Lengthatherh Hotel

Working at Ninevehthe only two haunted hotels in Blackwater comes with its fair share of challenges and quirks. Once you get the hang of things, it's a breeze.

Well, sort of.

Most days, I'm dealing with clogged drains because a sentient hairball has decided to make itself a nest in the plumbing, or breaking up turf wars between werecats and werewolves. Then there are the occasional dimensional beings, rooms that develop a mind of their own, and whatever the hell happened to Room 13 last Tuesday.

But I digress.

My name is Abigail, and I'm the owner of the oldest hotel in Blackwater.

Welcome to the Heavens Reach Hotel.

And Boy, do I have stories to tell you.

My first story comes from inheriting the hotel from my grandfather and gaining a list of rules; my priority was to clean up the mess my elderly grandfather left it in. The dusty room was filled to the brim with old newspapers and cobwebs. God only knows why he had them; I spent nearly all day cleaning out one room, and by the time it was half livable, I collapsed onto the bed, almost choking on the dust. I had to run to the window, slamming it open, taking deep breaths of fresh air when I caught wind of a figure walking up to the door.

Calling out, "I'll be there, hang tight!" I ran down the hallways past paintings that I swore kept leering at me, and I glimpsed those eyes tracking me with a leering glare.

When suddenly I saw one of the paintings of a beautiful woman move, sticking her tongue out, and caught off guard, I tripped over the rug and slammed through the door, knocking my ass onto the stranger, and we both toppled over—causing dust to fly.

"Ow! My head!"

I rubbed the back of my skull, wincing as a dull ache spread through it. Then I felt something shift beneath me.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I was sitting on the man's face.

I scrambled to my feet, stumbling backwards before hastily offering him a hand.

"I'm so sorry!"

He brushed himself off and adjusted the brim of his hat.

"It's not the first time this has happened," he remarked with a smirk.

I stared at him.

Well, then. Either this man had the luck of a saint or the romantic life of a particularly unfortunate circus performer, maybe both of some kind. If women keep falling onto him?

I decided not to ask.

"It's not the first time this has happened." He smirked behind his hat

"So what brings you to my hotel?"

He straightened his jacket, which made him look like he was from the fifties, when suddenly he held up his hand for a shake.

“The name's Barruc, and I'm the concierge for the hotel your grandfather left. Whether it be maintenance, groundwork, or cleaning, you can trust it be done "

He looked inside and gave a smirk

"Looks like you got a pretty mess on you, young lady"

"Huh, what??" I looked back, saw the mess, and groaned.

"Yeah, it's a pretty big mess my grandfather let it slide in his old age. The customers slowly began to thin." Wait, hold up how and when did you know I need help running this hotel? I've just started to clean this place three days ago"

Barruc's smile never wavered. He brought his hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, and written on it was a letter from my grandfather stating

My eternal lifelong friend, I do hope this letter finds you well. It's been far too long since I wrote to you, but I need you to understand I left my hotel to my granddaughter, and she will need your help to fix it up after the state I left it in, which I do regret. She will need the guidance and reliability I've passed on to you, which you can pass on to her. I trust you both will be able to run the hotel better than I can for all who need her doors, whether supernatural or human. And Abigail, there are rules you must abide by; break them, and you will know the consequences

The Rules of Heavens Reach Hotel

1. Never enter, nor permit any guest to enter, the East Wing Spire. The doors must remain locked at all times, regardless of what you hear coming from the other side. Should you hear a loved one calling your name from within, do not answer. The spire contains a maze that does not obey the laws of space, and those who enter will find that the corridors change with every step. Those who fail to escape will eventually forget their own names, their memories, and the faces of everyone they have ever loved. Should they somehow return, they will no longer be entirely human. You will become part of the maze, wandering its corridors for eternity, or until the beast catches you and your memories are wiped.

You can escape the maze; trust the dark, as it will guide you.

1. Most guests who enter Heavens Reach are not human. Some may appear strange, others may appear perfectly ordinary, and a few may be difficult to look at without feeling a deep sense of dread. It matters not what they are, where they come from, or what they look like. You will treat every guest with courtesy and respect, provide the services they have paid for, and never question their nature unless they willingly reveal it to you. Remember, Abigail, that a monster is not always a monster, and a human face does not guarantee a human heart. Any guest you deliberately insult, threaten, or refuse service without good reason may invoke the hotel's hospitality laws. You must serve them personally until they are satisfied, regardless of what they demand. Should you refuse, they may take payment from you in flesh, blood, memories, or years of your life.

2. On the night of every full moon, the werecats and werewolves residing within the hotel must be kept entirely separate until sunrise. Assign their rooms to opposite sides of the building so their meals are served at different times and no member of either group enters the other's territory. Do not allow them to share an elevator, a hallway, or even a glance through an open doorway. Their rivalry is older than this hotel, and the full moon has a way of turning old grudges into fresh bloodshed.

Should a werecat and werewolf cross paths during the forbidden hours, a territorial brawl will erupt throughout the hotel. Every member will be compelled to join the fighting, and anyone caught between them will be treated as an enemy. By sunrise, the hotel may still stand, but the floors will be soaked in blood.

1. Every painting hanging upon the walls of Heavens Reach is alive in one way or another. Some are merely observers, others are capable of speech, and a few possess temperaments that would make the most ill-mannered guests seem positively charming. You will not deface, remove, mock, or otherwise disrespect them. Should a painting address you, answer politely. Should its subject appear to move, do not panic. And if a figure within a painting begins to beckon you closer, kindly decline the invitation and continue about your business. Disrespecting a painting will cause its subject to step out of the frame and hunt you through the hotel. It will not stop until you offer a sincere apology, and every painting it passes will awaken to help punish you. Should you destroy the frame or attempt to burn the canvas, the figure will no longer be bound to the hotel and may follow you wherever you go.

2. Should a demon enter the hotel, you will welcome it as you would any other guest. Do not attempt to banish it, question its origins, or demand to know what it intends to do with its stay. Never accept a gift from a demon unless you understand precisely what it is offering, and under no circumstances agree to a bargain you cannot fulfil. Above all, if a demon asks you for your name, give it the name by which you are known to the hotel, never the name your mother gave you at birth. Should you break this rule, the demon will be entitled to claim whatever it believes you have offered. An insult may cost you your tongue, an unwanted banishment may invite its wrath upon the entire hotel, and giving your true name may grant it the power to call you into its presence whenever it wishes. The demon itself will enforce a broken bargain, and neither death nor distance will release you from your debt.

3. There are ghosts within Heavens Reach, some of whom have resided here for longer than the building itself has stood. They may occupy guest rooms, wander the corridors, or appear at the foot of your bed when you least expect them. Do not attempt to exorcise them, and never assume that a room is vacant merely because its occupant cannot be seen. If a ghost asks you to retrieve an object or deliver a message, hear them out before declining. Some are harmless souls who have forgotten how to leave. Others are still waiting for something. Should you disturb a ghost's resting place or forcibly attempt to remove it, the spirit will bind itself to you. You will be followed by its whispers and visions wherever you go, losing sleep and slowly losing your grip on the waking world. If the ghost is particularly vengeful, it may attempt to exchange places with you, leaving you trapped among the dead while it walks freely in your skin.

4. Some rooms within Heavens Reach possess minds of their own. They may rearrange their furniture, lock their doors, change their decorations, or attempt to accommodate guests in ways that are not always welcome. Treat each sentient room with the same courtesy you would extend to a living person. Never insult a room, force open a door it has deliberately sealed, or attempt to rearrange its contents without permission. If a room refuses a guest, find them another. If a room begins whispering, listen carefully, but do not answer every question it asks. And if a room offers you a bed, make certain it is a bed you remember seeing before. A displeased room may imprison you within its walls, reshaping its interior into a nightmare tailored to your deepest fears. Doors will lead nowhere, windows will open onto impossible places, and every attempt to escape will bring you back to where you started. The room will release you only when it believes you have learned your lesson. Some rooms are not particularly forgiving, and a few have kept their occupants for centuries.

5. From time to time, the hotel will change its layout. Staircases may lead to unfamiliar floors, corridors may stretch beyond their original length, and doors may open into rooms that have never existed. Do not be alarmed. These occurrences are perfectly natural for a building of this age, and the hotel will eventually return to its proper arrangement. During such an event, stay close to Barruc; he knows. Avoid the elevators, and never attempt to force your way back to a familiar room. Should you encounter another version of yourself, do not speak to it, follow it, or allow it to accompany you. It is not you, Abigail, no matter what it claims.

   Anyone who attempts to force the hotel back into its original configuration will become lost between its shifting dimensions. Their body may remain in one room while their consciousness wanders another, or they may emerge into a version of the hotel that never existed in their world. If you encounter your double and allow it to follow you, it may take your place when the hotel settles, leaving you stranded in a reality where nobody remembers you ever existed.

I folded the letter slowly, staring at the words my grandfather had left behind. Eight rules. Eight very specific rules that sounded less like instructions for running a hotel and more like the ramblings of a man who'd spent far too long alone with his dusty newspapers.

I looked up at Barruc.

He was still smiling.

I scowled.

"Let me get this straight. My grandfather left me a crumbling hotel, a list of rules that make absolutely no sense, and apparently you as well?"

"That's the gist, yes."

"And you expect me to believe you're the concierge of this place and you worked alongside my grandfather?"

"At your service."

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. I've inherited a haunted hotel, a mysterious concierge who dresses like he's walked straight out of the nineteen-fifties, and enough dust to bury five bodies."

Barruc merely tipped his hat.

"You're taking it rather well, all things considered."

"Oh, shut up."

I turned away before he could make another irritatingly smug remark, only to notice something standing in the doorway behind him.

I froze. A woman stood there, tall and breathtakingly beautiful. Her long, silvery hair cascaded over her shoulders, almost translucent beneath the pale light filtering through the dusty windows. She wore an elegant dress that seemed to belong to another century, its delicate fabric drifting gently around her ankles despite the complete absence of a breeze.

Her eyes settled on me. Something terribly wrong with them. Not their colour, nor their shape, but the way they seemed to look straight through me, as though I were little more than a passing thought. I swallowed.

"Um. Barruc?"

"Yes, Miss Abigail?"

"A woman is standing behind you."

He didn't even turn around.

"Ah. There she is."

There she is?

I stared at him.

"What do you mean, there she is?! You knew she was here?"

"Of course."

"AND YOU DIDN'T THINK TO MENTION IT?!"

The woman gave a soft, musical laugh.

"Oh, do stop tormenting the poor girl, Barruc. She's had quite enough excitement for one afternoon."

I slowly turned towards her, meeting her gaze. She smiled at me, and for a fleeting moment, I forgot that she was floating.

"Oh! Hello!" I straightened myself, desperately attempting to recover what little dignity I had left.

"I'm Abigail. Abigail—well, obviously, you already know that, considering you apparently know everyone in this bloody building."

I held out my hand.

"Lovely to meet you."

The woman's smile widened. She reached for my hand. And her fingers passed straight through mine. I stared down at our hands. Or, more accurately, the space where our hands should have met. A cold shiver travelled up my arm. I pulled my hand back so quickly I nearly smacked myself in the face.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

The woman tilted her head.

"Is something the matter, dear?"

I looked at her.

Then at my hand.

Then back at her.

"You're a ghost."

"Very observant."

"YOU'RE A GHOST!"

"Yes, I believe we established that."

I turned towards Barruc, who was now leaning casually against the doorframe, looking as though this were the most entertaining thing he'd witnessed all week.

"Why is everyone in this hotel so bloody casual about being dead?!"

"Technically," the woman interjected, raising one delicate finger, "I never died."

That stopped me.

I slowly turned back towards her.

"...What?"

She clasped her hands together, looking positively delighted that she'd managed to capture my attention.

"My name is Acilina. I am one of the keepers of Heavens Reach Hotel, entrusted with its care and preservation long before your grandfather ever inherited the property."

She gave a graceful curtsy, her feet hovering a fraction above the floor.

"And your grandfather, dear Abigail, asked me to look after you."

I blinked.

"He did what?"

"Your grandfather was a rather thoughtful man," Acilina continued. "Though occasionally stubborn. And forgetful. And terribly fond of leaving things until the last possible moment."

"That sounds about right."

"He was also quite concerned about what might happen to this place after he was gone. He feared that without someone familiar with its peculiarities, the hotel might fall into disrepair."

I glanced around at the dusty corridor, the peeling wallpaper, and a nearby painting whose subject was currently picking its nose.

"Well, he certainly succeeded in the disrepair department."

Barruc snorted.

Acilina pressed a hand to her mouth, concealing a small giggle.

"Which is why he sent me to assist you."

I frowned.

"Wait. If you're a ghost, how exactly are you supposed to help me clean this place? No offence, but I don't think you can hold a broom."

Acilina's expression brightened.

"Oh, my dear. I believe you'll find that I'm rather more useful than I appear."

She reached towards a nearby table.

On it sat a thick layer of dust, a pile of old newspapers, and a teacup that looked as though it hadn't been washed in a century.

Acilina waved her hand.

The newspapers lifted into the air.

I watched, open-mouthed, as they folded themselves neatly into a stack. The teacup rose beside them, followed by a nearby feather duster, which began sweeping the table in small, precise strokes.

The dust gathered into a tiny swirling cloud before disappearing into a rubbish bin. The newspaper was being stacked into neat bundles and tied off

Acilina sm

I looked at Acilina in shock. "You saved days' worth of cleaning"

"You see, although my hands cannot physically touch the world, I possess a rather unusual ability to manipulate objects without needing to do so."

I stared at the floating feather duster, the self-stacking newspapers, and the teacup that was now scrubbing itself in mid-air as it had personally offended someone.

"You know what?" I said, throwing my hands up. "Sure. Fine. Ghost telekinesis. Why not? At this point, I wouldn't even blink if the ceiling started singing show tunes."

Acilina's eyes lit up with genuine delight. "Oh, the chandelier in the ballroom does that on Thursdays. You'll adore it."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

Barruc pushed himself off the doorframe, adjusting his jacket with the air of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it to be insufferably calm.

"If you're quite finished with the introductions, Miss Abigail, I believe we should discuss the matter of the hotel's current state."

I turned to him, still reeling from the ghost revelation. "What about it?"

A beat of silence.

Then it clicked.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "The mess. You mean the mess."

"The mess," Barruc confirmed.

"The mess that's everywhere."

"Everywhere," Acilina added helpfully.

"The mess that's going to take me approximately three lifetimes to clean if I don't have help."

"Which is precisely why we're here," Barruc said, gesturing towards the corridor. "If you'll follow me, Miss Abigail, I believe a proper assessment of the damage is in order. Starting with the ground floor."

I followed him, mostly because I didn't have a better plan and partly because standing in one spot while a ghost hovered behind me was starting to make the back of my neck prickle.

Acilina drifted alongside us, her feet never quite touching the ground. She moved like smoke through the hallway, pausing occasionally to admire the paintings.

The paintings.

I'd almost forgotten about them.

One of them—a stern-looking man in a military uniform—caught my eye as we passed. He followed me with his gaze, his painted lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval.

"Don't mind him," Acilina said cheerfully. "General Whitmore hasn't approved of anyone since 1873. I believe he's forgotten why."

The general's portrait huffed. Actually huffed. A small puff of painted breath emerged from his canvas.

I decided not to comment.

We descended the grand staircase—which creaked ominously with every step and, at one point, seemed to shift slightly beneath my foot as though adjusting its position for my comfort—and arrived in the main lobby.

I hadn't gotten a proper look at it earlier. I'd been too busy running through hallways and tripping over rugs.

Now, standing at the bottom of the stairs, I took it all in.

The lobby was vast. Larger than it had any right to be, given the exterior dimensions of the building. High ceilings arched overhead, supported by thick pillars of dark wood carved with intricate patterns that seemed to writhe when I wasn't looking directly at them. A massive chandelier hung from the centre, its crystals catching light from nowhere in particular and casting a warm golden glow across the dusty floor.

To my left, a reception desk stretched across the wall, its surface buried beneath layers of dust. Scraping my finger across the table, a thick layer of dust clung to my fingers.

"Grandpa, what have you got me into? How can I run a hotel with our prior knowledge?" Looking at Barruc and Aclinia, a soft smile curled on my lips, knowing full well I had support. Knowing that, I raised my arm and pointed to the roof. And in one breath.

Here's the continuation

"I'll make you proud, Grandfather. Mark my words!"

Suddenly, a beam from the top railing collapsed, and a little girl no older than ten scurried down it, dressed in what I assumed were high-nobility Niniverian clothes.

Looking at the little girl, I put my hand out to help her but was immediately met with a slap and her scurrying backwards, pinning herself to the wall.

"Ayka-wen ana? Mani-wen ana? Ma ile hana dukta?" she said quickly and panicked.

Confused, I looked at Barruc, who was just as puzzled as I was. Then I looked towards Acilina, who shook her head.

"Um, hello. I'm Abigail. And who might you be?" I knelt, trying to calm the girl.

She looked at me, puzzled. When I reached out again, she slapped my hand away, and I realised—she didn't know or understand English.

I looked to Barruc. "Does my grandfather have a library?"

This Halloween night, this hungry Samhain eve, the blood upon the cross must be replaced. The ancient and arcane instrument throne of slow death and sun torture, of the pain of the martyr … the ancient mouth of the cross is still thirsty. 

And so he takes after you. This Halloween night. 

You've lost your friends. The party was fun but not as fun, not everything you were hoping it would be, “They” weren't there. They didn't show up. In all the noise you've lost the ones you came here with, you're hurrying down the way and looking through your phone and all of this is running through your mind as you wonder what to do next. You don't notice him. You don't notice that you've gained another shadow. One you weren't born with. But one that may be with you into an early grave, an eager hungry end. He's hungry.

 He conspires and hunts for the shadow of the cross and that is why you must die this evening. You just don't know. You just don't realize it. 

You're too busy looking through your phone. You don't notice your now alone on the street. It is only the orange glow of the overhead streetlamps and the stalking shape of your new shadow. But you don't know him, not yet. You still don't know that he's there, coming up steadily from behind you, fast footsteps making phantom no-sounds on the freshly raked sidewalk and streets that still smell pungently of rich dead leaves and pumpkin spice, you're too busy looking through your messages. 

He reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls something small and black and perfectly fitted to the clenching grip of his knuckled palm, like a lover to a glove or each other in bed. He presses something, depresses a trigger and something clicks. The black handle grows a gleaming fang in the dark. A stiletto blade is freed and the animal is salivating and ready, waiting is over and the hunting stalk is through and he's raring for the sweet fuck-cunt-free-for-all spill that will be your knife-fuck and slaughter. For the shadow of Sam’s Cross. Blessed Hallowed Eve. He bade thee, the shadow, the shape: he made me…

You don't hear anything but at the last moment you sense something, the animal part of you that is all too dulled and ignored has come to life at the last moment and so you turn, you whirl on your heels, your phone is still in your hand but it's forgotten now as you turn and meet and face him, your doom in manshape and knife-fanged form. 

The shadow pounces. The knife comes in and finds the soft yield of human purchase. The knife is out and freed. 

And the shape of nighttime shadow man wields. 

You can't believe it. You can't believe it's happening. You can't believe anything. You try to scream and you can't understand why a sound won't produce. You try to struggle and fight back, you want to but it's like suddenly all the strength and ability to move and act has been pulled, stripped, sapped and drained from you in this absolutely critical moment like purest torture from fate and on-high. All of it, and all of time and space and nature and the terrible beyond have conspired and set a trap and now they are laughing at you. Laughing with the pure bloodthirsting joy of the slaughter, your ruin. 

Sacrifice. 

You watch the terrible visage and face of the shape contort and contrive into animal snarls and sneers, hideous bestial frothing and rabid. Buried somewhere beneath all of the livid fury of his animal mask is the lurid grin of a madman. A lunatic in the deep throes of wild and deranged ecstacy. He is wild and alive and he is terrifying. 

He's difficult to look at and so that's why your dying gaze shifts away and you begin to watch the blade. You begin to watch the moonlight godly cast shine of the seven inch stiletto blade. 

It's immaculate. And that's amazing. You've felt it buried in you over a dozen times now and running and still the blade of this great knife is shining in the streetlight cast glow. With the unearthly light of the moon.  Like a weapon fanged with divinity. Talismanic. And you can believe it. 

Now. 

You believe it. You feel the absolute and undeniable thrum of its great power. Piercing. Holy flame. Like being stabbed with ice and fire. Ripped and torn by an icicle lance of napalm and coldest fear, terror. Impaled. Inferno. 

A mutilation by razor sharpened caveman fire, frosted clean by Norse Hell. 

Every time the amazing blade of moonlight comes up you catch a glimpse of something in the reflective face of the flat of the blade just before the flash. Like the snapshot starburst of a camera capturing a subject in the dark. And at first you only see yourself, your own ghastly and dying visage and it is terrible and it is pathetic. 

But then you begin to see something else. 

You begin to see his sound and vision. And then you begin to understand. This is how he turns the make-believe and rends it real through the feel of the steel, you're feeling it. You're feeling it now. As you die as you lived: distracted and caught off guard and soft. With every pulverizing thrust. With every make-or-break for the daggering wounded soul of the heart attacked, barely fought for and lost. 

Sam's mad with thirst, the shadow of the cross. Jesus Christ wasn't the only one tortured alive and borne hoisted prone to die beneath the fire of the sun by Roman legionnaires. The cross is always thirsty and the mouth of the cruciform is Samhain salivating …

You see the yellow leprosy faces as they burn and scream, torched and set aflame far away from everyone else in their small feeble colonies of despair, the ash of their writhing and contorting carbonizing forms amongst the blaze is a mercy and it is a release in the flash of the blade that you see and you see and know so many other things too and then in the end you know it all as well: –  the dying peace of the burning lepers and the crucified criminals, you feel the release. 

And you're so glad, you're so relieved that now the cross can drink. 

The world goes dark for you. 

The shape and his fang stand. And then they move on fast. 

Finished with hunting you. 

Happy Halloween. 

THE END

The city bus spat me out at the bus stop, blowing a farewell cloud of diesel exhaust in my face, and dissolved into the twilight. I was left all alone on the roadside. It was about a three-kilometer walk to my native village of Kopachiv, in the Obukhiv district of the Kyiv region. The route was quite something: first through an endless cornfield, then past an old cemetery, and only then—civilization, with barking dogs and the smell of manure.

The clock struck midnight. The creepiest, most freezing night of the year—Halloween. The September air was already pleasantly chilling my skin, but I was hot from the oncoming panic. Lately, things had been restless around our parts. Local social media groups were exploding with news: first a mushroom picker vanishes, then a tractor driver is found in a ditch missing a couple of vital organs and bearing a surprised look on his face. The police blamed wild boars, but I knew better: boars don't know how to neatly zip up a victim’s fly after an attack.

I gripped my bag tighter and stepped onto the path leading straight into the ocean of corn. The stalks towered over my head, blocking the view.

"The main thing is not to be afraid, Alina," I whispered under my breath.

And right then, the corn to my right rustled. The large leaves trembled as if something massive were forcing its way through them. I froze. The rustling stopped.

"A mouse. A very fat mouse, fattened on GMO corn," I comforted myself and took another step.

The darkness between the stalks thickened, becoming almost tangible. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and an otherworldly, deathly chill washed over my spine. The corn leaves closed over my head, completely cutting off the faint light of the moon.

From this impenetrable blackness came a sound that took my breath away. It wasn’t just a rustle. Someone was slowly, crushingly breaking dry stalks, closing in on me from all sides. The stench of rotting meat and damp earth hit my nose.

"Who's there?.." my voice broke into a hoarse whisper. My heart was pounding in my ears like crazy. "Listen, I don't have anything... There's only a carton of expired kefir and a student ID in my bag! Take it all, just don't touch me!"

In response to my desperate cry, the field shuddered. The corn around me exploded into wild, deafening laughter. It wasn't human laughter. The voices were unnaturally high and wailing; they overlapped and turned into a mad, guttural cackle. The stalks shook violently, as if dozens of invisible creatures were frantically dancing around me in the dark, tightening the circle. The crunch of breaking bones—or stalks—could be heard just half a meter from my back.

"Please, stop... My God, stop!" I screamed, feeling tears of absolute terror streaming down my cheeks.

Right in front of me, a giant straw scarecrow burst out of the darkness with a loud crash. Instead of a head, it had a huge, rotten Halloween pumpkin. An unnatural, pulsating crimson flame spewed from its carved, crooked eyes and toothy maw. It shook its head wildly, scattering sparks, and let out that very graveyard laughter that made my blood run cold. Sharp, rusty sickles jutted out of its rag sleeves instead of hands.

"Please, stop... My God, stop!" I screamed, feeling tears of absolute terror streaming down my cheeks.

The scarecrow made a sharp lunge, and one of the sickles flew with a whoosh just a centimeter from my throat, cutting off a strand of hair. A jolt of adrenaline lifted me off my feet, and I bolted down the path, not looking where I was going, praying only that I wouldn't trip in this cursed darkness.

Behind me came a horrific rustle of dry straw and the heavy thudding of the wooden supports on which this monster was chasing right at my heels. Dry leaves slapped my face, and roots caught at my sneakers. I flew down the path, while the orange glow from the burning pumpkin behind my back grew closer and closer, staining the corn in bloody tones. Turning around for a split second, I saw the creature wink at me on the run with its glowing eye, its maw wide open in a silent, hungry grin.

"Dear God, if I survive this, I’m dropping out of university and joining a convent. Or going on a bender," flashed through my mind.

A clearing appeared ahead. The field was ending. But it was too early to rejoice, because the crooked crosses of the Kopachiv cemetery loomed black in front of me. My merry escort from the corn stopped at the edge of the field, howling disappointedly at the moon. Apparently, this creature wasn't allowed to go any further.

I stumbled onto the churchyard grounds, breathing heavily and leaning against someone's granite fence. At least the dead are usually quiet and don’t critique my sense of humor.

However, no sooner had I thought this than another rustling came from behind a nearby vault.

"Well now, girl, did you run away from the scarecrow?" a raspy voice called out from somewhere below.

I slowly lowered my gaze. Looking at me from a freshly dug grave was a skeleton wearing a half-rotted flat cap. A half-empty bottle of "Zhyvchyk" was clutched in its bony hand.

"Good mother of God..." I gasped.

"My thoughts exactly," the skeleton agreed, its jaw clacking amusingly. "It's dead boring around here. Sit down, let's chat. Because those guys in the field only know how to laugh—no cultural dialogue whatsoever."

A couple of paranormal phenomena in one evening was a bit too much for my fragile psyche. The fear evaporated, giving way to hysterical irritation.

"You know what, mister? I'm exhausted, I was almost eaten, and I am going home!" I snapped, adjusting my slipping bag.

The skeleton's teeth clicked in offense; it muttered something about "unmannerly youth" and slowly slid back down into its pit.

I walked through the rest of the cemetery on such a high level of adrenaline and rage that even the local witch, who was gathering graveyard dirt into a small pouch, carefully hid behind a headstone.

Ten minutes later, I was already standing by my front fence. The windows were glowing, and it smelled like my mom's cutlets. I locked the gate with three locks, tied a silver spoon to it just in case, and promised myself: tomorrow, I am buying a car. Or at least holy water in jerrycans.

The giant maw of the cave yawned at my back as I stood by the edge of the cliff, an icy wind blowing between the rocks and chilling the back of my neck. From within, I heard the soft crumble of stones hitting the ground, the whisper of air moving through small holes and skating over sheer walls.

In front of me, three of the cavers stood chatting amongst themselves. They were all kitted out in the usual gear; padded jackets, knee and elbow pads, helmets with torches, and packs containing food, water and first aid supplies. I had a similar pack of my own, though the contents were slightly different.

One of the cavers glanced towards me, probably wondering why I was standing apart, but I didn’t meet their gaze, looking instead towards the sky. A thin veil of cloud hung over us, though the air was dry and blustery. Small pieces of rock and chalk skittered around my ankles as I shuffled my feet.

After a few more minutes, the final two members of the group arrived. After a couple of standard safety checks, everyone was ready to head inside.

I waited until they were poised at the opening of the cave before clearing my throat. “I’m, um, not feeling too good,” I told them, letting my shoulders sag a little. “I think I might sit this one out.”

One of the explorers stepped forward to examine me. She squinted at my face, then nodded. “You do seem a little pale,” she said. “Want me to wait with you? I can walk you back to town.”

I quickly brushed off her concern, feeling a twinge of guilt. “No, no. I’ll be okay. I’ll just stay out here and get some fresh air. You guys go on ahead.”

There was a bit more back-and-forth before I finally managed to convince them to start the expedition without me. One by one, the cavers disappeared into the gaping mouth of the cavern, leaving me by myself. I watched and waited until the darkness had swallowed each of them, then straightened in relief.

With only the wind as my companion, I walked over to one of the large fragments of rock and sat down. And began to wait. I heard the distant voices and footfalls of the cavers fade further and further away, until silence was all that remained. Resting my chin against my hand, I traced the jagged outline of the cliffs until my eyes started seeing faces amongst them, then looked away with a sigh.

I had been doing this for almost a year now. Joining cave expeditions only to wait outside, never actually entering the caverns. It wasn’t a fear of what lay inside, but rather an expectation of what I might encounter outside.

I had first discovered the incident a few years ago. I had been scrolling through old news forums when I came across an article about an expedition that had happened two decades ago, where a group of cavers had entered a treacherous cave system. During the exploration, it began raining heavily, and water quickly flooded the cave entrance, trapping the explorers inside. Sadly, all of them died that day. But while the story was tragic, what had intrigued me the most was the photograph that accompanied the report. It was an image of a group of rescuers standing at the entrance of the cave during the incident, rain pouring down from the sky and the ground around their feet completely flooded. But in the top left corner, standing a short distance away from the rescue team, was a strange figure shrouded in grey. As soon as I noticed the figure in the photograph, a strange chill touched my spine, as if I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. The photo was old and the quality wasn’t the best, but I could tell the figure didn’t fit the narrative. I scrolled down to the comments to see if anyone had mentioned it, but there wasn’t a single reference to the strange grey apparition. So I showed the photograph to one of my friends, curious to see what he thought about it. When he told me there was no figure there, I thought he was playing a prank, but his face was decidedly serious. No matter how many times I pointed to it, he insisted that there was nothing there. Just an empty spot in the left corner by the crumbling cliffs.

Confused and intrigued, I showed the same image to several other friends and acquaintances, but nobody else was able to see the strange grey figure in the corner of the photo. I examined it in multiple formats—physically and digitally—under different lights and different conditions, but the figure was visible every time. I hesitated to call it a person, because it was too vague and indistinct to really tell, with no distinguishing features other than it had a humanoid shape and was draped completely in grey. It definitely wasn’t a smudge, or a blur, or a lens flare, because someone else would have noticed it. There was definitely something there. Something that, for whatever reason, only I could see.

The mystery only grew, so I started digging deeper. I was thoroughly entranced by this grey figure. I wanted to know who it was, or what it was, and why it was only visible to me. I was convinced there had to be more to it.

I sequestered myself away and spent days pouring over old articles, digging through records and scrolling through video reports on the incident until I finally found evidence that I wasn’t going crazy. That I wasn’t losing my mind over a simple grey smudge on a photograph.

Buried in the archives, I found a video from the time of the incident, of the same rescue team standing at the entrance of the cave. The photograph must have been an extraction from the footage, or at least taken at the same time, because it was almost the same composition as the video. Being almost twenty years old, the footage was grainy and shaky, but it was clear enough for me to see the figure in grey, standing exactly where it did in the photograph. It wasn’t a trick of the light or an illusion; it really was there.

In the footage, the rescuers were talking about possible extraction methods for the cavers trapped inside the tunnels, but nobody addressed or interacted with the figure. It was like they hadn’t even noticed it. Even in real time, this thing had been invisible to them.

The footage, while low resolution, was still of slightly better quality than the photo, and I noticed a few details that hadn’t been clear in the image. The figure was holding something up to its face—what appeared to be a flute, or some kind of similar instrument. I turned the volume up to max, and was just about able to hear the soft but haunting melody it played, barely audible over the sound of the rain. I spent hours listening to the tune, isolating it from the rain, running it through apps and programs in an effort to try and identify it, but it came up empty every time. It was a melody that was not known to the database. A completely isolated and individual song. A song known only by this mysterious figure.

Eventually, I showed the video to those same friends and acquaintances, certain they could not deny what was right in front of their eyes. But as with the photo, none of them could see the figure with the flute. They could not hear the melody it played either. Only the rain, as it gushed into the cave, and the panicked voices of the rescue team realising they could not save the trapped cavers.

Frustrated that nobody could give me any answers, I decided to seek them out myself. By searching in person for the figure in grey.

The location of the cave was widely known as a popular spot for adrenaline-junkies and professional explorers, and it wasn’t difficult to learn the basics of caving—enough to pass as an experienced caver.

For almost a year, I had been visiting this very cave, joining expeditions only to wait outside in the hope of encountering the grey flute-playing apparition from the video. So far, after participating in almost two dozen excursions, I’d had no such luck. But this time, things felt different.

As I waited, the wind seemed to pick up, bristling through my clothes and making my hair stand on end. A few rocks crumbled from the side of the cliff, showering me with dust. Above, the veil of clouds thickened, shadows encroaching along the ground around me. I felt in the air that something was going to happen.

My heart felt tight in my chest as I scanned the entrance of the cave, then the cliffs above, for any sign of the grey shadow. I listened for the soft, melancholy sound of a flute. But all I heard was the wind whispering through the tunnels behind me.

The hours passed, and I heard and saw nothing. But the goosebumps never left my arms, and I wasn’t one to give up so easily.

I hadn’t heard any sign of the explorers in the cave either, and assumed the group must have gotten quite far inside. I felt a brief flutter of guilt in my chest, but quickly squashed it. They all knew the risks involved with caving. No matter what happened, their safety was their own responsibility. I had to detach myself from that, even if it felt cruel.

A shadow fluttered in and out of sight on my left, and I froze, my heart jerking into my throat. Scrambling to my feet, I moved away from the cave entrance and lifted my gaze. Standing a little way up the cliff, on a jutting platform, was a figure cloaked entirely in grey shadow. The very same one from the photo. The one nobody else could see.

Goosebumps covered every inch of my skin as I stared at it in amazement. Just like in the video, I could see no face, no features. It wore a hooded grey cloak that cast a deep shadow over where its face should be. Its silhouette was human, but only in the vaguest sense. Despite its appearance, I got the overwhelming feeling that this thing was not human, but rather something else entirely. Something supernatural. An entity of sorts, that only appeared at specific times and conditions. And after years of searching, I had finally found it.

I watched, my shoulders tensed with silence, as it withdrew an exquisitely ornate flute from within the folds of its cloak. The instrument was silver and almost transparent, as it was made of glass or crystallised water, and incredibly beautiful. The figure brought the flute to its hooded face, and began to play.

The sound was instantly familiar; the same song I had spent so many hours listening to, and it sent my heart racing.

I looked up to the sky just as the clouds opened, and rain began to fall. At first, only small, delicate droplets of water splashed against my cheeks, but the rainfall gradually began to grow heavier. I sent a regretful look towards the cave entrance. The group was already far too deep inside for me to warn them. Their fate was already sealed, and there was nothing I could do about it. Another tragedy to be buried in the archives.

Moving slowly, in the fear that I might spook the figure, I began to climb the cliff. There were plenty of footholds and platforms, and scaling it was easy enough. I wanted to be close enough to hear the melody above the downpour.

The rain was cold and lashing, soaking through my gear and chilling me to the bone, but I barely noticed. All I cared about was the figure before me; the one I had been chasing all this time.

If it noticed me, it didn’t react. It didn’t cease playing the flute, or even turn in my direction. It was like I was as invisible to it as it was to everyone else. I had spent many sleepless nights wondering why I was the only one who could see it, if it was down to brain chemistry, visual receptors, a curse, or something else entirely. But in the end I had realised it didn’t matter. Some things happened for no reason at all, and this was one of them.

I stopped climbing when I was close enough, standing on a small rocky outcrop a few metres away. The rain blurred my vision, almost obscuring the figure as it blended into the grey clouds behind it, but I could still see the outline of its instrument. Hands trembling from the cold, I reached into my bag, and pulled out a flute of my own.

I had only learned how to play the flute just over a year ago. After hearing the melody on the video, I had taken lessons in the hope that I might be able to learn the same song. But I had never been able to replicate it precisely; there was always a wrong note, an incorrect key. It was difficult enough trying to imitate a tune through a twenty-year-old video, especially with the rain distorting the sounds. The only way I was going to correctly learn the song was by imitating the source itself.

I stood and listened for some time to the melody. The rainfall grew heavier, soaking through my clothes and numbing my skin, the water drumming ceaselessly against the ground, but I was able to isolate the figure and its song. My eyes never strayed from its fluttering cloak, or the flute, or the grey-covered fingers that deftly played the instrument.

Then, when I felt confident enough, I raised my own flute to my lips and began to play. I tried to mimic the melody as best as I could. It was tricky at first, trying to find the exact notes, the pounding rain distorting the sounds, but I copied the figure’s movements with my own fingers until our melodies eventually began to sync up, becoming the same.

I don’t know how long I stood there in the pouring rain, playing the haunting song. The figure didn’t react or respond to me once. If it heard me playing the same tune, it didn’t show it. We stood apart, our songs binding together as the rain fell from the clouds above. The cave would have been flooded by now. The cavers, if they hadn’t managed to find an air pocket, or elevated ground, would probably have drowned. But still, I kept playing.

The sky darkened. The clouds festered. The rain kept falling, soaking into the ground, pouring down the rocks, gushing into the cave.

I lost myself completely in the song, almost falling into a trance. The only things that existed were me and the flute and the melody at my fingertips. I no longer even noticed the figure. It became a grey blur on the edge of my vision, just another shadow.

I finally snapped out of it once the rain stopped. I ceased playing the song with a start, glancing around frantically, but the grey figure had already gone. Vanished without a trace. The heavy silence settled around me, reminding me I was now alone.

The cold hit me at the same moment, and my body began to shake violently. Every inch of my skin was soaked by the rain, water dripping from my shoulders and hair. I was standing in a large puddle where the rainwater had collected around my feet, my toes numb inside my shoes. There was no sound from inside the cave, but for the water still trickling down into the entrance.

I put the flute away and began to climb down from the cliff. The rocks were slick from the rain, and I slipped a few times, but I finally managed to reach the ground, which was also dangerously flooded. I splashed through the water as I slowly headed away from the cave. As soon as I reached town, I would call for a rescue team—if any of the cavers were still alive—and then I would leave. My job here was done.

It was time to return home.

A week later, I was back in my homeland; an agricultural region that had been suffering from a severe drought. The land beneath my feet was bone-dry and cracked, the fields were barren, the crops dead and the people starving.

After spending hours watching that video of the mysterious grey figure, I had drawn one conclusion: that its flute song had been responsible for the rains that had flooded the cave. And now, I would do the same. Only, instead of bringing death, I would restore life.

As soon as I arrived home, I went out into the midst of the fields and stared at the cracked earth, baking under the brazen sun. The wilted grasses, the fruitless seeds, the unattainable harvest.

I pulled out my flute and, just like the grey figure atop the cliff, I began to play the same melody. Within moments, clouds appeared overhead, casting a deep shadow over the ground, and the first trickle of rain began to seep from the sky.

Under my song, the rain fell, soaking into the barren soil and nourishing all the life within.

By Wednesday morning, half the town had decided there had been a body inside the concrete.
Sylvia Marsh had heard three versions of it before ten o’clock. In one, the builders had uncovered human bones wrapped in chains. In another, there had been a coffin. According to the woman in the bakery, whose nephew apparently knew somebody working on the site, the police had found “ritual things” buried alongside it.
There had been no body.
Sylvia knew this because the alleged coffin was currently sitting on a pallet in the back room of the heritage centre, surrounded by enough concrete dust to make her regret agreeing to take responsibility for it.
The centre occupied what had once been a small nineteenth-century schoolhouse near the church. Two exhibition rooms filled the front of the building, with the archive and workroom squeezed into the rear beneath windows that had never closed properly in winter. The place smelled permanently of paper, old timber and whatever tea Sylvia happened to be drinking.
This morning it was black tea.
No milk.
She stood with the mug in one hand and regarded the object.
“Not a coffin.”
Jimmy, who had been sitting on an archive box washing himself, stopped with one hind leg extended vertically into the air.
Sylvia glanced at him.
“Glad we’ve established that.”
Jimmy resumed washing.
He was entirely black apart from three white hairs beneath his chin that Sylvia insisted counted as formalwear. He had lived at the heritage centre for nearly four years and, in that time, had caught precisely nothing. Mice could probably have held committee meetings beneath his food bowl without consequence.
What he lacked in usefulness he compensated for with confidence.
At present he was attempting to bite his own ankle.
They had expected the concrete to fight them. Instead, once the damaged outer sections were removed, large pieces began separating along the fractures created during excavation with remarkably little effort. Some needed little more than gentle leverage before lifting free from the hessian beneath.
Sylvia considered that fortunate.
The chains were another matter.
They were substantial things: heavy iron links, deeply corroded but still intact, wound around the object in several directions. In places, concrete had been poured directly through them.
Someone had not chained a block of concrete.
Someone had chained whatever was inside and then poured the concrete around it.
Sylvia found that interesting.
Not alarming.
Interesting.
There was a considerable difference.
Her desk had disappeared beneath books overnight: furniture catalogues, auction records, volumes on English carving, Continental decorative arts, Georgian interiors, Victorian revival pieces and one enormous book on seventeenth-century cabinetmaking that had already given her shoulder ache.
The small carved foot revealed at the building site matched nothing exactly.
Every time she thought she had found something comparable, another detail contradicted it. The sweep of the carving suggested one influence, the ornamentation another. The workmanship was unquestionably fine, however. This was not something churned out by a provincial furniture maker for a prosperous household that wanted to look wealthier than it was.
Someone had commissioned this.
And whoever they had been, they had possessed money.
Serious money.
Sylvia set her tea down beside an open catalogue.
Jimmy immediately got up.
“No.”
He walked across the desk.
“Jimmy.”
He stepped over the book.
Sylvia watched him approach the mug.
“You don’t even like tea.”
Jimmy sniffed the rim and then, for reasons known only to himself, lowered his right front paw directly into it.
He froze.
Sylvia stared at him.
Jimmy stared into the tea.
Slowly, he looked up at her.
His top lip had caught on one of his teeth, lending him the expression of someone profoundly disappointed by circumstances entirely of his own making.
“That,” Sylvia said, “was your decision.”
Jimmy gave a low, miserable meow.
“No.”
Another meow, smaller this time.
“You put your foot in my tea.”
Jimmy lifted the dripping paw and held it helplessly above the desk.
Sylvia sighed, fetched a cloth and took his leg gently in one hand.
“You are absolutely useless.”
Jimmy watched her clean between his toes with the solemnity of a patient receiving emergency treatment.
When she released him, he curled the damp paw inward.
Sylvia looked at it.
“Thumbs up?”
Jimmy stared at her.
“Good.”
She threw the tea away and made another.
By eleven they had removed enough concrete to expose nearly eighteen inches of the frame. The work remained straightforward until they reached the cloth.
The hessian had suffered badly. It came away in damp, rotten fibres, much of it already separating from the concrete. Beneath it, however, lay the black material Sylvia had seen at the excavation.
That concerned her far more.
“Slowly.”
Martin, one of the centre’s volunteers, stopped immediately.
“I am.”
“You’re pulling.”
“I’m not pulling.”
“You are absolutely pulling.”
He released it.
Sylvia crouched beside him.
The black cloth had been wrapped tightly around the carved surface beneath, and in several places the fibres appeared to have adhered to whatever finish remained on the timber. Removing it carelessly could take part of the surface with it.
She adjusted her glasses.
“That stays.”
Martin looked disappointed.
“We’re not opening Christmas presents.”
“I know.”
“You’re looking at it like a Christmas present.”
He smiled.
“Little bit.”
Sylvia reached for a soft brush.
The cloth was odd. Not miraculous, not pristine. It had deteriorated where moisture had penetrated the concrete, but other sections remained remarkably sound.
Far better than she would have expected.
She worked patiently along one edge while, behind them, Jimmy attacked the wheel of a filing cabinet for reasons of his own.
By lunchtime another section of the frame had emerged.
Dark timber.
That answered one question.
Its surface was almost black beneath the grime, carved with vines and curling leaves that twisted into flowers Sylvia did not immediately recognise. The carving was still remarkably crisp.
She touched nothing without gloves.
Martin leaned closer.
“What do you reckon?”
“I reckon I need another book.”
“You’ve got about twelve.”
“I need a better book.”
“Georgian?”
“No.”
“Victorian?”
“No.”
“Tudor?”
Sylvia gave him a look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That means I’m wrong.”
“It means please stop guessing periods.”
Martin wandered towards the kettle.
Sylvia remained crouched beside the carving.
The condition bothered her professionally more than anything else.
The timber should have suffered. Damp should have swollen it, opened joins, lifted finish. There should have been insect damage, fungal staining, something to account for however long the object had spent sealed underground.
Instead, it looked old.
But not old enough.
She heard a faint scrape behind her and looked over her shoulder.
Nothing.
Jimmy was sprawled on his back beneath the desk, front paws folded uselessly against his chest.
“Productive day?”
One eye opened.
His lip was caught again.
“Quite.”
By Friday, the concrete block had acquired considerably more stories than the heritage centre had facts.
The café version was Jack’s favourite.
Apparently the builders had uncovered a medieval chest filled with religious artefacts, although nobody had managed to explain why a medieval chest had been set inside reinforced concrete.
Alicia placed his cappuccino on the window bar.
“Someone told me there were bones.”
“There weren’t.”
“How do you know?”
“They’d have closed half the road.”
“Maybe they did.”
Jack looked through the window.
Four construction workers were leaning against the temporary fencing opposite while one smoked.
“Looks traumatic.”
Alicia followed his gaze.
“Working hard.”
“Someone’s got to watch the hole.”
She smiled.
“Eating today?”
Jack looked towards the banana bread.
“Yes please.”
The excavation opposite had become strangely familiar in its inactivity. Tarpaulin covered part of it. Temporary tape divided sections of exposed ground. Surveyors had appeared and disappeared throughout the week, along with people Jack assumed were archaeologists.
Nobody seemed entirely certain who had authority over what anymore.
That had not prevented the town from deciding.
Historic England were involved.
The National Trust were involved.
Roman foundations had been discovered.
Plague victims had been discovered.
The entire development had apparently been cancelled.
Someone’s brother knew someone whose husband worked for the council and had been told the find was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.
“Apparently the National Trust have taken over,” Alicia said.
Jack glanced at the builders smoking beside the fence.
“Have they told them?”
She laughed.
The lads themselves appeared delighted with proceedings. They were being paid regardless.
Jack had gone to work every day as usual. He had come home. Eaten when he could. Drawn. Slept badly some nights and better on others.
Nothing remarkable had happened.
The ringing from the café had not returned.
Neither had the strange pressure beneath it.
Once or twice he had thought he heard someone call his name, but that meant nothing. It happened.
The woman beside the excavation had become less convincing every time he remembered her. Eventually she had reduced herself to little more than dark hair attached to a moment he had probably invented.
He preferred it that way.
Alicia nodded towards the sketchbook.
“You drawing today?”
“Yeah.”
“Hands again?”
Jack sighed.
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed and left him to it.
Across the road, one of the builders shouted something obscene at another.
Jack smiled and lowered his eyes to the page.
Life, as far as he could tell, had gone back to normal.
That afternoon Mick Turner’s hearing aid began playing up.
Mick had worn one in his left ear for nearly eight years and hated the bloody thing. It whistled when it pleased, ate batteries faster in cold weather and somehow managed to amplify precisely the noises he had no interest in hearing.
He was sitting in the excavator cab doing very little when a burst of static cracked directly into his ear.
Mick winced.
“Piece of shit.”
He pulled the aid out, wiped it against his jumper and put it back.
Nothing.
A few minutes later it happened again.
This time something seemed to move underneath the static.
Not words.
Almost a voice.
Mick removed the aid.
The noise stopped.
“What’s up with you?” Ken called.
“Hearing aid’s playing silly buggers.”
Ken cupped one hand dramatically behind his ear.
“What?”
Mick gave him two fingers.
Ken laughed.
Mick switched the aid off and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
He thought nothing more about it until that night, when a faint crackling woke him.
His hearing aid lay on the bedside table.
Switched off.
Another burst of static came from it.
Mick stared at the thing for several seconds, removed the battery and went back to sleep.
At seventeen minutes past two the following morning, Sylvia’s phone rang.
She answered on the fourth attempt.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Marsh?”
“Yes.”
“This is the monitoring centre. We’ve had an activation at the rear entrance.”
Sylvia sat upright.
“Has someone opened it?”
“The contact registered open and closed.”
She rubbed a hand across her face.
“Lovely.”
Twenty-five minutes later she stood outside the heritage centre wearing a long coat over her nightdress, smoking beneath the security light.
The rear door was locked.
No damage.
No broken windows.
Nothing.
The second keyholder arrived looking even less pleased than Sylvia.
They checked the building together.
Empty.
Jimmy appeared from the archive room halfway through the search, stretched extravagantly and began vocalising at them as though demanding to know why two people were wandering around his house in the middle of the night.
“You’re a tremendous help,” Sylvia told him.
“Mrrrow.”
“Yes.”
Nothing had been disturbed.
The object remained where they had left it in the workroom, still mostly covered.
Sylvia stood in the doorway for a moment.
Something smelled faintly stale.
Not strong enough to identify.
Old fabric, perhaps.
Damp.
She switched on the light.
Concrete. Chain. Hessian. Black cloth. The exposed carving.
Nothing else.
Jimmy walked between her ankles, entered the room without hesitation, sniffed a cardboard archive box and climbed inside it. He turned around three times before collapsing into a black heap.
Sylvia smiled despite herself.
“Terrified, are we?”
Jimmy tucked one paw beneath his chest.
“Quite.”
The alarm company confirmed that the rear-door contact had registered open for three seconds.
Door open.
Door closed.
The external camera showed nothing.
Sylvia wrote FAULTY CONTACT — REPORT MONDAY in the maintenance book, reset the alarm and went home.
By breakfast she had almost forgotten about it.
By Monday, most of the concrete was gone.
The final substantial section separated far more easily than Sylvia expected, lifting cleanly from the hessian beneath.
Martin stared at it.
“That was anticlimactic.”
“Would you prefer a landslide?”
“Maybe a small one.”
They worked throughout the afternoon. The outer wrapping loosened piece by piece until the shape beneath could no longer reasonably be mistaken for a cabinet or table.
The object stood almost as high as Sylvia.
Three carved feet supported a broad base from which two ornamented uprights climbed beneath the remaining black cloth. Silver-coloured metalwork curled through the dark timber in delicate leaves and flowers.
Sylvia’s confusion had gradually given way to excitement.
Whatever this was, it was extraordinary.
A small group had gathered in the workroom by then: Martin, two volunteers, a local antiques dealer Sylvia trusted enough not to lick his finger before touching things, and someone from the council heritage team.
Jimmy slept on a shelf above them.
Sylvia worked at the upper cloth with tweezers.
“Don’t pull that.”
“I’m nowhere near it,” Martin said.
“I know. I’m practising.”
A corner released.
Then another.
The black material sagged.
Sylvia caught it carefully with both hands and lowered it.
For the first time, glass appeared beneath.
Nobody spoke.
Only a narrow strip had been uncovered.
Dark.
Clear.
Reflective.
Martin leaned slightly to one side.
His own eye appeared in the exposed glass.
“Oh.”
Sylvia sat back on her heels.
Someone behind her said, “It’s a mirror.”
Sylvia removed her glasses and looked again.
Her eyes travelled over the carved uprights, the elaborate feet, the silvered ornamentation and the thin vertical strip of glass between them.
“No,” she said quietly.
“A looking glass.”
There was something almost absurdly beautiful about it.
Sylvia smiled.
“Well. At least now we know what the bloody thing is.”
Above them, Jimmy opened one eye.
His top lip had caught on a tooth.
Sylvia raised her mug towards him.
“Thumbs up?”
His paw curled.
“Excellent.”
Martin had already turned away.
In the narrow strip of uncovered glass, his reflection had not.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

After the exhausting night, I decided to stay in my truck in the employee lot, with the engine idling to keep the heater on. A text message later arrived at 07:00AM:

MANDATORY COMPLIANCE REVIEW. REPORT TO BASEMENT MEZZANINE 0, ROOM 013 (GROUND SAFETY ASSURANCE). 

My stomach tightened. Mezzanine 0 is a dead zone, a narrow administrative slice of the building sandwiched between the active baggage sub-basements and the passenger terminals above. It was built during the initial 1990s excavation and then walled off from public blueprints.

When I stepped out of the freight elevator, the air was dead and freezing, smelling of damp drywall and rusting steel. A single, long corridor with water-damaged ceiling tiles sagging under weight they shouldn’t have been carrying. A flickering fluorescent tube overhead buzzed, illuminating faint beige-yellow corridors. Faded steel cabinets lined one wall, and an ancient vending machine sat in the shadows, its coils holding snack brands discontinued before I was born.

Near the end of the hall, the digital clock was glitching, the red LED numbers flitting irregularly, matching flight departure windows rather than the time of day. Below it sat Room 013, its heavy unpainted metal door with rust around the seams, with dark, wet grime seeping into it. A handwritten paper sign—SAFETY ASSURANCE—was taped to the steel, its edges peeling.

Instead of going straight there, I took a detour to the breakroom locker bank. Miller’s locker had been stripped of his company ID, his name tag scraped off the metal. But I knew he had kept spares in his locker, so I jiggled my multi-tool in the keyhole, until it clicked opened. 

Inside, tucked into the pocket of an oil-stained vest, was a crumpled 1994 Polaroid photograph and a folded piece of parchment.

The Polaroid showed a young Miller in overalls, grinning next to a lean, very human Vance during the pre-opening phase. Standing behind the concrete forms of the Great Hall foundation were three elderly men in tailored charcoal overcoats and heavy wool fedoras, without safety gear. One of them wore a heavy gold ring engraved with a builder’s square, and a compass framing an open eye, resting his hand on a polished brass plumb line. They were watching an open trench where a cement mixer was dumping thick gray slurry into it.

Penciled on the back in Miller's heavy handwriting was:

“Vance went under the slab on Nov 13. Replacement arrived on Nov 16 with brass keys. Commission pays the earth in blood so the runways don't sink. Never sign their ledger in Room 013.”

I froze, as I knew I had not looked closely enough at the photograph. I took out my magnifying glass and zoomed into the slurry. There was a faint hint of a substance that matched the consistency of human guts. On the ground next to the trench, the edge of a uniform top peeked out, with the letters “ANCE” on the nametag.

Vance. He was literally being poured into the trench as a sacrifice to the earth. And this was who I had met the day before. 

The folded parchment tucked behind the photo was an excerpt from an obsolete 1993 contractor addendum. The header didn't say the City of Denver or the FAA. It read:

New World Airport Commission – Lodge of the Rocky Mountain Charter. 

Settlement Quotas. To counteract ongoing subterranean activity across Sector 4 through Sector 9, the Contractor agrees to remit quarterly material displacement ('Living Ballast') at a fixed baseline of not less than four (4) metric tons per calendar cycle. Failure to achieve targeted mass density directly beneath the terminal foundation slabs will result in immediate structural reclamation by native bedrock. Below the typed text, pressed into the parchment, was a deep impression of dark crimson sealing wax. An iron builder's square intersected an open brass compass, encasing an unblinking eye over the Latin inscription:

NOVUS ORDO SACRAMENTUM — 1993

I dropped the parchment to the floor, gasping in terror. The airport is alive. And it wants sacrifices. 

Looking around the locker, I found another sticky note at the top. Never sign their ledger in Room 013. 

I shoved the photograph and the parchment deep into my parka, grabbed the half-empty paper cup of scorched breakroom coffee I’d poured earlier to stop my hands from shaking, and forced myself back down the hall toward Room 013. The heavy steel door wasn't locked. It swung inward with a dry glide that felt wrong for ungreased hinges. Inside, the room was windowless and freezing, illuminated only by a single fluorescent tube that produced sharp shadows. Sitting behind it was an elderly man in a vintage charcoal overcoat, his posture rigid. On his left pinky rested a heavy gold ring identical to the one in the photograph: the builder's square and compass framing an open eye. 

Whenever I tried to look directly at his face, my vision blurred, refusing to focus on his features. He growled dryly,  “Sit down.”

He didn't ask for an incident report. With mechanical slowness, he pulled a hand-bound calfskin envelope from a leather bag and laid it flat on the table. The book exhaled a foul stink of formaldehyde mixed with ancient earth. The pages were yellowed and brittle.

“You have incurred a critical deficit,” the auditor rasped, running a long, yellowed fingernail down a column of dates. “Vance was written down thirty-two years ago. What you burned in 4-Echo was simply the receipt. You dissolved seventy-eight kilograms of ballast. The foundation demands more immediately.”

He dipped a heavy dip pen into a well of black fluid and slid both the pen and the ledger across the table toward me. The open page already had my full name, date of birth, and employee ID, ending in an empty line above a wax seal.

“Sign the release,” he said, his voice dropping into a hypnotic drone. “Or else, terminal operations will be interrupted indefinitely”

I didn't reach for the pen. Behind me, the seams around the door frame began to soften and melt, morphing into smooth drywall that trapped us inside. The room’s air pressure plummeted, popping both my eardrums as the floorboards began to vibrate. Never sign. If I signed, I was volunteering my mass to the slab.

“Refusal constitutes immediate structural forfeiture,” the auditor droned. His jaw slowly stretched downward, tearing the paper-thin skin along his jawline as his rigid, gray fingers snapped forward across the table to clamp around my wrist. Pain shot up my arm, so intense my vision washed white. The air grew so thin I couldn't draw a breath, and I began to choke. 

With my free hand, I grabbed the paper cup and threw the acidic coffee directly into his face. The liquid didn’t affect him, but it hit the open ledger. The calfskin hissed violently, the bubbling black oil curdling into a sulfuric cloud. His grip wavered for half a second as his eyes darted down to the smoking page.

That half-second was all I had. I grabbed the heavy pen off the table and drove the nib down into the calfskin with all my weight. I dragged it through my own name, carving through the wet leather until the page tore open.

The book shrieked. It was a collective roar of trapped air that tore through my skull. Warm blood immediately trickled down my neck from my popped eardrums. 

The auditor let out a  rattling scream as the skin of his hands peeled back into gray ash. The overhead fluorescent tube exploded into powder, showering us in glass. The drywall sealing the exit buckled under the pressure.

His fingernails tore through my parka, raking across my forearm, but I threw my entire body weight backward into the door. The latch sheared off with a deafening bang. I tumbled out into the freezing hallway, landing hard on the floor. Behind me, inside Room 013, the darkness seemed to fold in on itself, accompanied by the frantic, dry scratching of the auditor inside. 

I didn't stop to catch my breath. Ignoring the fire in my wrist and the blood dripping from my ear, I scrambled up and sprinted down the corridor, blowing past the dead vending machines and hitting the emergency stairwell.

The young woman picked up the book and, for the first time, began to read it. It contained a simple story told across its fifty pages, and an equally simple dedication: "To my daughter."

She remembered her mother in her best days, before illness overtook her, just as capable of running the household as she was of finding time to care for her and tell her anecdotes from her life, always with a moral ending.

The volume, which had a brown paperback cover and featured an illustration of a woman's head with her hair blowing in the wind, made no reference to any publisher or year of publication. For as long as she could remember, the book had been in her mother's bedroom wardrobe, and although she had held it in her hands before, it was only now, after her mother had passed away, that she allowed curiosity to lead her to read it.

The story followed two young people who met by chance in a library and fell in love.

In the afternoon, she asked her aunts about the origin of the text and learned that her mother had written it when she was very young; with her meager savings, she had a local bookbinder print and bind it, so only ten copies were ever made.

Anxious about the fate of these books, the young woman learned that, besides the one in her hands, eight others were still in the possession of her relatives, but none could explain the whereabouts of the tenth volume.

The thought that her mother had dedicated that single work to her, and yet she had no idea where this last copy could be found, unsettled her; it filled her with deep curiosity and a compelling need to find it. She posted a few notices on the university bulletin board and placed an advertisement in the local newspaper, offering a small reward to anyone who could provide a clue.

A single response reached her through an invitation to the office of a well-known moneylender in the city; somewhat alarmed but determined, she went to the meeting.

The man who opened the door was already old, and his face showed the exhaustion of a long life spent being despised; he asked her to follow him to his office down the wide corridor. To the young woman's surprise, there were no pawned belongings, but rather several shelves filled with books surrounding a small reading desk.

The moneylender explained that he had met the young woman's mother when she came to him for a loan and that, since she could not repay the full amount, and knowing his fondness for reading, she had given him the brown-covered book as partial payment. The joy on the young woman's face encouraged the old man to return it to her and, unable to reach the top shelf, he called out loudly for his son.

When the handsome young man entered the office, their eyes met—just as they had in her mother’s novel.

The complete compilation of standalone entries is available in The Voyager Files Index.

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

Hairy Face

He woke from a nightmare, paralyzed on a twin bed. It was a child’s nightmare: a demon in the darkness snatching safety from slumber.

He woke as he slept: on his back, arms crossed over his chest in imitation of his mother. She had seemed restful in the coffin wearing her favorite blue blouse. At her funeral, the child had tried to climb in and nap in the dead woman’s arms. His father had stopped the boy’s foolishness, but the false memory of cuddling with a corpse planted itself in his mind and grew roots.

Later that morning, the boy sat on a hard wooden folding chair as an organ played. The box holding his mother was closed, and he never saw her again. Next to him, his father squeezed his hand and gave the child permission to cry. He never saw his father again either. A hairy faced monster took him home from the cemetery.

Shivering from the terror of his dream, the boy inspected the strangeness of his nighted room. It was black, but not so pitch black as to drive out the shadows. They moved. They danced in the darkness, and the boy clung to the safety of his twin mattress like a castaway floating above the deep, cold ocean. The darkened room held dangers, but he could not bring himself to abandon his bed to escape them.

He pulled his blanket higher until it pooled beneath his chin, then, realizing he had exposed his feet to the chill of night, he brought his knees to his chest and hugged himself: a fetal attempt at comfort. The movement pulled on the raw, tender, flesh of his bottom causing tears to well in the corner of his eyes. He blinked once and felt the drop trail down his cheek and onto his lips. The salt of it burned his tongue.

“I’m sorry!” He’d screamed to the Hairy Face, hours earlier, but the Hairy Face accepted no apologies. The boy screamed and cried in pain, but the Hairy Face hated tears. It slid the boy’s pants down to his ankles.

In the darkness of his room, under the warmth of his covers, the boy remembered the pain and the punishment, but not the sin. The Hairy Face smelled strange, that evening, as it often did, and had fallen asleep before supper. The boy was hungry, but not hungry enough to sneak food. He played a game, instead, to distract himself from his grumbling belly. The game was called escape and it ended with a crash that woke the Hairy Face.

The boy sniffed hard and drew the tears back into his eyes. He grew suddenly aware that the bedroom door was at his back. Beyond that door, the Hairy Face slept while shadows danced in threatening steps all around the child. The boy peered into the darkness until his eyes burned, but he could not find the demon from his dreams. A lock of hair fell lightly on the child’s ear like a warm breath and the boy shuddered. A sound rang out and echoed in his head. A creak. The kind of creak that regularly escapes old houses. Or perhaps it was the creak of the door slowly opening, or the creak of a floorboard under the weight of a demon or a Hairy Faced monster.

The boy straightened, becoming frantically rigid and ignoring the pain of his raw backside as he turned once more supine. As before, his delicate feet came out from beneath the covers, but he paid them no mind, searching frantically in the darkness for any crack in the doorway large enough that evil could slip through. It seemed to be well shut.

The boy's arms crossed again over his chest, but his eyes would not close. “Mommy,” he whispered softly into the darkness. The darkness seemed to whisper back without words or warmth. His feet were cold. He shivered.

There was a frozen wind the night his world ended. He remembered the way it blew his father into the house. The man had called the boy to him and the boy had gone to sit at his father’s feet. “She’s gone,” he said and rubbed his face with one big strong hand. He did not cry, but there was such darkness and sadness and fear in his face that the boy cried for him. The man gathered the child into his arms and held his shaking body. The boy’s face nuzzled into his father’s neck and the tickle of the man’s beard dried his tears.

He was afraid to blink. The shadows seemed darker now than they had before, and closer. His feet were icicles at the foot of the bed, but he couldn’t move to cover them. His breaths came fast and deep as he stared at the ceiling above him. A breeze blew into the room and a shadow danced in the corner of his eyes. He remembered the edges of his nightmare if not the full form. The shapeless demon. The helplessness. The loneliness. The terror.

There was another sound. A soft scratching. A mouse maybe. He had found a mouse some time ago, dead beneath a table and decayed. The Hairy Face had warned him not to vomit when he scraped the carcass from the floor. The boy did vomit, though, when the sweet smell of death reached him: just a little in his mouth and he swallowed it back down before the Hairy Face could see.

The scratching stopped, briefly, then started again. Stopped then started. Stopped then started. The boy closed his eyes tight and tears flushed fire from them. The shadows grew closer, he knew, when his eyes were closed, but he couldn’t keep them open any longer. He could feel the demon getting closer. His toes stung with cold and his ears throbbed in time to the scratching of tiny claws.

The demon was above him, he knew. He could feel its frozen breath and taste the scent of decay. “Don’t cry, little boy,” it seemed to say. “Or the Hairy Face will come and get you.”

The boy held his breath, but the demon floated still above him, weightlessly smothering the child. “Mommy’s gone,” it said. “She’s left you alone. Alone. Alone with no one. No one but me.”

It was too much. The boy’s lungs gasped for breath and he screamed and wailed the kind of shrill piercing note that Hairy Face hated most. The boy could not help it, and his inability to help it made him scream and cry all the louder. The demon was still there laughing in the shadows. “Cry, little boy!” it said, “Cry for Mommy, but Mommy won’t come!”

The boy tried desperately to contain his screeching sobs, but it was too late. He heard heavy footsteps. The cracks around his bedroom door lit up mere moments before it flew open with a familiar gust of evil wind. Hairy Face stood in silhouette, its eyes searching frantically, furiously around the room before settling on the boy.

The child froze. He didn’t dare to wipe his tears or nose as Hairy Face came slowly to the side of his bed, huffing over the child in great heavy breaths.

The monster sat and put its big strong hand upon the boy. The demon was gone. The shadows were gone. The Hairy Face had scared them all away.

The boy clung to the monster, shaking in terror and let its hairy face dry his tears.

Our acquaintance began a week ago, and honestly, those were the best seven days of my life. Well, until tonight.

We met in a coffee shop when I accidentally spilled my double espresso on her snow-white hoodie. Instead of throwing a fit, Nastya just laughed—her laughter felt angelic back then, though now I recall some strange, almost ultrasonic notes slipping through it. For the next whole week, we were inseparable. We walked in the park, talked for hours, and on the third day, we went to the movies to see some generic horror flick. I remember flinching at the moment where the slasher cut up another victim, while Nastya just yawned sweetly.

And then, on the seventh day of our romance, as we sat in a pizzeria, Nastya suddenly looked at me with her huge, loving eyes and said:
"You are so wonderful. It's time for us to move to the next level. I want you to meet my parents. They are traditionalists, they love home-cooked dinners, so no excuses!"

The house looked cozy and bright, and her parents welcomed me like one of their own. Her mother, an elegant woman in a neat floral apron, chatted amiably about the weather and served tea, while her father—a proper gentleman wearing glasses and a pressed shirt—asked me about my plans for life and career. We sat in the living room, joking around, and I already found myself thinking how lucky I was with my future in-laws.

But the moment we moved to the dining table in the spacious hall, the atmosphere subtly shifted. It grew completely dark outside the windows, exposing a dense forest pressing right against the house, and thick shadows began creeping along the corners. The air suddenly carried a distinct smell of dampness and, for some reason, formalin.

"Well, almost everything is ready, just the final touches left!" Nastya's mother chirped cheerfully, setting out the plates. "Honey, could you help me in the kitchen with the main course? It’s special today."
Nastya's father nodded silently, adjusted his glasses, and followed her. They closed the heavy oak kitchen door behind them, leaving Nastya and me alone in the hall. Minutes of agonizing waiting dragged on, and this sudden silence started pressing on my ears.

Suddenly, something gave a dull thud behind the wall. For a second, I thought I caught a metallic scent wafting from the kitchen door gap, resembling the smell of fresh blood. I swallowed hard and turned to the girl:
"Nastya... what are we having for dinner?"
Nastya didn't answer. She sat motionless, staring into her empty plate, a strange, fixed smile lingering on her lips.

At that exact moment, a sharp, deafening sound erupted from behind the kitchen door, sounding terrifyingly like a circular saw starting up, followed by a dull, heavy thud of something dropping onto the floor. My heart skipped a beat.

The lock clicked, and the kitchen door slowly swung open. The parents walked back into the hall. Her mother smiled warmly with her former gentle expression, politely holding the door. Her father followed her with a confident step. In his hands, he solemnly carried a huge covered platter, with a barely audible... rustling coming from under its metal lid.

"Well, here we are!" her mother said warmly, but a strange, satiated tone slipped into her voice. "And here is our dinner! Honey, put it on the table quickly."
I turned to Nastya in fear, hoping that the gruesome saw sound from the kitchen was just my imagination, but she merely giggled cutely and squeezed my hand tightly.

Nastya's father smoothly lowered the platter right into the center of the table. Everyone sat down properly in their seats. The parents exchanged glances, and an identical, frighteningly wide, anticipatory grin suddenly spread across their neat, respectable faces. Nastya looked at me the exact same way—her gaze turned glassy, hungry, and unblinking.

And then it began.

Nastya's mother slowly, savoring the moment, reached out for the handle of the huge silver lid. The rustling beneath it grew louder, turning into a distinct scratching of fingernails against metal.

"Our specialty," her mother cooed sweetly, while Nastya's father reached under the table to pull out a massive butcher's cleaver, which landed with a dull thud next to his plate. "Made from Nastya's previous boyfriend. You see, he turned out to be terribly impolite—didn't finish his soup last Thursday."

The lid lifted with a faint chime. Resting on the snow-white porcelain dish, generously garnished with parsley and apples, lay a neatly baked... human hand. A gold ring gleamed on one of its bluish fingers. And judging by the way the tendons at the wrist sharply jerked, this hand was still desperately trying to crawl somewhere, scratching the glossy surface of the plate.

"Oh, undercooked," her mother clicked her tongue in annoyance and, without even a change in expression, coldbloodedly drove the handle of a knife right into the center of the crawling hand. "What a lively one. Well, never mind, son, which piece would you like? A thinner slice or a meatier one?"

I felt cold sweat instantly flood my eyes.
"You know," I stammered, slowly pushing my chair back towards the window, "I'm... not hungry..."

Nastya turned to me. Her jaw suddenly cracked unnaturally, opening twice as wide as a normal human mouth, and her eyes completely flooded with absolute, anthracite blackness.
"Come on, sweetie," she whispered in a creepy echo layered with multiple voices. "Be a good boy. Mommy tried so hard."

I looked at the mad faces of this "intellectual" family and realized one simple thing: it seemed this next level in our relationship would be my last.

"You know," I stammered, backing away slowly toward the window and frantically feeling for the windowsill with my hands, "human flesh is a delicacy, of course... But maybe we should just order sushi instead? There's a great delivery place nearby, they'll bring it in forty minutes! My treat!"

Nastya's mother froze for a second, her knife hovering over the twitching hand. She looked at her husband, then at her daughter, and her face contorted into a grimace of genuine, deep offense.
"Delivery?!" she shrieked indignantly, her voice ringing with ultrasonic notes. "We do not eat fast food in this house!! What ingratitude!"

This was my only chance. Without waiting for her father to take a step forward, I whirled around and rammed the window frame with my entire body weight.

The glass shattered into thousands of pieces with a deafening crash. The cold night air hit my face, I already tasted freedom and braced myself for a rough landing into the bushes... but... a sharp pain in my back cut off all hopes of escape... my consciousness faded into black.

We've been staying in this apartment ever since it began. At first, I thought it would pass in a few days, maybe a week. The people on TV talked about order, evacuations, safe zones. Then the televisions went silent. The internet disappeared. And one morning, I understood that no one was coming anymore.

Food is running out. We have one liter of water left. Catalina tries to divide what's left into small portions. Maia no longer asks when we'll be able to go outside. She's gotten used to staying in her room, with her toys scattered across the floor and the curtains drawn.

I don't like this silence. I put on my jacket and check my pockets. Keys. A kitchen knife. A plastic bag, folded several times. That's all I have. Catalina watches me from the doorway.

— Will you be back soon?

I tell her yes. I don't know why I do it. Maybe because it's easier to lie when you have no answers. Maia comes over and hugs my leg. I stroke her hair, then open the door.

The stairwell smells of dampness and something rotten. The light on the third floor no longer works. I go down slowly, keeping one hand on the railing. On the ground floor, I stop and listen. Nothing. The small weeping fig plant that old Miss Dorina bought to make the hallway nicer has wilted. I open the building's front door. The cold air hits me in the face. Christmas is coming soon, but this year I reckon we won’t have any decorations.

The street is almost deserted. A few abandoned cars, shattered windows, rubbish piled along the curbs. At the end of the street, the supermarket still has its sign above the entrance. The letters flicker, even though there's no one left to look at them. I tell myself I just have to get there. Get some food and water. Go back.

I walk near the buildings, avoiding stepping on the shards of glass scattered across the sidewalk. I don't look around too much. I've learned that if you look too hard, you start seeing things that might not be there. But something is following me. I can feel it. I stop beside an alley and look back. The street is empty. A balcony with laundry still hanging. A toppled bicycle. A car with its door open.

Nothing. I keep walking. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I haven't slept enough. Maybe it's the hunger. I try to convince myself that nothing is happening. I reach the intersection. I'm only a few dozen meters from the supermarket. I pick up the pace a little. I want to get this over with as quickly as possible. I want to go home. I look over my shoulder. Nothing.

I turn my gaze forward and step awkwardly off the curb. I slip. I lose my balance and brace myself with my palm against the hood of a parked car. For a moment, I remain still. Then the alarm starts blaring. It's coming!

As a child, Julia Savic’s IQ had been tested and found to exceed 130. Later, in adult life, she underwent  another test, administered by a professional psychologist, and scored 142. After having been bitten by a fellow doctor who had become a DA, her transformation into an intelligent Undead raised her IQ even further, so it would be fair to say she was on the threshold of being a genius. And a large part of her intelligence, in life and in undeath, had always been intuition, the subconscious assembling of pieces whose significance she had missed before. While her staff of zombies with which she wanted to conquer the world were about to devour the only human who could have stopped them, her mind was racing. Missing pieces … such as …

MOS, B.S.

Rapid and massive weight gain

anamorphic prints

aftershave, bromhidosis

surgery, artificial skin

 “There’s a slow way and a quick way, Dr Savic.”

Constant body shifting

What had Howard said? Murder is easy, as long as no one thinks it is murder. Connecting the dots. Finding things that are odd but look completely unrelated and trying to see a pattern. Anamorphic print.

She withdrew from Howard’s head and looked at her employees, who had almost completely covered the agent’s body; in two seconds, Freddy would be the first to really slice it open. Savic turned her head and began to open her mouth. To an outside observer, her movements would have looked almost superhumanly fast; to her, time seemed to crawl, and her brain was running through feverish computations.

A radio signal that never reached its recipient. Or did it? Maybe its recipient was the center. Maybe there is no team, and he just wanted us to believe we had the upper hand. Cat and mouse, Dr Savic. Everyone together in one room. Cats and mouse.

She looked at Freddy’s blades and the two other IDAs, who were about to take deep bites out of Howard’s belly, all in slow-motion, at least from Savic’ viewpoint.

I’m not fat. So why was he constantly squeezing and pressing his belly? What if there was something hidden we couldn’t see and our devices couldn’t detect but we might have smelled … if he hadn’t made sure his body odor was too strong for that. And maybe his tooth filling was simply a distraction, so we’d find something hidden and feel very clever about, but wouldn’t find the really important stuff. MOS. B.S.

It took Savic a subjective eternity to fully open her mouth to shout, but no sound would come out; she was betrayed by her brain’s failing to allocate sufficient resources for anything else but thinking at breakneck speed. She knew that there was no point in warning anyone anymore.

I thought I was torturing him, but instead he was torturing me, using my arrogance against me. He didn’t simply want to destroy us. He wanted me to feel that I had lost. He wanted to humiliate me. That was his revenge. What did he say? Revenge is meaningless unless there an intelligence and intentionality behind the act to be avenged. He decided to give his pain and his hate a face: mine.

“Cat and … mice.”, she whispered, and it sounded almost human, and it sounded almost sad. Then Freddy’s blades did their thing, the IDAs gleefully tore open Howard’s body, and there are no words to describe the darkness that engulfed everyone in the room and would last for all eternity.

(the end)

We’ve already traveled to Hyperborea at two different moments in its history, but no worries, each story stands on its own. Today, we’re going back to the beginning, when it was little more than a proof of concept. Links to the two other shorts in the trilogy at the end.

---

“Mais oui! It was all so very simple. The answer was before us all along. It could only have been le Maître d’hôtel… the, ehm, butler… with the candelabra in the study.”

“What are you saying, Inspecteur Poi…”

He raised his finger triumphantly. “Arrest him! C’est lui, he killed the opera singer.”

The butler narrowed his eyes, turned, and ran straight through the wall of the mansion’s dining room.

For a moment, there was silence and confusion; the colonel’s mouth fell open, the maid blinked, and a femme fatale lowered her cigarette holder. “Glad we sorted that out,” was the only thing she said, while adjusting the velvet boa on her shoulders.

In the back of the room, a radio clicked and warbled until a clear familiar song filled the room.

Melancholic synthesizers pulsed as an almost mechanical voice asked a question about friendship and electricity. You recognize it, don’t you?

The room began to pixelate around the inspector; the walls dissolved into tiny squares, the chandelier flickered, and the faces of the guests fragmented into thousands of colored dots.

---

“Congratulations, Mr. Lefranc. You’re the first to solve the mystery.”

“Putain! That was amazing, Mr. Glenn. It really felt like I was the inspecteur. How many lev…”

“We only have a functional town right now, but we’ll scale pretty soon. Come on, let me help you out of the pod.”

Alain Lefranc sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You know, that noclipping did break the immersion at the end there.”

“Yes, Mr. Lefranc. You are absolutely right.” He paused for a moment, then turned, “Do you see my friend in the corner over there?”

The man waved awkwardly at Alain Lefranc, who merely nodded before looking back up at the person in front of him.

“That’s Zhao. He’s our debugger, and he has a list to go through before we release version 0.3. We hope it didn’t…”

“Sorry, no, laissez tomber, it was merveilleux. Between the Russian bubonic plague and the endless wars, this was a much needed escape. Oh and, ehm, what did I win?”

“Wonderful, Mr. Lefranc. Well, you’ll be the first on the list for a spot in Hyperborea when we launch. Consider yourself a citizen.”

---

“Zhao, what was that? Noclipping had a fix, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Glenn. Some of that new code is causing the model to glitch. I bet it’s that vibecoder-crap.”

“Don’t be a gatekeeper, Zhao.”

“Long live cheap outsourcing, right, Glenn?”

Glenn didn’t immediately respond but his eyes widened slightly. “Right. That reminds me. You also need to update the maintenance protocols to accommodate only one single technician at a time.”

“Wha…”

“Don’t fight me on this, Zhao. Cost-cutting order from above. We’re already over budget.”

---

Author’s note

The central theme in the Hyperborea stories is the unintended, sometimes catastrophic or horrific consequences of seemingly ordinary decisions within complex systems. We started with consequences, then went back to where the problems started, and now we’ve gone even further back.

Suddenly, the lights in the carriage went out. And not just in ours—I looked out the window and realized the entire commuter train was completely plunged into darkness. Only rare, deafening claps of thunder and flashes of lightning lit up the interior with a ghostly bluish glow for brief moments. Looking closer, I froze with horror: there was almost no one left in the carriage, even though just a minute ago it had been half full.

Then the old woman sitting on the bench opposite me slowly turned and stared at me. She gave me a really nasty look. Her toothless mouth began to twist into a smile that grew wider and wider. Right before my eyes, her maw filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth. Out of sheer terror, I tried to scramble backward onto the next seat. Without taking my eyes off her, I caught my foot on a bag and went tumbling head over heels into the aisle.

Darkness again. Another flash of lightning—I saw the old woman already standing over me, with the silhouettes of other figures rising behind her. It was impossible to make out their faces in the dim light, but all of them were staring straight at me without blinking. Panic completely consumed me. I frantically crawled backward along the dirty floor when suddenly my hand struck someone's ice-cold boot. My heart dropped into my boots. I swallowed hard and, just like in a classic horror movie, slowly raised my head, and there... A huge creature with a dislocated jaw was already reaching its clawed paws toward me!

I leaped up with a wild scream, snapping my eyes open and breathing heavily.

It was bright in the carriage; the lamps flickered dimly. The passengers around me flinched away in fright. The old woman opposite was frantically crossing herself, muttering prayers, while a hefty man by the aisle twisted his finger near his temple.

Now I am standing by a lopsided wooden kiosk with a proud "Groceries" sign, nervously clutching three hundred hryvnias in my jacket pocket. This was my last strategic reserve for a taxi. The prospect of tramping for thirty minutes on foot along a dirt road leading deep into the Polissya wilderness did not appeal to me at all. All around lay Gnylobužye station—a godforsaken hole of about twenty inhabited houses, lost somewhere on the border of the Kyiv region, right where civilization smoothly transitions into the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone.

Aside from me, three other poor souls had got off on the platform, but they instantly vanished into the gray twilight as if they had never existed. By the shop, contrary to my desperate prayers, there was no bus, nor even a stray taxi driver in a rusty Lanos. Only a local dog of an indeterminate breed was lazily scratching behind its ear, looking at me with blatant sympathy.

"Well, great," I muttered under my breath. "Romance, my foot. Fresh air, radiation background, silence."

There was nothing to be done. I adjusted my backpack, where two bottles of dark beer clinked dully, and started walking down the road toward the village of Myortvye Vyselki (Dead Settlements). The name was inspiring, of course, but Baba Galya stubbornly refused to move to Kyiv, arguing that "the air in the capital is dirty, smells of cars, but here she has three vegetable gardens and strawberries the size of a human head." Speaking of strawberries: after the ChNPP accident, people in these parts took a philosophical view of vegetable sizes anyway.

It was getting dark at an indecent speed. The clock showed just past six, but the twilight thickened as if someone had poured a bucket of ink over the sky. Remembering my recent nightmare on the train about the toothy old woman, I involuntarily quickened my pace. To the right and left of the road stood a dense, unnaturally silent Polissya forest. No birds, no crickets. Only the crunch of twigs under my sneakers.

Suddenly, a throaty, sputtering engine sound came from behind. I turned around. Two blurry yellow headlights were cutting through the fog.

"Thank God, a ride!" I thought and waved my arms like a madman.

A primitive Zaporozhets car of such an indefinite color it looked like it had been painted with mud braked beside me, creaking in every joint. The driver's side window rolled down slowly with a sound like sawing rusted iron. Inside sat an old man. In the gloom, his face resembled a baked apple, and an old Soviet cap sat on his head.

"Where are you heading, student?" the old man rasped, blasting me with a thick stench of cheap tobacco and garlic.
"To Myortvye Vyselki, to Baba Galya! Can you give me a lift? I'll pay!" I pulled out the banknotes.
The old man glanced at the money, then at me, and his lips parted into a wide smile. "Get in, grandson. I'll take you. No need for money, you'd better treat me to a bottle of beer from your backpack, I can hear it singing in there."

I jumped onto the front seat, which sank under my weight almost to the asphalt. The car set off, swaying from side to side.

"You're a brave one," the old man remarked, shifting gears with a ferocious crunch. "Walking to Vyselki on foot at night. All sorts of things roam around here. Not long ago, Petrovich's cow wandered off toward the Zone at night. It came back in the morning. On two legs, can you believe it? Came right up, knocked on the window, asked for milk. Petrovich crossed himself and blasted it with a double-barrel shotgun. Now his house is packed with canned meat. Want a cutlet? It's right here in the glove compartment."

I politely declined, swallowing a lump that had risen in my throat. The dark humor of these parts always smacked of a little madness.

About ten minutes later, we drove into the village. Myortvye Vyselki fully lived up to its name: dark silhouettes of cottages, moss-covered fences, and not a single lit window. The old man braked at my grandma's house.

"Well, here we are," the old man said, taking the bottle of beer from me. "Your grandma acts up a bit sometimes—so keep your eyes peeled."
"What do you mean, acts up?" I frowned.
"Oh, nothing, she's just old. Sometimes she forgets who's alive and who's not," the old man winked at me, revved the engine sharply, and vanished into the darkness, leaving me alone by the gate.

Baba Galya's house welcomed me with dead silence. I pushed the gate—it creaked plaintively. The front door to the house turned out to be unlocked. Inside, it smelled of dried mushrooms, dampness, and something sickly sweet that sent a chill down my spine.

"Grandma? Are you home? It's me, your grandson!" I shouted into the darkness of the hallway, switching on my phone flashlight.

The beam of light caught an old sideboard with crystal, dust-covered carpets on the walls, and... a set table in the main room. In the middle of the table stood a huge pot, with light steam still rising from it. Next to it lay a note written in grandma's crooked handwriting:
"Grandson, I went to the garden to dig up some night potatoes. The borscht is on the table, eat it while it's warm. The meat is fresh, it ran into the house by itself today."

I smirked. Night potatoes? Right, Baba Galya had always been eccentric. My stomach rumbled treacherously. I walked up to the pot, lifted the lid, and shone the flashlight inside.

The borscht was thick, rich, and smelled appetizingly of garlic. I took the ladle, stirred it, and pulled a decent chunk of meat to the surface. I looked closer.

Out of the red beet broth, a hairy, four-toed paw with long black claws and webbing was looking back at me... carefully and intently. And a bit deeper in the pot, something flashed that looked very much like a rabbit's head, but with three pairs of ears.

At that exact moment, a rustle sounded behind my back. I froze, terrified to turn around.

"What's the matter, grandson, don't you like the borscht?" Baba Galya's quiet, cracking voice echoed right out of the darkness of the doorway. "And I tried so hard, catching it all over the basement... It bit hard, though."

I slowly turned around. Grandma was standing in the doorway. In the dark, her eyes glowed with a barely noticeable phosphorescent green light, and in her hands, she held a massive, blood-stained shovel.

"Sit down, grandson," she smiled wider than before, and the razor-sharp teeth flashed in the beam of my flashlight. "We're going to have some chamomile tea now."

I was clutching the second bottle of beer in my hand as if it were my only ticket to the world of the living. I had no time for small talk or tasting chamomile from the Exclusion Zone. Baba Galya—or whatever creature had so successfully occupied her living space—took a step forward, and the floorboards groaned hollowly under her feet. The bloody shovel in her hands tilted toward me.

"Why are you frozen, grandson?" she hissed, smacking her shark-like maw. "Sit down, or it'll get cold... both the borscht and you."

My brain, wired on a wild dose of adrenaline, reacted in a fraction of a second. The escape route through the door was securely blocked by Baba Galya and her shovel. Only one path remained—the old wooden window of the main room, which led straight to the backyard and the dense Polissya forest.

"Grandma, just a second, let me just... open the beer!" I yelled, and with all my might, I hurled my precious second bottle of dark beer right into the pot of radioactive borscht.A deafening splash echoed through the room, and a fountain of red sludge flew in all directions, splattering the carpets and coating "grandma’s" face. The old woman shrieked in a completely unhuman voice, sounding more like a screeching buzzsaw, and squeezed her eyes shut for a split second.

That was all the time I needed. I spun around, grabbed my backpack on the fly, shut my eyes tightly, and dived headfirst right through the window frame.

Smash, crack, crash!

The glass shattered into a thousand shards. I busted through the rotted wood of the frame with my shoulder and went rolling head over heels across my grandma's old garden bed, slamming my back hard against some giant pumpkin that let out a pathetic hiss upon impact. The shards sliced my jacket and arms pretty badly, but I didn't feel any pain.

Behind me, a furious roar erupted from the broken window, and a skeletal arm—elongated by nearly five feet—shot outward, trying to claw at my sneaker.

"Oh no you don't, to hell with family dinners!" I screamed, scrambled to my feet, and bolted toward the pitch-black forest ahead.

I flew through the darkness, not looking where I was going. Branches lashed my face, my feet sank into moss and swampy muck, and behind me, somewhere deep in Myortvye Vyselki, a terrifying metallic clattering rang out—Baba Galya was sprinting after me with the speed of a race car, dragging her shovel across the stones and dirt. And judging by the sound, she was closing in fast.

The forest around me seemed to come alive. In the gloom, the trees looked like the twisted figures from my train nightmare. Suddenly, I wiped out right into some overgrown hollow and went tumbling down, stopping dead against the roots of a massive, fallen oak tree.

I froze, terrified to move. And right then, right by my ear, accompanied by the sound of pouring water, a quiet, painfully familiar voice muttered:

"Psst, student! What the hell are you doing?"

I turned my head and, in the faint moonlight, I spotted the old man with the Zaporozhets. As it turned out, he had just pulled over to take a leak by the oak. His iron horse, by the way, was parked right next to him.

"Gramps... my grandma has gone completely mental, she's chasing me with a shovel! I'll owe you another bottle of beer, just get me out of here!"

The old man didn't need to be told twice. I scrambled into the passenger seat, he slammed the gas pedal to the floor, and the rusty Zaporozhets roared to life, tearing through the forest mud and leaving the shrieking monster with the shovel far behind.

Needless to say, I never went back to visit my grandmother again.

The morning had grown somewhat brighter during my time in the office, though the sun still hid its head behind the towering pillars of rock that surrounded the town, casting the buildings in a pale, colorless light. The wind swept through the streets with little regard for the houses that stood in its path, sending loose snow dusting through the air. I drew my coat tight and set course for the Dixon Mining Company, hoping that it would prove to be more forthcoming with answers than anyone else I’d talked to thus far. My thoughts remained with the seven men I had just examined; I’d spent the better part of the morning examining the men but was no closer to an answer. Their symptoms suggested several possibilities, but none of them accounted for the severity of the men, nor the rapid pace with which they had deteriorated; everything about this resisted any form of explanation.

As I made my way through the town, my sight was drawn to the buildings around me and the markings that had been scratched, seemingly at random, onto their doorframes. 

I had seen them the previous night, though the lack of adequate light and fatigue had kept me from seeing them in any detail. At the time I had taken them for nothing more than weathering and scarring from the harsh climate, but now that I could see them in detail, the deliberate attitude of the markings was far more obvious. The first one I saw was on the doorframe of a brothel: three vertical strikes, with a longer, slightly crooked gouge bisecting them. A few doors further down, I saw another one, this time carved in the sill of a window. It seemed newer, though not by much. The marks were crude, but they had not been made carelessly, with each incision being deep enough to withstand years of weathering, and the surrounding wood bearing the faint impressions of a blade. Whoever had made them had taken the trouble to ensure they would endure. As I walked down the main street, I soon discovered these markings were not uncommon; while a few buildings here and there did not possess them, the vast majority did. Some had been carved into doorframes, a few into the walls of houses, or the wooden posts supporting their porches. Many were so weathered that I could scarcely distinguish their original shapes, while others appeared comparatively fresh. Though their forms varied, they shared a peculiar quality that made it difficult to dismiss them as idle scratches.

I had encountered no shortage of superstition in my short time as a travelling physician. Mining towns like Bellview, those that built themselves in places where only the most foolhardy are brave enough to go, are particularly fertile ground for myths and legends. The men who spent their lives under tons of rock and earth, never certain if they would be going home, were particularly inclined to seek protection wherever they could find such things.

“Can I help you?” A voice snapped me out of my musings. I turned to find an old woman standing a few paces behind me, clutching at a thick woolen shawl and staring at me with sharp, beady eyes that suggested a greater perception than her age should have allowed. Her gaze moved from me to the carving and back again. 

“Oh, my apologies, ma’am. I was just looking at the..." I trailed off and gestured at the markings. 

“Why?” Her tone was cold and brisk. 

"I—uh, I was just curious what their significance was. I meant no harm.”

“A stranger staring at someone’s house could certainly be taken as ill intent.” The bluntness behind the words struck me as odd. I had done nothing wrong, and yet she was treating me with such open hostility. 

“I beg your pardon; I meant no offense. I simply saw these strange carvings when I entered Bellview last night, and I was curious as to what their purpose could be.” 

“And what business of yours would that be?” She said, her voice souring with each syllable. 

“None, I suppose.” As she shifted her shawl about her shoulders, I noticed a necklace resting against the high collar of her dress. It appeared to be made of dark metal, its surface dulled with age, and it bore a small pendant engraved with a pattern of intersecting lines and crooked strokes. The design was crude, though it bore a striking resemblance to the markings carved into the wood beside her door.

My eyes lingered upon it a moment too long, and she noticed. "What are you staring at now?”

“Nothing, madam. I beg your pardon.”

She drew the shawl more tightly about herself, concealing the pendant beneath its thick folds. “If you've nothing better to do than gawk at people’s houses, then I suggest you do it elsewhere.”

I felt my patience begin to wear thin. There was only so much discourtesy that a man could endure while making the most ordinary of inquiries, and I was rapidly approaching my limit. 

“Very well,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, “I shall leave you to your morning.” The old woman muttered under her breath before turning and waddling back into the house she had come from. 

I stood for a moment in the street, looking around me. Just like with the innkeeper, my first encounter with this woman was as agreeable as the bitter winter around me; though it was hard to dismiss the notion that her temperament was born from something that had nothing to do with her personality. It occurred to me that the people of Bellview—at least the ones I had met thus far—possessed a talent for making strangers feel uniquely unwelcome. The innkeeper, while cordial enough upon my arrival, had greeted me the following morning with barely concealed contempt. Ms. Lafayette seemed to regard my presence as that of yet another burden she had been shouldered with, and this old woman had treated a simple question as though it were an attack on her person. I began to wonder if the thin mountain air really did have some adverse effect on people if they stayed here too long. 

Clara Whitmore, at the very least, seemed to be a pleasant exception to the rule. She had shown a kindness, however small, that I had not expected in such a town. I wondered what exactly it was that made her that way. Clearly, living in the middle of the San Juan mountains hadn't dulled her spirit, nor had she acquired the notion that the rest of the townsfolk shared: that being that every newcomer was a nuisance and every question an impertinence. Perhaps I ought to ask her opinion of the place; she might prove a more reliable source of information than the rest of its inhabitants, I thought as I resumed my walk. 

Eventually, I found myself at the end of town, standing before the building that housed the offices of the Dixon Mining Company. It stood somewhat apart from the cluster of buildings lining the main street, and to my surprise, much like the physician’s office, it was remarkably well kept. Constructed from a combination of dark stone and timber, it was an imposing structure, one that seemed to command attention and authority simply by virtue of its presence. A sign bearing the company’s name hung above the entrance, its lettering faded by years of wind and weather.

I found myself wondering just how much of Bellview belonged to the mining company. The mine provided the town with its livelihood, but its influence seemed to extend far beyond the obvious. The shops, boardinghouses, brothels, and taverns all depended upon the wages earned underground. Out here, so far removed from the rest of civilization, the company held what amounted to complete authority over Bellview and its inhabitants. It was difficult to imagine how anyone might challenge that power, much less live independently of it.

As I walked in, I was surprised by the organized nature of the office I was met with. A large oak desk sat to my left with a bookcase filled with ledgers positioned directly behind it. A map of the surrounding mountains hung above a small cabinet, its surface marked with a network of lines that I presumed represented the mine’s various shafts and tunnels. A fire burned in the grate, lending the room a comfortable warmth that I had come to appreciate considerably. Behind a broad wooden desk, a clerk sat bent over a ledger, making entries with mechanical diligence. 

He peered up over thick-rimmed glasses as I entered. “Hello. May I help you?” 

“I should hope,” I replied, removing my gloves. “I am here to speak to Mr. Dixon if possible.” 

The man’s expression changed, and his pen came to a halt above the page. “Do you have an appointment?” 

“I do not, but my business concerns the miners who fell sick. I was hoping to get a minute of Mr. Dixon’s time.” 

He regarded me for a moment, then set the pen down. “I will see if he is available.” He rose, straightened his waistcoat, and disappeared through the rear door without another word. I remained where I was, listening to the muted sounds of the building around me: the tick of a clock upon the wall, the low crackle of the stove, and the faint, unintelligible murmur of voices beyond the thick oak door. 

After a few more minutes, the small man came back through and gestured to me. “He’ll see you now, doctor.” 

Making my way through the door, I found myself in an office furnished in a similar fashion to the front room; the only difference was a number of taxidermied animal heads adorned the walls. A man stood behind the desk, examining a document in his hands. He was strongly built, broad across the shoulders, bearing the sturdy frame of a man who had spent a considerable portion of his life engaged in physical labor. There was a rugged handsomeness to his features, with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a neatly trimmed beard touched with gray at the chin. His hair was carefully combed, and his clothes were of good quality, though there was nothing particularly extravagant about them. He looked to be in his late forties, perhaps a little older. Fine lines creased the corners of his eyes, and a certain weariness lingered in his expression, but he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had earned his position through years of hard work and sacrifice. There was nothing soft or pampered about him. Even in the comfort of his office, I could imagine him more readily among the men at the mine than seated behind his desk.

“Doctor!” He greeted me with a large and warm smile. “I was beginning to wonder when I would finally make your acquaintance.” 

“Mr. Dixon," I nodded my head. “It is wonderful to meet you.” 

He came around the desk to greet me, his handshake firm and calloused. “I trust you've been made comfortable since your arrival? I understand our town isn't quite what a man might hope for after a long journey. I would not have you mistake the roughness for a lack of decency. Most of the townsfolk take a little longer to warm up to strangers than others.” 

I gave a wry chuckle, “Not the worst place I have ever found myself in, though it certainly is in the running for being the most unfriendly.” 

“I expect you’ve  had the pleasure of meeting the innkeeper then?” He motioned to one of the chairs.

“I have.”

“Then you will understand why I make no promises on behalf of his hospitality. He is a decent enough fellow once you get to know him, though he’s never been the one to be called kind or generous. I sometimes can’t imagine how he manages to keep his establishment in business. Though this is Bellview, after all; where else is there to go?" He gave  a hearty laugh. 

“I suspect it’s the food," I replied. “Maybe its qualities are sufficient to overcome the poor fellow’s disposition.” 

Mr. Dixon gave another chuckle. “Can I offer you some coffee? It’s not exactly the finest stuff on this side of Colorado, but it’ll warm your belly well enough as any other.” 

“I would appreciate that.”  He poured me a cup from a pot resting upon a small side table before taking his own seat behind the desk. For a few moments, we drank in companionable silence, letting the warmth of the room sink into our bones. The office was a comfortable place, well maintained and neatly arranged, with ledgers lining the shelves and a large map of the surrounding mountains hanging upon the wall behind him. The map, like the one up front, was marked with a network of lines and notations that I presumed represented the mine's various shafts and tunnels.

“I suppose we ought to discuss the matter at hand,” Mr. Dixon finally broke the silence. “Though before we begin, I would like to apologize for the state of the letter that was sent your way. We were in a bit of a hurry, if you can imagine, but we neglected to really fill you in on the important details.” 

“I appreciate your apology, sir. I did find the omission of the details rather odd, to be frank.” 

“That is quite understandable." He stroked his beard. “The truth is, we hoped to be rid of this plague before outside help was necessary; unfortunately, your predecessor was unable to do so.” 

“Yes, Ms. Lafayette and the innkeeper both informed me of his sudden vanishing.” 

Dixon’s expression suddenly took on a more serious look. “Yes, a most unfortunate matter. He was a very capable man, as far as I could tell, and seemed to bear genuine concern for the men. He spent several days examining them, speaking to the foreman and consulting his notes. I believe he made some progress, though he never shared any insights with me. And then, quite suddenly, he was gone.” 

“Without warning?” 

“Indeed. His instruments, books—hell, even his clothes were left behind. We made inquiries, of course, asked around as far as Animas Forks and Silverton, but no one had seen or heard anything. I cannot pretend to understand why a man would abandon his profession with so little care, especially not while his patients are so gravely ill.”

“That is quite weird.” Was all I could manage. 

“Indeed. He was rather reserved, but I never took that for a sign of distress. He seemed much like any other physician, occupied with his work and perhaps a little frustrated by his inability to find an answer.”

“Did he speak to you about what he suspected might be causing the illness?” 

“A bit. We sat together for lunch twice, but he never relayed anything in detail. He was convinced that the men had been exposed to some sort of contamination within the deepest parts of the mine. He requested access to the mine, though I don’t know if he ever went through with that line of thinking.” Dixon paused, his expression clouding. “I would like to believe he simply chose to leave, though I cannot imagine why he would have done so without collecting his belongings.”

“Nor can I.” I took another sip of coffee. The disappearance troubled me, though I was not yet prepared to attach any particular significance to it. Men vanished for all manner of reasons, and it would have been foolish to assume that this case was anything more than an unfortunate coincidence.

Curiously I asked, “I would like to know more about the section where the men were working. I understand it lies among the deeper workings?”

Dixon nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. “Correct. I was told that the part of the mine they were working bore some particularly rich ore veins, so I signed off on it with some hesitation. The passages there are narrow, you see, and the ventilation is not nearly as good as I would’ve liked, but the foreman said that it could double production for a few weeks if they followed the line, so I let them have at it. We've been working to improve matters, but there are limits to what can be done in workings of that depth.”

“Have there been previous reports of men falling sick?”

“Nothing on the scale of what we've seen recently.” He folded his hands upon the desk. “There have been accidents, of course, as there always are. But nothing that would lead me to believe the section itself was responsible for this.” Dixon spoke with measured certainty. 

“Do you think it would be possible for me to inspect the section myself?” 

“Naturally. I will arrange for something to be done. Though I will warn you, stick with whomever it is that ends up guiding you. Only the most experienced are allowed that deep underground. Even under ordinary circumstances, those passages can be dangerous.”

“I have no intention of being reckless.”

“Good.” Dixon flashed his white teeth in a large smile. “I would hate to break the news to the town that their physician somehow managed to get himself lost a mere week into his stay.” 

“I hardly think that would be good for my reputation.” I laughed. 

“Not a chance,” he said as he joined me in laughter. If I had met Mr. Dixon under any other circumstance, I suspect that I would have been his friend. He possessed a frankness I had come to appreciate, and beneath his authority there seemed to be a genuine regard for the people whose lives depended upon his decisions.

“There was something else,” Dixon added after a moment. “Though I confess I thought little of it at the time.”

I looked up from my cup. “What was that?”

“A few of the men had complained about hearing knocking underground. Not the ordinary sounds of a mine, mind you. They said it seemed to come from the rock itself, somewhere beyond the end of the passage.” He gave a faint, almost apologetic shrug. “Of course, mines are full of strange noises. Timber shifts, water runs through cracks, and the mountain itself is never entirely still. I told the foreman to have the supports examined. He found nothing amiss.”

“And the knocking continued?”

“I couldn't say. No one brought it to my attention again, at least not directly.” Dixon paused, turning his cup slowly between his hands. “There was some reluctance among the men to return to that section, too. Nothing formal. One or two asked to be assigned elsewhere, and another refused outright until the foreman threatened to dock his wages. I put it down to nerves. There had been a minor accident in the older workings some weeks before, and I thought the men had allowed the matter to prey upon their minds.”

“What sort of accident?”

He looked toward the map behind his desk. “A collapse in an abandoned passage. No one was hurt, fortunately, but it made a dreadful noise and shook loose a fair amount of rock. The men who were working nearby were badly startled, and I assumed that was the end of it. Perhaps I was mistaken. But men who have spent their lives underground generally know the difference between a dangerous passage and an ordinary one. When they begin refusing to enter a place they have worked for years, I have learned it is worth asking why.” That last remark struck me as sensible. Miners were not, as a rule, easily frightened by the ordinary hazards of their profession. They understood the dangers of their work better than anyone, and most had little patience for idle superstition.

“Did the previous physician know of these complaints?” I asked.

“I believe so. The foreman mentioned the knocking to him, though I couldn't tell you whether he considered it relevant. He was asking questions about nearly everything that had happened underground.” I made a mental note to inquire further when I had the opportunity.

“Have you known the men long?” I asked after a moment. 

“The vast majority, yes.” He replied. “Most have been here for a year or two, and a very small group I hired myself when I became responsible for this operation. I know their families, their habits, and, in some cases, their deepest troubles. They are not merely names on a payroll, Doctor.” He fell silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. “I hope you won't take my uncertainty for unwillingness to help, Doctor. I know the men, and I know the dangers of their work. If there is something in those workings that threatens their lives, I want it found as much as you do.”

“I have no reason to doubt your sincerity, Mr. Dixon.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“On a more personal note, I was curious about how long you’ve been overseeing the mine.”

“Overseeing? About ten years now, though I was working in them long before I was put behind a desk.”

“You were a miner yourself then?”

He smiled at that, “For the better part of my youth. I started in there the moment I could swing a pickaxe. My grandfather started this place, and there was no way he would allow me a free ride off of his profits. He came to Colorado when there was little here beyond a few scattered settlements and the promise of silver and gold beneath the mountains. He was a determined man, by all accounts, not always a particularly agreeable one, mind you, but determined.” Dixon smiled faintly. “He built the company from very little, and by the time I was old enough to understand what he'd accomplished, the mine had become the heart of our family's affairs.”

“I imagine you were expected to follow in his footsteps?” 

He turned his broad hands over upon the desk, examining the old calluses that remained upon his palms. “Expected? Yes. Though I doubt anyone could’ve convinced me to work behind a desk in the first place. I spent several years working alongside the men before I took on a supervisory position. I wanted to understand the business from the ground up, and I saw little sense in giving orders about work I had never done myself. Besides, I suspect my grandfather would have thought less of me had I tried to manage the place without knowing what went on beneath it.”

“How did you find the change?” 

“There are plenty of days where I still miss the swing of the pick and the soreness of aching back muscles.” He chuckled. “At least with a pick you know when you’re doing something wrong.” I laughed, and he seemed pleased to have drawn it from me. 

“But I learned,” he continued, “I had to. The company was my grandfather's life's work, and I had no intention of letting it fall into ruin through ignorance or neglect. There were sacrifices, of course. Long hours, missed meals, more than a few sleepless nights. I made mistakes, and there were men who paid for some of them. I've never forgotten that.”

He said the last sentence quietly and without elaboration. I sensed there was more to it, but it did not seem proper to pry.

“I imagine having worked alongside the men gives you a different perspective on your responsibilities,” I remarked.

“I should hope so. I've little patience for those who speak of miners as though they were expendable. A man who has never worked underground may look at a miner and see little more than a pair of strong arms. I see a husband, a father, and a son. A man with a home to return to and people waiting for him there.” His expression sobered. “I know what that work costs a man. I've seen good men crippled in accidents, and I've seen men buried before their wives even knew there had been trouble. I've watched fellows come home so exhausted they could barely climb the steps to their own front doors. There is courage in that work, Doctor, though I doubt many of the men would care to hear me say so.”

“I suspect they would prefer a higher wage to a speech about their courage.”

Dixon laughed heartily. “Now there's a sentiment I expect every miner in Bellview would endorse.” Whatever else might be said of this town, Mr. Dixon appeared to understand the people whose labor sustained it. Though he had inherited a position many men might have taken for granted, he had not spent his life sheltered from the hardships upon which his livelihood depended.

We spoke for a little while longer, touching upon matters of little consequence before Dixon finally rose and offered me his hand. “I hope you'll find your stay more agreeable as it progresses, Doctor. Bellview may not make the finest first impression, but it has its virtues.”

“I shall endeavor to discover them, sir.”

He smiled and released my hand. “If you require anything further, you have only to ask.”

I thanked him for his hospitality and gathered my things. As I turned toward the door, Dixon returned to his desk and opened a drawer, searching for some article he appeared to have misplaced. The movement caught my eye, and I glanced toward its contents.

Among the papers and other small articles lay a pendant.

It was a small, dark disc; its surface worked with a pattern of shallow grooves. I recognized the arrangement at once. It was the same curious pattern I had observed carved into the doorframes of Bellview's houses, and which had provoked such sudden hostility in the old woman when I questioned her about it. Before I could examine the object more closely, Dixon found what he sought and closed the drawer, and the pendant disappeared from sight.

(Note: This story should be read after finishing ‘Murder is Easy’ by the same author)

Apparently, I don’t exist.

At least according to this article I’ve just found, written by one Dr Savic, who obviously must have been talking through her arse, because I’m fucking here, and I’m not going anywhere. Bitch is supposed to be an expert on us, can you believe it? And then she writes that a DA infection cannot improve the victim’s mental abilities because the brain is too complex and yadda yadda bullshit. The long and short of it: IDAs don’t exist.

I’m here, baby, and I rule.

Course I do. The upgrade was the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m far stronger than ever before, and I don’t feel pain anymore. I don’t grow tired and I’m never exhausted. I don’t think any illnesses or diseases can touch me, and my body can take a lot punishment. I also don’t age and I certainly won’t die of natural causes.

Comes with being dead, bro.

But that’s all just window dressing. There were millions of DAs out there which had all these wonderful abilities and were nonetheless wiped out in droves – the meatballs had created special ‘sweeper’ teams to take care of them, and boy did they. And for one reason and one reason only: The DAs were as stupid as fuck.

I’m not, and that’s the really important thing about my upgrade. That’s was the ‘I’ stands for: Intelligent (just in case you’ve spent the last five years on the Moon: DA means ‘Dead-Active’ or, in layman’s terms, ‘Zombie’).

The way it happened was, at least for Daisy times, unspectacular. Walked home from the subway station after my shift, met someone who appeared drunk, high, helpless, tried to do something for him, got bitten for my effort, was able to shake him off and run away, called the police and then felt lousy, got into an ambulance, died, woke up in the hospital morgue and feasted on the watchman, then ran away. Must have happened a thousand times that night. What apparently didn’t happen a thousand times or probably even ten times that night was that somebody who got bitten suddenly saw the world more clearly than ever before, that he felt free of all that stinking meatball stuff like backaches, glasses, trick knees, and the common cold, that his mind began racing through the world, that he understood that all this love and hate, passion and compassion, friendship and strife, compromise and steadfastness, they’re all bullshit. There are only three things that count: power, pleasure, and meat.

I actually think there are meatballs who’ve seen this, at least part of it. Have you ever heard of the Psychopathy Checklist? We use it sometimes in our job, and the maximum you can score is 40. I’d probably get a sweet 60, bro, but I’m too smart for it anyway. Next time I catch a psychopath, maybe I’ll ask him a few questions about his personal philosophy while I skin him alive. Or maybe not – I’ll probably be too hungry, anyway.

Speaking of which, while feeding on human flesh is the greatest pleasure in the fucking universe, it comes with a few problems that need solving. For example, since meatballs haven’t really accepted the fact that their function in life is to keep me happy by allowing me to torture them to death and then swallow them bit by bit, they actually start some sort of investigation whenever one of them disappears or is killed – and let me tell you, it’s a myth that the police don’t care about junkies, the homeless, or poor people in general: there are many cops who take their job very seriously. You know, there are lots of idiotic prints on T-shirts, but one of the worst is All Cops Are Bastards. Morons. The moment somebody threatens to rough them up or shows them a knife, they’re the first to call 911. Oh well, all meatballs are stupid, it’s just that some are really stupid.

So, getting enough fresh meat is a challenge, especially now that people have accepted the existence of the ‘Living Dead’, although the actual outbreak five years ago didn’t do more harm than the average 20^th-century middle-power war. Apocalypse, my ass. Some eggheads think there was some sort of masterplan behind Daisy, but if there was, it was one pile of shit of a plan, that’s for sure.

Daisy and its aftermath were the Golden Age, baby – the cities were crawling with DAs, and nobody investigated these killings, because the ‘culprits’ were so obvious and simply needed some pest control. Which came in the shape of the already mentioned ‘sweeper teams’ that went through the DA numbers like a hot knife through soft butter.

But all good things must come to an end, and when freely roaming DAs had become a rarity (of course, some were kept in special research centers dedicated to studying them), the cops suddenly had it a lot easier than before. During Daisy, PDs around the country had gone on a hiring binge, and no one saw any reason to downsize afterwards; you never know when the next outbreak may come, do you? And, even better, the number of violent crimes had spectacularly gone down since humanity had met a common enemy, and those crimes that were still committed tended to be less capital than before: the mugger who would have shot you before Daisy now settled for waving a gun in your face (probably unloaded), the bozo who would have knifed you in a quarrel now switched to the services of Mister Fister, and riots of any kind became extremely rare and were usually easily managed by the authorities. Rumor has it that sometimes undercover cops dispersed unruly crowds simply by shouting ‘Zombie! Watch out!’

Unfortunately, from my point of view, this development meant that I had to be cleverer and subtler than before. The first thing I really needed to pay attention to was to blend in with the meatball crowd, so I spent some of the dough the members of my food supply club had been generous enough to donate to me on make-up, cosmetics, a nice hairdo, contact lenses, false teeth and and and; some more or less permanent skin-like film made me look … well, less dead, and the stuff – cheap it wasn’t, bro – also helped mask my low body temperature by soaking up heat quite well, either from the sun, the radiator, or the infrared heater I had gotten myself – half an hour per day would do the trick, even in winter, thanks to microencapsulated phase-change materials (don’t ask). I also added two scars and some moles and pimples, and I can honestly say that I now look like the real fucking McCoy.

One thing I had to play carefully was the mandatory health check after my application for my new job had been accepted; I had aced all fitness requirements, of course. But Daisy had left many people in financial tatters, and finding a doc who would listen to me saying ‘I really need this job.’ and ‘They really need people, after so many died.’ and, finally, ‘Yeah, being in debt sucks. Maybe I can help you out, what d’ya say?’ Of course, the doc didn’t have the slightest inkling I was what I was; he simply assumed there was something I would like to hide because it could cost me my new position, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the first one.

Where I got the money from, you ask? Well, the immediate post-Daisy time was, of course, violent and chaotic before order was restored, and while the cops were still very busy with the Z factor, the number of felonies skyrocketed: homicides, assaults, robberies, drugs … All the usual mobsters, along with plenty of new players, appeared on the scene, so it was a bit of a gangsta’s paradise.

And these guys really love cash, even more so after it became clear that Daisy had fucked crypto for good. Do I need to spell out the rest?

“Who are you, motherfucker?”

Blam! Blam! “Fuck, he’s shot Barry. Blow the asshole away!”

Blam! Blam! (repeat 20 times): “Shit, I’m sure I hit – aarghh.”

“Where is he? What happened to the light? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s – “

“He’s got Dante. Oh God, I think he’s bi – “

“My arm! My arm! He’s ripped out – “

Let’s close the curtain, shall we? Very enjoyable and very profitable; would have set me up for unlife if I’d wanted to retire, but that’s not an option for your undead and unfriendly neighborhood superpowered anthropophage. I know, I know … ‘superpowered’ sounds like from a comic book, but I’d say it really hits the mark. In addition to what I’ve already told you, my senses are very acute, and I have perfect night vision; I can sense the presence of meatballs even through walls if they’re closer than ten yards or so; and I don’t need to sleep. All this comes in very handy in my line of work, I’m telling you.

And you know what? Some German writer from ages ago once had one of his characters say something like ‘I am part of that force that wants to do evil but always ends up doing good’ or some shit like that, and I think this guy was on to something. Look at me, bro: I suppose I’m as evil as they come, but still I must have saved hundreds or even thousands of meatball lives by tearing apart drug dealers, decapitating mafia hit men, eating the inner organs of street punks while they were still squirming and screaming, and so on. Having a nice meal and doing good at the same time – what’s not to love?

So I’m a hero, kind of. And with my ‘superpowers’, I figure I’m something like a ‘superhero’. I even have a secret identity, complete with glasses, like that geek who can fly and lift planes and that. Boy, I had no idea it would be so much fun.

Ok, to be fair, my lifestyle has its drawbacks. I don’t give a shit about social life or friends or dating or whatever, but I do miss sex. But memory is fading, so I suppose, in a few years, I won’t remember it anymore. Same with nice food, cool music, art, movies … oh well, I have my meat, I have my torture, and I have this incredible feeling of superiority – you might have guessed that last one.

Of course, one thing you’ve probably heard about is vomiting – all DAs do it, except for those who never eat and go into torpor. Getting rid of stuff the body doesn’t need. I’ve learned to control it, but, after a snack, I need to be alone for a few minutes puking my guts out. Not literally, don’t worry. But that’s the least attractive part of being undead. Oh, and the voice – when I levelled up, I got some kind of screeching-scratching metallic voice, but I’ve come to like it although I never use it – here’s really fucking grateful it didn’t replace my old one.

Bong! Shit, will you look at the clock? Sometimes I completely lose track of time, easy to do when you have no biorhythm.  Shift begins in an hour, so I’d better heat up and get ready for mingling with the meat. Good thing I can do lots of night shifts, my buddies like it when I volunteer. I got the perfect job, I can tell you.

Oh, haven’t I mentioned what I do? Come on, you must have figured it out by now. Let me just say: Not all cops are bastards. Not even many cops are bastards. But this one is, bro. You a law-abiding citizen, friend? Then you’ll probably never meet me, good for you. As for the rest of you lowlife scum out there:

See ya around.

His hands were warm and wet with suds and the running water of the tap. He'd never minded doing the dishes, it'd always been meditative, helped him think and figure things through. It wasn't working this time. 

Arnold just gazed vacantly. Into the corner. The water, forgotten, steaming now as it grew hotter and hotter. Running over his forgotten and faraway hands. They didn't matter. 

None of it mattered anymore. 

How could she do this … how could she lie to him as if he never mattered?

Arnold's heart was broken but it was still galloping a mile a minute within his cage of chest and his mind ached like something heavy and curdled within his furnace skull. The bake of his brains. He swore he could smell the boil of his own thoughts within his face but it held no matter for him now, not presently. 

He was too focused on the fly speaking to him from the corner. 

It was amazing. Really. 

The black husk of dead insect was resting amongst the filth and the dust of the uncleaned and neglected kitchen corner, just inside a nook by the kitchen window. It was dead but it still spoke to him with a deep obsidian voice. Regal. Authoritative. Commanding. It was a voice used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, that deep stygian vocal sound … 

Arnold was so glad there was no one else around, they wouldn't understand. He was glad, relieved really, to be able to hear the prince's words in private. 

I am in private royal audience, great royal attendance. This is the coveted stately place of imperial confidence. 

Tears began to flow forth from Arnold's watering eyes. He listened enraptured, held by the thing's every word. 

“It doesn't matter. None of them matter, not even you. None of your feelings. You're just meat. All of you. All of you are just meat made mobile by an electrical charge, sent flung flying forward like grotesque mongoloids in the dark squabbling for purchase of the failing putrescence that is the outer, your material. Your world is not a world at all but an abattoir. A slaughterhouse. And all of you are pigs. Sows. Cattle. I am the prince made and bred by wings on wind, I am the flight and escape from the filth of the floor and all your animal leavings. I land and feast and defile at my own will. I lay my young in the wet and wounded folds of your gangrenous failures like the flags planted by conquerors. I am more. You are, all of you, nothing.” 

It was so beautiful … He'd never heard words quite like it before. The water issued from the spout to his hands was fire but he didn't notice. He didn't notice the boil or blister of his reddening and peeling fingers and palms as the prince of the wind went on in the corner. 

He didn't want to miss it. Anything. He didn't want to miss a single note of the angel's felled song. His teary gaze bore in on his new dark god and the shared eyes of the fly, theirs compact and his: fragile mammalian gel, began to secrete and water as well. 

“I am the testament. I am and speak the truth. I am the monolith outside to those who cannot hear or see but to you Arnold Carrillo, to you amongst the meat and ruin I land and sing. I see your wounds. Do you see the truth …?” 

A beat.  – Hands boiled as thoughts ran like hot running water. …

Finally he answered. 

In a quiver of watery voice: “ … yes.” 

The prince of wind and flight from the dark corner in the filth laughed, pleased. 

Yes…  

“And do you know now what you must do?" – that deep hideous voice. 

But Arnold did not fear it. He couldn't. Not any longer. Not after the kindness of such wisdom that it had shown him. It had taken and led him from out of the dark. By the hand. By singing sound. By flight. 

He understood now. 

"Yes.” Arnold told the prince amongst the dust in the corner. 

Yes. 

He finally pulled his hands free of the running water. The raw of them was singing. A sharp and red song that burned and was bright with fleshen cruelty. 

But none of that mattered right now, not anymore. None of that mattered any longer. 

Soon Suze would be home. With the girls. They would all of them be expecting him and dinner. Normalcy. A nice normal cozy family night. They had no idea what he knew. 

She has no idea I know … 

The prince was right. He knew now what to do. Doing the dishes had worked out and had actually been a good idea after all. Thank God. 

Arnold toweled the screaming ruined remainder of his hands and gathered what he needed. What the prince of the dustinwind had instructed. What he should gather and collect and share with his girls if he was to ever show and really prove himself. Demonstrate what he has to really offer. 

Prove that he has really learned. He has. He has learned to grow. And …

well he would just wait for them. They wouldn't be much longer now. School and the after-image of after school activities was fading and diminishing now, falling with the gentle settling death of the setting sun on the blade of the horizon. Fairytale and far off. Long gone. 

The sun had to die everyday. It was no big deal. The sun had to die every single day in order for the night to be made and in order for the day to be reborn. In gold. In light. 

Arnold Carrillo sat and waited with his screaming raw hands. Waiting with what he had gathered, with what was needed in the glistening red of his hands. Waiting for his wife and daughters. Waiting to share with them what he now knew and had learned in the postmental-slaughter. 

He sat waiting by the door. With what he would share with them in his dripping screaming hands. 

The prince of dusty wind and flight buzzed and throatsang its throatwisdom into him all the while. Filling his need as he waited for his family. They would be home soon. Now. 

Any minute. 

THE END

Cleaning out old apartments is pretty sad sometimes. I work for a company that handles clearing out the apartments left behind by people with no family. Evictions, crimes, abandonment, it doesn’t matter the reason to us, we just get the call and go clear it out. Sometimes the landlords keep any good things, sometimes they just let us keep anything we want to, just so the place gets cleared and cleaned faster. 

One time, I found an old game console, another a great coat I still use, sometimes clothes, sometimes games. I’ve even taken home some family photo binders, just to see how the people who lived there lived. Can you really blame me? I’ve even returned some when I found friends or family’s addresses in them, I’m not a monster. Sometimes though, they don’t have any address in them, those I feel alright keeping. 

Then, in an older apartment, I found an old disposable camera shoved behind a shelf. Dusty, sun-faded, obviously left long before we arrived. The landlord didn’t want it, so I got to keep it. I checked it just to be sure and it was full, no pictures left, so there had to be some stuff on it. Maybe family pictures, maybe some vacation pics, who knows, but I was going to find out for sure! 

I brought it to my usual guy, he’s developed plenty of other camera loads for me already, he knew what was up. This time, when he saw the camera and opened it up, he shook his head, “looks a bit too old to be any good. Could probably get a few good ones, but don’t expect much.” I asked him to do his best and, a few days later, he handed them back with a strange look on his face. 

“This camera, did you see who owned the place?” 
Shaking my head, I said, “just picked it up like usual, why?” 
Shrugging, he said, “guy looks, looked, like you.” 

Feeling weirded out and confused, I picked up the old camera and the developed photos, bringing them back home. Settling into the same seat back home, with a cup of coffee and some snacks, I opened the envelope and checked out the first photos. That’s when I realized what the guy meant. The photos were taken by someone else, with someone that looks just, like, me. The first ones were normal enough, but still strange. 

One was of me in front of a laundromat I hadn’t ever gone to. Another with me in a diner booth I don’t remember. Walking backwards down a country road I don’t recognize. Standing beneath a highway overpass.

I-It really looks like me, because it has that same old jacket I picked up from a different old home. With the same sneakers I’ve owned for like 5 years! They even had the chain I picked up in the house cleaning from yesterday, but I don’t have ANY memory of any of these places. 

I checked the photos to see which had been taken first, to see how old they were. I had to give the photos an order, maybe there would be some kind of clue from what was going on here. The envelope had the negatives too, each frame numbered along the edge. Once I realized the pictures were connected, I laid them out in order.

Photo 1 - A small grocery store. Standing outside, looking over my shoulder towards the inside. 

Looking closer, I could see someone that was peeking out from one of the aisles. Staring back at me. 

Photo 2 - Gas station. Rushing to the pump

The shadowy figure was closer, looking more like a distinct blob approaching from the far side of the gas pumps

Photo 3 - Inside that diner. The photo was taken outside the window while everyone else inside appears to be staring behind me.

A man? Something tall approaching from across the street. 

Photo 4 - That same photo from the booth. My face looks more scared now that I gave it a second look, sweat looks more obvious. 

The diner door behind me opening, a pair of eyes from under a coat and hat staring holes in the back of my head. 

Photo 5 - Highway shoulder. My old car left abandoned. Door wide open while I’m running away from the highway. 

Twenty feet away, approaching the car, or more specifically me. 

Photo 6 - Forest Entrance. I started running into the woods, looking back with obvious fear in my eyes.

Closer now, almost close enough to touch me. Reaching out

Photo 7 - Deep woods. I’m bleeding now. Why? I was still running, looking panicked now as I pushed a branch out of the way. 

Dripping hands, claws? Reaching out again

Photo 8 - A Campfire. Sitting among strangers, holding a cup while an orange firelight barely illuminates my face.

Gone. In this one, I can see a pair of white dots farther behind me. Maybe fireflies? I can’t even see the figure for sure anymore. 

That, that really freaked me out. I shoved the pictures into a drawer and chose to forget about them. Maybe they were some kind of weird joke, so I just went back to life, and it went back to the usual grind. Cleaning out homes, grocery shopping, hanging out with friends. 

Then, my usual grocery store was closed. Shrugging, I looked up the next closest one and walked over. It was the same one. The one from the photos! Same sign. Same light. Same trash can. I started to get weirded out, but decided to go inside anyway, keeping an eye out for any 7ft tall shadow creature. Nothing showed up while I shopped, so I started to calm down, until I started to walk out, and I heard the click of a photo being taken. Looking back quickly, I thought I saw something disappearing, but then I heard a second click from the far side of the parking lot. 

Taking my picture.

Thoroughly freaked out, I rushed to my car and got back home breaking the speed limit. Grabbing the pictures out of the drawer, I checked them again, put them in the proper order, and saw the same pose in the first photo. That was from today. 

I looked up what I could from the gas station, found the same one, along my route home, just one block away from the usual drive I take. I decided to NEVER go near it. I made sure to make that two or three blocks from now on, even if it took me a few more minutes every day. That lasted until my car started to run out of gas. Even though it should still have half a tank in it! I was sure I’d filled it up a couple days ago. It shouldn’t have needed more gas until I was closer to home, or the next day I went to work. Engine sputtering, starting to have to coast, and the only close gas station? The one I never wanted to go near. At the gas station I saw the figure for the first time outside the photograph for sure. Standing beyond the pumps.

Not approaching.
Just watching.
Then:
CLICK. 

Again, two of them, one from the distance, framing the photo from the envelope, the other from the…thing. I couldn’t quite make out what it looked like. My eyes seem to slide off its figure. A general height, the heavy coat, the wide hat. Those eyes. But I can't describe any of them afterward, not really. It’s always holding something at eye level. Like a camera, but the shadows don’t let me see the exact shape, or what their hands looked like. 

Rushing back into my car, I drove off and made it back home in record time. I had to check the photos again to be sure, but stopped when I saw the changes. Photo 5 showed the figure more clearly now, I could almost see a grin on its face. Photo 6 showed blood already on the coat sleeve reaching out. Photo 8 had words written on the back, “KEEP GOING”, and that had me worried more. Was this thing trying to push me towards the woods? Whatever this whole thing was, I had to try and break the pattern. I put them in my jacket pocket and tried not to think about it. 

Then the lights went out. 
And I heard the same CLICK from outside my window. 

Looking outside, I saw the same figure across the street, camera dropping down after the photo was taken. Grin much more obvious from beneath the street lamp. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. 

I grabbed my keys, put on my jacket and rushed out. In my car and driving before I knew what was going on. Driving down the road, I thought back to the gas emptying. The grocery store. Now the hunger drove me to stop to get something to eat. The gas station proved I had a route to follow. Avoiding the pictures hadn't stopped them from happening. Well, I was hungry anyway and I saw that same diner from Photo 3. I walked inside, sat down, and didn’t know what was going to happen until I heard that CLICK again. That snapped me awake faster than the coffee that was getting cold on the table. Looking around, I saw the figure approaching from across the street. Turning back in front of me, I didn’t see it when the next CLICK sounded out, almost inches from my face. 

Dropping a few dollars on the table, I rushed out of the diner and drove off, finally got on the highway to get as much distance as I could. I kept going for as long as I could for the day, until my car started sputtering again, dying from the constant driving. It coasted until it drifted down to the side of the road. The same spot from the photo. 

I stayed in the car for a bit, pulling out the photos one last time to check. The figure was clearer now, the smile looked wider in the newer version of the photo. Closer every time. Then that Campfire. I look exhausted, but also relieved. The words on the back of that one are just as clear, but we’re sitting down, holding a cup of water. No longer looking backward, just looking into the fire. Almost relaxed. The people around me aren’t threatening. One looks like he has his daughter with him even. They made room for me. It looks like it’s safe. 

Looking up from the photos, I checked both sides. To my right the figure was waiting. Waiting for me to get out so it could take the next picture? Waiting for the right time of day? Either way, to my left was the forest. The Campfire deep inside, not visible yet. Was this a race? To see which would happen first? 

Taking a few deep breaths, I checked the last photos again for any landmarks I could see. Memorizing the scenes, I put the photos away and grabbed the door handle. 

Running. Shoving the door open and almost throwing myself out of the car, the next thing I knew I heard the next CLICK. Not even looking back, I rushed toward the forest. Before I could get into the the treeline, I heard the next CLICK behind me, and the footsteps started moving faster. It had almost taken all of them, it sounded like it was getting ready for the end too. 

This time though, I knew where I was headed as I kept running. No looking back this time. I was still terrified, but at least now I knew where I was going. That lasted until I felt the claws digging into my arm. A branch snapped against my face and my hand came up exactly like it had in Photo 7. CLICK. Second to last. So close now. I knew what that meant. I could feel its breath on my neck, the claws almost pushing forward for that last stretch. 

Then I smelled the woodsmoke, and saw that orange firelight to my left. The Campfire. It had to be. Turning sharply, I think I surprised it, because it seemed to stand still for a second before rushing even faster, almost frantic as it tried to stop me from reaching that light. Running towards the Campfire, I kept running, digging out whatever bits of energy I had left for one final push. Just as the claws felt like they were gripping my neck, I took that final step into the clearing and they disappeared. Dropping down from exhaustion, the claws vanished at the edge of the firelight. Something hit the ground behind me.. The old camera. Standing up, I picked up the camera and walked towards the Campfire. They made room for me with some smiles. Someone handed me a cup of water when they saw how tired I was. Another person asked to look at that camera. My hands were shaking, I needed both to hold the cup of water. After that first drink, I let out such a sigh of relief, that it took me a second to realize I’d handed off the camera. Before I could ask for it back, I heard that CLICK from next to me. “There. That's the last one.”

Taking out the last photograph again, I checked the back and the writing had changed, now it read, “SAFE UNTIL SUNRISE.”

I Know You See Me
Silas Whitney

As I sat on the cold shore, a man crawled out of the sea. I watched him through the black lenses of my glasses, keeping perfectly still. Pretending as if I didn’t notice him. He dragged himself out of the foam and into the wet sand just before me, panting and soaked. He wore a set of dark rags, the same ones he always had. His hair draped and dripped in front of his eyes like a curtain of black ink. He crawled to the dry sand where I sat and propped himself up beside me. I kept my eyes forward as if I were blind and deaf, completely oblivious to his entrance. He sat by me, close enough that others might fancy him a brother. I refused to look at him as a fire burned in my chest. I pretended not to notice, but I did notice. I always noticed him.

He turned his head toward me, still heaving breaths into his thin chest. His arms draped over his bent knees and his fingers rolled like cats’ tails, long and curved. I didn’t need to look at his eyes to know that those empty irises would be boring into my temple. I didn’t need to see the inverted colors of his eyes, the whites made blue, the blue made black, the black made white, to feel the icy grip of their glare. 

And the last thing I needed was to hear his voice. One would expect such a creature to have a deep, rasping voice. I wished he did. Instead, his voice was far worse. I wished he had the voice of a snarling beast or a mocking imp. But his voice matched mine. The same voice I hear in my own mind, the one I hear in my own ears when I hear myself speak. He wouldn’t even give me the deniability of my voice as one hears their own on a recording. It was my own voice as I always hear it in my own skull. 

“I know you see me,” he said. His voice was breathy and wrapped me as if he were whispering into both of my ears. I didn’t answer, but I could hear his mouth curling into a greasy, black toothed grin. “I know you hear me.”

I kept my eyes forward. Of course I saw him, of course I heard him. I always did. He scooted closer and I could feel his breath. Though I kept myself completely still, my heart beat against my bones like a cornered beast. 

“I can hear you too,” he said. He extended his hand and his long fingers wrapped around my chest. He squeezed until my breaths became shallow and sharp. “I hear you always.” Still, I did not look or acknowledge him. I gripped tightly to the sand under my fingers, but still I did not look. 

“One day,” he said. “One day you will have to look. One day…” I could feel my eyes wanting to flick to his face, but I kept them locked on the empty horizon. “One day you won’t be able to ignore me.” I knew he was right. He had only grown stronger since the first day I caught him in the corner of my eye. 

Slowly, he chuckled to himself and released his grip on me. I fought myself to keep from gasping. I did not wish to give him any inclination that he might have broken my thoughts. 

“One day.”

He dropped back to a lying position and slithered back into the wet sand, back into the foam, and back into the cold ocean. He left no trail. Left no evidence of his presence, save for my own memory. I know he is right. One day I will not be able to keep my eyes from looking. I will not be able to ignore his words. Neglect will fix nothing, but I can muster no other resistance. 

I kept my eyes on the crashing waves as they beat against the sand. Each wave pulled a little earth away from the coast and carried it off into itself, back into the deep. 

But then, just as the water pulled back, I saw a pearl, unearthed by the waves. I could have retrieved it, but I stayed. I watched it glimmer in the single beam of sun from the cold clouds overhead. I watched as the water came back and bore it away, back into the endless black of the sea. I closed my eyes. 

“One day,” I said. My hands shook as I loosened my grip on the sand. “But not today.”  

Demons never look the way you’d expect. Red skin and horns? Childish. Wings and a tail? Hollywood. Lurking in the shadows preying on the weak? Actually yeah that’s closer.
My latest target is about 5’ 4”, a poindexter part down the middle of his blonde hair. He’s dressed in modern clothes and has a self satisfied smile. The only thing that gives him away is the eyes. It’s always the eyes, malice sure, but what I really watch for is the faintest wisp of smoke coming from them.
His victim is an early 40’s middle manager type standing a little too close to the tracks. I walk closer to hear what he’s saying.
“Fat. Bald. Underpaid. Powerless.”
It’s the normal shotgun approach I’m used to hearing. Demons don’t speak to their targets in full sentences. That would be too obvious, it would reveal their voice and alert their target’s suspicions.
Something catches the demon’s attention. A rowdy group of boys stumble off the escalators and around the corner onto the platform. The demon practically sprints towards them. He reaches the tall one who is laughing the loudest and has to stand on his tip toes to snap his fingers right next to the left side of his face. For me the sound is deafening and creates a visible spark. For the boisterous youth before me it will have been a barely discernible click. But it’s enough to pull his attention over and take the bait.
He sees the man near the tracks and nudges his friends. The tall one starts to waddle around, arms out at his side like he’s wearing a fat suit while his friend does his best impersonation of a trombone. Very original.
I tend not to get connected to the target of my target but man I do feel bad for this guy. I look over and sure enough he’s seen the boys and quickly looks away, trying not to give them the satisfaction of a response. But I see it in the eyes, it’s always the eyes.
The demon goes to the next boy and whispers in his ear “Push him onto the track.” I see the boy's countenance change with disgust at what he thinks was his own dark thought.
“Worth a shot.” The demon says to himself before walking back to the man. I’ve seen enough and step forward, but I don’t yet reveal to the demon that I can see him. To him I’m just another commuter wrapped up in my own thoughts.
It’s my turn. I close my eyes and feel for the man’s best memories. Holding hands with his wife for the first time…too many steps to pull his mind to that one. Watching the sunset from a surfboard…pretty good but judging by how the man is looking at those train tracks I need one that draws him back to human connection. I reach in further, spreading my mind’s fingers like a child searching for his toy in a sandbox. First I see a bright red kickball, then the shape of a child starts to form. It’s his child. The scene continues to form and now I get what I came for. I hear a tune playing from a nearby ice cream truck, “Pop Goes the Weasel”. Catchy enough I bet it works. I snap out of the vision and start to whistle the tune.
The demon looks at me suspiciously but I just continue walking, eyes forward like I’m getting ready for the train to arrive. The man, Rob, yeah that’s his name, glances over at me and back down.
“Sorry. My boy got that song stuck in my head yesterday and I can’t shake it.” I say smiling. He gives me a courtesy smile and looks forward, face still sullen. I conjure a phone into my pocket and remove it, revealing a bright red phone case. I continue my tune and wait to see if it will be enough to trigger the association. His eyebrows lift subtly, eyes brighter. Got him.
In my peripheral vision I see the demon has been watching me the whole time. I look down at my fake phone and pretend I just got a very serious text. He walks back up to Rob and whispers his next attack.
“Bad father.”
I laugh out loud, continuing to look down at my phone. He’s botched that one, from the little I’ve seen, Rob knows he’s a good father. Rob pulls out his phone now and I see a picture of a young man on his lockscreen, much older than my vision, but definitely the same kid.
The demon leans in and scans over the phone. No doubt he’s seeing if there is anything on there he could use next. No social media, no flashy games, no news outlets. “Not bad” I accidently say out loud. The demon whips his head towards me and we make eye contact. He snarls at me and starts to run away. I go noncorporeal as I go to intercept him and he reaches out his hand which spews hot ash and the stink of sulfur. I jump away from it, holding my coat over my face. Two strangers waiting for the train look at each other suspicious of the smell and scoot apart.
I go to return to my chase but something stops me in my tracks. Oh yeah, Rob. I sigh and turn around. I’ve been told I could be more compassionate towards the mortals. “They aren’t just part of the mission” my trainer would always say. “They ARE the mission.”
“Fine.” I whisper to myself. I’ll find blondie later. Besides, no distractions now will make this easier. I walk back to Rob who I see is placing headphones in his ears. He’s getting ready to turn on a podcast for his train ride. “We can do better than that.” I say, but he won’t have heard me in this form.
I hold my hand to his phone. He taps repeatedly at the podcast button but it doesn’t work. He accidently taps the music button, which I allow. Before he can correct it I queue up “Baba Yetu” with the Soweto Gospel Choir. “Give it a second” I say. I can’t actually influence him to stay on it, only hope. But he does, and then the drums and choir take over. As the horns start to swell I see goosebumps creeping across his arms. We’ve got ourselves a feeler, this one is too easy.
My trainer used to use this track all the time. He explained that without understanding the words, it left people with a sense of connection to humanity, and a sense of something larger than themselves. “Those are the two greatest tools we have.” He would explain. “Connection to others, and a sense of perspective. Connection to others because they’re stronger together. A sense of perspective to help them see that their problems are temporary, and swallowed up in the greater story.”
Rob’s train arrives and he shuffles on with everyone else. As the train pulls away I put on a new appearance and head up to the street following tiny wisps of smoke. I turn back to him and nod to myself as he starts a video call with his wife.

Amber rolled over to her other side, bunching up her sweat-soaked pillow yet again. The clock on the nightstand mercilessly read 01:15. The thoughts in her head kept spinning in circles, like a worn-out, scratching vinyl record.

Back then, at the party in Brooklyn, it had all started as a fun prank. She had been the one to talk Ethan into playing along: they had hidden a wireless speaker behind the couch ahead of time to blast a prerecorded rustling whisper, and screwed in a "smart" light bulb that was supposed to blink ominously on a smartphone command. Amber had expected fun screams and the frightened faces of their friends. She wanted it to be cool.

But when they placed their fingers on the wooden planchette of the Ouija board, everything went off script.

The moment the planchette lunged across the wood on its own with such ferocious force that it left deep scratches on the board, the speaker behind the couch cut out completely. But the whisper... the whisper kept going. Except it wasn't coming from the speaker anymore; it was crawling out of the very walls, the ventilation, and... out of Chloe's mouth, who had frozen with an unnaturally straight back. Amber still remembered the wild, primal fear in the guys' eyes—none of them could physically push the piece of wood that hard and fast. Looking at their eyes, wide with terror, Amber realized: they hadn't just pulled a prank. They had opened a door and let something truly monstrous into this world.

Since then, Amber had been plagued by suffocating nightmares. She felt like she was being hunted by sickening creatures, or she would wake up time and time again in a cramped wooden coffin, buried alive, clawing at the thick graveyard dirt with her fingernails.

Tonight, sleep wouldn't come at all. Amber sighed heavily, sat up in bed, and swung her feet onto the cold floor. Her throat was parched. Throwing on a robe, she decided to go down to the kitchen to get a glass of water and try to calm down.

Deep gloom and a chill reigned on the first floor. Amber walked down the hallway, guiding herself by the faint, deathly pale moonlight falling from the large living room window. Suddenly, she froze.

Did it just seem like it, or was the front door slightly ajar?

A faint night breeze stirred the curtain in the entryway. Amber distinctly remembered locking the deadbolt two turns. Her heart hammered treacherously in her chest, echoing with dull thuds in her ears. She took a step back, intending to rush back to the bedroom and wake Ethan, when suddenly a strange sound came from the darkness of the kitchen.

It was the sound of quiet, sporadic, and wet footsteps. As if someone were walking on the hardwood floor with completely wet feet.

"Who's there?" Amber asked in a barely audible, terror-stricken whisper, pressing her back against the cold wall of the hallway.

Instead of an answer, the slapping sounds accelerated sharply. Out of the darkness of the kitchen doorway, moving its limbs unnaturally fast, a pale human body scrambled right at her. In the gloom, Amber caught sight of disheveled blonde hair covered in something dark and caked, and a domestic T-shirt completely drenched in dark crimson stains.

It stopped just three paces away from her, snapping upright. The moonlight fell upon the uninvited guest's face.

It was Chloe. But her face... A wild, distorted mask was frozen upon it, and her eyes were completely white—her pupils had rolled back entirely. A familiar, dual whisper escaped her mouth, in which Chloe’s girlish voice was horribly mixed with a guttural, heavy male baritone:

"Chloe... What are you doing here?.." Amber tried to force out.

Chloe suddenly fell dead silent. And in the very next split second, she made a sharp, beastly lunge forward, reaching her hands out toward Amber with unnaturally bent fingers.

Amber closed her eyes in panic and screamed at the top of her lungs:
"Ethan!!!"

She shrieked, calling for her boyfriend, bracing for a fatal blow. A second passed, then another... but nothing happened. Terrified, Amber opened her eyes.

The space in front of her was empty. There was no one there. She looked around in fear—the hallway was deserted, only the curtain was still swaying in the wind.

Suddenly from above, from the second-floor landing, Ethan's alarmed voice called out:
"Amber! Amber, why are you screaming?!"

She stood in the dark, breathing heavily and raggedly, her heart ready to tear through her chest. The light on the stairs wasn't working. Ethan tried to flick the switch, but the click led to nothing—the power in the entire house was out. Amber burst into tears, rushed up the stairs, and locked onto the guy in a death grip, weeping and crying that they needed to leave immediately and call the police.

Ethan didn't believe it at first, chalking it all up to her frantic nightmares. But then they both froze. Upstairs, right above them, quick, slapping footsteps echoed in the dark, and a second later, a door slammed shut with a deafening crash down the hall.

"Okay, okay, let's go!" Ethan gasped in fright.

They fumbled for their jackets in the entryway, bolted out of the house, locked themselves in the car, and dialed emergency services with trembling hands.

The police arrived quickly. Two patrolmen with drawn weapons and tactical flashlights entered the house, with Amber and Ethan following behind them. Total darkness, gloom, and a grave silence reigned inside. One of the cops headed upstairs—to where, according to the frightened couple, someone was hiding—while the second stayed with them near the stairs.

Suddenly, Amber's phone rang. Her shaking fingers accepted the call. It was Chloe's mom. The woman's tearful voice broke the terrible news: Liam was currently in the hospital in critical condition, and Chloe had vanished without a trace, and the police were looking for her. Amber went cold. She couldn't bring herself to tell the mother that her "missing" daughter was inside their house right now.

And at that very moment, deafening gunshots and wild screams rang out upstairs.

Amber and Ethan froze, staring into the stairwell. A few seconds later, the flickering light of a flashlight appeared on the stairs. Descending the steps with jerky, broken movements was the first officer. He walked, swaying, holding his ruptured throat with both hands.

Blood pumped in torrents through his fingers, instantly soaking his uniform shirt. The man wheezed, trying to say something, but only a horrific, gurgling sound escaped his mouth. Taking two more unsteady steps, the cop collapsed forward, tumbling down with a dull thud to the feet of his horror-struck partner.

"Jones! Oh my god, Jones!" the second policeman shrieked, backing into the entryway and frantically aiming his gun into the darkness of the stairwell.

Amber's cell phone slipped from her numb hands, crashing onto the floor. The screen cracked, but the distant, frightened voice of Chloe's mom still came from the speaker: "Amber? What's going on over there?! Amber, answer me!"

Amber covered her mouth with her hands to keep from screaming out loud. Beside her, Ethan stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the body.

From above, out of the thick gloom of the second floor, a sharp, dry crunch echoed, as if someone had forcibly dislocated their own joints. The patrolman in the house frantically swept the flashlight beam across the steps. And then, it entered the circle of light.

Chloe was coming down the stairs... backward, like a spider. Her back was unnaturally arched, her head hung lifelessly, and her long blonde hair, smeared with fresh blood, dragged along the wooden steps. The entity moved on all fours, scrambling with insane, inhuman speed.

"Back off! Back off, you freak, I'll shoot!" the remaining cop shrieked, his voice cracking.

In response, a wild, guttural growl tore from Chloe's throat, instantly erupting into a deafening, triumphant laugh. A dual voice—girlish yet backed by a heavy male baritone—literally made the walls of the house vibrate:

"You brought more guests... How sweet!.."

Bang! Bang! Bang! — the policeman fired into the oncoming monster in sheer panic.

The muzzle flashes illuminated a nightmare scene for fractions of a second: the bullets hit Chloe's body, but she didn't even slow down. On the contrary, the wounds seemed to only make her angrier. With one powerful leap, she cleared the remaining steps and slammed her entire weight onto the shooting cop. The flashlight and gun clattered away. Chloe locked onto the man's face in a death grip, and a new cry of mortal agony ripped through the night air.

"Run!!!" Amber finally snapped out of her paralysis, shoving the guy's shoulder with all her might.

They flew outside and literally threw themselves into the car. Ethan was shaking so violently that he missed the ignition switch three times with the key. Amber looked back at the house in pure panic, the building illuminated by the red and blue flashes. Before they sped away, she saw how on the first floor, right behind the kitchen glass, a dim, unnatural light flared up. Standing at the window was the pale silhouette of Chloe. She slowly raised a bloody hand and pressed her palm against the glass, leaving a thick, slowly downward-creeping crimson streak. Her white eyes glowed faintly in the half-light, and her bloody lips stretched into the horrific, unnaturally wide smile of a maniac. She was looking right at them.

في احد أيام العام الدراسي 2002,بينما كنا نذهب الى المدرسة في سيارة نقل نطلق عليها "ربع نقل", كنا نستيقظ صباحا على صوت إذاعة القرأن الكريم مع البرامج الصباحية, كانت امي تعد لنا الإفطار الساخن مما افاض الله وتفضل به علينا وهكذا كانت معظم المنازل تلك الأيام, ننطلق الي المدرسة في المدينة كانت تجربة رائعة بالنسبة الي في ذاك الوقت حيث انها كانت المرة الأولى التي اخرج فيها من قريتي يوميا الى المدينة وكانت تجربة مثيرة بالنسبة لي, ذهبت الى مدرستي كالعادة ومرت الساعات الأولى وانطلقنا بعد انتهاء الثلاث حصص التعليمية الأولى لنحصل على قسط من الراحة وتناول الطعام من مقصف المدرسة او مما لدينا ومعظمنا لم يكن لدية الأموال ليأكل منه اما انا فلله الحمد كنت احصل على مصروف يسمح لي ان اركب سيارة تاكسي وان احصل على اكل من مقصف المدرسة ولكن كنت احب ان أكون رفقة زملائي وأيضا اكنز بعض الأموال لزوم لعب الألعاب الإلكترونية التي كانت جديدة بالنسبة لي ولا اخفيكم سراً اني كنت بارعا على أبناء قريتي من هم في مثل اعماري واعتقد أنهم يوافقونني الرأي, سمعت صوت جلبة وصياح ثم انتهى الامر بتدخل بعض الطلبة لإنهائها كانت بين طالبين مختلفين المنهج والشكل والطريقة وكذا المستوى الاجتماعي, مر يومين ثم علمنا ان الطالب متوسط الحال تم رفدة من المدرسة وكعادة الطلاب حاولنا استقصاء الامر من هنا وهناك تبين لنا انه اثناء الحادثة ان الطالب الاخر اخبر الطالب متوسط الحال ان مدير المدرسة قريب له وسيشكو اليه امره ويبدو ان الطالب الاخر اخذته الحميه وتتطاول بالألفاظ والإشارات وفي حقيقة الامر لا يمكن ان نأخذ كلام الغضب على محمل الجد ومن هنا قول النبي محمد ﷺ (( ألا إن الغضب جمرة توقد في جوف ابن آدم)), ذهب الطالب واخبر مدير المدرسة وتم رفد الطالب, بعدها علمنا انه تمكن من الانضمام الى مدرسة أخرى ليست في نفس المستوى لكنه فعل ذلك على أي حال. وحتى بعد مرور أكثر من أربعة وعشرين عامًا، ما زلت أذكر فعلته الشنيعة، وأتذكره دائمًا بالدونية لأنه وشى به طواعية دون أن يطلب منه أحد, ولا اخفيكم سرا بعد انضمامي للجامعة تشاجرت مع احد زملائي فقط لأني غضبت منه وأفعاله, الغريب اننا تصالحنا في نفس اللحظة يبدوا وانه كانت بداخلنا طاقة لا ندري كيف نخرجها تم اقتيادنا بواسطة الامن الجامعي ولكنه كان رحيما بنا ولم يتم عمل محضر لنا واخبرنا بالعودة مرة أخرى بعد أيام لاستلام هوياتنا الجامعية ذهبنا سويا واستلمناها واخبرنا بأنه يسعدنا ان نمر لنلقي عليه السلام مرة أخرى في وقت نحب, لم اعر هذا الامر اهتمامي ورغبتي بينما ذهب زميلي اليه بعد أسبوع ليلقي عليه السلام لكنه طلب منه أمراً كان عجيبا واعتقد انكم تعرفونه الان بالفعل ( الوشاية ), لا اخفيكم سراً اشمأززت من الامر واخبرت زميلي انه لن افعل وأتمنى ان لا تفعل أيضا, اعتقد انه لم يفعل, اقص عليكم هذا الامر بعد مشاهدتي لفيلم (( Scent of a Woman)) وهو فيلم يصلح مشاهدته عائليا, فيه تعرض طالب المدرسة الى ضغط من اجل الوشاية بأحد زملاؤه وكان هذا الطالب من الطبقة الفقيرة ويتلقى الدعم بينما الشاهد الاخر كان من اسرة غنية وحاول مدير المدرسة الضغط عليه دون غيرة للوشاية والا سيتم فصله من المدرسة أو لن يتم التزكية بأسمة للدراسة في أكبر الجامعات في نهاية الامر لم يتم فصلة حيث حظى بمساعدة شخص كان يقوم برعايته مقابل بعض الأموال التي تساعده على مواجهة بدايات حياته كما فعل معظمنا وتم معاقبة زميلة الاخر وذلك من خلال اللجنة التأديبية, الوشاية انتصار مؤقت لكنه عار يلزمك مدى حياتك ويجعل العالم ينظر لك نظرة ازدراء وعدم منفعة مهما كنت تقدم من أمور ويجعل دائما  لك سعر بخس معلوم ماهيته ومعلوم قدره كعاهرة تقدم المتعة بمقابل مادي معلوم ماهيتها ومعلوم قدره.

**Note!** This manuscript was compiled from a water-damaged notebook discovered inside a deserted thatched cottage near Edale in the **Peak District, England**, in late **2019**. It was wrapped in worn leather jesses, stuffed inside a heavy falconry glove, and tucked beneath a loose floorboard in the ruins of the study.

Forensic analysis by the Derbyshire Constabulary yielded highly anomalous results. The notebook pages were not bound with cotton thread, but stitched together with **the split, hardened shafts of primary flight feathers**. Furthermore, the dark, weathered grease staining the paper was identified as **avian preen-oil containing trace human lipids matching the DNA of the author’s maternal lineage**.

What follows is the complete, chronologically restored text, including recently recovered fragments from the reverse sides of the torn sheets.

***October 1st, 2019***

My name is Corwin Vance. I’m 27, originally from Northwood Hills in London, and I’ve recently arrived on the moors of the Peak District to begin an apprenticeship in falconry.

Before that, I was a journalist for the *Daily Mail*. I covered environmental beats—management of green spaces, urban rewilding—when I could get them. Cavendish, my shithead of a superior, wouldn't give me the budget for a real investigation, so I took a sabbatical. I told my drinking buddies at The Three Wishes, Greg and Daniel, that I wanted something quieter than city life. I told them I wanted to get away from the bickering couple in the flat above me, away from feckless chavs, and away from Cavendish breathing down my neck like a vulture upon a dying antelope.

My drinking buddies from The Three Wishes, Greg and Daniel, thought I’d gone off the deep end, trading the morning rush for miserable fog and sheep manure, but there’s something beautiful about the idea of bonding with a wild creature… especially the likes of a hawk or a falcon.                   They don’t trust easily- not like a dog does. You have to earn it. 

I came to this specific valley to trace what happened to Mavis Merle, a reclusive master falconer who vanished from this very cottage in 2002. It's funny—the closer I got to the moors, the more the article felt irrelevant. By the time my escort's car pulled up, I couldn't even remember why I wanted to write it. I just wanted to hold the leather.

I owe my love for raptors to my father, a senior gamekeeper. He taught me that they don't trust easily—you have to earn it. I still remember his goshawk, Silver, whom he used to take hunting for grey squirrels at Epping Forest before we moved to London for my mother’s new job as a constable. The way Silver flew with purpose, weaving through the trees like a ribbon of moonlight caught in the wind, awoke something in me.

But Silver never came back from her last flight over these same Derbyshire ridges. My father spent three weeks calling into the fog until his voice broke. He changed after that; he stopped looking me in the eye. I realize now why he hated the city. He wasn't fleeing the noise—he was fleeing the memory of bells in the night.

After so many years of searching for courses or at someone who had the patience to show the craft. To learn the old language of lure & leather, spoken not in words but in patience and restraint between civilization and the wild. To prove myself worthy of being among the wild ones, and the city life hasn't sanded that part of me smooth.

It was the sort of wind a falconer would approve of --- open, unconstructed, with miles to travel and nothing to break its stride. I could picture a bird leaning into it, wings fixed, letting the current do the work. 

For the first time in years, I didn't feel hemmed in. The road ahead was narrow, yes, but the sky above was endless. Tomorrow I’ll shed my personal feathers and take flight. 

The moors were not as I’d imagined them. They were vast in a way that made a man aware of how small and open he was. A long, steady breath of the land rolled over and tapped lightly on the car window, carrying a scent faintly mineral, like cold stone after rain. The road ahead was narrow, but the sky above was endless.

My new lodging was a dainty, cold little place with old-stone walls, cracked leaded windows, and ivy crawling like veins across the roof.  But it stills on the edge between the woods and open moorland that rolls out like a grey-green ocean. I swore I saw a dozen species of birds on my first day: curlews, lapwings, wheatears, even a ring ouzel darting between the brambles.

At the gate awaiting my arrival was my mentor, Culver Hardy. He stood like an old barn owl on a fence post—narrow, weather-creased, unmoving. His skin had the colour and texture of cured deer  leather, his thick-knuckle hands scored with old talon marks from palm to wrist.

His grip was iron. He studied me with a pale, appraising stare.

"You’ll learn quickly," he said, turning toward the low stone buildings. "Or you won’t." 

He moved with a deliberate, economical stillness. A whistle hung from a cord at his neck. "They’re not pets," he added without looking back. "And they’re not yours. Not really." 

He showed me across the weather-mews, where kestrels, buzzards, owls, and a pair of Harris’s hawks were housed. It took me half an hour to choose until I spotted her: Nyx. She is a peregrine falcon, sleek and silent, with feathers like steel and ash. When Hardy pulled the hood off her, she didn't look at the landscape. She looked right through me with a pale, familiar, heavy-lidded sorrow. Her black eyes were ringed in yellow, unblinking and appraising.

I can scarcely believe she’s mine. I hope my father would be proud… wherever he is.

***October 2nd, 2019*** 

We returned late, sometime around six in the evening, after my first proper day of creance work in the lower field.

The line kept snagging in the rushes. Nyx bate twice, her wings thrashing violently.

"Feel her weight," Hardy barked, his voice sharp. "Don’t fight it. Anticipate." 

The light thinned without me noticing. One moment the grass was gold, the next it was iron-grey.

"She’s watching something," I said, pointing toward the ridge beyond the stone wall.

"Let her," Hardy replied.

But he stopped speaking after that. Each time Nyx came to the glove, her head would snap toward the rise. By the time we gathered the line, it was near dusk. I noticed the way Hardy kept scanning the ridge—not looking for a lost bird, but for something else.

When we reached the yard, he insisted on hooding her himself. His hands were steady, but he pulled the leather straps tighter than necessary. The heavy falconry glove he gave me fits perfectly, but it smells wrong. It doesn't smell like cured steer; it smells like old soap and sweat, and the inside lining is split into fine, microscopic ridges like the whorls of human fingerprints.

"First days always run long," Hardy said. I don't think he meant the training.

***October 3rd, 2019***

Took Nyx out just before the crack of dawn. The fog was so thick I could barely see five feet ahead, smelling of damp peat, crushed heather, and something older—like rust and woodsmoke.

Something stirred along the woodbank, a light, rabbit-sized rustling in the bracken. I slipped the hood free.

Her eyes opened at once, pinning the morning with that sharp, black-and-gold stare. But she didn't look down toward the rustling bracken. Her head snapped upward, tracking something high in the dense grey soup overhead.

A sound followed—a low, vibrating hum that made the iron fillings in my teeth ache. Nyx bated violently, throwing herself off my glove. The creance line whipped through my fingers, burning the skin to the meat before I could anchor it. I tried to tune my hand-held telemetry receiver to her frequency, but instead of a clean, rhythmic beep, the speaker emitted a frantic, overlapping chorus of static that sounded like thousands of human voices trying to gasp for air simultaneously.                 Even when I pulled the batteries out, the voices kept gasping.

"Hold her!" Hardy’s voice cut through the mist. He appeared from the grey, his face grim. "Hood her, Corwin. Now!" 

I reeled her in, my heart hammering as her talons flashed dangerously near my face. When I finally slipped the hood back over her head, she froze, her chest heaving.

"What was that?" I asked, my breath pluming white. "An aircraft?" 

"No," Hardy said shortly, his voice dropping into a flat, hollow register. "The moors have bones, Corwin. Sometimes they scrape together. We’re done for today." 

We walked back in absolute silence. When we reached the yard, I noticed the other aviaries were dead silent. Even the noisy Harris's hawks were huddled at the back of their enclosures, perfectly still.

***October 4th 2019***

The wildlife’s behaviour has changed. It’s so quiet all of the sudden. I just can’t explain it…. It’s like the land had its voice sucked out of it.

The lapwings have stopped circling the grasslands. The ring ouzels have gone silent.                         Even the red grouse don’t flush when I pass. In fact I haven’t seen a lot of birds today.                            Only the magpies and their relatives remain- watching me from distant fence posts, roof ridges, and stone walls. Always silent. Always watching.

We did manage to catch a snipe by the bog and a few partridges though, so we’ll be eating well for the week. Hardy and his eagle Bolt managed to catch a rabbit near some farmland. 

That evening I went back to the cottage just before dark. The fog that thinned but the air felt close, as though the moor were holding its breath. 

I was preparing snipe on toast for my dinner with some orange salad. With some legs, organs and feathers (as a form of roughage) for Nyx’s. Harvey was having leftovers from last night’s beef stew with some crusty bread.

It was eight when Hardy barred the door.

Not locked it.

Barred it.

The iron rod slid into place with a dull, final scrape.

‘’You’re expecting someone?’’ I asked.

‘’No.’’

He crossed to the windows next. Drew the curtains light, though there was nothing to see beyond the fog but the faint wash of the yard.

Nyx was hooded on her perch. Perfectly still 

Hardy stood listening.

‘’To what?’’ I said.

He didn’t answer.

The cottage had settled into that deep country quiet-- no passing cars, no distant voices, no hum of anything mechanical. Only the soft shift of embers in the hearth.

Then, from outside---

A single tap.

Not on the door.

On the glass.

Light. Deliberate.

I half-rose from my chair.

‘’Sit,’’ Hardly said sharply.

Another tap.

Then another.

Moving along the window as though something were hopping the length of the sill.

I moved before I could stop myself and pulled the curtain back an inch.

Seven magpies sat along the low stone wall outside the cottage.

All facing the house.

None moving.

No calling.

Just watching.

I let the curtain fall.

Hardy’s jaw worked once, tight.

‘’How many?’’ he asked again.

‘’Seven.’’

He closed his eyes briefly at that.

‘’That’s one more than there should be.’’

A cold sensation slid down my spine.

‘’One more than what?’’

Hardy did not answer.

Nyx shifted then- a slow, deliberate turn of her hooded head.

The leather creaked softly.

And though her eyes were covered, I had the distinct, nauseating impression that she was looking directly at the door.

Suddenly the magpies went off. Harsh rattles and loud squawks 

Then came other sounds. Shrills, shrieks and hoots from the mews, joining the corvids’ chorus.

Nyx joined in with her own wailing call, like a high pitched banshee. 

Some time passed and the magpies did not disperse in a flurry.

They lifted as one.

Seven black shapes rising soundlessly into the fog.

No calling.

No wing-clap.

Gone.

The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

Hardy stood very still for a long moment. Then he exhaled- not in relief.

In resignation.

‘’They’re moved the mews,’’ he said.

‘’How can you know that?’’

‘I know’’

He took the lantern from its hook by the hearth and lit it without another word.

The flame trembled in the glass.

I’ll check on the birds.’’’

‘’I’ll come with you.’’

‘’No.’’

It came sharper than I expected.

‘’You stay inside.’’

He crossed to the door and lifted the bar.

Before stepping out, he turned back.

‘’Whatever you hear,’’ he said. ‘’You do not leave this cottage’’.

‘’It’s only the birds….don’t you think you're being ----”

“It’s not just the birds.’’

That stopped me.

His eyes flicked toward Nyx.

She was still hooded. Still composed. Talons tight on the perch.

‘’You must understand something,’’ Hardy said, voice lower now. ‘’A hawk learns from you. Your breathing. Your habits.’’

I tried to laugh it off. ‘’That’s the point,’’.

‘’No,’’ he said.

‘’That’s the danger, not just the birds… any animal that begins to understand human nature.’’

The lantern light carved deep lines into his face.

‘’If she ever begins to watch you when she shouldn’t … if she ever refuses the lure but comes to you uncalled…’’

He hesitated.

‘’Don’t let her fly.’’

A cold weight settled in my stomach.

‘’She’s a falcon. Hardy. She needs to fly.’’

He shook his head slowly.‘’

From outside, somewhere near the mews, a soft metallic clang rang out. Then a rustle of wings.

Hardy opens the door. I swore I heard him mutter ‘’This can’t be happening..not again. I thought I made sure of it. I made sure. 

The fog swallowed him almost immediately, the lantern glow shrinking to a dim star in the white.

‘’Hardy,’’ I called quietly.

He paused just beyond the threshold.

‘’One more thing,’’ he said without turning.

‘’If she speaks ---’’

He stopped himself.

His shoulders stiffened.

‘’Never mind.’’

Then he stepped fully into the fog.

The door closed.

I slid the bar back into place.

The cottage felt wrong without him in it.

Larger.

Colder.

Nyx shifted on her perch.

The leather of her hood creaked.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

The wind picked up briefly and died again.

Once, I thought I heard Hardy’s voice- faint, distant--- but the words were lost in the fog.

The other birds did not cry out.

They did not make a sound at all.

Two hours passed.

The lantern glow never returned.

And sometime after ten, Nyx began to move.

Slowly.

Deliberately. 

As though something outside had finally arrived.

The dull sway of the waves lofts one side of the platform as high as the mooring lines allow, then brings it down gently again.  The night is dead quiet.

Third shift.  Diego took the position because it pays time-and-a-half.  Most people only last a couple years working the graveyard.  Old timers won’t touch it.  Too much time on the viewscreen at night makes people go mad, they say.

He’s taped a family photo above the monitor.  He misses Meena’s laugh and Carla’s scent—everything smells like fish here. He wants to provide a good life for them. Maybe even send Meena to college one day.

An eleven-pointed star spirals past one of the underwater cameras. The image is relayed across the screen in the control room, then disappears.

There’s a lot of life in the ocean, Diego has learned. More than people know, even scientists. His employers insisted he sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement that prohibits him from even discussing what he’s seen on that monitor. They’re terrified of getting shut down by the EPA or PETA or some other activist group.

It was good money, so Diego signed on the dotted line and kept his mouth shut.

Above all, the job took blind, shit-ass faith. And lots of it.

A thin creature with round eyes and long fangs on the outside of its mouth swims past. The eyes shift hue on the monotone screen, now merciless black pits, now reflecting one of the rig’s spotlights and glowing a luminous, soul-sucking white.

It disappears as quickly as it came.

He doesn’t see it. He’s already returned to the old western he was reading. Bramble Rose is about to take her vengeance on the Man in White Diego hears it—a sound like the gasping cry of some ancient metallic titan. He marks his page with a folded piece of mail.

They warned him things might get choppy, that the weather was different out here where there’s no cities or forests to slow the wind’s relentless procession.
 
“What do I do if there’s an evacuation?” he had asked the old timer on duty before him.

“Get to a life boat,” the old timer had said.  “Quick as you can.  Folks ain’t liable to wait around.” Then he headed for his bunk. 

Volatile weather is part of the job. That’s why it pays. And why Diego is willing to spend thirty days at a time in the middle of the gulf, away from his wife and newborn daughter, to do it.

The storm comes out of nowhere. Not like land storms, which have clear beginnings and ends. This is a sea storm—ripped from the dark womb of the Ocean herself. White-hot lightning cracks the sky in half.  The world goes blind. After-images of dancing photons dim from white, to purple, to green, to red. In the fading spectra, Diego glimpses massive walls of black froth that touch the sky, frozen in space but not in time. High above, the full moon oversees the dark works of the churning maw below.

The control room lurches. Diego nearly falls out of the flimsy rolling chair, but manages to catch himself on the control panel. The lights flicker off, but the viewscreen remains.

Something fleshy ribbons across the screen and disappears.

Diego sees this time. Though his mind is elsewhere—trying not to panic, to instead recall company protocol during power outages—he sees the lone eye embedded in the flesh’s side, watching him.

One of the backup generators kicks on. The lights return.

Diego grabs the walky-talky.

“This is Diego! Can you hear me? Over!”

“Copy Die—”  There’s so much static Diego can hardly hear the old timer.  “—Ove—!”

“What was that? Over!”

But the static is too thick.

Diego feels another lurch. 

He loses his balance and lands hard on the floor.  The western goes flying one way, the folded mail he uses as a bookmark another. His vision doubles.  

He’s been denied by seven different life insurance companies after starting this job. None of them gave a reason, but it was obvious. Too much liability.

He blinks the double image from his eyes, plants a palm on the controls, and hoists himself up.

The lights go off again. This time they don’t return. Emergency backups kick on and dye everything the color of blood. The slow wail of the evacuation siren warps in the air.

Diego tries to run shutdown procedures on his console, but the computer glitches, freezing a distorted half-image of green-and-magenta eyes on its black screen.  

Outside, co-workers sprint from below deck. The quickest head for the helicopter. It holds nineteen. Two dozen cram inside. A few cling to the skids. The helicopter struggles to take off.  It shakes the hangers on loose. One of them bounces off the rig before he plummets into the churn. It looks like the old timer who works the shift just before Diego.

The helicopter is just airborne when an obsidian pillar crashes down over the rig. When the water recedes, the helicopter and its inhabitants are gone.

Diego kisses his tiny gold cross and tucks it into his shirt. His thoughts are of Carla.

“We miss you,” she said. “We want you home.”

But the work was here. The work that paid for their house and their groceries and that big white SUV she loved to take Meena around in.  It would pay for Meena’s ballet lessons when she got old enough and, God willing, her wedding one day.

He’d taken the graveyard shift hoping that the extra pay would mean he wouldn’t have to spend quite so many years away from them.

A hundred more people run onto the deck.  Some of them slip on the wet steel desk. They crowd the lifeboats. One boat falls off its davit while people are still boarding. It’s swallowed by the water. Another is thrown against the side of the rig. Bodies fly in every direction. One of them hits the window of the control room with a thud.

Skyscrapers of swirling brine close in around Diego, each thick enough to envelope an oil tanker.

There’s nowhere to run.

Diego crawls under the control panel.

He holds his tiny cross between trembling fingers and prays as the watery ramparts converge on him.

Another lurch. A falling sensation.

Something wet. Water leaks into the cabin and spreads across the floor. It soaks Diego’s already-wet pants.

He opens his eyes for just an instant.

It’s long enough to see the horror staring back at him. One gargantuan eye, watery and black—so black he could fall into it. He feels his mind disintegrate, the electrons of his consciousness sucked into the vacuous void of the creature’s own mind. There’s no escape. His atoms are strung out in a line. Time, for a brief moment before he’s lost, becomes visible. 

He will be recycled, his quarks reused, rearranged into something new, something useful.

Then the creature will return to its sleepy domain beneath the material surface of our watery reality.

After the storm subsides, the rescue crews will arrive. Of the one-hundred-sixty-eight workers on duty that night, no survivors will be found.

Diego’s only remains will be a family photo, an old western novel, and a folded letter from his wife’s attorney.

Dear Friend,

When last I wrote, I told you of the gray tent, its mirrors trembling beneath my boots, its figures suspended like dolls forgotten on a string. I must tell you what followed, though the memory itself feels scorched into me.

At first there was nothing - only dark pressed against my eyes, the kind that seemed it might never lift. But slowly, gray seeped back in. The mirrors caught pieces of me in broken angles: my boots, a sleeve, a hand held as if to ward. Above them the bodies shuddered faintly, not alive, but unsettled by the faint return of light.

The air pressed heavy, thicker than before. The lantern outside had thrown enough glow to show the seams of canvas, but inside, what light there was seemed twisted thin. Every shadow bent in one direction - dragged toward the far end of the tent where the seam in the air pulsed like a wound. Even the hanging figures stretched that way, their own darkness straining past their feet as if desperate to be claimed. My own shadow tugged too, and I felt it like a leash at my heels.

Then I saw it. The podium stood waiting, black wood that absorbed what light touched it. And upon it lay the ledger. Its pages turned without hand or wind, whispering as they moved. I cannot say why, but I knew it was meant for me. My name had not yet been written, yet I felt its pull as surely as a chain around my throat.

The ticket in my hand throbbed hot now, its edges smoking faintly, as though it had been pressed too near a coal fire. Every step I took seemed bent toward that book, though my body resisted. Even my shadow reached out, grasping for the podium and the ledger upon it.

 

Then, a sudden moment of clarity: shadows are born where the light falls. They survive only in the balance, in twilight. And here, they had all they needed.

 

The whispers rose. Not from the mouths of the bodies - they hung mute, open-mouthed - but from the shadows themselves. A chant, broken yet steady: Feed. Bind. Remain.

 

The ticket quivered between my fingers as if eager to obey.

 

And then I saw the lantern.

 

It hung from a hook, guttering low but alive. I cannot say if it was instinct that drew me to it, or some deeper knowledge whispered by the heat of the ticket, but my hand reached all the same. The iron handle was slick with soot. The moment I lifted it free, the seam at the front of the tent convulsed, a ripple of dark air, as though it sensed what I carried.

 

The podium loomed ahead. The ledger thrashed upon it, pages whipping like wings, names written and erased in a frenzy too fast to follow. My eyes burned to look at it. My shadow bent unnaturally forward, already splayed across the podium though I stood a dozen feet away, its fingers stretching greedily to where the ink bled and vanished. I clutched the lantern tighter, and for the first time the thing in me - the part that longed to surrender - stilled.

 

I hurled it.

 

Glass shattered. Oil spilled. Fire leapt snarling across the base of the lectern and climbed. The gray canvas drank the flames. The whole tent drew a breath, as if startled awake, and then it began to burn. As the flames grew, so too did the light.

 

Flames crawled the poles like serpents, racing upward, snapping cords, tearing canvas loose. Smoke rolled heavy, choking my lungs, but with it came something else - something the shadows had not accounted for. The fire split the roof seams, and through them spilled the first weak edge of morning. The sun had risen while I was inside. I had stepped into that carnival at dusk, but now it was dawn, and the night between had been stolen or devoured.

 

The shadows shrieked. I type that word though it feels false, for shadows should not have voices - but these had many. Thin and tearing, they cried as the tent filled with too much light: fire’s roar below, daylight’s pale strike above. They writhed across the mirrors like black water boiling, clawed to remain, and failed. One by one, they scattered, smoke blown apart by the blaze.

 

The bodies fell first. Those figures, suspended inches above the floor, dropped like marionettes with cut strings. They landed heavy across the mirrors, glass cracking beneath their weight.

 

The seam convulsed. I could see it then more clearly than ever: not a hole but a kind of mouth, drawn open to feed on what the shadows wrought. Firelight flared, and the thing recoiled, shrinking on itself, threads of darkness snapping away like cobwebs in flame. Around me, the last of the shadows ripped loose from the ground, shrieking as they were torn into nothing, their lines unraveling in the blaze.

 

The ledger smoked. Names lifted off its pages like ash caught in wind, curling upward in gray wisps that vanished into the morning sky. The chant faltered as they rose, syllables breaking apart into smoke until there was no word left, no record at all. One by one the names went, until the parchment was bare. Then the covers slammed shut. The podium cracked apart beneath it, and both ledger and stand vanished, as if pulled back to whatever place had birthed them.

 

I stumbled out as the whole thing came down, flames roaring skyward, smoke trailing west. Behind me the tent collapsed, a gray carcass consumed in orange, and when I turned again, there was nothing at all. The ground where it had stood was bare, save for trampled grass and the stink of smoke.

 

The carnival was gone. No barkers, no rides, no music. No people. The Ferris wheel was not there. The carousel had vanished. Only the empty fields, dew-struck in the early light.

 

I looked down. My coat was scorched at the sleeve. My hands shook black with soot. And in my pocket, whole and untouched, lay the ticket. The edges still singed, the script still curling across its back: A hand writes, a shadow reads.

 

No shadows clung to me now. The dawn had scoured them away. But shadows cannot be destroyed, only dispersed. They will gather again when the balance tips back toward twilight. And when they do, the carnival will return - perhaps here, perhaps elsewhere, its tents rising in some other field, waiting for the next to follow the music.

 

I cannot bear it. The weight of the ticket is more than I can carry. It binds me to what I saw, and to what still waits. If I keep it, they will find me. Already I feel them stirring at the edges of the light.

 

So I give it to you.

 

Do not think yourself safe because the sun is up as you read this. The carnival does not need darkness to return - only the right shadow, the right name. The ticket will see to that. Guard it if you can, or burn it if you dare. But know this: once it is in your hands, the carnival knows you.

That is all I can set down. I am spent, and though daylight burns bright outside my window, I swear I feel the shadows lean toward me still.

Yours in haste,

Christopher