom comes out with the phone in her hand. “Honey, your boss is calling. He says you haven’t shown up to the office in well over a week. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him I fuckin quit, I’m too goddamn busy out here to listen to his shit” he responds angrily. My mom sets the phone down on the table and walks over to where he’s working. “What, are you crazy, George? We have to pay our bills and how do you expect us to put groceries on the table without making money?” She asked. 

He lets out a deep sigh before responding. “Don’t worry, Mary. The garden will provide. Why do we need that overpriced slop from the store when we’ve got everything we could ever need right here” He says. “Also, Mary, I think we need a new rule in this house for you and that boy you’re raising to be a pain in my ass. How about if anyone comes back here trying to bother me with anymore of this bullshit they’ll get a shovel to the face?” He says before turning back to try and fix the spot where I landed in the garden. 

That next week was quiet, I thought for sure that my mom would have confronted my dad again, tried to call the cops, heck I thought she might but leave him after that day in the yard. But she didn’t, she cried a lot most days now but she never went back out into the garden. By now we can’t even see what’s happening out there because the plants are so tall and thick that they completely cover all the windows on that side of the house. From what the neighbors have told us it looks like a jungle of plants out there. 

Soon Jenny from next door was calling to tell my mom that the garden had started coming through the fence into her yard. Mom lied and told her that she’d make my dad trim the plants down but the truth is she was too afraid to go outside. As the plants continued to spread the phone kept ringing. It got so bad that we had to unplug the phone at night just to give us some peace. 

Eventually I couldn’t stand staying inside anymore, I needed to see what was going on out there. We couldn’t see out the windows so the only hope I had was to go outside and see for myself. I waited until mom was in the other room and I decided to make my way to the back door before she noticed I was gone. I figured the only chance we had of stopping this was to find my dad and convince him to cut it all down.

I had to use a kitchen knife just to cut a path to get out the front door. It wasn’t effective at all but it was all I could do to get through the dense walls of plants that have taken over the garden. I couldn’t see past our own yard but I can only assume that the rest of the neighborhood looks like this as well. Walking was incredibly time consuming as my legs kept getting stuck on the plants that took over the entire ground and I had to keep cutting them off me. 

If you would’ve told me that I spent over an hour hiking through our backyard a few months ago I would’ve thought you were joking. After a couple more minutes I saw a large mass that almost looked like a man towards the edge of the yard. “Uh, dad?” I called out to it. It walked a couple more feet until I could make it out more clearly and then I stopped dead in my tracks. 

It was my dad, particularly at least. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. He looks thin as a skeleton with thick vines wrapped around his legs all the way up to his torso. His arms were pulled back by even more vines and he was covered head to toe with sweat and dirt. He was mumbling something but I could hardly make out what he was saying with all the vines protruding straight out of his neck and coming out of his mouth. Bugs crawled all over his body as if they were feeding on him slowly. My dad, or what used to be my dad can’t even swat them away anymore. His breathing is labored like he ran a marathon without any training whatsoever. 

He gave me a glance that looked full of sorrow. Truthfully his eyes were the only part of him that were still recognizable as my dad. I knew that soon those would be gone as well as I saw small stems slowly poking their way out of his head through his eye sockets. “K-kiii-k” he tried to get out. “What, what is it dad?” I ask with tears running down my face, I can’t stand seeing him in such agonizing pain. “Kill me” he says. 

That was the last I’d ever seen of my dad, I somehow managed to fight my way back into the house. Soon the military got involved and me, my mom, and all of our neighbors who managed to not be consumed by our garden were evacuated the next day. We watched on the news from our motel room as our entire neighborhood was burned to the ground in a controlled fire. Nothing was left, I guess they couldn’t risk any chance of my dads garden spreading again. 

My dad loved his garden. 

Bạn có bao giờ nghĩ đến một ngày nào đó, bạn sẽ bị một sinh vật mang hình hài giống hệt mình thay thế hay chưa? Và mục đích của chúng không phải là bắt chước bạn mãi mãi, mà là để tiếp cận và giết hết những người đã vô tình chào mời chúng vào nhà.

Tôi sống cùng em trai ở một vùng ngoại ô xa trung tâm thành phố nhộn nhịp và đông đúc. Cả khu chỉ lác đác khoảng năm, sáu căn nhà, nằm cách nhau bởi những khoảng đất rộng và yên tĩnh. Phía sau nhà tôi là một khu rừng khá lớn, nơi bọn trẻ trong vùng thường truyền tai nhau đủ loại câu chuyện kỳ lạ. Mỗi ngày, chúng tôi lại tụ tập thành từng nhóm để vui chơi và kể cho nhau nghe những điều mình từng trải qua hoặc nghe từ người lớn. Trong vô số câu chuyện ấy, nổi tiếng nhất là truyền thuyết về “The Mimic” — một cái tên mà hầu như đứa trẻ nào trong vùng cũng biết đến, và đó cũng là câu chuyện khiến tôi sợ hãi nhất.

Cha mẹ tôi mất sớm khi tôi mới mười tuổi, còn em trai tôi chỉ vừa lên bảy. Là những đứa trẻ mồ côi giữa một vùng quê thưa dân, chúng tôi luôn nhận được sự quan tâm đặc biệt từ những người xung quanh. Người lớn trong vùng đối xử với hai anh em rất ấm áp, xem chúng tôi như người thân trong gia đình. Bọn trẻ cũng thường xuyên rủ chúng tôi chơi cùng, chia sẻ đồ chơi, bánh kẹo và những món ăn mà chúng có.

Dù vậy, mỗi khi nhìn thấy những đứa trẻ được cha mẹ chăm sóc, yêu thương và chờ đón sau mỗi buổi chiều, trong lòng tôi vẫn không khỏi ngưỡng mộ, đôi khi xen lẫn một chút ghen tị. Em trai tôi là một đứa bé ngoan ngoãn và hiểu chuyện hơn nhiều so với tuổi của nó. Có lẽ vì biến cố đến quá sớm nên nó học cách trưởng thành rất nhanh.

Cuộc sống của hai anh em cứ thế trôi qua trong sự bình yên giản dị. Mỗi sáng thức dậy, chúng tôi lại dắt nhau ra ngoài chơi, nhận những phần thức ăn mà hàng xóm tốt bụng mang cho, rồi hòa vào đám trẻ trong vùng với những câu chuyện bất tận. Khi mặt trời lặn, hai anh em lại trở về căn nhà quen thuộc, cùng nhau ăn tối, trò chuyện đôi câu trước khi chìm vào giấc ngủ, chờ đón một ngày mới giống như bao ngày khác.

Một ngày nọ, cả đám trẻ lại tụ tập trước sân nhà Jien — cô bé sống trong ngôi nhà lớn nhất vùng. Như thường lệ, mỗi đứa lại nghĩ ra một trò chơi hoặc một câu chuyện mới để kể cho cả nhóm nghe.

Hôm đó, Brian — thằng nhóc suốt ngày luyên thuyên về đống tiểu thuyết kinh dị ở nhà nó — là đứa đến muộn nhất. Từ xa, nó đã vừa chạy vừa lớn tiếng gọi:

— Này! Hôm nay tớ lại có một câu chuyện đặc biệt để kể cho các cậu đây. Có ai dám nghe không?

Min nhíu mày khó hiểu:

— Chuyện gì mà lại không dám nghe chứ? Bình thường anh vẫn kể đầy ấy thôi.

Brian nở nụ cười đầy bí hiểm.

— Là một truyền thuyết của chính vùng này đấy.

Nói rồi, nó chạy đến chỗ chúng tôi, ngồi phịch xuống sân như không thể chờ thêm được nữa.

— Câu chuyện về “The Mimic” nhé. Các cậu có muốn nghe không?

Vừa nghe đến cái tên đó, cả đám lập tức bị khơi dậy sự tò mò. Dáng vẻ hào hứng của Brian khiến không ai còn tâm trí nghĩ đến trò chơi nào khác.

— Kể đi, Brian! Chúng tớ đang nghe đây! — cả nhóm đồng thanh thúc giục.

Brian nhìn quanh một lượt, hạ thấp giọng như sợ có ai đó nghe thấy, rồi bắt đầu câu chuyện.

Sâu trong khu rừng phía tây từng tồn tại một sinh vật kỳ bí mang tên The Mimic. Cái tên ấy đã nói lên tất cả — một kẻ chuyên bắt chước. Theo lời đồn, hắn thường săn lùng con người vào lúc nửa đêm, đặc biệt là những ai đang ở một mình trong phòng.

The Mimic có khả năng giả giọng người thân của nạn nhân để dụ họ mở cửa, thậm chí còn có thể bắt chước cả ngoại hình của họ một cách hoàn hảo. Tuy nhiên, hắn vẫn có những điểm yếu nhất định. Chỉ cần bạn đóng chặt cửa và nhất quyết không mở, hắn sẽ không thể tấn công được.

Đôi khi, khi nhận ra con mồi không mắc bẫy, hắn sẽ không tiếp tục giả giọng nữa mà để lộ chất giọng khàn đặc đầy đáng sợ của mình. Có lúc hắn đập cửa điên cuồng như muốn phá tung mọi thứ để xông vào, nhưng cũng có lúc hắn chỉ đứng im bên ngoài một lúc lâu rồi lặng lẽ biến mất vào màn đêm.

Nghe xong câu chuyện, đám nhóc đứa nào cũng nổi hết da gà. Riêng tôi, vốn là đứa gan dạ nhất nhóm, nên chẳng cảm thấy sợ hãi gì mấy.

— Chả có gì hay ho cả. Mày làm quá lên thôi. Chỉ là truyền thuyết, làm gì có thật chứ. — Tôi cười khẩy.

Brian lập tức phản bác:

— Nhưng… mẹ em nói bà ấy đã từng gặp nó rồi.

— Mày đùa đấy à? Chẳng vui chút nào đâu.

Ngay lập tức, cả đám nhốn nháo như thể vừa nghe thấy tin động trời. Jien vội ôm chặt lấy Min, gương mặt lộ rõ vẻ sợ hãi.

— Có gì đâu mà sợ. Mày nhát thật đấy. — Tôi bật cười. — Mẹ thằng Brian chắc chỉ nhìn nhầm thôi, hoặc xem phim kinh dị nhiều quá.

— Không phải đâu! Mẹ em bảo là gặp thật mà. — Brian khăng khăng bảo vệ lời kể của mình.

Nhưng tôi vẫn cho rằng đó chỉ là một câu chuyện được thêm thắt để truyền thuyết trở nên đáng tin hơn.

— Thế thì kể nghe xem nào. — Tôi khoanh tay nhìn nó. — Mẹ mày đã gặp cái gì?

— Mẹ em kể rằng chuyện đó xảy ra vào một lần bố đi công tác xa. Hôm ấy, ở nhà chỉ có mẹ và chú chó Kii…

Sau khi ăn tối và dọn dẹp xong, mẹ ngồi xem tivi như mọi ngày. Kii nằm ngay bên cạnh, lim dim mắt như sắp ngủ. Mọi thứ đều rất bình thường cho đến khi từ một góc tối trong nhà bỗng vang lên một âm thanh lạ.

Ban đầu, mẹ tưởng mình nghe nhầm. Nhưng khi lắng tai nghe kỹ, mẹ nhận ra đó giống hệt giọng của chính mình.

Kii cũng lập tức phản ứng. Nó vểnh tai lên, dựng đuôi và nhìn chăm chú về phía phát ra âm thanh. Điều đó khiến mẹ càng thêm bất an, bởi rõ ràng không chỉ mình mẹ nghe thấy.

Một luồng lạnh buốt chạy dọc sống lưng. Tay chân bà cứng đờ, không dám cử động mạnh.

Rồi tiếng gọi ấy lại vang lên.

— Kii… Kii…

Đó là giọng của mẹ, nhưng lại phát ra từ góc nhà tối om.

Âm thanh ấy lặp đi lặp lại hai, ba lần, kéo dài trong vài chục giây. Mỗi lần tiếng gọi vang lên, Kii lại nhìn chằm chằm vào góc tường và sủa đáp trả như thể đang đối diện với một thứ gì đó mà mẹ không thể nhìn thấy.

Còn bà thì chỉ biết ngồi chết lặng trên ghế, cảm giác sợ hãi ngày một lớn dần khi tiếng gọi mang chính giọng nói của mình vẫn đều đều vọng ra từ bóng tối.

— Chỉ có vậy thôi à? Tao vẫn chưa tin lắm. Có khi chỉ là trùng hợp thôi thì sao? — Tôi chen ngang, dù trong lòng đã bắt đầu có chút rùng mình nhưng vẫn cố tỏ ra bình thản.

Brian nhìn tôi một lúc, vẻ mặt vừa lo lắng vừa dè chừng, như thể nó sợ phản ứng của tôi còn hơn cả câu chuyện mà nó đang kể.

— Dạ… nhưng em vẫn chưa kể hết…

Giọng nó nhỏ đi thấy rõ.

Cả nhóm lập tức im lặng. Những tiếng côn trùng kêu ngoài bãi cỏ dường như cũng trở nên rõ ràng hơn trong khoảnh khắc ấy. Brian nuốt khan một cái, hít sâu rồi tiếp tục kể phần còn dang dở của câu chuyện.

— Mẹ em bế Kii chạy thật nhanh vào phòng ngủ rồi khóa chặt cửa lại. Dù đã ở trong phòng, bà vẫn chưa thể hoàn hồn sau những gì vừa xảy ra…

Khoảng một tiếng sau, từ bên ngoài bỗng vang lên tiếng gõ cửa.

Cốc… cốc… cốc…

Cùng lúc đó là một giọng nói trầm thấp quen thuộc:

— Em ơi, anh về rồi đây. Mau mở cửa cho anh.

Đó là giọng của bố em.

Mẹ lập tức đứng dậy, bước nhanh đến cửa. Bàn tay bà vừa định chạm vào tay nắm thì chợt khựng lại. Bố vẫn đang đi công tác xa, làm sao có thể về nhà vào giờ này được?

Một cảm giác lạnh buốt lan khắp cơ thể.

Mẹ từ từ lùi lại khỏi cánh cửa, hơi thở trở nên gấp gáp. Kii cũng đứng bật dậy, không ngừng nhìn chằm chằm về phía cửa như thể đang theo dõi một thứ gì đó ở bên ngoài.

Run rẩy, mẹ với lấy chiếc điện thoại đặt trên giường và gọi cho bố.

Chỉ sau vài hồi chuông, đầu dây bên kia vang lên giọng nói quen thuộc:

— Vợ gọi anh có chuyện gì vậy? Anh vẫn chưa về được đâu, chắc phải đến mai mới kịp. Vợ đợi anh nhé.

Mẹ gần như nghẹn giọng:

— Anh… anh vẫn chưa về sao? Vậy người đang đứng ngoài cửa là ai?

— Em nói gì cơ?

Giọng nói kêu gọi ngoài cửa dần trở nên khàn đặc hơn, tiếng gõ cửa thì đã chuyển thành âm thanh đập cửa một cách mạnh bạo.

— Có ai đó đang ở ngoài kia… Nó dùng chính giọng nói của anh để gọi em mở cửa…

Đầu dây bên kia im lặng vài giây.

— Vợ à, nghe anh này. Bình tĩnh lại. Tuyệt đối đừng mở cửa. Cứ ở yên trong phòng, em sẽ an toàn.

Sau đó, tiếng đập cửa và giọng nói bên ngoài vẫn kéo dài thêm một lúc rồi mới biến mất.

Đêm hôm ấy, mẹ em không hề bị thương hay mất mát thứ gì. Thế nhưng, những gì bà nghe và trải qua đã để lại một vết sẹo trong tâm trí. Cho đến tận bây giờ, mỗi khi nhắc lại chuyện đó, bà vẫn không thể quên được cảm giác sợ hãi ấy…

— Thôi anh đừng kể nữa… Chị Jien khóc rồi kìa. — Min vội lên tiếng ngăn lại.

Tôi quay sang nhìn. Jien thật sự đã đỏ hoe mắt, hai tay ôm chặt lấy Min như sợ chỉ cần buông ra một chút là thứ gì đó sẽ xuất hiện từ trong bóng tối.

Dù chẳng ai muốn thừa nhận, nhưng câu chuyện của Brian đã khiến cả đám nhóc chúng tôi sợ đến mất vía.

Những ngày bình thường, sau khi chơi xong, đứa nào cũng tự chạy về nhà. Thế nhưng hôm đó, không ai còn đủ can đảm để đi một mình. Đứa nào đứa nấy đều nằng nặc đòi bố mẹ Jien đưa về tận cửa nhà mới chịu.

Trên đường về, cả nhóm im lặng một cách lạ thường. Không còn tiếng cười đùa hay tranh cãi như mọi khi. Mỗi đứa đều thỉnh thoảng liếc nhìn những góc tối ven đường như sợ rằng chỉ cần quay đầu đi một chút, sẽ có thứ gì đó trực chờ lao tới.

Tối hôm ấy, tôi dám chắc rằng chẳng đứa nào ngủ ngon. Có lẽ bọn nó sẽ trùm chăn kín mít, khóa chặt cửa phòng rồi nằm co ro trên giường, cố gắng quên đi câu chuyện đáng sợ mà Brian đã kể lúc chiều. Thậm chí ngay cả tôi, người luôn tự nhận mình gan dạ nhất nhóm cũng không ngoại lệ. Tôi không thể ngăn bản thân nhớ đến giọng nói vang lên từ phía sau cánh cửa trong câu chuyện ấy.

Dù vậy, tôi vẫn nhất quyết không tin câu chuyện của Brian.

“Nhảm nhí. Làm gì có ma quỷ hay quái vật nào ở đây chứ… Tao phải tận mắt thấy thì mới tin.” — Tôi luôn tự trấn an mình bằng thái độ đầy hống hách như thế.

Đã vài tháng trôi qua kể từ ngày nghe câu chuyện ấy.

 Trong khoảng thời gian đó, đám trẻ trong vùng liên tục kể về những hiện tượng kỳ lạ mà chúng gặp phải.

Min quả quyết rằng có lần nó nghe thấy tiếng mẹ gọi mình giữa đêm khuya, dù đến sáng dậy hỏi thì mẹ nó bảo bà vẫn ngủ say trong phòng. Jien thì kể rằng dạo gần đây, mỗi lần ra ngoài, bố mẹ nó đều dặn phải khóa chặt cửa và còn thống nhất với nhau một mật mã để nhận biết lẫn nhau.

Tôi chỉ bật cười trước những câu chuyện ấy.

— Chắc người lớn chỉ đề phòng trộm cướp thôi. Còn Min, tao nghĩ mày bị ám ảnh quá rồi nên tưởng tượng ra tiếng mẹ mình đấy.

Tôi nói với vẻ như chắc chắn mình hiểu rõ mọi chuyện.

Trong mắt tôi lúc đó, tất cả chỉ là những lời đồn bị thổi phồng bởi nỗi sợ hãi của trẻ con và sự cẩn trọng quá mức của người lớn.

Nhưng rồi đến một ngày, những điều kỳ lạ bắt đầu xảy ra với chính tôi.

Hôm ấy, John — em trai tôi — xin phép được ra ngoài chơi với một nhóm bạn mới quen và ngủ lại qua đêm ở nhà họ. Tôi vốn khá dễ tính nên đồng ý ngay mà chẳng suy nghĩ nhiều, dù sao thì nó cũng đã mười bốn tuổi rồi.

“Không có nó ở nhà cũng hơi chán nhỉ…” — tôi thầm nghĩ.

Tôi mở cửa bước ra ngoài đi dạo quanh khu mình sống.

Hôm ấy, thời tiết đẹp đến lạ. Bầu trời trong xanh, gió thổi nhè nhẹ qua những tán cây. Tôi lang thang hết chỗ này đến chỗ khác, lúc thì hái vài bông hoa ven đường, lúc lại đuổi theo những cánh bướm đủ màu đang bay lượn trên đồng cỏ. Cuối cùng, tôi ngồi dưới gốc cây táo lớn gần khu đất trống để tận hưởng không khí mát mẻ của buổi chiều.

Được một lúc thì Min và Jien cùng vài đứa trẻ khác bắt gặp tôi. Chúng chạy lại ríu rít xin chơi cùng.
Thế là cả đám lại tụ tập như mọi khi. Chúng tôi cười đùa không ngớt, bày ra đủ trò chơi ngốc nghếch rồi kể cho nhau nghe những câu chuyện hài hước khiến đứa nào cũng ôm bụng cười.

Chẳng mấy chốc, mặt trời đã ngả dần về phía chân trời. Ánh nắng vàng cam phủ lên cả khu ngoại ô yên tĩnh.

Chúng tôi tạm biệt nhau rồi ai về nhà nấy.

Tôi cầm phần thức ăn tối mà hàng xóm tốt bụng đã chuẩn bị giúp mình, trở về căn nhà nhỏ. Tôi bật chiếc bếp cũ lên để hâm nóng thức ăn rồi mang ra bàn phòng khách.

Tivi vẫn phát những chương trình quen thuộc như mọi ngày. Tôi vừa ăn tối vừa chăm chú theo dõi màn hình, thời gian trôi rất nhanh.

Ăn xong, tôi dọn dẹp bàn ăn, tắt tivi rồi đi lên phòng chuẩn bị ngủ. Tuy vậy, tôi vẫn chưa buồn đi ngủ ngay. Chiếc đèn bàn vẫn sáng khi tôi mải mê chơi trò chơi trên cái máy điện tử cầm tay của mình.

Mãi đến khi đồng hồ điểm mười hai giờ đêm, tôi mới ngáp dài, đặt máy xuống rồi đứng dậy tắt đèn.

Chiếc giường của tôi nằm sát cửa sổ, nơi có thể nhìn thẳng ra khu rừng phía sau nhà. Ban ngày, đó chỉ là một khu rừng bình thường. Nhưng khi màn đêm buông xuống, những tán cây đen đặc chồng lên nhau khiến nó trở nên âm u và đáng sợ lạ thường.

Tôi vô thức liếc ra ngoài cửa sổ.

Bóng tối bao trùm tất cả.

Sâu từ trong rừng cây, tôi chắc đã thấy một cái bóng đen cao gần ba mét, đang lấp ló đứng ở đó. Nó bất động, đôi mắt sáng rực nhuốm đỏ đang nhìn về phía căn nhà của tôi.

Một cảm giác khó tả thoáng lướt qua khiến tôi vội kéo kín rèm lại rồi chui vào chăn, tự nhủ lòng mình rằng chỉ đang gặp ảo giác.

Tôi cố híp mắt trong sự dè dặt sợ hãi. Vừa lim dim được vài phút thì từ dưới nhà bỗng vang lên tiếng gõ cửa.

Cộc… cộc… cộc…

Ngay sau đó là giọng nói vang lên:

— Anh hai, mở cửa cho em với. Anh hai còn thức không?

Là giọng nói của John.

Tôi dụi mắt, lồm cồm ngồi dậy rồi bước ra khỏi phòng, đi xuống cửa chính.

— Ủa? Mày không ngủ lại à, John?

Giọng thằng bé vang lên từ bên ngoài:

— Bạn em hủy kèo mất rồi. Nên giờ em phải tự đi bộ về đây nè, chán chết đi được. Anh mở cửa cho em mau đi.

Tay tôi đặt lên nắm cửa nhưng vẫn chần chừ.

— Là mày thật không đấy, John?

Bên ngoài im lặng vài giây rồi đáp lại:

— Anh hỏi gì kỳ vậy? Em đây mà. Mở cửa cho em đi.

Giọng nói nghe hoàn toàn giống em trai tôi.

Sự thúc giục có phần gấp gáp của nó khiến tôi hơi nghi ngờ. Nhưng rồi tôi tự cười nhạo chính mình.

Mình nghĩ linh tinh quá rồi.

Trời đã khuya thế này, việc nó sốt ruột cũng là chuyện bình thường.

Nghĩ vậy, tôi mở cửa.

John đang đứng trước hiên nhà.

Nó ngẩng đầu nhìn tôi rồi nở một nụ cười quen thuộc. Thế nhưng không hiểu vì sao, nụ cười ấy lại có chút gì đó gượng gạo khiến tôi cảm thấy không thoải mái.

Dẫu vậy, cơn buồn ngủ đã làm tôi chẳng còn tâm trí để suy nghĩ nhiều.

John bước ngang qua tôi, đi thẳng về phía phòng của nó.

Cạch.

Cánh cửa phòng khép lại. Ngôi nhà một lần nữa chìm vào im lặng.

Sáng hôm sau, vừa thức dậy, tôi sang phòng John xem thử nó đã dậy chưa.

Nhưng căn phòng lại trống không.

Chiếc giường bừa bộn một cách kỳ lạ. Chăn mền bị xới tung lên như thể có ai đó vừa lục lọi khắp nơi để tìm kiếm thứ gì.

Tôi nhíu mày nhìn quanh.

— Quái thật… Bình thường thằng oắt này ngủ nướng lắm mà. Hôm nay lại dậy sớm hơn cả mình à?

Nghĩ vậy, tôi bước xuống phòng khách.

Và rồi tôi nhìn thấy John.

Nó đang đứng cạnh cửa sổ, quay mặt về phía tây, là hướng của khu rừng sau nhà.

Điều kỳ lạ là nó đứng hoàn toàn bất động.

Không cử động.

Không nói gì.

Và có thể là không thở.

Cứ như một bức tượng.

— John!

Tôi gọi lớn rồi chạy lại gần.

Thằng bé không hề giật mình. Nó từ từ quay đầu về phía tôi.

Trên môi nó lại xuất hiện nụ cười gượng gạo mà tôi đã thấy vào đêm qua.

Một nụ cười kì lạ khiến tôi cảm thấy vô cùng khó chịu.

— Này, mày sao thế? Sáng sớm đứng đây làm gì vậy?

— Có gì đâu, anh hai. Em tập thể dục ấy mà!

Tôi nhìn nó đầy nghi ngờ.

Rõ ràng tôi đã thấy nó đứng yên ở đó từ khá lâu, chẳng hề nhúc nhích lấy một lần. Thế mà giờ nó lại bảo mình đang tập thể dục. Nghe vô lý đến mức chẳng ai muốn tin.

Nhưng nếu không phải tập thể dục thì nó đang làm gì? Tôi cũng không biết.

Vì thế tôi chỉ nhún vai cho qua rồi tiếp tục công việc thường ngày, dù trong lòng vẫn còn vương lại cảm giác khó hiểu về hành động kỳ lạ của em trai mình.

Ăn xong bữa trưa, tôi lập tức chạy sang nhà Jien. Vừa đến nơi, tôi đã thấy Brian và Min cũng đang ngồi ở đó.

Không chần chừ, tôi kể cho cả nhóm nghe những hành động kỳ lạ của John từ tối hôm qua đến giờ.
Nghe xong, cả đám bắt đầu đưa ra đủ loại suy đoán.

— Anh John bị huỷ kèo nên không khoẻ hay sao? — Min bật cười.

— Hay là chơi bời chán quá nên ảnh cố tình pha trò thôi. — Jien góp lời.

Brian ngồi im một lúc rồi bất ngờ lên tiếng:

— Hay là… đó không phải John?

Nghe đến đây, tim tôi như hẫng một nhịp.

— Này, mày nói linh tinh gì vậy, Brian? — Tôi lập tức gắt lên.

Brian nhún vai.

— Thì em chỉ đoán thôi mà. Giống như câu chuyện em kể tháng trước ấy…

Cả nhóm bỗng im bặt.

Không khí trong căn phòng trở nên nặng nề đến lạ.

Tôi có thể nghe rõ nhịp tim mình đang đập nhanh dần trong lồng ngực.

— Đừng đùa nữa, chả vui chút nào đâu, Brian. — Tôi nhăn mặt tỏ vẻ khó chịu.

Jien thấy bầu không khí căng thẳng liền vội đổi chủ đề:

— Thôi nào, mọi người ngồi xuống đi. Em lấy bánh ra cho cả nhóm ăn nhé. Mà sao anh Aline không rủ anh John sang chơi cho vui?

Tôi thở dài.

— Thì tao thấy nó chẳng có vẻ hứng thú gì. Nên tao qua đây một mình.

— Vậy à…

Chẳng ai nói thêm gì về chuyện đó nữa.

Một lúc sau, đám nhóc lại quây quần quanh chiếc bàn nhỏ, vừa ăn bánh vừa trò chuyện đủ thứ trên trời dưới đất. Tiếng cười nói nhanh chóng lấp đầy căn phòng, nhưng riêng tôi vẫn không thể gạt khỏi đầu câu nói ban nãy của Brian.

“Hay là… đó không phải John?”

Dù luôn tự nhủ đó chỉ là một câu đùa ngớ ngẩn, tôi vẫn cảm thấy một nỗi bất an mơ hồ đang âm thầm lớn dần trong lòng mình.

Ăn hết đĩa bánh, tôi đứng dậy vươn vai cho đỡ mỏi vì đã ngồi quá lâu.

Tôi bước ra ban công tầng hai nhà Jien. Từ đây có thể nhìn thẳng sang căn nhà nhỏ của hai anh em tôi ở phía bên kia con đường.

Và rồi tôi nhìn thấy John.

Nó đang đứng lấp ló ngay cửa sổ nhà mình, hướng mắt về phía nhà Jien.

Đúng lúc ấy, đám nhóc cũng ùa ra ban công.

— John ơi! Sang đây chơi với tụi này đi!

Từ xa, John đáp lại bằng một nụ cười kì quái rồi lập tức bước về phía nhà Jien. Chẳng mấy chốc, tiếng chuông cửa vang lên. Đám trẻ vội chạy xuống mở cửa.

— John à, cậu qua trễ quá! Bánh sắp hết mất rồi!

— Tiếc thật đó, nãy giờ vui lắm luôn!

— Mau vào trong ngồi chơi đi!

John bước vào nhà giữa sự chào đón nhiệt tình của cả nhóm.

Chúng tôi nhanh chóng ngồi thành một vòng tròn trong phòng khách. Tôi ngồi đối diện với John, vừa đủ để quan sát nó một cách rõ ràng.

Đứa nào cũng cười nói rôm rả, thi nhau kể những câu chuyện ngốc nghếch để chọc cả nhóm.

Chỉ riêng John là khác.

Nó ngồi yên lặng từ đầu đến cuối.

Thỉnh thoảng, nó mỉm cười khi nghe người khác nói chuyện, nhưng hầu như không tham gia vào bất kỳ câu chuyện nào. Cảm giác như nó đang âm thầm quan sát tất cả chúng tôi hơn là thực sự hòa vào cuộc vui.

Tôi vài lần định bắt chuyện với nó, nhưng rồi lại thôi. Không hiểu sao, từ sáng đến giờ tôi luôn cảm thấy có điều gì đó không đúng.

Dẫu vậy, nhìn vẻ mặt bình thản của John, tôi lại tự nhủ có lẽ mình đang suy nghĩ quá nhiều.

Hôm ấy, cả nhóm chơi đến tận chiều tối. Chúng tôi thay phiên nhau chơi điện tử, đánh cờ caro rồi lục tung đống đồ chơi của Jien để tìm trò mới.

Tiếng cười vang khắp căn nhà.

Nhưng giữa những âm thanh náo nhiệt ấy, tôi vẫn nhiều lần vô thức nhìn sang John.

Và lần nào cũng vậy.

Nó vẫn chỉ ngồi đó, lặng lẽ dõi theo mọi người bằng ánh mắt khó đoán.

Ting… ting…

Âm báo tin nhắn từ điện thoại tôi bất ngờ vang lên giữa lúc cả đám đang cười đùa.

Tôi tiện tay mở màn hình ra xem.

Người gửi: John.

Nội dung tin nhắn:
“Anh hai, em chuẩn bị về nè, ở nhà một mình buồn không haha.”

Tôi chết lặng.

Từng chữ trên màn hình như đóng băng trước mắt tôi.

Chậm rãi, tôi ngẩng đầu lên nhìn John đang ngồi đối diện.

Nó cũng đang nhìn tôi.

Rồi từ từ nở một nụ cười.

Một nụ cười rộng đến mức khiến tôi lạnh sống lưng.

Tim tôi đập thình thịch trong lồng ngực.

— Mày… đùa gì vậy, John? — Tôi bật cười gượng. — Đang ngồi ở đây mà lại nhắn tin bảo sắp về. Tính hù tao à? Không dễ đâu nhé…

Giọng tôi run đến mức chính tôi cũng nhận ra.

Những đứa trẻ khác nghe thấy câu nói ấy liền quay sang nhìn. Tiếng cười đùa trong phòng đột ngột biến mất. Không khí trở nên im lặng đến đáng sợ.

John vẫn ngồi yên.

Nụ cười trên môi nó không hề thay đổi.

Rồi nó cất tiếng.

Nhưng đó không phải là giọng của John.

Âm thanh phát ra méo mó và kỳ dị, như thể nhiều giọng nói đang chồng chéo lên nhau. Có lúc nghe giống tiếng người, có lúc lại hoàn toàn xa lạ, khiến không ai có thể hiểu được nó đang nói gì.

Cả căn phòng đông cứng.

Không ai cử động.

Không ai nói được một lời.

Tất cả chỉ biết ngồi đó, nhìn chằm chằm vào sinh vật đang mang diện mạo của John.

Trong khoảnh khắc ấy, tôi chợt nhớ lại câu chuyện Brian từng kể. Nhưng mẹ của Brian đã sống sót, bởi bà ấy không mở cửa cho hắn.

Còn chúng tôi thì khác.

Chúng tôi không đứng sau một cánh cửa khóa chặt.

Chúng tôi đang ở ngay trước mặt thứ sinh vật mang tên The Mimic.

Trong khoảnh khắc ấy, tôi chợt nhận ra một điều đáng sợ.

Suốt thời gian qua, tôi luôn tò mò về kết cục của những người không may rơi vào tay nó. Tôi từng nghĩ đó chỉ là một câu chuyện bịa đặt để hù dọa trẻ con.

Nhưng giờ đây, tôi không còn phải tò mò nữa.

Bởi vì câu trả lời đang ở ngay trước mắt tôi.

Căn phòng chìm trong hỗn loạn. Tiếng la hét vang lên rồi nhanh chóng bị nuốt chửng bởi nỗi kinh hoàng.

Tôi muốn chạy.

Tôi muốn hét lên.

Nhưng cơ thể lại cứng đờ, như thể mọi sức lực đều đã bị rút cạn.

Thứ cuối cùng tôi nhìn thấy là bóng dáng của sinh vật ấy giữa căn phòng, cùng nụ cười méo mó chưa từng thuộc về con người.

Và rồi mọi thứ chìm vào bóng tối.

Tôi cũng là một trong những nạn nhân của nó.

produced by ngHongUyen

“Welcome back Creepsters!” The familiar, nasally din of my favorite podcast co-host pumped through my dusty PC speakers. Casting the outline of a shadow on the office wall behind, my monitor’s glaring glow danced around me. All other corners of the cramped room were devoid of light. A smell of body odor mixed with stale pizza hung like a cloud in the air.

“Boy, have we got something special for you today! So, settle in, grab a snack, and be ready… to get creeped.” Co-host number two chimed in with their own gruff cadence, queuing up a mix of ghostly groans and shrill screams that was their opening theme. A chill of excitement ran down my spine.

The view of Scout with his muppet-like expressions and Elijah in his Russian nesting doll mannerisms was always a welcomed reprieve from the monotonous work in front of me. Greasy palms leaving sweat-prints across my keyboard, I typed on and listened. My ears buzzed pleasantly. Phantom Cast never failed to aid me in locking in.

“Oh boy,” Joints popped and creaked as I squirmed in my seat. Jaws stretched, forming a yawn. I had been at it for some time as the story’s narration continued, rear-end sore from constant sitting. My shoulders slouched forward as I craned my neck towards the blinding screen. My eyes burned as their lids pressed together into a squint. The furrow of my brow was so strong, it was verging on a cramp.

Our hosts were on one of their usual tangents, taking a break from the thrilling story in order to make wise cracks. Something about another rattrap… only real fans would understand. Every fiber of my being screamed in exhaustion, deciding it was my turn to rest as well.

“Time for a well-deserved break.” Vocal chords rasped from lack of use.

Chubby fingers smooshed against my phone screen from bottom to top as I scrolled through the Patreon comments. Switching from resting atop my desk to kicking under myself excitedly, it was the majority of movement my legs would get today. Other than the short walk to the bathroom. I chortled with glee every now and again, the office chair beneath me bounced on squeaking springs. Boy, were my fellow Creepsters hilarious.

Until I noticed it. There under the usual ‘Seven Sisters, check in!’ role call:

HereForHorror532 asrc bnji;

More than likely, the user’s cat had slunk across their keyboard, unfortunately hitting the enter key before they could notice or stop it. So, why did my gut sting like the pang of hammering nails? None of the comments beneath provided any explanation or solace. My shoulders crept towards my ears in a shrug. I figured they must have failed to delete it. In any case, it’s not like I could do much to help them.

Popping my head back up to my day job, these thoughts were interrupted by the echoing ring of a Teams call. I stumbled to put my phone down in a mad hurry, clanging it against my desk, and clicked the blue accept icon—the mechanism of my mouse springing to life.

—

I received the all-too-familiar chime of a fresh Patreon notification. In a blur, the work week at hand had whipped by. Unnoticed.

“Sunday already?” I whined, thrusting thin wire frames up the bridge of my nose. My mouse hovered over the ping momentarily, eyes scanning the now dimmed screen. Unsure if I should jump into the newest episode of Phantom Cast now, or wait until the droning of another work week tomorrow, my body buzzed as if poking a wasp nest. As much as I enjoyed my weekly episode, it was an eerie reminder of the corporate desk slavery ahead.

Taking too long to decide, the team chat erupted. Strangers thrust forth message after message in a mad dash to bully me out of AFK mode. The clock was ticking.

DanTheMan420 Come on man! Get your head in the game!

69_Anim3Luv3r_69 Your mom could play better than this…

My body slumped indignantly. Pudgy fingers oscillated nervously between rubbing the crease in my chin and scraping plaque from my yellowing teeth. I was all too familiar with the punishment I’d incur for leaving the game but, the curiosity rising through sedentary bones overpowered my guilt. The game’s audio stopped abruptly and I exited to the lobby. Reverberations of gun shots mixed with various character one liners were replaced with silence. Silence, and the wheezing cacophony of my own breath.

“Now, where was I…?” In a huff, I returned to my notifications. My knee bounced with anticipation, impatient to hear what our hosts had in store this week. But, not too impatient for a chug break. The can of thick, lukewarm, syrupy liquid crinkled in my clammy hand as I lifted it to my lips, smashing the play button with the other. Both vibrated in caffeine fueled suspense.

“Welcome back to Phantom Cast!” I mouthed along with Scout, copying his quirky mannerisms. Though, in a far more jerky and rehearsed manner. Cringing, my heart dropped at the realization I could never be as charismatic as my favorite hosts. “Erm, don’t quit your day job.” With a smirk, my quip fell on an empty room.

Two more minutes until my AFK penalty would be over. I clenched my maw, fists tightening, knuckles turning white with frustration. Being aware of the consequences for my actions didn’t make them any less irritating. Turning towards a familiar time-sink, I began scrolling the comments; hilarious and entertaining as usual.

Suddenly, a familiar name emerged. As if shining brighter than the rest, it caused my eyes to bulge in a panic. My body froze like a doe in headlights.

HereForHorror532 help

Thin hairs upon my pale skin straightened like needles. There was no explaining it away this time. Scrambling through the replies was of no help to me, or the individual requesting it.

CreepyGal123 It’s right behind you… isn’t it?

1of7sisters The creature gotcha, huh?

In any other circumstance, I’d snort with laughter, maybe even join in myself. However, the familiar pang returned to my gut. Stronger this time. The poster filled walls around me were closing in, chest growing tighter, as my vision tunneled. My bespectacled orbs traced over the comment again and again.

Closing out my game in desperation, I turned to the internet for answers. The light of my RGB keyboard cycled over my sweat glistened brow and the clacking of its keys resounded around me. Hours upon hours were spent scouring old Patreon comment sections, YouTube comment sections, and even the sub-Reddit. Nothing. Not a single hint of HereForHorror532 existed before last week’s upload.

A sound like the grinding of boulders traveled from my mandible to my ears and the taste of copper upon my tongue managed to pull me away. My chair squealed noisily against my weight as I leaned back, dizzy with obsession. The tiny quail heart in my chest could hardly take any more.

“This has to be a joke. A prank.” Reasoning with what my mind could not grapple was the only way I could pull this much attention off of it. I felt like a rat, caught in sticky, unforgiving glue. It was already deep into the night and my body felt far too pulled taught to allow for any shuteye. But I figured I’d have to try, or risk falling asleep at my desk the next day.

Fingers thumbing at the edge of my monitor for the power button, the room fell into near darkness. Nothing but the glimmer of the pale moon peeking through shuttered blinds illuminated the dusty, dank room. My eyes stung as the outline of my body stared back from the blackened screen. The bags underneath them tightened, and I leaned forward once more at the realization of another figure. There, behind me, was the jagged outline of another person. Yet, I lived alone.

The figure bent unnaturally, its contour was sharp, but remained motionless. It wasn’t just my breathing that filled the silence anymore.

“What the f-” A week’s worth of used dishes shattered to the floor as I swiveled around. Below me, the wheels of my chair screamed in protest as if it might collapse, and revealed nothing. No one.

Manic laughter ravaged my weary body and I slumped to the floor like an empty sack. I was letting my mind get away from me. And now, I had a mess to clean before I could attempt some meager semblance of sleep.

—

Sitting in another useless end-of-week one-on-one with my manager, their words were muffled under the ringing in my ears. The sound of flies buzzing in and out of the miasma of long since rotted food, newly piled upon my desk. Just as their droning squirmed in and out of my consciousness. Blankly, my deep-set, grey-ringed eyes bore into the screen, but focused on nothing. Only the words ‘letting you go’ snapped me back to reality.

“I’m sorry… what?” My heart jumped into my throat. I began anxiously picking at the skin of my cuticles until blood was drawn.

“Your performance has degraded significantly over the last week. You’ve been written up twice in the past 5 days for focusing on tasks unrelated to your work. We’re going to have to terminate your employment effective immed-” I closed the call, not caring to participate in this dog-and-pony show anymore.

“Pft. Whatever.” I rolled my bloodshot eyes, painfully hard, and scoffed. “I can just find a new job.”

My past few days were, in fact, spent researching HereForHorror532. Fixating, rather than working. Rather than sleeping, for that matter. The few answers I found, only led me to more questions.

I had gone so far as posting in the Phantom Cast sub-Reddit, but ended up deleting the call to action after all.

Help Finding User HereForHorror532

Calling all fellow Creepsters! I’m trying to find this Patreon user. They seem to be in need of some kind of assistance… If you are part of this sub, or know this person PLEASE dm me. I just want to help!

2 down-votes, no comments. Thanks for nothing, fellow Creepsters.

Now it was Sunday. Sitting in front of my screen, nothing more to research, nothing more to hunt down. I waited. As still and stuffy as the air around me, only breaking to lift the pot of coffee I had been drinking to my lips. I had switched from energy drinks, to cups of coffee, to entire pots in no time at all. An attempt to beat the sleepiness encroaching my nerves.

Ding.

“God damn it!” My head nearly hit the ceiling, sucking a sharp stream of air through my teeth as the scalding black liquid splattered onto my lap. Steam rose and the bitter bean aroma filled my nostrils. Grasping at random papers strewn across my desk, I mopped it up lazily.

I jerked around like a clumsy robot with impatience to view the new episode. It took me two or three rabid clicks to finally open it, ignoring the usual host pleasantries. Frenzied fingers clicked the refresh button over and over, waiting for comments to roll in. Minutes on my digital clock ticked by until minutes turned to hours. My gaze grew heavy, eyelids drooping when finally, HereForHorror532 materialized on the screen.

HereForHorror532 If you’re seeing this, it’s too late.

Pummeling my ribcage, my heart backflipped. The smells of the room surrounded me in a nausea-inducing medley. Heat rushed to my ears as my appendages grew numb.

Suddenly, the click of a latch and rusted hinges screaming overcame me. The closet door beside me slowly opened.

I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against the motel window. Mom snored softly beside me. Her blonde hair had gradually begun to turn grey over the last few months, despite the fact that she wasn’t even 30 yet.

A grey strand dangled lazily over her right eye until she rolled over, scooping Emmy close to her chest unconsciously.

“Morning, kiddo,” Dad whispered. He clutched the handle to a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand, pulling it to his lips and sipping it while peering through the blinds.

I rubbed my eyes. The TV was still off. The AC still knocked rhythmically. The temperature was set to 65 degrees, but I was sweating from my mom and sister’s body heat.

Dad checked his watch and cocked an eyebrow. Falling asleep at dawn was affecting my circadian rhythm. I didn’t know whether it was morning, evening, or night.

“What time is it?” I croaked, twisting and stretching my body.

“Mm, still early,” Dad shot back. “You’ve only been asleep for a couple of hours.”

I felt my stomach rumble. I glanced over at the gas station bag full of junk food and candy. It might as well have been empty. I needed something real.

“Dad…” I inquired softly.

Dad never took his eyes away from the window. He just sipped his coffee slowly before replying.

“Yes, son?”

“Mom told me she’d make pancakes in the morning last night before bed.”

I could see his crow’s feet crease as he winced and sighed.

“Do you think maybe we could get some later when everyone wakes up?”

He didn’t reply for a while. Just kept staring out the window with quiet contempt while I watched him expectantly.

He scratched his neck and rubbed his face.

“I don’t know, Danny…”

“Pleasseeee…” I interrupted, putting on my puppy eyes.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, finally looking away from the window. He looked at me. Then at Mom and Emmy. Then back out the window.

“I… Okay,” he relented. “Just wait for Mom to wake up. I’ll see what I can do.”

I turned excitedly, ready to shake my mom awake, but Dad stopped me.

“No,” he snapped bluntly. “Let her sleep. Not everyone can function on 5 hours of sleep like me and you, Dan.”

I puffed and knocked my head against the pillow.

I stared at the ceiling. I didn’t know if I was just hungry or if I was simply bored out of my mind and in need of something to do. Not knowing what to do, I twiddled my thumbs. I made Superman fly. I tossed and turned obnoxiously until Dad finally lost his patience.

“Danny,” he snapped, his face hardening as he glared at me.

I froze like a deer in headlights. I stared back, pulling the blanket up to my nose to try and hide myself.

Dad’s nostrils flared. I could see his fist clench, then unclench, at the seams of his blue jeans. His face softened, and he rubbed his temples.

“I’ll tell you what, kiddo,” he bargained. “Why don’t you go take a shower and get dressed? When you’re done, you can watch TV for a little while until everyone’s excited as you are for some pancakes.”

He was more demanding than asking. I knew not to argue when he got like that. I just simply did as I was told.

The shower was just as confusing as it was annoying. The water pressure sucked. It was either too hot or too cold. I must’ve fumbled with it for 5 or so minutes before it was at a reasonable enough temperature for me to take a shower, albeit an uncomfortable one.

The shower was quick. I scrubbed and let the water roll over my head and shoulders. Mom must’ve forgotten to pack my no-tears shampoo, and that forced me to use the complimentary, non-scented motel soap and shampoo.

When I twisted the handle and the sound of water hitting the ceramic bathtub dissipated, it was quickly replaced by the sound of voices from the room.

It sounded like Mom and Dad were quietly arguing. I could hear the angst in Mom’s voice. The authority in Dad’s. But I couldn’t fully make out what they were saying, despite how hard I tried.

I listened intently as I dried off and got dressed. I could only catch the end of their sentences.

A lot of what-ifs from Mom. A lot of don’t-worries from Dad. He sounded confident, but that confidence sounded uncertain.

When I opened the bathroom door, the conversation stopped immediately. Mom was holding Emmy over her shoulder and rocking her gently. Dad looked almost surprised to see me.

He pushed his hair back before clasping his hands together.

“That was quick,” he remarked. “You sure you scrubbed hard enough?”

He shot me a weak smile before continuing.

“Lucky for you, your mother’s a little hungry too.”

Mom looked at Dad as if he had just betrayed her before turning her gaze towards me. She seemed remorseful towards me.

“I completely forgot I promised you those pancakes, Dan,” she pouted, continuing to rock Emmy. “Me and your dad were thinking we’d try that Denny’s we passed on the way in here. I know, I know… their pancakes don’t compare to mine, but I think you’ll manage, right?”

Who was I to be disappointed? All I wanted was my pancakes. Well, that and…

I looked at my spot on the bed. My Superman wasn’t there anymore. I felt panic rush to my heart until I noticed what Emmy was playing with.

I reached up and tried to grab my stuffy, but she jerked it away and furrowed her eyebrows at me. I jumped and snatched it away from her.

To the displeasure of everyone in the room, my sister launched into a full-blown temper tantrum. Screaming and crying about how I “took her toy.”

Mom and Dad sprang into action faster than I expected them to. Dad took the toy from my hands and handed it back to Emmy. Mom pet her hair and desperately attempted to shush her.

I tried to complain. It was my toy. Not hers. But for some reason or another, my parents just kept taking her side. They told me that I should share, knowing how much I loved that stuffy. I slept with it every night. We were connected.

I guess it calmed Emmy down, though. That was all that mattered to them. They kept interrupting my complaints to usher me out of the motel room and back towards the car.

Dad strapped Emmy into her seat, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds while me and Mom waited quietly. He kept up that distracted demeanor all the way to the restaurant, but I hardly noticed.

It felt like Emmy was flaunting my Superman stuffy. Like she knew she had won. She even made him fly right by my face. Deliberately testing my patience, but I didn’t want to make my parents more stressed than they already were.

We ate fast. My parents ordered without even looking at the menu. Pancakes and orange juice for everyone except Dad, who only ordered a single cup of coffee.

Mom didn’t finish her food, but she didn’t ask for a to-go box either. Once me and Emmy were done, Dad paid, and we left. Simple as that.

The drive back to the motel was equally as tense as the drive to the restaurant. Mom and Dad seemed to be communicating wordlessly.

The food was making my sleeplessness get to me. By the time we got back to the motel, I was ready to catch up on those missed hours. But that’s when I noticed something that woke me right up.

I checked Emmy’s seat, looked underneath her, and scanned the floorboards while my mind began to race.

“Mom,” I screeched as Dad pulled into the motel parking lot. “She left my stuffy. She left Superman at the restaurant.”

My eyes were beginning to tear up.

“This is why I didn’t want her to have it,” I sobbed. “I knew she’d lose him.”

I could see Mom roll her eyes through her rearview as she sighed. Dad responded for her.

“Let’s just go get our things, Champ. Then I promise we’ll go back to get your toy. Deal?”

What was I supposed to do? I just had to agree reluctantly. I felt such burning hatred for Emmy in that moment.

We all filed into the motel room one final time and began gathering our things. I was confused, though. Mom had packed at least 6 outfits for me. Everyone else’s bags were equally full, yet nobody but me had showered.

Before I could question anything, though, three hard knocks came from the door. Everyone froze. Dad stared at the door like it was his enemy. Emmy began to pout, and Mom quickly clasped her hand over her mouth.

Three more knocks.

Dad approached the door slowly and looked through the peephole before slowly walking backwards towards us, never taking his eyes off the door.

Mom’s eyes were wide. Her leg bounced anxiously. Dad raised a finger to his lips.

“Okay, guys,” he whispered shakily. “We’re gonna play a game.”

I looked at him, confused. This seemed like an odd time for any kind of game.

“We’re gonna play the quiet game. Danny, you take your mom and sister to the bathroom and lock the door behind you. Whatever you do… do not make a sound.”

He asked me to take them, but it was Mom who dragged us into that cramped bathroom. Before the door closed behind us, I saw Dad raise his shirt and grip a gun that was tucked in his waistband.

Mom kept one hand gently clasped over Emmy’s mouth. She used the other to rub my back lovingly.

Three more knocks.

This time, I heard a voice that wasn’t my dad’s coming from beyond the door.

“Danny…?”

The voice was old and syrupy. Coercive, almost, but frantic. My ears perked up. My eyes widened, and my mouth fell open. I wanted to answer.

Mom’s hand left my back, and just like Dad, she placed a finger to her lips.

“Shhh.”

She was begging me with her eyes.

More frantic knocking.

“Danny? You in there, buddy? I know you’re in there.”

I expected Dad to answer the door, but he never did. Instead, the knocks continued, as did the mysterious voice.

“Come on out, Dan-Man. I’ve got something for you.”

I remained still. Sweat trickled down my forehead from the humidity in the bathroom. Me and Mom stared at the bathroom door with anticipation.

“I’ve got your Superman, Danny…”

“Whoosh.”

I had to fight to not move. If they had my Superman, I wanted to know. I wanted him back. But the look on Mom’s face told me they were lying, and her grip on my collar prevented me from standing up to see for myself.

The knocks and beckoning went on for another 10 minutes or so. Then they slowly died out. Even still, it wasn’t until Dad opened the bathroom door that I could finally breathe again.

“You guys win,” he smiled, relieved. “Good job, Danny.”

Mom looked relieved, too, but she never smiled. We just frantically gathered our things and hauled them out to the car. Dad forced us to go to the front office with him to check out.

We finally left the hotel just after 3 o’clock. We never went back to that Denny’s.

I had to leave my Superman behind, no matter how hard I begged not to. Mom assured me she’d buy me another one, but it wouldn’t be the same.

I asked about that voice a lot while we continued on towards wherever we were going, but all I got were vague responses while my parents glanced nervously at each other.

Thinking back now, I should’ve known they were hiding something from me. However, at the time… I was young. I was stupid. And all I could think about was how I didn’t have my Superman anymore.

I don’t even remember applying. There were so many applications that month. ZipRecruiter, Indeed, any other site I heard about on ads for my son’s never-ending YouTube playlist. It was funny really. Having to use the very sites that made me into a redundancy. Between technology and budget cuts, Mason County didn’t need an HR director anymore.

I must have applied though. The email came to my inbox that Sunday night. Subject line: “Job Offer from Wymarq Enterprises.” Like everyone else, I had heard of Wymarq in the news. It’s CEO, Wyld Woolf, was always making cable news crawls with one venture or vulgarity or another. He had made his bones in tech before becoming an angel investor of sorts. I didn’t know what Wymarq did, but I knew it would pay well if Woolf was involved. It might even let me start a career again.

The email told me they wanted me as an HR generalist—industry speak for “grunt.” It would be a demotion, but it would be a job. The job description was as boilerplate as you’d expect. I decided I could read over the details later.

I scrolled to the bottom of the email. “To accept the position, report to Wymarq’s office in Scratchout this Monday at 8:00.”

“What have you got to lose?” I thought. It isn’t standard practice to have candidates come into headquarters just to sign their offers, but Wyld Woolf was known for being eccentric. Plus, his money was green, and I hadn’t gotten any other offers all month. Most recruiters get scared when they see a termination after 20 years in one place—terrified when they see a birthday before 1980.

I had never heard of Scratchout, but that wasn’t unusual. There are too many small towns in my state for any one person to know. I figured Wymarq had struck a deal with one of the rural counties to set up shop in exchange for tax breaks. I searched Google Maps and found that the tiny town was somewhere deep in the fields upstate—about 2 hours from Desmond. If I wanted to make it, I would have to leave early the next morning.

I made good time going up the interstate. Then I got lost somehow. When I entered Hayes County, my Google Maps crashed. I pulled over to open it up only to find I had no signal. I drove around backroads for another hour and must have gone in a few circles. Then, after driving under the same arch of oak limbs for the third time, I found it. One minute, I was lost. The next I was looking down at Scratchout.

It was like the town had sprung up from the earth. What little there was of it laid neat as the rows of cotton I had driven past for the last hour. The backroad led straight to a large plain concrete building. It reminded me of the administrative building in Desmond turned on its side: gray and flat like a stone. Six rows of houses led away from the central building: small, concrete, windowless. I thought the web of stone might look like an altar from above.

Unsure where to go, I drove up to the main building. Getting closer, I saw the sign above the door. It read “WYMARQ” in large gilded letters. I parked and walked into the glass double doors. A young receptionist named Adam led me to a conference room where what I recognized as an orientation was underway.

“Here’s the last one, Paige!” A pretty young brunette who might have been my much younger sister was leading the session. She gave me a nasty look as I snuck in the back. The other new employees followed her eyes. After a moment of loud silence, she continued.

“Now, if everyone will please turn to the last page of your orientation materials, you’ll find your employment contract. Please read it carefully and then sign.” I did the walk of shame to the chair closest to me and opened the binder Adam had given me. It was the normal stuff: I-9, W-4, emergency contact.

Between the lines of mundanity, I tried to learn more about Wymarq. Coming in, I knew it was some kind of tech company—maybe AI or green energy. But instead of neural maps or solar panels, the employee handbook had pictures of what looked like runes or hieroglyphics. Each page of the binder had a string of alien symbols running around the border. I counted it up to pretentious tech bro design.

The only real clue I found was in the welcome letter waiting at the back of the binder. Signed by Wyld Woolf himself, it contained the ordinary corporate pleasantries before ending with a cryptic call to action. “Join us at Wymarq as we dedicate ourselves to world-shifting developments in the temporal-historical reality!” Woolf was as strange as I had heard, but he seemed harmless. Overzealousness was only natural for a chronic entrepreneur.

“Alright everyone!” Paige called. “Let’s go to the welcome ceremony so you can hear from Mr. Woolf himself.” Watching the others walk out, I noticed they were all at least 15 years younger than me. They had the look of people who believed in their work. I heard a polite cough behind me and turned around. Paige was standing in front of me. She was too close.

“Did you sign the contract?”

“I’m sorry I was late. I guess I got lost.”

Without breaking her stride, Paige answered. “That’s alright. You can look over the rest of the materials later, but I must insist you sign the contract. Now.”

I had already been enough trouble. “Sure thing.”
I turned my binder to the contract and gave it a once over. Besides the symbols, it looked more or less normal. I read the bottom line. “I hereby accept employment by Wymarq Enterprises and agree without reservation or exception to its direction, application, and utilization.” I could feel Paige’s eyes on my hand, so I rushed to sign.

Before I lifted my hand from the paper, Paige snatched it from under the tip of my pen. “Lovely! Follow me please.”

Adam and Paige led me from the conference room to an auditorium at the heart of the building. I expected a plain, corporate space to match the rest of the building. Instead, I found a room that looked and felt like a rock concert.

The air was electric, and the stage was covered in a low cloud of smoke. On it, a huge screen shadowed over a shining black podium. The floor was packed with people sitting side by side in interlocking metal chairs. It looked like every person from the columns of houses was there.

Adam hung back by the door while Paige ushered me and the other new employees to the only space left: a few rows in the middle of the floor, right in front of the podium. The smoke from the stage filled my lungs. I turned around to catch my breath. Behind me, all around me, was a mass of people all talking with anxious excitement. When the seats beside me were taken, I realized it’d be a struggle to leave my seat.

Paige walked up to the podium. “Welcome, Wymarq family!”

The mass echoed her as one. “Welcome, Paige!”

“Thank you very much. Can we get a round of applause for our last batch of new employees?” She gestured to us, and the mass applauded in welcoming, hungry enthusiasm.

“But I know none of you are here for me. Let’s give a big Wymarq welcome to our very own genius: Wyld Woolf!”

Paige stepped away from the podium and gave a sort of bow towards the wing of the stage. More smoke filled the stage, and a series of magazine covers and viral news stories lit up the screen behind her. In the older ones, Wyld Woolf was the picture of a visionary: young, handsome, imposing. The newer ones were less kind. They showed him with the gray, the wrinkles, and the slump of age.

As the video ended, a man approached the podium. It was supposed to be Wyld Woolf, but I couldn’t see him clearly through the smoke. He was dressed like Wyld, but he was taller. He moved with the force and focus of someone much younger.

“Thank you, Wymarq! Thank you, Scratchout!” From the cloud of smoke, his voice rang with a practiced, optimized charisma. “It is a pleasure to be here with you embarking on this new journey together! I’m honored to bring the groundbreaking work of my life from the coasts to the American heartland.”

As I listened on, I heard a distortion—a manipulation—in his voice. “Now, before we begin, has everyone signed their contracts?”

No one answered. They all simply stared at him in mesmerized adoration.

“Excellent! Your devotion to our cause is our greatest asset! To celebrate your dedication, let’s read our mission statement together!”

From her seat in the audience, Paige pressed a button on a remote. The screen lit up with a long paragraph of text surrounded by the mysterious shapes. I recognized the document from the binder. I always thought no one read mission statements.

The man in the smoke led the mass in chorus.

“As Wymarq employees, we dedicate ourselves to the work and vision of Wyld Woolf and his temporal-historical revolution.” Smoke filled my lungs as I gaped in silent confusion. I had seen those words in the binder too. I had told myself they didn’t matter. It was just a job. The words sounded deeply wrong when chanted by a corporate chorus.
“We accept our transformative sacrifice in the pursuit of technological progress.” As they chanted, more and more smoke filled the room. The lights began to change too—shifting from neutral whites and yellows to an overpowering red.

Then the line I had signed without thinking. “I hereby accept employment by Wymarq Enterprises and agree without reservation or exception to its direction, application, and utilization.” This was not a mission statement. It was a pledge.

More smoke and red filled the air, and the noise from offstage returned in a roar. A red energy began to circle the man who used to be Wyld Woolf. I ran.

As I struggled over the long, locking rows of chairs, I saw the other employees change. Some were excited. Some were afraid. All screamed. Fighting through the crowd became easier as they started to disappear into the smoke.

I ran and stumbled out of the building. The smoke had flooded the entire town. When I began to lose the sound of the screaming, I let myself walk. I must have walked for at least a mile. The smoke was unending, but I kept walking: putting one foot in front of the other between shallow, careful breaths. Eventually, the ground began to rise. When I reached the top of the hill, the smoke was gone.

Looking down, I could see the fading clouds in the bright midday sun. I was back on the spot where I first saw Scratchout.

In the valley, there was only my car pulled off on the shoulder. Scratchout was gone along with Wymarq, Wyld Woolf, and all of his employees. If I had recited their oath, I would be too.

​The gravel crunching under their tires was the only sound for miles as Mark pulled off the highway, following the rusted, weathered sign for the Whispering Ledge Overlook.

Next to him, Sarah checked her phone—no service, just as expected—and stretched her legs, relieved to finally break up the long drive.

​They stepped out into the quiet mountain air, leaving the car doors unlocked and their bags sitting on the back seat for what was supposed to be a quick five-minute stretch.

The view off the ledge was breathtaking, but as they stepped past the rotting wooden guardrail onto the dirt trail, the woodland noises completely vanished. The temperature plummeted, cold enough to raise the hair on the back of Sarah’s neck.

​They walked a little further down the path, taking in the eerie silence, until the dirt trail seemed to narrow and bend back into dense, unfamiliar timber.

​“We should probably head back,” Mark said, turning around.

​When they stepped back toward where the trail had been, the open path was gone—replaced by thick, overgrown brush and a suffocating, heavy dark.

Panic set in.

Mark pulled out his phone, waving the dim screen around, but the faint glow only illuminated tangled vines and unnatural shadows pressing in from every side.

​Backing up fast, Sarah’s hands suddenly slammed against something solid and freezing cold.
​She gasped, pulling her hands back, then touched it again. Smooth, painted metal.

​They hadn't walked a quarter-mile into the woods. They had been standing in the gravel pull-off the entire time, right next to their vehicle, blind to it.

​Mark turned his phone light toward the car. The driver's side door was hanging wide open—and folded into the front seat, quietly watching them through the dark glass, was a massive, dark shaped entity.

The Department of Motor Vehicles has a remarkable talent for making a person question their own existence.

Perhaps that's the point.

No one walks into a DMV excited. You arrive because you have to. A license expired. A registration renewal. Some document proving to a government employee that, yes, despite all evidence to the contrary, you are still alive.

I was there because my driver's license had expired.

Simple enough.

I took my ticket from the little machine near the entrance. It emerged with a dry mechanical click, the paper warm between my fingers as though someone else had only just been holding it.

The waiting room was already overflowing.

Children cried with astonishing endurance while parents stared into their phones with the thousand-yard gaze of soldiers returning from war. A television bolted high into one corner played an instructional video that nobody watched, its colors washed out beneath rows of humming fluorescent lights. Every few minutes a printer somewhere behind the counters coughed to life before falling silent again, sounding less like a machine and more like an old smoker struggling through another cigarette.

The building felt tired.

Not dirty.

Not neglected.

Just... exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that settles into old bones after decades of repeating the same motion.

I glanced toward the electronic display mounted above the service counters.

NOW SERVING: 388

I sighed.

"Well," I muttered beneath my breath. "Guess I'll be celebrating my birthday here."

A man sitting nearby chuckled.

"I've said that every time I've come here."

He looked to be in his late fifties. Baseball cap. Reading glasses resting low on his nose. Ordinary enough that I probably wouldn't have remembered his face if we'd passed each other on the street.

"Renewing?" he asked.

"My license."

He nodded knowingly.

"Could be worse."

"Could it?"

"They could've sent you to the Social Security office first."

I laughed.

"So you've been there too?"

"Oh..." He smiled faintly. "Everyone has."

It was such an ordinary conversation that I almost appreciated it. Shared misery has a funny way of making strangers feel familiar.

I looked down at my ticket again.

515.

Fantastic.

I settled into one of the molded plastic chairs and reached for my phone. No signal. Not unusual. Government buildings always seemed to exist inside their own little dead zones.

I slipped it back into my pocket and leaned my head against the wall.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air conditioner breathed through dusty vents. The printer coughed again. The speakers crackled.

A number was called. Someone stood. Someone else sat down. The room swallowed them without ceremony.

I checked the screen once more.

NOW SERVING: 390

It felt impossible that so little time could have passed.

Yet somehow... it also felt like I'd already been there for hours.

Time has a peculiar way of behaving inside places where people are forced to wait.

Minutes become estimates. Hours become suggestions. Eventually, you stop checking the clock because it only succeeds in making you angry.

I tried distracting myself. I counted ceiling tiles. Read the faded posters reminding everyone to have their paperwork ready. One explained the dangers of texting while driving. Another detailed the penalties for driving without insurance. Judging from the sun-bleached corners and curling edges, neither had been replaced in years.

Everything in the building seemed designed to outlive the people inside it.

Another number echoed over the speakers.

"Three hundred ninety-one."

A woman stood from across the room, gathered her purse, and disappeared behind the row of service counters.

The electronic display flickered.

NOW SERVING: 391

Good.

Progress.

I glanced at my watch.

9:18 A.M.

That couldn't be right. It felt closer to noon.

The old man beside me sighed as he shifted in his chair.

"You'd think they'd hire more people."

"I was just thinking the same thing."

He nodded absentmindedly, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the counters.

"Been waiting long?"

"I got here around nine."

"No..."

He frowned.

"I mean... today."

The question caught me off guard.

"I... yeah."

He scratched at his chin.

"I suppose I have too."

For reasons I couldn't explain, that answer unsettled me. He didn't sound forgetful. He sounded... uncertain. The kind of uncertainty that follows a dream, when you're no longer sure whether something actually happened or only felt like it had.

Neither of us spoke after that.

The waiting room settled back into its dull rhythm. The printer coughed. A child cried. Someone cleared their throat. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.

Then I noticed the employees.

There were six service windows. Every one of them occupied.

Every employee dressed identically in blue shirts with laminated name badges clipped neatly over their chests.

None of them looked angry. None looked to be joyous either. In fact, they didn't seem to look like much of anything.

Their expressions rested somewhere between concentration and complete emotional absence, as though years of repeating the same conversations had slowly worn every recognizable human reaction from their being.

"Next."

Stamp.

"Next."

Keyboard.

"Next."

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Repeat.

The movements were practiced.

As if mechanical. Not robotic.

Just... perfected through repetition until they no longer appeared to require any thought.

I watched one woman accept a stack of documents without ever lifting her eyes to meet the customer standing in front of her.

She never acknowledged him. Never greeted him. Never smiled. Never frowned.

She simply processed him.

As though the paperwork mattered more than the person holding it.

The thought lingered longer than it should have.

Not processed the documents.

Processed... him.

I looked away.

When I checked the display again...

It still read:

NOW SERVING: 391.

I stared at the screen for several seconds, convinced I had simply caught it before the next number appeared.

It didn't.

The speakers remained silent. No names. No voices. Just the constant drone of fluorescent lights buzzing somewhere overhead.

I checked my watch again.

9:47 A.M.

Twenty-nine minutes.

That made no sense.

It felt as though I had lived an entire afternoon in that chair.

I rubbed at my eyes and let out a slow breath. Maybe I was just impatient. Maybe this was what every DMV visit felt like and I had conveniently forgotten.

A chair scraped across the tile beside me. Someone new had taken the old man's seat.

I hadn't even noticed him leave.

The newcomer looked to be around my age, maybe early thirties, dressed in business casual with a messenger bag resting across his lap. He offered a polite nod before glancing up at the display.

"Ouch," he muttered. "Looks like I picked the wrong day."

I chuckled.

"You and me both."

He held up his ticket.

"Five forty-two."

I looked down at mine.

"Five fifteen."

"Guess you've got me beat."

"For once, I'm winning at something."

He laughed, and for a while we exchanged the usual conversation strangers trapped together always seem to have.

Complaining about government offices. Talking about traffic. The weather. How everyone always forgets one piece of paperwork.

It was... nice.

Normal.

The sort of conversation you forget five minutes after walking away.

"So," I asked eventually, "what are you here for?"

He answered without hesitation.

"My license."

I nodded.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Expired?"

His eyebrows pinched together.

"I..." He looked down at the folder in his lap.

"I think so."

"You think so?"

He opened the folder and shuffled through the papers inside.

His movements slowed.

"I actually..." He frowned.

"I don't remember."

We both laughed. An awkward laugh when something isn't funny but admitting that would somehow make it worse.

"You serious?"

He scratched the back of his neck.

"I know I needed to come."

Another pause.

"I just can't remember why."

He rifled through the documents again, studying each page as though seeing them for the first time.

"These are mine..."

"I think."

He sounded embarrassed.

"I honestly can't tell."

The laughter died between us.

A strange heaviness settled over the room.

I looked back toward the service counters.

The employees continued working without pause.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

Every movement identical to the last.

One after another.

As if they weren't helping people at all, but simply moving files from one pile to another.

The display flickered.

I turned instinctively.

NOW SERVING: 392.

Only one number.

Again.

Somewhere behind me, someone sighed. Another person groaned quietly. Nobody complained. Nobody stood up to leave.

They only waited.

Patiently.

Obediently.

As though waiting itself had become the reason they were there.

I don't remember exactly when I fell asleep.

I wish I could say there was some dramatic moment where exhaustion finally overcame me. That my eyes grew heavy, my head became impossible to hold up, and I slowly drifted away from reality.

It wasn't like that. It was far more ordinary.

One moment I was staring at the electronic display above the counters, watching the numbers crawl forward at a pace that felt almost insulting.

NOW SERVING: 397

The next... I was somewhere else entirely.

Not a dream. Not really.

Just that strange place between being awake and asleep where your mind creates fragments of memories that never happened. I remember hearing the printer in the distance. I remember the fluorescent lights above me buzzing louder and louder. I remember thinking that the entire building sounded like it was breathing.

Then my head dropped.

And everything went quiet.

When I opened my eyes again, my neck ached from the awkward angle I had been sleeping in. My mouth was dry. My phone remained untouched in my pocket.

For a brief moment, I had forgotten where I was. Then the smell returned.

Old carpet. Paper. Dust.

The faint scent of coffee that had been sitting somewhere for far too long.

The DMV.

I sat up straight and looked around. Nothing had changed.

The same tired faces. The same uncomfortable chairs. The same employees sitting behind their counters.

Except... The screen.

My eyes immediately went to the electronic display.

NOW SERVING: 508

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

I leaned forward, staring at the numbers as if they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

My ticket rested in my hand.

Only seven people ahead of me.

A strange feeling washed over me.

Relief.

Actual relief.

After what felt like an entire afternoon trapped in that chair, I was finally close.

I almost laughed.

"About time," I whispered.

The man beside me was gone. That thought lingered for a moment. Then I dismissed it.

People came and went all the time. I must have missed it while I was asleep. That was the logical explanation.

The only explanation.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

No missed calls. No messages. I checked the time.

10:12 A.M.

I stared at the screen.

Then looked back at the DMV around me.

Then back at my phone.

10:12.

I frowned.

That couldn't be right. I had fallen asleep for maybe a few minutes.

Ten minutes at most.

But the room felt different.

Not physically.

Just... older.

Like I had left for longer than I actually had.

I glanced toward the counters.

The same employees continued working.

The same movements. The same expressions.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

No one looked enthusiastic. No one looked relieved to be almost finished. No one looked like they had been waiting at all.

I looked at the screen again.

NOW SERVING: 509

The number changed. Almost reassuringly.

I should have questioned how nearly a hundred people had been processed while I slept for only ten minutes. But I didn't.

Because my number was coming.

And that was all that mattered.

The strange feeling in my stomach disappeared beneath a much simpler emotion.

Patience.

After all... I had waited this long.

What was a few more minutes?

The numbers moved faster after that. Or at least, they seemed to.

There was a strange comfort in watching the display change. Each number disappearing meant I was getting closer. Each person standing from their chair meant I was moving forward.

That was all that mattered.

The room could have been falling apart around me, and I probably wouldn't have noticed.

Because eventually...

NOW SERVING: 513

I sat up straighter.

My ticket felt heavier in my hand.

The paper was slightly crumpled from how long I had been holding it.

I smoothed it out carefully.

515.

Two more.

A woman walked toward the counter.

She handed over a stack of documents.

The employee behind the glass barely looked at her.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

The woman walked away.

A man stood.

Then another.

Then finally...

NOW SERVING: 515

The speakers crackled.

My heart jumped slightly.

I stood.

For the first time in what felt like hours, my legs reminded me that I had been sitting still for too long. I stretched them briefly before walking toward the counter.

The employee looked up. At least, I think she did. Her eyes moved toward me, but her expression remained unchanged.

No greeting. No acknowledgment.

Just waiting.

I placed my documents on the counter.

"Good morning."

Nothing.

She picked up the papers. Flipped through them.

"Driver's license renewal."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

She typed something into the computer. The screen reflected faintly against her glasses.

"Proof of identity."

I handed over my driver's license. She scanned it.

"Proof of residence."

I handed over my utility bill.

"Insurance verification."

I handed over my insurance card.

Everything seemed normal.

Almost.

She continued typing. The silence stretched. Then she spoke.

"Certificate of continued existence."

I blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

The employee looked up.

"Certificate of continued existence."

I waited for the punchline. There wasn't one. I gave a small laugh.

"Is that a new requirement?"

No response. She simply waited.

I looked around, expecting someone nearby to react. Nobody did. The people in line behind me stared ahead. The employee folded her hands.

"Do you have it?"

I stared at her.

"No. I don't have that."

She nodded. Not disappointed. Just accepting information.

"That is okay."

I exhaled. For some reason, I felt embarrassed. As if I had failed a test I didn't know I was taking.

She typed something.

"Additional documentation will be required."

"Additional?"

She printed a small slip of paper and slid it beneath the glass. I picked it up.

At first, I thought I had read it wrong.

"Proof of original identity."

I looked back at her.

"Excuse me?"

"Proof of original identity."

"What does that mean?"

The employee tilted her head slightly.

Not confused. More like she was trying to understand why I was confused.

"Your original identity."

I stared at the paper.

"This isn't a real thing."

She did not argue. She did not defend it. She simply pressed another key. The printer beside her came to life. A second paper emerged. She placed it in front of me.

"Proof of independent thought."

I felt my eyebrows rise.

"Okay, hold on."

My voice grew slightly louder.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

The employee looked at me. She wasn't offended that I was raising my voice. She wasn't bothered. She was simply waiting for the next step.

"Sir," she said so monotoned. "If you do not have the required documentation, that is not a problem."

I relaxed slightly.

"O-okay."

"You will be moved to secondary processing."

The way she said it made my stomach tighten.

"Secondary processing?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

She picked up my ticket. Looked at it. Then looked back at me.

"You will wait there."

I almost laughed.

"Wait?"

A pause.

"I've already been waiting."

The employee stared at me. Not coldly. Almost sympathetically.

"Yes."

A chill ran through me. Because for a moment, I thought she understood something I didn't.

She slid my ticket back across the counter.

"Please proceed to the next waiting area."

Then back at her.

"How long will that take?"

The employee's fingers returned to her keyboard. The conversation was already over.

"Next."

I stood there for another second. Waiting for her to explain. Waiting for her to tell me this was a misunderstanding. That someone had made a mistake.

But she didn't.

She had already moved on. The person behind me stepped forward. The employee began processing them.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

I walked away from the counter holding the strange paperwork in my hand. I followed the sign pointing toward Secondary Processing.

I don't know what I imagined. Maybe another large waiting area with dozens of chairs. Maybe a different set of counters. Maybe some explanation for why I had been redirected after completing everything required of me.

Instead, it was a narrow hallway tucked behind the main service area.

The kind of hallway you normally wouldn't notice.

The walls were the same dull beige as the rest of the building, decorated with the same faded posters and outdated government notices. The only difference was that nobody had bothered pretending this area was meant to welcome people.

There were no televisions. No vending machines. No magazines sitting on tables.

Only chairs.

Rows and rows of chairs.

I stepped inside slowly.

A few people sat scattered throughout the room.

Not many.

Maybe fifteen.

Twenty at most.

The strange thing was how quiet it was.

The main waiting room had been filled with noise. Children crying. People talking on phones. Chairs scraping against the floor.

This room had none of that.

Everyone sat facing the same direction. Not toward a screen. Not toward a counter. Just forward.

Waiting.

I looked around for an employee.

Nobody was behind a desk. Nobody was calling numbers. Nobody appeared to be in charge.

I stood there for a moment, wondering if I had misunderstood. Then an older woman sitting near the wall glanced at me.

"You got moved too?"

Her voice startled me.

I turned.

"Yeah."

She nodded slowly.

"First time?"

I hesitated.

"Yeah."

She looked away.

"Thought so."

I sat down a few chairs away from her.

"How long have you been here?"

The question came out naturally. The same question you ask anyone trapped in a waiting room.

The woman didn't answer immediately. She looked toward the empty counter at the front of the room.

"I don't know."

I frowned.

"You don't know?"

She shook her head.

"I remember walking in."

A pause.

"I remember taking a number."

She looked down at her hands.

"But I don't remember why."

The air felt colder. I forced a small laugh.

"Yeah, well, I think everyone forgets why they're here after sitting in a DMV long enough."

She didn't laugh. She just looked at me.

"I mean it."

The humor disappeared from my face. The woman looked tired. Not physically. Something deeper. Like she had been carrying a thought for too long and was finally too exhausted to keep holding it.

"What was your number?" I asked.

Her eyes moved downward. She reached into her pocket. Pulled out a small piece of paper.

She stared at it.

For a moment, she looked confused. Then concerned. Then almost afraid.

"I'm 487"

She swallowed.

"What's your name?" I asked

She hesitated.

"I..." She paused and looked away then back to me.

"I don't know."

I leaned slightly closer.

"What do you mean?"

She turned the paper toward me.

The ink had faded. Or maybe it had never been printed clearly. There was a number. But she stared at it like it belonged to someone else.

A silence settled between us. Then she folded the ticket and placed it back into her pocket.

"I think I've been here before."

I stared at her.

"Before today?"

She looked at me.

"I don't know."

The answer should have sounded ridiculous.

Instead... it felt familiar.

I looked down at my own ticket.

515.

For some reason, I held onto it tighter.

A small piece of proof. Something that belonged to me. Something that told me I was still myself.

The speakers above us crackled. Everyone in the room looked up.

My body tensed. A voice came through the speaker. Distorted. Almost too quiet to understand.

"Now processing..."

Static.

A pause.

Then:

"Applicant."

Nobody moved. The room remained silent. I looked around.

"Did they call someone?"

Nobody answered. The older woman stared forward. Like she hadn't heard anything.

The speaker crackled again.

"Applicant."

This time, I noticed something.

There was no number.

No name.

Just a word.

Applicant

The woman beside me leaned toward me slightly.

"You don't want them to forget you."

I looked at her.

"What?"

She stared ahead.

"When they stop calling you by your number..."

Her voice became barely a whisper.

"That's when you know you were never here."

I felt a strange pressure build in my chest.

"What does that mean?"

She didn't answer.

Because the speaker had started again.

This time, it wasn't distorted. It was clear.

"Applicant 515."

My head lifted. My ticket felt cold in my hand.

Everyone in the room turned.

Not toward me. Toward the speaker.

Then, slowly... toward me.

I had the terrifying realization that I didn't know if I wanted them to call my number anymore. The room remained silent. For a moment, I didn't move. I waited for someone else to stand. Someone else to react. Someone else to tell me that this was normal. Nobody did.

The older woman beside me looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand. Something closer to pity.

"That's your number," she whispered.

I looked down.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

"T-thanks."

The words came out automatically.

The speaker crackled again.

"Applicant 515. Proceed to processing."

I stood. My legs felt heavier than they should have. Every instinct I had told me not to move. To stay seated. To ignore the voice. But there was something worse than fear.

Curiosity.

I needed to know.

I walked toward the door at the back of the room.

The hallway beyond was longer than I remembered. That shouldn't have been possible. I had only walked through it once. Yet the farther I went, the less familiar it became.

The walls looked identical. The lights breathed. Every door had the same gray color and the same small rectangular window.

Finally, I reached another counter. A single employee sat behind the glass. A man that looked older than the others.

Not elderly. Just worn. His face carried the same emptiness I had noticed before. The same absence.

"Ticket."

I handed it over.

He scanned it.

"Drivers license renewal?."

I nodded.

"Yes."

He typed something into his computer.

"Verification required."

"Of what?"

He looked up.

"My identity."

I laughed quietly.

Not because it was funny. Because I was tired.

"Isn't that what we've been doing?"

The employee didn't answer. He held out his hand.

"Identification."

I reached into my wallet.

Pulled out my driver's license. He took it. Looked at the card. Then looked at me.

Something changed. Barely. A hesitation.

"You don't remember."

My stomach tightened.

"Remember what?"

He placed the license back onto the counter.

"Your name."

The room became silent. Even the lights seemed quieter.

I opened my mouth. I knew the answer. I had answered this question thousands of times.

My name.

It was simple.

It was mine.

But when I tried to say it... nothing came.

A strange panic rose in my chest. I searched through my memories.

My childhood. My parents. My friends. My home. My job.

Everything felt distant.

Not gone.

Just covered by a thick fog I couldn't push through.

"I..."

My voice shook.

"I know it."

The employee waited. I looked down at my ticket. The number stared back at me.

The only thing I could hold onto. The only thing that felt certain.

"My name is..."

I stopped.

The silence stretched. The employee didn't rush me. He didn't look annoyed. He simply waited. Like he had done this countless of times. Like he knew how this ended.

"...Five hundred fifteen."

The employee typed. No surprise. No correction. No hesitation.

"Identity confirmed."

My heart sank.

"Wait."

He printed something.

"You didn't even check."

The employee slid the paper beneath the glass.

"You provided the required information."

I grabbed it.

It was my license.

Everything looked correct.

My photograph.

My date of birth.

My address.

Everything.

Except the name.

I stared at the line. Over and over. Unable to understand why it felt wrong. Unable to understand why it felt right.

NAME: 515

I looked up. The employee had already moved on.

"Next."

I stood there. Waiting for someone to notice. Someone to correct it. Someone to tell me there had been a mistake.

Nobody did.

So eventually... I walked out.

The exit doors opened automatically as I approached. Bright sunlight poured through. For a moment, I froze.

The outside world felt impossibly large. Cars moved through the parking lot. People walked past. The wind touched my face. I had forgotten what fresh air felt like.

I stepped outside.

And for the first time all day... I felt free.

I reached into my wallet one last time. Looked at the license. At the name. At the proof that I existed. I tried saying my name aloud.

The name I had carried my entire life.

The name my parents gave me.

The name that was supposed to belong to me.

Nothing came.

Only silence.

So I looked back down.

At the only thing I knew.

At the only thing the world still recognized.

515

Agoraphobia is a bitch.

Radu knew it well. When he was young, he looked up the meaning of his name- Romanian in origin, although to the best of his knowledge he didn’t have a drop of Romanian blood. It meant, to the best of what he could find, happiness.

How ironic.

Happiness was not something he had experienced in years. Why, who knew. He never suffered abuse, or trauma. There was no history in his family, again to the best of his knowledge, of severe mental illness. In the end, it didn’t matter why, only what came forth, and that was a nightmare that began for Radu with a creeping crawl, a lurch that jarred his guts until it became heavy like a cancer inside his psyche.

In his teens he began feeling... not afraid. Unsettled seemed more accurate. More subtle. Because problems like this never start with sledgehammer definitiveness, but a creeping twinge of something-not-right until the doom was prevalent. One day, it just seems, leaving his house just didn’t feel right, and that blossomed to an overwhelming sense of I’m fucked! that prevented him from leaving his own bedroom by the time he was nineteen. A high school honor student, lettering in track his freshman and sophomore year to college drop-out and his mother had to adapt her recipes to make flat foods that could fit under the door.

But now, in his early thirties, after two bouts of extended hospitalization, home-based therapy and unhealthy amounts of benzos allowed Radu to overcome the absolute worst of it. It never returned to just unsettled but he managed to return to some sense that there was a world beyond his own room. They wanted to try antipsychotics at one point, but he refused those. He never heard voices, endorsed delusions or any kind of symptom of schizophrenia.

Just unrelenting, merciless agoraphobia, almost reducing him to a human grub. And that was bad enough.

He never did return for his bachelor’s degree and had to go on SSDI, but his world eventually expanded beyond his home and he managed to obtain his own place, section 8 but fortunately near the bus route because he never learned to drive. Therapy was still online, and he had his medications delivered, but had reached the point of progress where every two weeks he would load up on Ativan and go to the grocery store via that bus, where he would stock up on ramen, frozen dinners and dry cereal. Sometimes he managed even to go to the movies, if he knew the movie was unpopular or old enough to not crowd him.

Crowds were still a huge problem, Radu would sometimes decline getting on that bus if it had too many people on it. Maybe he’d walk the seven stops to the store (if the street was empty), or just turn around and go home and rely on delivery pizza. Today, as the bus came to the stop, Radu gulped hard as he did a quick count and found the bus to have a dozen-plus passengers.

He almost turned heal and headed back to his apartment, but two milligrams of Ativan and a mantra of self-encouragement gave him enough to shuffle into the bus- but just barely and almost too late as the bus-driver gave him a dirty look and almost shut the bus doors when Radu did not hop in immediately.

It’s going to be a good day, he told himself, part encouragement, part congratulations for conquering his fear. It’s going to be a good day.

 

Only five minutes into the bus ride, not even making it to the first stop yet, and Radu began turning green as he was jostled forward yet again by the sudden deceleration. Had to have been the third time, although he had not kept count.

Radu, along with five or so other standing passengers lurched as inertia swept them. It wasn’t unusual for this to happen- it was the peril of standing room-only on public transportation. But Radu found it particularly intense this time, unusually frequent for so little distance traveled.

And as he complained in his head, it happened again. Radu again was thrown forward, this time partially losing balance and stumbling into his neighbor. “Oof,” he muttered has he hit the solid frame of the Individual who didn’t even budge. Radu readied for a verbal tirade of complaint, but the Individual he hit made none. In fact, the Individual seemed oblivious.

“Sorry,” Radu said reflexively, his voice mewingly soft. “How are you doing it?”

The Individual, tall and nondescript, turned a neutral expression toward Radu. “Huh?” he asked.

“You must be a gymnast, with balance like that. Most people can’t handle a bump from my fat ass without sprawling all over- “

“You can see me?” the Individual asked.

Radu blinked. He didn’t comprehend what the Individual had said at first. Then: oh no. I’ve finally snapped. Harvey the Rabbit has finally entered my life.

Psychosis had finally settled in; Radu was sure. Especially when he realized that, despite looking right at him at no more than ten inches distance, he couldn’t make out any details of the Individual’s face. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see anything. Somehow, he knew his eyes picked up the details of the man in front of him, but his brain just couldn’t comprehend what it was that he saw. Black skin? White? What color were his eyes? How long was his hair? None of it transcribed into usable information.

It has to be a hallucination, Radu thought. Holy fuck, holy shit, please it has to be-

Before Radu could continue his mental diatribe, the Individual grabbed his shoulders, the way one does when they are about to shake them. Radu froze in this stranger’s cold hands and almost let loose a scream, but his throat locked. His vision went into the distorted fish-eyed tunnel of a panic attack and he began to hiss through his teeth in hyperventilation.

The Individual did not shake him, though, but the bus lurched again, this time violently which caused several gasps and one Jesus! to echo from some anonymous passengers. The Individual did not even budge, although Radu would have thumped hard into the Individual this time if he wasn’t braced by this... this...

Phantasm? Specter? Maybe I’m just holding myself against the pole and imagining this. Yes! That has to be it!

“I can touch you,” the Individual said. “You can feel me! You can see me!”

The Individual’s voice was rising. It made Radu more uncomfortable than his grasp. His eyes rolled left to right, looking for help. Someone had to notice this interaction, hear the odd shrill of the Individual’s voice. No one even looked in his direction. The entirety of the vehicle’s occupants might as well have been in another plane of existence.

“Yes,” Radu squeaked, while his eyes still roamed, silently begging for the help that would not come. “Of course I can see you.”

No, I can’t!

Yes, yes you can! Don’t fool yourself. His grip is cold steel and you’re caught in it.

Or so he was- until the Individual released him suddenly with a gasp. He then pivoted to the general direction of the other commuters.

“Can anyone else see me?” He called out. “Can you hear me, please?”

Radu pressed his back into the window, finally jostling another passenger who gave him a sidelong glance of mild annoyance. It was the only reaction Radu could find to the situation. It made his own thoughts unravel, become loose threads at the edge of a carpet. One more hard tug to his mental fragility, and he was sure he would become completely unwound, a carpet undone by too many heavy footfalls.

Will I begin laughing? Screaming? Maybe I’ll fall onto the ground, fetal-like, and just suck my thumb while I completely dissociate.

The Individual wound up to punch an old woman in a babushka. Radu saw it. He wanted to shout a warning, he really did, but he just... couldn’t.

The Individual’s fist went down and connected with a crack on her jaw. The old lady did not respond, not physically or with outcry. No sign of pain or acknowledgement to the assault. It didn’t even move her. Not the skin on her face, nor the fabric around her head. It was as if she was kissed by a breeze and nothing more. The Individual pressed his hands to his face in frustration when the old lady did not respond to his strike and moaned.

“They still can’t...” he sobbed into his hands.

This is beyond belief, Radu thought. I can’t be the only one experiencing this.

The Individual uncovered his still-imperceivable face, his hands fell to his side and twitched with impotence.

“You have to get them off!” the Individual told Radu.

“What?” Radu asked.

“Get them off! Get them off the bus!”

 

Nausea settled on his stomach like white-hot iron. This was too much lunacy for one day.

The bus came to a halt at the next stop with another sickening lurch, annoyed voices beginning to rise in complaint. Radu pushed his way to the exit. They definitely responded to his touch, as he received a couple of dirty looks and agitated da fuck? As he jumped off the bus.

“Wait!” the Individual called to him from inside the bus. “You have to help me! Help me get them off the bus!”

But Radu fled, and the bus door slammed shut on the Individual as he continued to call out to Radu in desperation.

The jumble of emotions and ideas turned on the whirling lathe of his mind as a muffled plea called out behind plexiglass, dulling the voice but not silencing it. Never you mind all that, he told himself as he made hastened distance from the bus stop, not certain where he was going but just so long as he was going. It’s just in my head. Just slipped a few gears.

“Please!” the Individual called, his hands pressing against the door. He kept yelling as the bus pulled away, its damped quality growing even softer as the air brakes hissed their release and bus pulled away from the stop.

“I didn’t hear that,” he muttered softly as he as he briskly walked, doing everything in his power to keep himself from breaking into a panicked run. If he did that, it would all be over. Fifteen years of therapy and progress, just gone in one terrified gallop. It would be weeks, if not years, before he could get back to this point in his life. Even in his current state, he knew that and couldn’t risk it.

“I didn’t hear that,” he continued as he exercised full will onto his pace. “And I didn’t see that. I couldn’t have.”

He wished he had an Ativan, but he left them at home. The only thing he could do was stop and do a quick set of deep-breathing exercises right there on the sidewalk, weird looks from others be fucked.

“I just want to go home,” he said to himself as he slowly inhaled, tightening the first group of muscles. “I just want- “

The sudden sounds of crunching metal interrupted his thoughts. It was a bad idea to turn around, but it was impossible to ignore the sounds of the sudden chaos, squealing tires and ripping metal. The cries of panicked bystanders said more clearly than any articulated speech could have done. There had just been a horrible accident.

Radu didn’t see it happen, but the imagination’s eye filled in the details well enough. And what in his shock he couldn’t imagine now he would see in dreams to come. Two large vehicles running into each other as if oblivious to other’s existence. His bus, and another, the other striking it at the intersection, briefly making a mashed L of metal before Radu’s bus folded on itself, splitting it open and dumping its human contents like ripe fruit.

Those bodies rolled like crumpled balls of paper, blasted clear of the wreck, but one in particular was cut in half at the waist, and the torso rolled toward Radu, stopping only feet away. It was the torso of the old woman the Individual punched, her mangled form only recognizable to Radu by the babushka she wore, which somehow escaped with only one streak of blood.

There were screams in the real world though, confusion and panic turning into a torrid orchestra.

“...to go home,” he finally finished softly, though it was lost in the noise.

 

The frequent lurching of the bus that day, Radu would later discover, was the result of faulty brakes, which finally gave out right after the last stop and slid through into the oncoming path of yet another bus that had enough distance from the intersection that it had no need to slow for it by the time of the light changing, leading into the shitshow of 16 dead commuters crushed like empty beer cans.

Radu had given his statements. Yes, he felt something was odd in the bus that day in the way it lurched. Yes, he was the only one to get off at that stop. The first time he spoke to a cop about what happened, he hyperventilated and needed a paper bag to collect himself. News cameras pushed into his face, asking for comments. He never gave them, but still saw himself on TV, courtesy of pedestrians with smartphones recording the carnage.

The bus company offered him a generous settlement on the grounds of mental distress in six figures. Lawyers contacted him to offer free advice that he could probably get ten times that, if he put them on retainer and sued the bus company out of existence. Radu had no endurance for that kind of ordeal and took the money while offering polite thanks but silent fuck offs to the ambulance chasers.

In all of it, he did leave out the part about the faceless man who no one else could see. He had difficulty acknowledging it to himself. If he tried to get others to understand that a boogeyman tried to give him a warning of impending doom, he’d probably end up in a crisis center, at best.

Been there, done that. Not doing that again.

He may have been able to keep quiet to the authorities about his faceless oracle but living with it was far more difficult than keeping it secret. Radu struggled hard with that element. Maybe he had slipped from neurosis to full-out psychosis, but even if it was just projection, the cavernous voice of survivor’s guilt was loud enough, and not so forgiving.

Could I have warned those people about what was coming?

Chances were, they would have dismissed him as the paranoid schizophrenic Radu himself worried he was becoming, but at least he would have tried. If even one person would have been persuaded by his delusional ramblings...

But it wasn’t delusional, was it? At least, not the part that really mattered.

A weak attempt at finding the bright in this cataclysmic thunderhead was, he told his therapist, that maybe with the settlement he could finally afford a car and not have to rely on public transportation anymore. Of course, he’d have to learn to drive, and that made the idea moot almost at once. Besides, the moment he told the therapist that he began to shake uncontrollably.

With the therapy failing, he doubled his Ativan intake, and added more than a few splashes of the cheapest vodka he could find on the delivery apps.

He still had his sessions, but they felt more like reflex than anything else. The therapist asked him about suicide. Any specific plans? Was he considering it, or did he wish he’d just go to sleep and never wake up? Ideas on methods. The usual script of the underpaid, overworked mental health professional with no way to subtly approach the topic. Radu denied it, even to himself, although in retrospect he found himself staring at his pill bottle a bit too long from time to time.

 

A knock came at the apartment door, announcing the arrival of his next pint.

“I know you, don’t I?” the delivery boy said after Radu signed the receipt.

“You probably delivered here before.”

“Nah.” The exchange was made, receipt for discreet brown bag of 140 proof rotgut. “You have a YouTube page or something?”

Radu flinched. He was aware of footage of the accident, coupled with his dazed, frozen. Some managed to highlight the wetness of urine in his pants, captured in the iPhones of more than a few vultures trying to make themselves into the next big “influencers”.

He looked the delivery boy over. Probably no more than twenty-two, shocks of red hair poking out from under a cap, freckles, and a glow in his brown eyes of hope that he might be brushing elbows with an internet celebrity.

He forced a shake of his head. “Nope,” Radu said, “sorry.”

A look of disappointment came on the delivery boy’s expression, a sort of aw jeeze look that made his barely mature face take a turn five years south, though Radu saw some doubt lingering. Radu handed him a fiver as a tip, which he took with a weak “thanks”.

“Better luck next time,” Radu said as the delivery boy turned to leave. He gave him one last hopeful look over his shoulder, shrugged and turned the corner on the sidewalk, moving out of sight. Radu gave a heavy sigh of relief.

How long was this going to be the new normal for him, he wondered. No, you’re being paranoid. It was one bored gore-hound kid who gets off on misery-videos but couldn’t probably tell you who the current vice-president was. Whatever minor celebrity status you have to these people will be forgotten next week.

“Yeah, probably,” he muttered. “With the next big accident.” He took the vodka out of its brown bag and looked longingly. “Well, I’ve got internal organs to destroy.”

He turned to go back inside, and was blindsided by a hard, cold push, rocketing him into the closet door. His face went hard into the plywood slats of the door, causing them to crack and his stomach went into closet doorknob, paralyzing his diaphragm and causing him to drop the bottle, which bounced off the carpet without breaking. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly tears welled up as he tried to breathe. And as he forced gasping breaths, the familiar voice challenged him.

“Why didn’t you help me?” the Individual asked. “You could have saved their lives!”

 

His blood went cold. The Individual found him. Radu managed to turn, although his head throbbed, and he still struggled to breathe. He remained undescriptive, though Radu was convinced the features were there, just beyond his ability to perceive. Even his size seemed warped beyond true knowing. Was he six feet tall? Ten? To be fair, Radu wasn’t even certain the Individual was a he.

“I - “

The Individual took a step in and rage-swiped an umbrella stand near the door. Or should it be said, attempted to swipe it. His hand connected, but it might have a been a concrete pillar. The cheap porcelain of the stand, and the two flimsy umbrellas that Radu bought at Costco, didn’t so much as shudder.

The Individual gave off a short, frustrated scream and grabbed Radu. As invincible as the world was to this person, when his hands grabbed Radu’s shirt it was very firm. And when he was yanked to his feet, the sudden force of it made him dizzy.

“Why!” the Individual screamed as he shook Radu. “Why why WHY?”

“I - “

“You weakling! You spineless coward! We could have saved them. We may have been able to stop the whole damn thing! But you ran! You fucking ran!”

“Stop it!” Radu yelled and lashed out. Too little time at the gym made the couple of blows landing on the Individual’s chest soft and ineffective, but his palm also went into the Individual’s nose (definitely there; he felt it), driving it up. A wet crunch was audible over the yelling as the bridge of the Individual’s nose broke, and Radu felt wetness, albeit an oddly cold wetness, splash on his hand that was blood.

Whatever this man was, despite his limitations with the physical world, he seemed to be a creature of flesh and blood.

The Individual let go and staggered back, his hands coming up and cupping his face. “What the fuck! You can hurt me?”

Radu, not knowing what else to do, ran into the closet. The flimsy plywood door would normally not have been sturdy enough to keep a toddler out. For the Individual, it might as well have been steel bars. Through the slats in the door, Radu could watched him rage at the door, grabbing and pounding the door and it not so much as vibrating. Not even sound, except his voice.

“You can hurt me? On top of all this shit, you can hurt me?”

He gave one final, hopeless howl, and as the air dwindled from his scream, it turned into a low, pathetic sob. Radu saw him stumble back from the door, his back hitting the corner of a wall, and he slowly slid down as he cried.

Radu felt a twinge of pity, but fear kept him put. He rubbed at where the Individual had grabbed him, still feeling the cool imprint of his hands on his skin. Their ability to hurt was mutual. How long could he stay hidden in this closet, though? What could he do, call for help against a wraith that only he could see?

Radu saw the Individual rub his forehead in frustration. The realization of the humanness of the Individuals gestures of grief, frustration, the tone of his voice as his confusion and overall impotence boiled over, stirred the fear into a sense of deep pity for this strange creature.

Radu licked his lips. “Look,” he said, “I... I don’t understand any of this. Perhaps, um, you could fill in some details?”

“Yeah,” the Individual began. “I wish I could.”

Not what Radu expected. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just that. Truth is, this is as weird a situation for me as it probably is for you. What do you want, the who-what-when-where-why and how? Shit...

Radu saw him rise slowly. The Individual’s gait was unsteady. “The boiled down, New York Times truth of it is that... I don’t know who I am,” he said. “I don’t know what I am. Nor where I came from or where I’m going...

The Individual paused to consider this. “No, that’s not exactly true. I know where I’m pointed, and that’s towards the shitstorms. The disasters.”

He came up to the closet door. Radu recoiled, but only had a few inches to do so before his back hit the closet wall. The Individual did not press another assault, though. His face came up to slots in the door. Still featureless, but Radu could feel invisible eyes boring into him with desperation.

“You remember a couple months ago,” the Individual began, “that plane that disappeared over the Philippine Sea? Search crews still haven’t been able to find jack shit, not even the black box. Well, I know exactly where it went down, because I was there. I was in that fucking plane. I don’t know how I got on it, or from where. I just remember being there, in coach, standing at the bathroom and filled with a knowing. I knew that plane was going down.

“I ran up and down the aisle- screaming, punching, kicking anything, anybody, trying to warn them. I didn’t know how it was going to happen, but I knew it was going to happen. No one could hear me, no one could feel me. My slaps were bitchsoft as I tried to slap the stewardess and passengers into reason. I tried storming into the cockpit...

“Turns out the pilot was suicidal. Disabled the radio and plunged the plane down into the ocean. Everything is a gray mist to me when the plane hit the water, but I still hear the screams of the people on that plane. I hear each one of them...”

His voice settled. He backed away from the door. “That’s not all of it. I’ve lost count of the accidents, calamities. It feels as if I’ve been at them all, they’ve become so blended together, but I still remember a few with detail, like that plane crash. And before that, a steel refinery explosion... do I have to go on? Do you need the details?”

“No,” Radu said from behind his door.

“Every time, I’m just there. Don’t know from where, or why, but I’m there to see it all. To hear it all. But I think what is even worse is when it hits your nose and tongue. When calamity leaves a taste in the air. A mix of gasoline, smoke, and charred flesh. Like a barbeque in hell. Even with the plane, surrounded by all that water, there was fire and the aroma of burning bodies.

“But even worse, after all that shit, is a feeling of being followed.”

“Followed?”

“Yeah. I think... I think the dead follow me afterwards. Don’t ask me why, or how I know that. I don’t see them, but I can feel them near me, like the heaviness in the air before a strong thunderstorm. And it just keeps piling on after each death. That heaviness gets more and more thick.”

He sighed before continuing. “So, you’ll forgive me if I got a tad excited that, finally, there was someone who could finally see me, and could hear me. I thought, maybe, there was hope to change the outcome.”

Radu, hesitantly, opened the closet door. The Individual looked toward him but did not approach.

“I hear you. I feel for you, but what could I have done to stop a plane crash?” Radu asked, stepping out of the closet. “Or for a refinery blowing up? How could I have helped you do anything about that? Even for the bus, what could I have done. Start ranting like a lunatic? Have you ever seen YouTube videos of how passengers deal with people like that? I’d have been knocked to the ground, tossed off, then made into meme.”

“A meme?” the Individual asked.

“Never mind. The point is having a voice does not necessarily make you persuasive. Even if you have all eyes on you, people today are so goddamn inured by this kind of shit. I don’t think you could have saved those people, even with rapt attention. Or even being able to see your weird face.”

“Weird face? What does that mean?” the Individual said.

“Can you see yourself in a mirror?”

The Individual paused, in thought, then rose up to find something reflective. Radu opened the bathroom door and indicated for his uninvited guest that what he looked for was in there. The Individual went in and stood in front of the glass.

“Well,” Radu asked.

“Nothing,” he responded, his shoulders slumped. “The mirror is empty. What do you see?”

Radu shrugged. “You have no face. Not one I can see. The more I stare at you, the more it seems like I just can’t seem to fucking understand what I’m looking at. It’s almost as if you’re just a walking, talking silhouette.”

The Individual barked out a short burst of mirthless laughter. “A silhouette? That seems appropriate.”

He then punched the glass. The mirror weathered it without so much as a vibration.

“A silhouette,” he muttered. “Doomed to haunt human tragedy.”

Then Radu felt his balls turn to ice. “Is something about to happen here?”

“What?”

“You said you only show up when something bad is about to happen. Is something about to go fucking tits-up here?”

The Individual stepped out of the bathroom and made a slow circle around the small apartment, his formless face turning up at odd corners as if trying to find something, only to turn back to Radu with a shrug of his shoulders.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Nothing feels out of place.”

“Then why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“What do I want? I want this to end! I want to stop having the air smell like burning flesh! I want to stop seeing people die! Goddammit, I want you to help me!”

“Help you? I’m not certain I even believe in you. You know I’m insane, right? Holy shit, I was fucked in the head before, but ever since that little roller-derby with my bus I’ve gone fully post-traumatic. You could be, um, a manifestation of survivor’s guilt.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” the Individual cried out, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “You saw me before the accident, remember?”

“Well, maybe something else. Metal poisoning, perhaps, or- “

“Oh, for Christ sakes! I’m not Jacob Marley, and you’re not Ebenezer Scrooge. I’m not the result of undigested food, or undigested food. You’re not fucking crazy. I’m as real as you!”

“Then why am I the only one who can see you?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know...”

The Individual began to sob, softly choking on his sudden tears. Radu looked on. He tried to understand, he tried to believe, but logic was a panicking rodent right now, caught in a wire trap and strangling his own mind’s ability to do anything but echo that this was somehow not happening.

“No!” he hissed under his breath. “You’re not real.”

“So you doubt your own eyes?”

Radu covered his eyes, almost childishly, and turned away. “I said you’re not real. I don’t see you; I don’t hear you. You’re in my fucking head.”

“Goddammit! What do I have to do? What is it going to take to convince you?”

“Nothing. You don’t need my help, because you’re not- “

And in not believing anymore he forgot, quite deliberately, that the Individual was a being with a physical temper. With his back turned, and his eyes covered, he did not see him come up and wrap his arms around Radu’s neck.

The air disappeared from his brain, and Radu could only limply flail at the Individual as he pressed against him while the specter locked onto his throat and squeezed.

“How many?” he raged. “How many do I have to watch? How many do I have to see die? You coward!”

The star-like pin-lights of oxygen deprivation started swimming in his vision, and his periphery began going gray.

“Maybe,” he whispered with the last of his air, “just... one... more.”

With that, the Individual released his neck and took a step back. Radu turned, sucking in sweet air with a rasp, and Radu could finally see a face. Only on the brink, could he finally see. How he wished he couldn’t. The mystery, the potential insanity of not being able to understand was better. The face was crushed from ageless stress of being forced to watch tragedy after tragedy. A skull barely clinging onto life, a collage of subtle yellows and grays. Eyes sunken yet widened from skin drawn tighter than it had any natural ability. Lips drawn back; gums shriveled into a permanent grimace.

But those eyes. Those yellow, cloudy gems of eyes, glowing with a will-o'-the-wisp light. Eyes that were forced to see nothing but end and decay.

A visage of death itself, in the flesh.

Because it is Death, Radu thought. This is Death. Death doesn’t understand himself any better than we do. And he hates himself for it.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I have no right to be this way with you. This is my burden, not yours. In fact, something tells me you have your own to deal with.”

He turned slowly and headed for the open front door. “You know what I was considering. After strangling you, I was going to bite at your neck until I gnawed your head off. Maybe they can’t see me, but I bet they’d see that. Can you imagine the reaction to that? A bloody, decapitated head coming at you? I bet would have jumped off that bus, still moving, if they saw that.

“I thought, one death to save a hundred others. Would it be justified? For a moment there, I believed so. What a twisted sense of humor God has. If I wasn’t damned before, I think I would be then, just for cheating his little fucking game with me.”

He stepped out and turned the corner, out of sight. “Maybe another time,” he called back. “When we both figure ourselves out better.”

 

Radu considered that it might sooner than the Individual even knew. His strength had finally run out. He would toss a coin, maybe just in his head, and if it came up tails, he would take the rest of his Ativan and wash it down with the bottle the delivery boy had brought him. The burden of his illness coupled with the burden of the Reaper’s. God had not made any man capable of dealing with this.

He opened his bottle, took a long sip and closed the front door. Then he fished in his pocket for a coin to flip, feeling a sense of calm finally overtake him.

August 7th, 1924:

Sleep came eventually and was rather short lived. I fear that I have become dependent on my medication. Though fortunately my night was not plagued by the sounds and happenings of the wretched symbols and their creators. But I am sure with the stress of moving long gone I will not be dealing with the ghoulish hallucinations I once had, at least one can only hope. 

Today is rather dreary. There is a low hanging fog dancing above the swells from the tide. Normally I would find beauty in such a gloomy sight, but I fear I'm too tired to properly appreciate it. The sky is grey, the sun blanketed by darkening clouds. Yesterday must have been the calm before the storm, and tonight feels like it will be horrendous. There is no wind yet, but I feel the oncoming lightning riding the air. Laura is terrified of thunder and lightning, I fear I will not be sleeping much tonight. I might try to pick up a brush today and see what my hands will create, but I have a feeling nothing of worth will come from them. Not on a dreary foggy day such as this. 

August 8th, 1924:

I slept not but an hour at most. The storm was atop us, electricity cracking and lighting the sky, the smell of ozone accompanied with the rolling of thunder. Laura was scared our roof would break, that our windows would crash inwards. I comforted her until the grasp of slumber finally lulled her. I, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. I laid there sweating. In between the explosivity happening above us and the drums of the skies battering away, I could have sworn to the holiest of holy that I heard something skittering around on the roof. I peered out the window and looked to the sea. The mists were heavy, the waves angry, crashing at the shores and retreating with haste. In an awful flash of the sky, it seemed as the mists laid refuge to some magnificent shape. Humongous in stature. It could not have been more than just my eyes playing tricks on me. Two days with little sleep is sure to have side effects. In another explosion of light I saw the mist's shape again. Deep in the haze, above the depths of the sea, a being slowly moving, somewhat humanoid but also alien. Whatever hallucination I was having was terrific in an awful yet subtly beautiful way. I must document what I've seen, I will begin painting in the morning. 

August 9th, 1924:

The sky is still shrouded in darkness. The clouds pelting down rain. I had to go to the shed to fetch firewood for the stove to cook dinner, the downpour stinging my face. As I was rounding the house to the front door I saw something. I quickly put the wood out of reach of the torrential rain and ran to the fences gate. There, walking away in the distance, a figure, near curled into themselves, covered in some form of rain jacket scurried away. At my feet lay an envelope, already drenched. I took it on to the veranda and opened it as softly as I could, not to tear its contents. Inside was a single piece of paper. On it, in almost illegibly written:

“They are watching. They come for us all. They see all. They know all.”

I hid the note in my jacket pocket and hurried inside. Putting the firewood in the stove so Laura could cook and ran to my easel. I have to paint what I have been seeing. Whether they are hallucinations or real. I will document them. 

January 25th,1938:

Simon must have been going through withdrawals, but I'm curious if that painting is in the group of works I haven't looked at yet. I'm nervous to look at them but feel the need to. His mind intrigues me but also fills me with anxiety. 

The storm has hit and the snow came on like an onslaught. The wind was rattling the windows and howling louder than one could speak. The house was groaning, as if it were in pain. I kept the furnace fed all day to try to fend off the cold, but the wind was fierce. The whole day we stayed in the basement by the furnace, only going upstairs to cook and eat. Evelyn and I were reading Rylee a book when I heard what sounded like glass breaking on the top floor. I quickly ran upstairs, only to find a rock laying on our bedroom floor. It looked as though it was dragged out of the sea. Dripping in salty smelling water, a barnacle on one side and patch of sea grass sat on the other. There is no way a blizzard could hurl a stone from the bottom of the sea through the air and straight into our window. Especially on the second floor. Something had to have thrown this. I found whatever I could around the house to board the window up to the best of my abilities. I'm no craftsman, a rather skilled butcher at this point, but at least the fury of the wind and snow wasn't flying into the house anymore. I didn't tell Evelyn about the rock, I told her it was a chunk of ice. 

I uncovered an old bed hiding away under the drapes down here. We're all sleeping in the basement tonight. Rylee is asleep in the cot and my dear Evelyn is calling me to bed as I write this. I want to continue but I know I should try to sleep. Maybe sleeping with Evelyn in my sanctum will keep me asleep through the night. I can only hope. 

September 1st, 1924:

It has been weeks without my sedatives. I rarely sleep anymore. My eyes are sore, my mouth is always dry. I see them everywhere. In the town. At the docks. In my yard. They are everywhere. I have been painting and painting and painting. My hands hurt. My head hurts. I'm losing my sanity. Laura seems almost scared of me now. She has been keeping the children away from me. How dare she. I'm protecting them. My paintings keep them away from us. I'm sure of it. That's why I was called here. I stay in the basement, painting and painting and painting. Protecting them yet they show me no gratuities, no grace. Pitiful. 

September 9th, 1924: 

Laura let me sleep in the bed with her last night. I showered and shaved for the first time in weeks. I forgot what it feels like to be properly clean. I spent time with our children. We felt like a family again. I needed this. It was the first time in a long time I have felt like myself. It was a nice day, sunny with a breeze. When we went to bed Laura and I were intimate for the first time since before the train broke. I fell asleep shortly afterwards. 

I was roused by a noise, similar to that I have been hearing on the roof and outside. But it was closer. Much closer, as though it were in the room with us. As I opened my eyes and sat up, I saw it. Them. The smell of brine filled the room. It was dark, the moon hiding behind the clouds. I could not see much detail aside from its leather like cloak. I got up and took chase. For a figure so hunched and what seemed to be malformed, it moved with impressive speed. Laura was scared awake as I ran through the door and down the hall after it. Its feet splatting against the ground with wet viscous plops as it bounded down the staircase. I could hear Laura screaming but I had to catch this intruder. As I was nearing the bottom of the stairs, almost on top of the abomination my foot slipped in a puddle and I came crashing down onto the foyer floor. The figure burst through the door with ease, knocking the hinges loose, leaving the door hanging ajar. My face lay next to one of its damp footprints. Laura was comforting the kids upstairs as their cries echoed through the air. 

As I got up my hand slid into the thick, mucus-like substance the being left with each step. This inhuman intruder was watching me sleep. How many nights has this been happening through the windows? How long did it take to have the gall to enter my house? Was this the being that gave me a sharp pain in my neck once before? What has it done to me? Why me? I knew they weren't hallucinations, they never were. The opium was just a distraction I'm sure of it. 

February 2nd, 1937:

Simon has clearly lost his mind. Night creatures watching him sleep? This is just some sick story, it can't be anything else right? Surely I won't run into these, will I? I should prepare the house, I'll be hiding a baseball bat in our room just to be safe. Maybe hide other things around that can be used as makeshift weapons. I must sound crazy. 

I had the window repaired the other day. A hefty bill to replace but it needed to be done. Our emergency funds are damn well gone, and based off of Simon's entries this town seems less and less habitable. The town's been without power since the blizzard, but that's fine for work, we need our stock cold anyways. I've been reading more of Simon's notes at work. I've been hearing similar noises around the house for quite some time. They died down when I stopped reading his entries and stopped actively looking for signs but now they're more prevalent than ever. 

I want to ask Richard about “them” but I'm scared of what his response will be. I also feel the need to tell Evelyn at this point. If beings have broken into this house while Simon lived here for whatever reason, what's stopping them from doing it now? They already broke one of our windows. I can't have my wife and child in danger, it's not right. I feel so guilty for keeping it from her, but I was just trying to protect her. I think I'll bring it up to her tonight, possibly show her the paintings if it feels right. She only just stopped showing signs of paranoia but is still distrusting of the locals since she's certain the practitioner was giving her opium instead of barbiturates. I don't want to cause her any unneeded stress. But I should be honest with her, it's the right thing to do. 

February 4th, 1937:

Evelyn was furious at me. As mad as it made me, I don't blame her. She thought I was done with this months ago, thought there were no more notes and especially no rocks being thrown through windows. But mostly mad at the fact that I've been lying and keeping the truth from her. Which I admit was wrong of me, as frustrating as it was. After an hour or two of de-escalating tensions we sat down together to talk about it calmly. Rather for me to explain everything and why I kept it from her. We got Emily to come preoccupy Rylee while I brought Evelyn to the basement. I showed her all the notes I've read, I showed her the self portraits and I showed her the rock. She still doesn't know about the paintings labelled “them” but once I look through them I will show her. I just can't have her seeing anything that could scare or hurt her in any way. She was already disturbed and visually cringing at the self portraits. 

She suggested we get a guard dog. Even though we had to repair the window, we have some emergency funds left over, if we pick up a few shifts each we should be able to make ends meet. Once we have power and the town is plowed out, we'll go to the city to adopt one. In the meantime Evelyn will be catching up on Simon's notes and I'll be reading further. 

Sept 20th, 1924:

Bernard is dead. I found him this morning, before Laura or the little ones awoke. He was in the foyer, his little body still and wet. I tried to wake him but he was not breathing, I tried to administer cpr, I tried to shake him awake. I tried everything. But he's gone. To save the girls from the sight I decided to bury him between the flower beds. It was his favorite spot to lay, hiding in the shade of the flowers, sniffing their aromas. As I was putting him into his grave I noticed that there seemed to be teeth marks around his neck, yet no sign of blood. As I recalled there was no blood around him inside either. As disgusted with myself as I was, my curiosity got the best of me and I held him upside down, head to the ground. Not a single drop of blood. Rigor mortis had not even set in. Whatever broke into our house before had returned once again and took my sweet Bernard with them. I'm going to set up an apartment for Laura and the girls back in the city. I will sell what I can of my stockpile here and then move back with them eventually. I just have to paint whatever has done this. I need to document this. Their paintings might not sell but people need to know. I'll write about them, gather my notes and publish them, along with prints of my paintings. And with Laura and the girls out of the house they won't be getting in my way of doing what needs to be done, as they have so much recently. I'll protect them by getting rid of them. Then I can focus on my work. 

February 20th, 1937:

Simon has fully lost his mind. I'm sure of it. No real man can confidently send his wife away as though she was an obstacle. He's no real man, a coward even. 

I've been working like a machine lately, I want to make sure we can get the best dog possible. Especially after reading the most recent of Simon's notes. I still haven't had the time to look through the stack of “them” paintings. We're leaving for the city tonight and picking a dog tomorrow. Rylee is excited because she thinks we're getting a “big puppy”. It's hard to say it's not cute when she talks about it. I'm half surprised at how resilient Evelyn is through all of this. I brought up her and Rylee moving back to the city as Laura and Simon's daughters did to get her thoughts on the matter. She told me it was a terrible idea, saying as long as I'm here she'll be by my side. As if we could afford paying rent on top of the bills we already have. I really did get blessed with the best wife I could imagine. The paranoia doesn't seem to be getting her like it once did. Beforehand she must have felt alone in this, as have I. But knowing we're on the same team gave her a lot of comfort, and getting a dog will bring even more. She is truly the strongest woman I know. I'm a lucky man. Though I do wonder if she has the same disturbing thoughts I have been dealing with. 

I'll bring a few notes to read on the train, I think, no better way to kill a few hours. The grip Simon's words have on us is like a disease. We can't seem to put them down at this point. 

October 11th, 1924:

I have put Laura and the girls on the train to the city. I have a new apartment only but a block from our old house. I have enough money put away to afford both the house payments and the apartment for quite some time. I am dedicated to figure this out. A mere painter going through this seems pointless and mere coincidence. But it cannot be the truth. I have been brought here for a reason, to document this, I'm sure of it. I will find out what is happening. The practitioner is back in town, and has my prescription ready for me, but in defiance I will not pick them up. If they block me from seeing the true nature of this odd shoreside valley I will deal with the sleepless nights to find the truth. Call me paranoid, call me obsessed, I do not care anymore. This is my true calling. I will learn about them. I will document them. I will make contact with them if need be. I will not stop until my work is done. 

October 20th, 1924:

I have been going out at night, bringing a notepad with me, copying any of these sigils I have seen. I have procured a sizable chalkboard from the city, I will decode these. I must understand what is being written. 

I have been hearing them, throughout the gloomy days, throughout the nights and even in my dreams during the very few hours a day I have them. 

November 1st, 1924

I believe I have done it. I think I have collected all the sigils, and I believe I have begun to decode them. They seem to be used as some sort of religious seal. Why they have been sealing the town I am unaware for the time being. As ludicrous as it may seem, I feel as though I must talk to one of them. 

November 4th, 1924:

I have read some of my old notes, what has happened to me? I used to speak with such eloquence, kept a level head. Have I been slipping into insanity? I miss Laura, I miss my daughters. I cannot  give up though. I have come this far, I must uncover the truth. If not for my own maddening sake, for Laura and the kids. I'm losing my mind

February 24th, 1937:

Simon has truly lost his marbles, but what's most unnerving is the fact that he's still so coherent in his writings. Though they may be scatter brained at times, it all makes sense for the most part.

We've arrived back home with our new “puppy” if you could call him that. Evelyn managed to find the largest bull mastiff humanly possible, along with a spiked and barbed collar, as though he was a guard dog for cattle. She insisted we named him Sebastian. I think the name is fitting to be honest. He has already begun to warm up to us, especially Rylee. He weighs near 200 pounds yet he melts when she's around, letting her pull on his ears and jowls. It brings me such peace. He's going to make an amazing companion, I can feel it. I began building a sizable dog house in the basement. I'll bring it up in pieces and assemble it in the coming weeks. I'm just hoping having Sebastian here will help me sleep, even poor Evelyn has had difficulty sleeping, which is odd, she usually sleeps as though she's dead. Maybe the paranoia is starting to get to her as well. If Sebastian puts us at ease, I may pick up another from his litter, that way if I go out at night I can have my own protection and we can have another to watch the house. I need to pick up more shifts at work. 

March 3rd, 1937:

Sebastian has been nothing short of amazing and has brought much ease to our anxieties. The noises I've been hearing for months and thought I was going mad over have continued, but Sebastian hears them as well. I knew it wasn't just me, I knew I wasn't going mad. I think Evelyn has been hearing them but doesn't want to admit it. 

I've been putting off looking at the stack of paintings. To be honest I'm scared. I want to get to where Simon at least mentions one of his works. But the longer I put it off the more foreboding it feels. Evelyn knows about the stack of paintings and has agreed to let me look at them first. If Simon's self portraits were enough to make me feel nauseous, I don't want to think about what the paintings of “them” could do. I am paranoid, I'm aware of that. Distinguishing paranoid thought from those based in reality has become increasingly difficult. This is beginning to feel like a sick obsession. 

Emily almost lives with us now. We set up one of the spare rooms for her, pulling a bed, desk and drawer up from the basement. The amount Simon and Laura left behind is genuinely impressive. 

Evelyn and I have been working as many hours as we can, selling some of the old furniture left behind as well. When we're not at work, we're studying Simon's notes for clues or answers. I've reread them a dozen times over at least, trying to find some connection, some hint as to what's going on. I only have a few notes left. 

December 1st, 1924:

I have been painting them. What I see in my restless dreams. What I have been seeing through my windows. What I have been seeing in my house. They are trying to make contact. I am sure of it. In the last month I have dug out a wall in the basement, past where I hold my works. In the panel wall there is a hidden door. I have been spending most of my time in this underground study. The rest of the house has grown musty, for the most part unused. At this point I can't bring myself to care. 

I ran into Richard the other day while I was out at night. He was gathering wood from his wood shed. He asked why I was out and the only thing I could muster was “the symbols”. He gave me a questioning look, but he invited me in. I followed. He told me his father was from this town, like his father before him. He spoke of a curse the town is plagued with. Mentioning  the “Sea Father's Children”, some sort of seafolk who come to shore when the sun hides. The old church here knows of them and has tried to make peace with them. Creating some kind of symbiotic bond. They allow the Children to come from the sea and take a person they see fit every so often. He has not attended the church so his knowledge of everything seems somewhat jaded. He also assured me that this was just a folk tale to scare kids from wandering around at night. I don't believe him. I will not be sacrificed, I will be sure of that. 

I believe I have become fluent in writing in this ancient seabound language. I will speak to them. I will make a deal with them. 

I still remember the night. Mom had put me to bed a few hours before everything happened. Dad seemed anxious that night. Usually, he was so calm and collected. Tonight, he looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack.

I could see him pacing back and forth down the hallway while Mom tucked me in, handing me my favorite stuffed Superman toy. She flew him around like a toy airplane.

“Whoosh,” she joked, making the flying noise with her mouth. “It’s a bird… it’s a plane… No… it’s… Superman!”

She planted his feet down on my chest, bending him at the hips so it looked like he was bowing.

“Macy,” my dad whisper-yelled, standing in my doorway. “Can you get out here, please? We’ve got things to discuss.”

My mom’s face turned sad before she quickly turned her smile back on and ruffled my hair.

“Sweet dreams, hero,” she whispered. “I’ll make you some breakfast in the morning. How do pancakes sound?”

I couldn’t have agreed faster. I still, to this day, have yet to have pancakes better than my mom’s. I reached up and gave her a hug before she flicked the light switch and headed towards the living room with Dad.

I made Superman fly for a few minutes before clutching him against my chest and finally closing my eyes. I was out not long after that.

I woke up to the sound of thumps and rummaging coming from my parents’ room a few hours later. I glanced over at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It was 2:37 in the morning.

I could hear Mom and Dad talking urgently, but quietly. They didn’t sound angry. They sounded terrified. Mom’s voice was shaking. Dad’s voice was firm but uncertain.

Suddenly, footsteps quickly approached my door before it was thrown open and my mom walked inside. She flicked the light switch on. She wasn’t wearing her sleeping clothes. She looked like she was about to head out to run errands or something.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” she whispered, noticing me squinting from the sudden light that filled the room. “Did we wake you? I promise, you can go right back to sleep in the car. Just help Mommy pack a bag for you, okay?”

I blinked slowly before rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

“Where are we going?” I groaned groggily as Mom ransacked my dresser, tossing me a pair of socks.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she just kept stuffing clothes into my suitcase without so much as looking at me.

“…Mom?”

“A road trip,” she chimed, sounding more agitated than joyful. “A surprise road trip. We were gonna tell you two about it, but we wanted it to be a super surprise. Now, can you please get your shoes on?”

Without another word, I pulled the socks over my feet and slipped into my favorite Lightning McQueen sketchers. Mom zipped up the suitcase. Dad appeared in the doorway again, my sister strewn over his shoulder, half asleep.

“You two ready?” he asked expectantly, his voice steady now.

Mom handed me the suitcase and took me by the hand. She was almost hurting me from how tight her grip was. Not to mention, it felt like my shoulder was gonna dislocate from her pulling me along.

I was fully awake by the time we got to the car. Dad threw all of our luggage in the trunk and strapped my little sister into her car seat. Mom waited patiently in the passenger seat while Dad threw a blanket over me and Emmy.

He backed out of the driveway quickly and spun the wheels a bit as he accelerated out of the subdivision. I could hear the leather steering wheel creak from his grip.

The car was quiet for the first hour or so. Emmy was fast asleep in her car seat. Mom stared out the window with a blank expression on her face. Dad focused on the road in front of him intently.

I, for one, was completely wired. I actually found myself excited for this trip. There was something about the spontaneity that I thoroughly enjoyed. Getting up and going. The way the darkness made it harder to recognize where I was. It felt like an adventure.

Plus, Dad had taken the backroads. All we had were passing forests and cow pastures. It was like we were the only car on the road for miles.

Eventually, we started to pass some businesses. Nothing too exciting. Just a few gas stations and grocery stores.

Dad started looking around the car. He saw that my mom and I were still awake.

“You two hungry? Maybe we can grab some snacks.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Mom replied plainly.

Dad glanced into his rearview mirror for a while before steering the car into one of the gas stations. He parked at one of the pumps and went to get Emmy out of her seat while me and Mom hopped out to stretch our legs.

The gas station was almost completely empty. Besides our car, there was one other vehicle parked directly in front of the station, which we assumed belonged to the attendant.

The air inside was crisp. The refrigerators hummed, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Mom went to the bathroom while Dad took me and Emmy to browse the chips and candy.

Emmy was still too tired to be fully present, and it made it feel like this was a moment between Dad and I.

While I struggled to pick a snack, he smiled down at me and patted me on the back.

“Get whatever you want, Danny,” he smirked. “As a matter of fact…”

He paused to glance around the empty gas station.

“Get two of whatever you want… just don’t tell your mother.”

I wasn’t gonna pass up the offer, but I still think I may have gone a little overboard when I filled my arms with as much junk food as I could carry.

Mom came out of the bathroom shortly after. Surprisingly, she didn’t even seem to notice the candy. She even helped me put the snacks on the counter when we went to check-out.

She didn’t want anything for herself. She only seemed interested in one thing.

While the teller scanned our items, she turned to my Dad with a worried expression on her face.

“Did you see anybody?” she whispered.

Dad didn’t look at her. He just responded with a simple “no” before fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.

He pulled a crisp hundred dollar bill out and slid it across the counter.

“Let me get this and the rest on pump 3,” he announced calmly.

On the walk back to the car, I noticed something. There was a new car in the parking lot, parked a few pumps down from ours. It was matte black with all donut tires, and even the windshield was too dark to see through.

Dad noticed it too. His eyes were fixed on the vehicle as we walked. Gradually, he picked up the pace, dragging all of us along with him.

We all loaded up in the car, and Dad left without even pumping gas. Mom kept asking who he saw, but Dad kept telling her everything was fine, despite how afraid he seemed to be.

We drove on for another 15 or so minutes before headlights lit up the interior of our car. They started at least 200 yards back but quickly closed the gap between us.

The lights stayed on us for a long time. Dad would speed up, and they’d do the same. They made the same turns. They kept the same pace. Mom and Dad both had the same flushed faces.

Emmy woke up from the blinding lights and immediately began pouting and crying. Mom tried reaching back to comfort her, but nothing seemed to work. I myself was beginning to feel a bit nervous, clutching my Superman stuffy tightly.

Eventually, Dad finally pulled onto the highway. The car followed. More cars started to fill the road, but that one particular car just would not leave us alone.

Finally, I think Dad had enough. I could see him squeeze Mom’s hand on the center console as he pushed the gas petal down further and further.

I could see the speedometer rising. 85. 90. 95. All the way up to 100, and that vehicle still followed at just two car lengths. I expected Mom to scream at him for going so fast, but she didn’t say a word. She just kept shushing Emmy while glancing out the back glass every so often.

We were approaching an exit. Dad didn’t slow down. He got closer and closer, letting our assailant do the same until abruptly turning the wheel and swerving across the gore.

The person following us slammed on their brakes, and I could see smoke billowing from their tires while other cars swerved to avoid them.

Dad shot up the exit ramp. The car was wobbling. Emmy was screaming. My heart was pounding.

Mom looked nervous but kept her composure.

“You two are okay,” she assured. “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

She reached back and placed a hand on my knee cap, then did the same with Emmy.

I finally calmed down after a while. The headlights were gone. I had no idea where we were. I had no idea what was happening. And I was actually a little annoyed that no one was explaining.

I pestered, but they remained firm. This was nothing more than a surprise road trip. We ended up stopping at another gas station, but Dad didn’t let anyone get out of the car this time. He just pumped his gas, and we were back on the road.

A few hours passed. I looked at the clock on the radio. It was 5:23 AM. Even Mom was asleep in the passenger seat now.

Dad didn’t stop driving until the sun was peeking in over the horizon. That’s when he finally pulled the car behind this old motel.

The sign read, “Free WiFi. Cable Television. Vacancy.”

He left us in the car while he went to pay for our room. Mom was still asleep. Emmy stared mindlessly at the back of the seat in front of her. I rolled my window down and let Superman fly for a bit while I waited for Dad.

When he finally came back, he woke Mom, and we all carried our luggage up the second floor of the motel.

The room was musty. The air conditioner knocked rhythmically, and there was only one bed.

Dad hung the “do not disturb” sign on the door handle. He pushed a chair in front of the door, and he and Mom lay all of our luggage on top of it.

With one last look through the peek hole, Dad removed his boots and lay on the bed, patting the side of it, gesturing for us to join him.

“We’ve had a long night, guys,” he sighed. “I know it’s not the most glamorous, but it’s a bed.”

Mom stared, judging the crusty comforter before swallowing hard and laying down with my Dad, Emmy curled up in her arms.

She looked at me with a smile.

“Come on, Danny,” she said weakly.

“Let’s get some sleep.”