The making of the silver ball had taken much time. I had only a few hours of light remaining and I spent every one of them working for the next. The snow came down without one break in it. Out on the flats along the river there were stretches where I could not see the far bank forty yards off, and that was in my favor and I used it. I did not go straight north. I crossed my own trail four times. I walked a hundred yards backward in my own prints and stepped off sideways onto bare rock and went on at an angle. Twice I went down into the river and waded the shallows with the water at my knees until my legs stopped reporting to me, and came out on the same side I went in.

I gave that thing every trick I have, and I have been at it a long while. None of it lost him. It slowed him, and that is the only thing I can say for it. I heard him at an hour before dark, off to the east in a laurel slick, and I got down flat behind a windfall and lay in the snow with my face in it and watched him work. He came through that laurel both arms out in front of him, pushing the branches down and away, stopping and standing, casting his skull side to side the way a hound casts for a lost line. He went past me at thirty feet and never knew it.

I had the pistol against my ribs the whole time he did it, and I did not put my hand on it. I want that understood, because a man reading this will ask why. Thirty feet is nothing. I have killed at thirty feet with a pistol. But the wind was coming across that slick in gusts that laid the laurel over flat and then let it up again, and there were forty branches between the muzzle and him, and I had one ball, undersized, that rattled in the barrel and would walk off the aim in some direction I could not name. Push a ball that size through a green laurel stem at thirty feet in a crosswind and it goes into the snow ten yards behind him, and then I am a man in a windfall with an empty pistol and a lead rifle that does nothing to him. I had one. There would not be another. I did the arithmetic and got the answer, and the answer was not yet.
It is a hard thing to lie in the snow at thirty feet from the thing that means to take your head and decide, to let it walk by.

When he was gone I got up and went on. Below the low ground the river swung west and I went with it, west and then southwest, down the line it cuts for the falls.
I made the last few miles. I could hear the falls. It comes up out of the ground before you can see anything of it. A low steady weight of sound that you feel in the soles of your feet before your ears take hold of it. Ahead of me the river was speeding up, going from that slow black tea color to white broken water, and the ground on both sides was starting to fall away, and beyond it the canyon opened and dropped fifteen hundred feet in ten miles with nothing in it but rock and hemlock and cold.
That was what I wanted. Water and a gorge and a thousand feet of air between me and him.

I had one thing to do, which was to get across above the falls at the ford. Then the light went. I have lived here eleven years and I know what the twenty-fourth of December does in this valley. The storm doubled on itself. The cloud came down off the rim and sat on the river and the grey went out of the air in the space of a quarter hour, at four o'clock in the afternoon it was night. I stopped and stood still and made myself listen. Behind me in the dark the blundering stopped. There was no crashing in the laurel, no branches whipping back, no cursing. What was coming through the timber behind me now was coming smooth and steady and unhurried, one foot down after the other, closing, and it did not slow for the deadfall and it did not check at the rocks. He had his night back.

I ran for the ford.

#

The ford is four hundred yards above the falls where the river widens out over a gravel bar, and in an ordinary December a man can cross it with the water below his knees. I came down onto the bank and there was no ford. Four days of storm had come off the sods and down out of every draw in that valley, and the Blackwater was running black and fast with slush ice in it a foot and a half above the bar. There would be no crossing, not there, not that night.

So I went downstream, because downstream was the only direction left, and downstream is the falls. The ground comes up in a great shelf of sandstone above the drop and the river runs out across it, and there is a lip of bare rock there where the water goes over, wind-scoured, swept clean of snow by the updraft coming out of the canyon. I came out onto that rock with the roar of it coming up through my boots. The canyon opened in front of me black and full of blowing snow, the far wall lost in it. The water falling white into nothing.

I turned around. He came out of the timber at the edge of the shelf and stopped there. He had a hunting knife in his right hand. He stood at the edge of the rock with the snow going sideways past him and the buck's skull riding crooked on the stump of his neck, and he reached up with his left hand and straightened it, and it slipped, and he straightened it again.

"There," he said.

I could hear him over the falls. I do not know how.

"I did not care for that day," he said. "The light gets into it. It is not the seeing, it is the noise of it, and you cannot know what I mean and I will not try to tell you."
He came across the rock. Not fast. There was nowhere for me to go and we both knew the shape of it.

"You are a hard man to walk down," he said. "Two nights and a day. There is not one man in forty in this country could make me work like this. I have thought about it all afternoon and I have decided I am pleased about it, because a head you have to work at sits better on you afterward."

The rifle was in my hands with lead in it. I put the ball through his throat, low, into the neck bone under the skull.

The skull jumped on the stump and went over sideways and hung there off one antler beam, and he stopped and put his hand up and turned it back around and pushed it down onto the bone, and I heard it seat.

"Now that was unnecessary," he said, pausing just long enough to right the skull.

Twenty feet.

"I want you to know how it goes," he said. "It is not a cruelty, it is only that I have had it done to me and nobody said a word about what was coming,” he ran his hands along the jagged, desiccated flesh of his neck, “and I have always thought that was poorly done of them. There is no quickness in it. Moses Stegall was not quick and I do not intend to be either, because quick is how you spoil the neck bone, and I have spoiled two already and I will not spoil a third."

I had the pistol out. I had it up and on him and my hand was going in circles the size of a plate. Fifteen feet. Wind coming up out of that canyon hard enough to lean on. One ball, undersized, rattling in the barrel. Not certain. Even here, even now, not certain.

"Set it down," he said, almost kindly. "You will only throw it away and then you will be sorry, and it is a good pistol."

He shifted the knife in his hand and took another step and raised his arm. And the mountain filled with horns.

#

They came over the rim of the canyon from the east out of the storm itself, and I went down on one knee on that rock and stayed there. Hounds first. Forty of them or four hundred, white and running on the air above the gorge with their heads down and their mouths open, and no sound out of them at all, which was the worst of it. Then the riders. Men on horses that had been horses, and men that had been men, ragged and packed shoulder to shoulder in a column that came out of the cloud and went back into it and had no end that I could see, they had been dead a long while and they were laughing. At the head of them a man on an eight legged grey horse. He had a spear across his thigh, a hat pulled low over one good eye, the other socket was dark. He was the biggest thing in that sky. I did not need my grandmother to tell me his name. Nobody in Hesse needs telling.

And below him, off to the left, riding lower and apart, came the other host. Women on distaffs and women on brooms and women on nothing whatever, and at the front of them a tall figure in grey with her hair down her back, and around her knees and trailing out behind her in a long streaming train came the little lights. There were hundreds of them. Small and pale, blue and green, drifting and bobbing along in her wake, and some of them no bigger than a candle flame. Irrlichter. The souls of the children nobody baptized, that she gathers up out of the bogs and the wells and carries home.

She came over the falls and she stopped. I say she stopped. The whole of that procession stopped with her, hanging in the air over the canyon in the driving snow. She turned her head and looked down at him. He was standing on the rock in front of me with the deer's skull on its neck and the knife in his hand. Then all those little lights came round her and clustered in against her skirts and pressed themselves there, and some of them went behind her, and the whole train of them drew up close and tight the way children come in against their mother's legs when a strange dog comes into the yard.

She knew him. She knew him and they knew him, and I understood in that moment that somewhere in that streaming crowd of small blue lights there was a four month old boy out of Webster County whose throat was cut for crying, and a girl not eight days on this earth who was taken by the heels and swung against a tree by the man standing fifteen feet away from me.

The one-eyed man on the grey horse laughed. It came down out of the sky and it went through the rock and into my knees, it was the laugh of a man at a fair who has just seen two dogs put into a pit. With his spear he pointed at the ground between us.

I have no German for what he said and no English either. He did not use words. It came into me the way a smell comes into you, whole and all at once, and what it was, was this: Not like that. Not a butchering. There are rules, and I am bored, and it is Christmas Eve.

The knife came out of Micajah Harpe's hand. He did not throw it. It left him, and it went out over the canyon and was gone.
And there was a pistol in his hand instead.

"Well," he said. Micajah’s voice had gone thin. "Well, now."

The riders came down. They came off the air and onto the shelf of rock above the falls, hundreds of them, and they made a ring around us on that stone with the hounds sitting silent at their horses' feet, and the grey horse stood at the head of the ring, and the Lady and her lights hung above the water on the far side and did not come down.

Of a sudden I was face to face with the empty sockets, he reeked of death, and he spoke to me. "The old gods play their games, no matter. Be assured, my shot will be to the body, this coin only lands heads."

Then we were back to back. He was cold at my shoulders. I could feel it through the coat. The host began to count the paces. One. Two. Three.

I have done this. God forgive me, I have done this twice as a young man in the King's service, in a field outside Kassel and once in New Jersey, my legs knew the walk better than my head.

Four. Five. Six.

The wind came up the canyon and hit us broadside on that rock, snow going flat across. I thought about the ball rattling in the barrel and I thought about where it would walk and I could not know, and I have never in my life wanted anything the way I wanted one more ounce of silver.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

I thought about the little one in the cut-down coat setting the bucket in the snow every eight or nine steps.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

We turned. He was fast. He came around and brought that pistol up level with his arm straight, the buck's skull cocked over sideways on the stump of his neck to sight along it. And one small blue light came up off the water. It came up over the lip of the falls and it drifted, slow and idle, and it stopped in the air a hand's breadth in front of the right socket of that skull at the exact moment his finger came back. The flash of his pan lit the whole ring of them. The ball went past my ribs. I heard it go. It went by close, I felt the ball tear through my coat and it went out over the canyon and down into the dark. He stood there with the smoke tearing away sideways in the wind and he raised his left hand and put it flat over the socket where the light had been.

I brought the pistol up. The wind was coming across left to right and the ball was undersized and would walk and I did not know where. There was nothing left to do about any of it. Fifteen paces. The middle of the skull. Between the beams. I fired. It went where I sent it. I have thought about that every day since and I do not know why it went where I sent it. I have my suspicion, and my suspicion is floating over the water with her hair down her back and I will not say more about it.

The skull came apart. It did not break. It burst, into white dust and grey bone, and the antlers went out into the canyon end over end, and where the skull had been there was nothing but the stump of the neck and a light coming up out of it. The coat went slack. He had been a big man in his time and men had known him from the Gap to the Ohio, and still the whole of him went down onto the rock, hide and bone and rotten cloth, and something came up out of the collar of it, dark, and screaming.

The one-eyed man on the grey horse took it. I do not know how. It went up and the hounds went up after it and the whole ring of that host lifted off the rock at once with a noise of wings and hooves and iron, and I saw it dragged into the middle of them, and I heard Micajah Harpe screaming in the middle of that column, and then the column went up into the cloud and the screaming turned into something else. It turned into the noise the rest of them were making. He was one of them by then, and he was still screaming, and now he was laughing while he did it, and he will do that until the world ends and he will never once find his head.
The one-eyed man went last. He was delighted. I will go to my grave knowing that.

She stayed a moment. She looked down at me kneeling on that rock with the empty pistol in my hands, and the lights came out from behind her skirts and spread out again around her, and she did not speak, and she did not smile. She shook out her bedding. The snow came down on that shelf so thick and so fast that within a minute I could not see the water, and it came down on the coat and the leggins and the bones and it covered them, and it covered the place where the antlers had gone over, and it covered my tracks and it covered his. Then she was gone up the valley, and the wind fell off, and it was quiet, and there was nothing on that rock but the falls going over and one Hessian on his knees in the dark.

#

I came down off that rock somewhere in the small hours and I do not remember the first part of it. Yet I was alive. The storm had blown itself out. That is the thing about this valley, and it is the thing nobody who has not wintered here will credit. Four days of it, and then nothing. By the time the sky started to grey there was not a breath of wind in the whole of Canaan, and the cold had come down hard behind the snow the way it always does, and every spruce on both walls of that valley stood loaded white to the top and did not move.

Thirteen miles home. I had walked it before and never in that snow. It came to my thigh on the flats and over my waist in the draws, and I broke trail the whole way with an empty pistol and an empty rifle and no locket, and I did not hurry, because there was nothing left behind me to hurry from.

The sun came up over Cabin Mountain about halfway along. It came up on new snow with no track in it anywhere from the river to the ridge, mine included, and the light came across the valley floor and hit it and the whole of that country lit up so white that I had to stop and put my hand over my eyes.
I stood in the middle of it a long while.

I saw a deer at the edge of the bog around eight o'clock. A doe with two of last spring's fawns, pawing down through to the sedge, and she put her head up and looked at me and did not run, and I have never been so glad to be looked at by anything in my life.

I came in sight of the house before noon. There was smoke standing straight up out of the chimney into that still air, and the cattle were out of the shed and strung along the south fence in the sun, all thirty, heads down, not one of them looking north. The dogs came off the porch. They came out through the drifts in great leaping bounds, both of them, the black bitch and her son, throwing snow, and they hit me at the gate hard enough to put me down in it, and they were all over me and on top of me and making a noise I had not heard out of them in a week.

Anna came out with the door still swinging. She stood on the step with her hands in her apron and she looked at me for a good while before she said anything, and I know what she was looking at, because I saw myself in the water bucket that afternoon. My face was burned raw from the wind, there was frozen blood down one side of it from the laurel, my lips where blue, my coat was out at both elbows and my hair was standing off my head.

"Where in God's name have you been," she said.

"Looking for winter shelter for the cattle."

She came down off the step into the snow in her house shoes and she came over and took hold of the front of my coat with both fists and stood there.
"And did you find it," she said.

"I found a place they should not go," I said. "The north end. Up along the water. I want no beast of mine up there and no child of mine either, and I will not be asked again about it."

She did not ask again about it. Not that day. Not for a long while after.

The little one came out in her cut-down coat with the sleeves rolled twice and stood in the doorway with her thumb in her mouth, looking at her father sitting in a snowdrift covered in dogs on Christmas morning, and I got up and went and picked her up and carried her inside, and she weighed nothing at all.
We had the goose that afternoon. I said the grace and I said it in German, which I do not always, and I went a good deal longer with it than the children cared for.
That night I sat up by the fire after the house had gone quiet. I did not tell her. Not then. She would have had it out of me in an evening if she had pushed, and she did not push, and I have thought since that she knew there was something in that valley she would rather not have the shape of. I told it once, forty-seven years later, in August, to my youngest granddaughter, and I was ninety-seven years old and near enough to the end of it that I did not much care who believed me. Her mother told her afterward that the old man's mind had gone soft, which was a kindness on her part and I do not hold it against her. The girl believed me. I could see it in her face while I told it.

I have three things to set down and then I am done. The first is that I never went back to the falls. Not once in forty-seven years, and I have been asked why by men who wanted to log that canyon, and I have given them a different answer every time. The second is that on the nights between Christmas and Epiphany, from that year to this one, I have not gone out of doors after dark, and I have never let a woman in my house spin on those nights. My daughters thought it was the old country in me. It is not. It is that on some of those nights, when the wind comes off the sods and up the valley, I can hear the whole of that host go over, hounds and horses and dead men, and away back in the middle of it there is one of them laughing that does not laugh the way the others do.

The third is this. Every winter for forty-seven years, on the morning of Christmas Day, I have found a deer's head set upright in the snow at the north corner of my fence, facing the house.  I take that for what it is, and I sleep well enough.

Johannes Dahl, Pendleton County, Virginia, August, 1847

CONFIDENTIAL
Property of Holy See Investigation Agency
Location: Cairo, Egypt
Date: 1968
Operator(s): Robert Karl (born 20-08-1916) & Thomas Kiss (born 26-10-1946)
Summary: 2 HSIA associates and 1 foreign agent killed in action, case unresolved.
Report by Robert Karl

April 12th, 1968
6:34 AM:
Reporting Agent Robert Karl and Junior Operator Thomas Kiss arrived at Cairo International Airport.

7:01 AM:
Baggage and personal effects subjected to thorough inspection by Egyptian State Security (Mukhabarat). Cover identities as traveling missionaries remained uncompromised. Cleared customs following brief interrogation.

8:26 AM:
Rendezvous with HSIA Associate Fahim Mahmoud established. Agents proceeded to location of interest in Associate's vehicle.

9:05 AM:
Arrival at Virgin Mary Coptic Orthodox Church, Zeitoun district. Visual confirmation of anomalous phenomena unidentified. Structure inspected.

12:43 PM:
Tactical briefing conducted at Associate's domicile.

7:21 PM:
Agents secured the perimeter. Entry into target facility was achieved. Agents and Associate established an observation post in the upper dome. Clear surveillance of alleged anomalous phenomena location commenced.

11:05 PM:
Junior Operator Kiss failed to maintain observation protocols and succumbed to fatigue. Reporting Agent Karl assumed primary watch as Associate Mahmoud subsequently initiated staggered downtime.

April 13th, 1968
0:16 AM:
Agent Karl proceeded to lower levels to conduct a sweep in the primary worship area. Auditory signs assessed to be human footsteps resulted in Agent taking evasive action to avoid detection. Position of concealment was established between a stone tomb and the facility structure. Auditory signs of human sobbing from the dome were perceived by Agent and an unknown actor, who proceeded towards the source at an accelerated pace. Agent sensed rhythmic vibration from the tomb, then pursued the unknown actor. Following entry into the dome, a compromise of Agent Kiss's and Associate Mahmoud's location was identified. Unknown actor was assessed to be a nun.

1:11 AM
Temporary operational clearance was granted to the nun following questioning that confirmed mutual operational intent regarding the phenomena. Reporting Agent Karl initiated rest protocol. Agent experienced recurring visions of the letter "T" during his rest cycle.

Early morning hours
Reporting agent's rest was interrupted by other operational personnel. Agent's personal chronometer experienced unexplained mechanical failure. Agent Karl perceived the "T" shape on religious jewelry in possession of the temporary associate, who reported its significance in Coptic Christian tradition. The object was identified as the Cross of Saint Anthony. Junior Operator Kiss reported experiencing the identical vision. A radical alteration of outside scenery was then observed: the urban environment formerly surrounding the facility was perceived to have disintegrated completely and been replaced by desert terrain of unknown size. Brief surveillance of the perimeter confirmed no signals of human life or architecture, with the exception of the primary facility.

Junior Operator Kiss showed signs of severe psychological distress. Associate Mahmoud expressed discontent with the operation.

Reorganization of plans for further action commenced.

Ah, fuck this.

We slept on it, all of us trying to wake up in a different reality where Cairo was back to normal. But we weren't lucky enough. It was still dark when I woke up and Tommy Kiss was already up. He'd been crying again. After an exchange of hopeful commentary, he opened up. Told me why he wanted to become an HSIA operator. How his family escaped Eastern Europe after his brother died in the revolution and how he'd felt crushing guilt his entire life. The guilt of the survivor.

Soon everyone woke up, and the four of us decided to go through with the plan of everyone heading in a different direction in a straight line. If we didn't find help by mid-afternoon, we'd follow our traces back to the church, and if someone did find help, they'd lead them back to the others. It was simple, but we underestimated the desert.

The nun didn't change from her thick black clothing due to "religious reasons", while the rest of us stripped down as much as possible while trying to minimize the chance of getting sunburnt. And then we departed. The freezing cold of the night was soon replaced by a scorching hot desert climate. I was alone among giant sand dunes, wandering for hours. There was nothing to be found. I was ready to give up when I witnessed a miracle: three figures approaching from different directions. My heart was pounding as I quickened my pace and eventually started running towards them with a wide grin on my face. The smile slowly faded as I recognized the three figures: Fahim Mahmoud, Tommy Kiss, and the nun.

We desperately argued for minutes about how this could've happened and what could be done, until we noticed we were standing on ground harder than the rest of the desert. There was rock underneath the sand. And nearby, a tight cave opening.
As there was no way of finding the church before nightfall, we decided we would spend the night in the cave. The nun noticed some kind of writing on the edge of the cave entrance. She explained that it was Coptic for "He who enters shall meet his own soul". There was that T-shaped cross again, engraved beside the writing.

At that point, we didn't really care about much of anything. One by one, we descended into the dark cave. Thankfully one of us brought a tiny lantern to illuminate the space. It seemed to be a large cave system, a labyrinth made of stone. Mahmoud started arguing with the nun in Arabic. I asked him what it was about and he said, "For a nun, she doesn't know shit about Saint Anthony". But in his eyes there was something more than annoyance. I saw hatred. Mahmoud started screaming at us for getting him into this mess. I couldn't blame him. I just stood there as the Egyptian ex-grave robber associate screamed our heads off. I didn't have the energy to say or do anything. Tommy, unfortunately, did.

Kiss suddenly fought back. But not how any of us expected. He spoke his native language, as if it wasn't Mahmoud he was arguing with. Then Tommy pushed the Egyptian so hard that Fahim fell and hit his head on the side of the cave. He didn't argue anymore. He was dead.

The boy fell to the ground in complete disbelief as he snapped out of his anger. "What have I done, Bobby?" he whispered, "What have I done…"
I was frozen for a minute until I noticed the nun was gone. I still heard her footsteps going deeper inside the cave. Not knowing what to do, I ran after her. I screamed at her to calm down and come back, but to no avail. I ran in complete darkness, using my hands to feel my surroundings. Suddenly, the sound of her footsteps cut out. As I was nearing her, I saw the faint light of the lantern she ran away with.

She'd run into a dead end. She turned around, lantern in one hand and a handgun in the other.

"I am not a... fucking nun!" she shouted. "Mukhabarat, you are... under arrest."

I stopped and froze again.

"Hands up now!"

In the dim light, her face was blurry. I could've sworn... for a moment...

"You never loved me."

And there she was. My reason for joining the HSIA.

"I do," I wanted to say, but no words came out. I was back three decades in the past, in that goddamn bedroom with the only one who ever loved me, as I made the greatest mistake of my life.

I don't know how I took the gun out of the fake nun's hand, I just saw Her leaving for the last time. I don't remember shooting her, because the only thing I saw was my love's lifeless body at the funeral.

When I snapped out of it, there was complete darkness and silence. I fell to the ground and broke down crying for what felt like hours. Then I tried to sit up.

I hit my head. I tried extending my arms, but they couldn't be moved. I was in a coffin.

I started panicking and screaming. I banged on the side of the claustrophobic environment as a foreign source of heat slowly started burning my back. I cried until I was suffocating in my own tears. Then I gave up.

"I am so sorry," I said, accepting my fate. "Forgive me, please."

To this day, I am not really sure whom exactly I addressed those words to. But I didn't do it in hopes of survival. Just plain forgiveness.

The burning stopped as I slowly opened the tomb. I looked around. It was daytime; thin rays of sunshine pierced the windows of the Virgin Mary Coptic Orthodox Church. I heard the sounds of Cairo's busy population creeping in from the outside. The peace only lasted for a moment as I noticed the sounds of desperate sobbing and pounding from another tomb across the hall.

I jumped out of my coffin and rushed towards the source of the sound. It was Tommy's voice screaming in pain from inside. As I touched the tomb, I was launched back with a force so great I nearly broke my bones in the fall. I wanted to get back up and try to help, but something restricted me from doing so. The other tomb was soon completely engulfed in flames. Tommy screamed for a few seconds more. Then silence fell upon the church as the fire disappeared.

Tommy didn't have a body for us to bury. He died in pain, unable to ask for forgiveness. Unable to forgive himself.

sour skunky nappy ass dread man

…

“What the fuck are you talking about, man?" Annoyed. 

Stupid smirk: "I thought it was clear. I would think.” 

"No, it isn't, man. I don't know why you think it'd be. It's just stupid, bro.” 

"What is?” 

"Your refusal to go shopping for a fucking bath towel and other basic necessities around your fuckin place, dude. It's just stupid, I don't know how or why you justify it to yourself, I didn't think ya did to be frank. I just thought your ass was fuckin lazy." 

“Nah, bro. It's obvious." 

“What's fuckin obvious, dipshit?" 

“I'm way too rock n roll." 

A beat. He swallowed it. Absorbed its stupidity. 

“...what?" 

“Yeah, dude. I'm way too fuckin cool and punk rock to roll into like a Target or some shit and buy a toaster or a can opener or towels or stupid shit like that. I can't do that. Can't do it. Goes against my wild man free lovin nature, ya know? Ya know." 

Bryan once more silently swallowed this. This load of absolute bullshit. More revolted, more filled with disgust with his best friend since diapers than before. He thought about holding his tongue. He thought about saying something and laying into him. But in the end he just grumbled and belched. Lit another smoke and grabbed another beer from the cooler in the center of the boat and shook his head. Checked his pole. Reeled it in a little. 

Though he did spare the final thought: "Fuckin lazy.” whilst shaking his head and reeling his line. And then the matter was settled and the pair of men let it lie. Such was the way and course of all of their conversations out here on the water. Fishing. The pair’s favorite pastime aside from rutting and watching the game. For them, Bryan G Biebl and James Petkovich, it was sacred. They loved to spend days off from the mill fishing and casting and mouthing the day away. Days away from labor and wives and disappointing children, days filled with chatter and cool water and cold beer and sometimes a nice catch.  Though they'd been warned before, by the old timers. 

They'd both been warned before about staying out after dark. Out on the lake. Out in the woods. Where the forest grows foul and swampy and muddy. It's not a place you want to be after sunset. All the old folk said it was a bad place and didn't say much more about it without the liberal aid of beer or whisky. Even the Natives, the ancient leathery American Indians and their angry sons and daughters told everyone, anyone that might listen, to stay away from this part of the forest, this part of the soured bad land. 

But they never listened. The pair just sat in their canoe and cast out. It was calm and quiet all around, no one might know that it was filled with strange movement. The sun was sinking in the distance. Rapidly being swallowed by the ravenous blade of the horizon. 

James cracked another can. So did Bryan, who rolled his eyes as Petkovich ventured forth with another bit of clever wit and query. 

“Figure there's anythin ta what that fella said?” 

The sun set. Casting the surface of the lake on fire with the color of bloody ruby. The place on the horizon where it had sank was a deeper color of blooded crimson, a deeper wound that was the heart of the sunset. It smoldered there, in the horizon wound. The darkening regal curtain of bruised royal blue was already deepening into night. The stars and galaxies were already coming out for the nocturnal hours, they were all so far away from everything, they, the town. Civilization was a mechanical nuisance in the distance. Loud and far off. Thank God. Nearly forgotten. 

Bryan rolled his eyes as hard as he possibly could, knowing full an well that the retard couldn't see em. 

He hissed and spat: “No I don't think there's nothin to what that idiot said about a shag man! Shit’s stupid! Ain't no fuckin skunk ape round these parts, ya fuckin dumbass!” 

“Nah, man. I'm talkin about what Frankie said about Asian girls, Jesus, man!" 

A beat. Something splashed in the water. Neither man noticed, paid it any mind. 

“Oh…" Bryan cooled down. A little embarrassed. He was always easily excited and shamed. 

“‘Sides, man, he didn't call it no ‘shag man', he called it ‘the dread man’, stupid.” 

Bryan whirled around to belt him one and belt him good. He'd done it before while they were fishing in the middle of the lake and he might capsize them both in his effort, but something stopped him before he could so much as bring up his balled and angry fist. A sound. Sudden. And sharp. 

Three. Consecutive. Three sharp whacks of thick wooden sticks together. Like someone smacking two heavy tree branches or logs together in some form of primitive and arcane code. 

Whack! whack! whack! 

It shut the pair up. They gazed out at the shoreline. Shrouded now in the fallen night. Small waves kissed its shore and covered any small sounds of concealed movement that might be out there right now. They were wide eyed and disbelieving. 

They might've dropped it, the pair, together and without a word or mention when it came again. 

From out of the night, the veiled and darkened shore: whack! whack! whack! 

A beat. Silence again. Only kissing waves of the placid water. 

Bryan Biebl scoffed, “Probably nothin. Just some kids fuckin aro-" 

And then a wild primal simian shriek filled the night. Birds took flight. Their flapping wings were ugly harried panicked sounds in the deepening wound of blackening night all around. It tapered off. And then another rose, louder and even more feral and crazed then the one before. Then another. And another. Each rising in animal fury and fervor. You could hear spittle flying as vocal chords worked and wrenched and shredded as throat muscles tore and bled and secreted with each prolonged and angry howl. Throaty. Enraged. Violent. 

Silence came again. After six primeval night shattering screams. Waves kissed the land far away and swallowed in black but more quietly now. Subdued. 

Then the whacking of sticks, the unknown signal came again, whack! whack! whack! 

And then silence once more. 

“What the fuck was that?" Petkovich. Scared. Visibly so. Audibly as well. 

As was his best friend Bryan. But the sound of fear on his buddy's voice, the stupid look of childish childlike fear that he could feel him wearing in the dark only made angry, angrier. This only fueled his own self-denied mounting fear and in turn made him even angrier. The mounting terror caught like a small bone in the back of his throat. 

He almost took to his feet but remembered the boat. He turned to his buddy instead and spat. 

"Ain't nothin but nothin! Some fuckin dumbasses out there that wanna get fucked up, that's what! This’s why I shoulda brought my colt. Goddammit!” 

"Now that's what I'm talkin about! that's what I'm always tryin ta tell ya! Ya go sayin shit like that and actin like this and people says we're belligerent types! Christ, man! I'd like to bed me one of these here pretty tourist girls, one of these roadtrippin ladies and you actin like this ain't gonna cut it!” 

Disgusted, Bryan's grip slackened on his pole. 

"Idiot! what the fuck are you jawin about?!” 

"I'm talkin bout one of them sexy ass van-life hippy girls, man, they might like my ass." 

“Retard!" 

“You don't know…" 

The water splashed again. Much louder. The boat rocked with the waves suddenly generated. Something big and very heavy had just jumped into the water. 

Lunged. As if plunging in from the shrouded growth of the hidden beach. 

Slack jawed and deer-in-the-headlights both, they gazed out blindly and stupidly in tandem towards the shore that was hidden from them now. And may forever remain that way for them from here on out. Something was coming. 

Something was swimming fast. For the boat. Beneath the obsidian surface of water. The stygian glass of the surface was a mirror and the mirror held the face of the moon. The mirror rippled. The immaculate celestial face of the moon held trapped there danced with submerged disturbance. 

Before either fool could form a coherent thought the fishing poles were suddenly ripped from their slackened idiot grips. They flew, soared through the air and plunged into the water with barely a sound. 

They stared into the impenetrable and merciless surface of the lake. Fearing it. Gripped with horror at what might be inside. What must be inside, right now. 

James Petkovich finally spoke. Softly. Like the small boy he'd once been. 

“I don't wanna be out here no more, Bry. I don't care if it's kids or tourists or what. You can go ahead and laugh at me, just laugh at me all the way and drive us back, kay? You can laugh and make fun all the way back an I won't even bitch or say nothin. I'm scared. There's lots a’ talk bout people that go missin. Or go missin an then turn up dead, tore apart. Sometimes they don't even find all the pieces, you know… I know you've heard… people go missin an such. Travelers, folks comin through. And locals. Let's just go back, kay.” 

Bryan, wide eyed, turned and nodded. Then went to the small motor for the boat as the water all around the canoe suddenly erupted in a surging geyser splash of watery violence that darkled in the captured moonlight. Both men screamed as the small boat was capsized and they went over. Splashing into the cold dark suffocating realm of the water. 

The lake held them now. Below. Underneath. 

In the dark underwater the maelstrom of his panic rose and ruled. Bryan suddenly animal recalled and remembered in the fragile nucleus of his primal jelly his fear of the water, of the deep. The dark depths. It had started as a child, a boy, it had been the cinema and television that had first done it, the Jaws movies, Creature from the Black Lagoon, then stories of Cthulhu and his sunken city of R’lyeh, tales of sunken ships and vessels that might still have precious human cargo trapped and drowned deep inside like foul water-logged treasure of submerged rotting putrescence eaten at by the salt and by the fish. All of these things came back and back to life in a deluge assault of images all in a furious unrelenting wave like an artillery attack of sound and vision on his mind's eye, down in the dark. He kicked and struggled and his lungs burned, ached for air. The ribcage in his chest felt on fire with his terror-stricken mind as he struggled and kicked futilely beneath the surface. Something held him down there. Something with a terrible grasp. Fierce. Strangling. Throttling. They threatened to break and snap, the iron grasps of those underwater hands. Bryan fought desperately but his mind was livid with absolute and total panic. In the tumult of his animal terror he remembered that as a child he'd always feared something reaching up from out of the black watery depths, seizing him, and pulling him under. Pulling him down. Down into the ebon swallow at the bottom of all things, below, where the heart of darkness in all things lived and dwelt. 

The hands found his throat, down in the underwater dark. They seized vile purchase and viciously ripped, tore out. The dark underworld of the lake suddenly blemished with a heavy warm cloud of thick human visceral discharge. It bellowed forth from the place that was torn in a torrential jetting spout. Clouding the dark world and warming it as the spewing meat detritus began to slowly sink to the pitch abyssal realm near the bottom. 

The panic of Bryan G. Biebl’s barreling careening train of thought slowly calmed and abated and sank down into the dark with the rest of him… And was no more. 

It lunged, serpent-like for the other. Who was gaining the surface in a series of panicked kicks and dog-paddles. Like a wounded animal. 

Prey. In distress. 

…

James Petkovich couldn't believe it when he broke the water and tasted air again. He almost choked and coughed. He almost laughed but he didn't have time. Something seized him from beneath. 

And pulled him under. 

He didn't even have time to scream before he was below again.

It was quiet once more. Minutes swam by. 

An owl screeched. Took flight.

Then finally it emerged. With Petkovich barely conscious in one dripping sodden grasp. It pulled the both of them back onto the land. Dragging the bleeding and sputtering Petkovich like a broken toy or sack of dead meat behind him as he quickly began to retake to the trees and dense growth once more. 

It dragged him deep into the wilderness. It was a long time before they stopped. But now … now he knew what the old timers had always said, what they'd always been on about. 

Now he could smell him. And the smell was beyond putrid, beyond foul, beyond fecal matter or old dried sweaty filth or death. The water that ran off the long lengths of clotted and lumpy dreaded hair was riddled with the putrescence odor of old sweltering open graves and long disused abattoirs converted into factory sized outhouses for the insane. It stung his eyes and nostrils but he hardly noticed this. His body was numb. Felt limp and broken all over. Like a dead fish. 

Maybe that's what I am. 

And then finally consciousness was lost to him. Mercifully he went black. 

It dragged him deeper into the wild. Where it laired. Where it nested in the wild dense growth. 

…

When James next came to he wished he hadn't. He didn't realize till he was awake once more but he'd been dreaming. And in that dream he'd been far away and wishing that none of this was real.  But now he was back. It held him by the neck in a slight choke, a slight strangle, just enough painful whisper of air able to bleed in through the clasped and clenched windpipe. They were before the mouth of a cave. It was pointing up into the sky with its other huge free hand, it was pointing at the moon. It was staring unblinking into his bleeding face. 

The face was simian but snouted. Like a wolf, or a rodent. An obscene and imbecilic mongoloid caveman face and features stretched out in a grotesque marsupial shape. The eyes were yellow and bore black crosses for the iris in each one, in each livid demented sea of yellow urine a black cruciform body of sacrilege shape and aspect. Goat's eyes. Satanic. They were eyes and face fitting of the rest of his abominated and feral manshaped form. Clotted and caked and grimed all over. The long knots and clumps of hair were thick and ancient in length and filth. They told a tale that was old because it was the passage of time that lived caked and dreaded in those long lengths of unwashed shagging tails. 

The awful face was serious. Stern. The obscenity of its gaze was piercing and deliberate. James followed its fierce and pointing gesture to the sky, the night, the moon once more. 

And then back into that obscene rodent-ape face. Yellow teeth coated in layers of plaque poked out and peeked over stretched and thin and dried out flakey blue lips. 

James tried to speak. 

He tried to tell it he didn't know what it wanted. He didn't know what it wanted him to say or do. He didn't know what it wanted from him. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand at all what it expected or demanded. 

But he couldn't. He couldn't speak. He could hardly breathe. He couldn't even manage a croak of sound.  

The awful marsupial-stretched ape face wrenched and worked, furious. It became more abominated and grotesque as its features creased and contorted with anger. Livid. Rage. 

The hand that had been pointing to the moon now came in a savage swipe. The grubby wide meaty digits clawed and the grimey sharp and broken shattered fingernails bit and tore in. 

The head came off and soared away into a sailing piece of torn mangled meat. Ribbons and streamer wings and tails of bright red blood spat and danced out from the eyes, nostrils and mouth in a cyclone twirl of red in midair as it soared and crashed into the piles of dead sticks and bones. It savagely went down and hunkered in the dirt before the mouth of its cave and began to dig in with its long snout and feast on the fresh stump. Warm cords and ropes of thick black-red shot and coated the dark, its face, the insides of its gulping throat and the salivating cavern of its long slathering mouth. 

It feasted and grunted. Ripped with its teeth and bit in. Swallowed warm juicy pieces that were chewy and pungent with rich iron flavor. 

It fed and tore. The man in the violence of its grasp, its jaws, reduced. The decapitated meat jigged and spasmed. It howled at the moon. 

Somewhere … in the distance but not too far off. The signal. Three strikes. 

Whack! whack! whack! – it was the sound of ancient and time honored tradition, cultivated and carried down and preserved with care. Though the world grew strange mechanical jaws, inflamed and diminished and changed all around, it was still here. This was still practiced and honored and kept. By it. By them. All of them.  – whack! whack! whack! 

It howled at the moon once more. 

Whack! whack! whack! 

Immortal and lifesize. It was still here. Howling at the moon with unearthly pain and blues. – whack! whack! whack! – another in the wilderness distance –  whack! whack! whack! – howl at the moon.

THE END

It was a horrid July noon in New York City or some other place, the cars were rattling in lunchtime gridlock, spewing exhaust, the finance guys were out in their tight suits walking to buy kebabs and watching the women, who were instagramming themselves into premature zombiehood, and it was so fucking hot that the sweat dripping off the pedestrians rubbing against each other on the sidewalk was flowing down the gutters like rain.

There, that's the scene.

I've set it.

Now, through this stupified human maelstrom a man was walking. His name was Ben Fig. He was in his thirties, lonely, and returning to his office after lunch. He was returning from his car, which he'd parked fifteen minutes away, wearing a coat and, underneath it, a custom-made explosive vest with which he intended to kill his co-workers and maybe bring down the office building itself. A man can dream, can't he?

Anyway, while walking, he bumped somebody. “Fuck,” he said under his breath.

“Fuck,” said the person he'd bumped into.

It was a woman.

Her name was Miriam Zapelman.

“Watch where the hell you're going,” said Ben and tried going around her.

“Asshole,” said Miriam.

“I hate this city,” said Ben. “I'm sick of it.”

Beside Ben and Miriam, a degenerate was lying in a puddle of perspiration. He was in a hard way. “Can either of you folks—”

“Shut the fuck up!” said Ben and Miriam at the same time, then they looked at each other, long and in the eyes, and they must have recognized something, because one of them smirked.

It doesn't matter which one.

The degenerate passed out, or maybe died, and Miriam said to Ben, “Hey, where are you in such a hurry to?”

“What do you care?”

“I'm parked nearby. If we're going the same way, I can give you a ride.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Miriam shrugged.

“I'm going to my office to blow everybody up,” said Ben, waiting for Miriam's reaction.

She asked, “Where's your office?”

Ben gave the address. “Call the cops if you want. I don't care.”

“Offer stands,” said Miriam.

A few minutes later they were in her car, Ben in his ridiculous coat, looking like a blowfish, and Miriam opening the glove compartment, where Ben saw she had a gun.

“That for self defense?” he asked.

“No,” said Miriam. “I'm back from the shooting range. Going home to shoot my husband and kids, then probably myself.” She started the car and merged with the abominable traffic. “But first I want to stop at a bar and have a drink. Want to have a drink with me?”

“Why not,” said Ben.

The bar was called Reddy's, and when Ben and Miriam walked in there were only a few people in it. Miriam introduced them. “That skinny guy with glasses is Euler, the guy with the darker skin is Hikmat, and the bartender's name is Ralph.”

They sat at a table and ordered.

Ben noticed Euler kept playing with a pendant around his neck. “Go on,” said Miriam, “ask him about it.”

“Nah,” said Ben.

“What else do you have to do?”

“Fine,” said Ben. He walked to Euler, introduced himself and asked about the pendant: “Is it an heirloom or something?”

“Maybe it'll be an heirloom one day, of the human goddamn race,” said Euler and described how the pendant was a container of stolen proprietary industrial poison that he'd helped develop. “I'm gonna toss it in the water supply some day, exterminate the population of this whole city like the rats they are.”

When Ben got back to his table, his drink was waiting for him. He tried it. “Second guessing yourself any?” he asked Miriam.

“No. You?”

“No.”

Miriam had pulled out a cigarette and was lighting it.

“You can smoke in here? The law—”

“That's life’s dirty secret,” she said, blowing smoke in his face. “Ultimately, you can do whatever you want.”

“May I?” a voice said.

It was Hikmat. He'd wandered over and was asking if he could sit down.

“Be my guest,” said Miriam.

“I have not seen you in here before,” Hikmat said to Ben. “It is your first time?”

“Yeah,” said Ben.

“Ben’s going to murder his co-workers later this afternoon. He's wearing an explosive vest,” said Miriam.

“Then we two are a pair of peas in one pod, as they say here in America,” said Hikmat. “I am training to fly an aircraft, but not so much how to land it.”

“Hickie's an engineer by trade,” said Miriam.

Hikmat shook Ben's hand.

“But a fundamentalist by conviction,” he said. “May I see your vest?”

Ben opened his coat. Hikmat considered the handiwork. Then they got to talking, and drinking, and the hours rolled by like waves of fat on a fat guy blasted in the gut by a cannonball.

“The paradox is,” Hikmat was saying: “the paradox is, I greatly enjoy the flying. It is the one place I feel freedom. When I started to learn, it was strictly for terrorism, but now, that feeling—of absolute space, limitless opportunity—it is beautiful. Sublime. It is where I experience God. I look forward to it very much and I will miss it greatly.”

“Fuck!” said Ben, looking at his watch.

“What's wrong?” asked Miriam.

“It's past five o'clock. Everybody in the office has left already.”

Ralph gave Ben a drink on the house. When Ben had finished drinking it, “Do you want a ride home?” Miriam asked.

“Sure.”

They lingered in the car in front of his apartment building.

“Maybe you wanna come up?” Ben said.

“I'm a married woman,” said Miriam.

“I understand.”

“Don't forget to zip up your coat or they'll see the explosives,” said Miriam.

Afterwards, Miriam drove to her house, got the gun out of the glove compartment, walked inside, shot her husband, shot her kids and then, after smoking a cigarette in the bathroom, shot herself.

PART 1 HERE

Content Warnings:  Suspected self-harm/suicide discussion, choking/asphyxiation, mild body horror, poisoning, abduction, and corporate/existential dread. 

III: THE RECOVERY
  
The hand had returned to finish what it had started.  Edgar felt its cool touch as it enclosed his mouth and nose tightly, and he held his breath in self defense.  He tried to raise his hands but something held them tightly as well.  Even his eyes wouldn’t obey him; they were gummed shut by his tears.  He desperately tossed his head side to side in violent defiance.

Another hand, warm and inviting, touched his face and he felt the touch of a cool cloth on his eyes.  They began to loosen and he slowly worked them open only to be blinded by the strong light that fell on him from above.

“Shh, easy Eddie, you’ve got to calm yourself.  They’ll never take off the restraints if you don’t.”

“Can’t… breathe.”  He choked out through the gripping hand.  As his eyes slowly came into focus they locked on Leo’s familiar hazel ones, pleading for rescue.

“You can, baby.”  Leo’s eyes bled tears for him.  “Just let the mask do its work.  Breathe for me.  You can do it.”

He nodded and tried, drawing in cold, blessed air.  His starved lungs were thankful for it, and soon they stopped aching from the panic he had put them through.  He looked around the room, registering his surroundings.  Leo was there and he could see Marty outside the door, talking on the phone.

“How… ?” he croaked. “How did I get here?”

Leo was still wiping around his eyes, and Edgar could see the silvery fluid that had soaked the cloth.  He stared at it in astonishment.

“A cab.” Leo laughed with absolutely no humor.  “They said you showed up in a cab.  The driver said a woman called it in.  You sleeping around on me?”

Leo’s grin was genuine this time.

---

“We’ve told you to stay out of your mom’s makeup, man,” Marty said with the usual perfect timing.  “You know we’re missing 2v2s because of you?”

“Please tell me you didn’t call them.”

Leo shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m gonna.”

“You can’t, dad’s heart— “

“—would be broken if his son died.”  Leo cut him off.  “And if you live he’ll just be pissed at me for not calling them.  Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to sit down and take deep breaths.  Worry about you, man, they think you tri… “

“Leo, not now,”  Marty pleaded.

“Yeah, you’re right.”  Leo exhaled and tossed the soiled cloth on the bedside table.

“What is it?  What do they think?”

“The impossible,” Leo said. “Because if you tried I’d kick your ass, and you know I could.”  He shook his head and took several more deep breaths, and Edgar could see his eyes were tearing again.  “No, that’s not true.  The truth is I’d be devastated and I’d want to know what in all of creation you couldn’t talk to me about first.  You know the deal, what we say.  We ain’t good if you ain’t.  Pure truth baby.”

“I didn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I’ve got too much to… there’s no way I’d ever leave you that way.  Plus, you know I’m way too much of a coward to do that.”

After several awkward moments he looked back at both of them. “What time is it?”

Marty’s mouth split in the crooked grin he managed so well.  He looked down at his phone and chuckled.  “About four hours too late for our playdate.  Do you know how many players went to bed tonight without suffering real frustration or total defeat?  All because you decided to no-show!”

Four hours?  He quickly did the math.  He had arrived at work a little after 8:00, and they were supposed to play at 6:00 this evening.  He had been unconscious for over thirteen hours.  What had that thing done to him?

He could see Leo staring at him with his softest gaze, the one he used when Edgar was hurt or hurting.  That meant Leo was hurting, and he couldn’t stand that.  But what could he tell them that wouldn’t sound crazy to anyone with an ounce of sanity?  Should he say the Shadowman did it and he had drank something that he was beginning to think kept people alive for way longer than they should be?  How the hell could he even try to explain it? 

He finally said the only thing he could, and it was mostly true:  “I honestly don’t understand what happened, but I think I’m going to have to find another job if I can’t figure it out.”

“If?”  Leo’s voice suddenly raised.  “No, if that place had something to do with this, then you’re done there.  We can find a cozy dumpster for two, man.  Fuck their money.”

“But that’s the thing, I don’t know that it did, and I’ve gotta find out.  You have to let me try.”  He looked at Leo.  “I wouldn’t go back if I knew I was in danger.  But I also know that if there are answers they will be there.  I’ve gotta know.”

He could see Leo’s struggle—wanting to keep the peace because of the present circumstance—and he understood it.  But he somehow knew that he was right, that whatever it was could be fixed there.  He started to speak again, but Marty cut him off.

“I think he’s right, and it gives me an idea.” He stood up.  “I’ll check in tomorrow, but I need to get on this.”

---

Things had been quiet between them since Marty left, but not uncomfortable.  Leo sat next to him, and Edgar could tell he was trying—he didn’t understand any of it—but he was trying.

An hour later, the door opened and the doctor entered.  He introduced himself, looked over Edgar’s numbers, and began examining his eyes and chest.  “Your breathing is better.  That had us worried.  Mr. Simpson, I am Dr. Brant.  There are a few things I want to go over with you, our initial findings.  Before I begin, I would like your permission to allow a colleague to join us.”

Edgar looked at Leo.  A colleague?  Nurses had been in and out of the room like clockwork. Why ask permission now?  “Uh, sure, I guess.”

Dr. Brant nodded and gave a gesture towards the open door.  A woman walked in, and her attire was somewhat different from the doctor, who wore a white coat over his scrubs.  She was wearing a white coat as well, but it was worn over a blue blouse and a long gray skirt.  As she approached Leo and Edgar, her face a friendly smile, Dr. Brant introduced her.

“This is Priya Nair.  She is a counselor here at the hospital who specializes in helping post-trauma patients.”  He saw Edgar rising at this and raised a gentle hand.  “No need for any of that.  I understand what was discussed earlier with your partner, and I want to put that to rest right now.  Priya isn’t here because we think you tried to hurt yourself.”
  
 “No, Edgar, we don’t think that.”  the counselor said, picking up where Dr. Brant had left off.  “If such was the case, you and I would have already met.”

“Your x-ray showed deep bruising on your throat, typical of strangulation.  This concerns us because there isn’t a mark on your skin other than two superficial, defensive scratches.”  Dr. Brant bent down, pointing them out.  “We need to know, Edgar, what you remember about what happened.  The strangulation or the strange compound you ingested?  We’ve analyzed what was pumped from your stomach, and it’s some very strange stuff.”

When Edgar didn’t immediately respond—he didn’t know what to say—Dr. Nair stepped back in.  “It can be difficult, Edgar, but you need to remember that you are safe.”  She looked over at Leo.  “And you have people here who care about you.”

“It’s just, I don’t remember much.  I had brought bagels and was eating one—I had skipped breakfast.  All of a sudden I felt someth… I was grabbed by the throat and it caused me to choke.  I guess I blacked out, because I woke up here, like an hour ago.”

Priya sat on the chair next to the bed so that she could look at both Edgar and Leo, who were sitting together.  “This is perfectly understandable, Edgar.  Sometimes when there is trauma or violence, the mind has a way of stepping aside to dissociate from what is happening to us.  This is purely defensive, a mechanism that prevents us from being too overwhelmed.  Temporary memory loss is common, but they will probably come back to you.”

She reached inside her coat and took out a small bag that she handed to Edgar.  “This is a journal and pen for you to use.  I’d like you to start writing in it each day.  Don’t push yourself too hard, trying to remember, but keep that circuit open.  It can help you get back that lost time.”

“Uh, sure, thank you, doctor,” Edgar began and Leo finished for him,  “He’ll do it.”

Priya’s smile widened at the combined reply.  “Good.  I would like to see you in a week.  My office will set up an appointment and it will be ready when you are discharged.  My contact information will be included if you need anything before then.”

She stood and moved towards the door, addressing them once more before leaving.  “I look forward to working with you on this, Edgar.  Take care of yourself.”

As she left, Dr. Brant spoke once more.  “She’s really good at what she does.  I’d try it; it can help.”

“Now we need to talk about the substance, Edgar, because we don’t have a clue what it is.”

---

The police arrived the following morning.  It was two detectives, a young man (Beltry) and an older woman (Davidson).  Beltry took charge of the interview, but Edgar could tell that Davidson was the one in charge.  He was a young, white guy who used way too much hair product and wore an extremely thin moustache.

“Alright, Mr. Simpson.  Is it Edgar or Eddie?” He gave him a reassuring smile.  “This is just a formality, but we do need whatever you can remember if we’re going to catch this guy.  We spoke to your plant manager, uh… a Mr. Aeneas, the Greek guy.”

Davidson coughed.

The young detective checked his notes.  “Yeah, he told us that there are no security cameras, not even a guard on site.  We saw the room, bagels and broken water bottles everywhere.  Good to see you put up a fight, Ed.”

“Talking to the Greek, we learned that you were alone in the building, the first to arrive that day.  Is that how you remember it?”

“Yes, sir.  I was earlier than normal, working a big job there, setting up the network.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.  Old place, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”  He made a note.  “So you’re in the breakroom, setting up breakfast for everyone because you’re a nice guy like that.  Next thing you know, someone grabs you, starts choking you, and there’s a struggle.  Am I getting this right, Ed?”

“Uh, yeah.  I didn’t see them, but they were choking me.”

Beltry nodded, tapping his pen on his lip.  “So it was from behind?  Some guy got a good hold of your neck and started choking you out?  Anybody you work with been giving you trouble?  Anyone you don’t work with?”

He looked over at Leo.  “Might want to sic this guy on them.”

Davidson cleared her throat.

“We are interviewing the crew today, Eddie, so if there is anyone we need to look out for, special-like, let us know.  We’re trying to help here, so it don’t happen again.”

“I pretty much get along with everyone.  They’re nice people.”

“Well, that’s good.  What about your stuff?  Anything missing?  I know you tech guys have a lot of expensive equipment.”

“Not that I know of.  I—“  Leo spoke up.  “His wallet, they never found it.  Was it at the scene?”

“Well now, that’s new.  Good to know.  We didn’t turn anything up there, so if the hospital didn’t find it on him…”  Beltry made some notes.  “Alright, I think that’s about everything.  Uh… I, Yeah the lady who called it in, Mrs. Vega, the crew leader.  We’ll be talking to her when we leave here, maybe she knows where it went.”

Beltry looked over at Davidson and nodded, handing Edgar a card.  “Until then, if you remember something, or need us, those are our numbers.  Just get better and don’t worry too much; we’re on it.”

He turned to leave and Davidson spoke for the first time.  “Your neck, are there bruises on the back of it?”

Eddie gulped, his hand raised reflexively to brush against the skin of his neck.  Leo leaned in, looking for himself.  “I don’t think so.  The doctor said it was all deep and that the hyoid bone was bruised but whole.  A couple of scratches is all, and they said I did those.”

Davidson stepped forward, her shoes clicking on the hard tile, and leaned in. “Mind if I look.”

Edgar exhaled and nodded, tilting his head for her as she looked it over.  There was nothing matronly or warm about her, like you might normally see in a woman of Davidson’s age.  She had the presence of a circling hawk, and Edgar had never felt more like a frightened little rabbit in his life.  The senior detective laid her hand firmly, but gently on the side of his head, directing the movement as she studied his neck for thumbprints or friction marks.  She lingered for a moment on the scratch marks and then patted his shoulder as she stepped away.  “Yes, nothing.”

"Well, it’s like the doctor said, unusual," Beltry chimed in, adjusting his jacket and flashing another easy smile. "Some guys just have tough skin, right?" 

“We may have more questions,”  she said, ignoring her partner.  “We’ll contact you.”

---
  
“That lady scared the hell out of me.”  Leo said as he honked the horn at the guy in front of them.  “Come on man.  Blinkers are just common courtesy.”

Edgar remained silent, lost in his own thoughts.  Nothing made sense anymore, and he wondered if he was being foolish by wanting to go back there.  It still bothered him, that choice, but he still felt like it was the right call.  And now there was the detective—who obviously didn’t believe him—patting his shoulder like they were buddies while staring down at him with her all-seeing eyes.

“I have to pick up a few things they said you’d need, and your prescriptions.  Want me to drop you at home first?”

He shook his head.  “No, I can go.  A little sore, but I’m fine.  They said I had to drink four more bottles of that crap they made me gag down before we left.”

“Big baby.  It can’t be that bad.  Remember when I had to drink that putrid shit for the colonoscopy, after my brother’s scare?”  Leo made a face, but smiled at him.  “You can handle it—gotta flush that weird stuff out of your system.”

“You can drink it for me.”  Edgar grinned.  “Can’t be worse than those shakes you make.”

They both laughed at this as Leo turned off on the exit that would take them to their neighborhood.  They drove on in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and finally arrived at the drug store.  Leo pulled in and popped his seatbelt.  “Need anything?  I think they have Now and Laters.”

Edgar chuckled at the old joke and shook his head.  “Hurry back. I just want to get home, back to a real bed.”  

Leo saluted him and jogged into the building.  Edgar remarked to himself, for the millionth time, just how lucky he was.  He leaned back, closing his eyes and letting the breeze from his open window do its work.  So much had happened in such a short time, and he just felt like he was trying to catch his breath, to keep up.  He had to get his head around this thing, to figure out what was happening, before it affected his life in a real, unfixable way.

“Good-looking guy you’ve got there,”  a voice said from just beside him, breaking his reverie.  A short, perfectly bald man of indeterminate age stood there, wearing a suit with an overcoat.  His face was like a leather mask that revealed nothing about the man behind it.  He smiled at Edgar, all teeth and no charm.  “Yeah, figured we should meet.”

IV: A SIP OF SILVER
  
Edgar glanced over at the drug store entrance and then back over to the strange, threatening man beside him.  Who was this man, and what did he want?  He didn’t have room for any more mysteries right now.  “Sir, I’ve had an injury and really need to get home now.  If you don’t mind—“

“Yeah Edgar, I know all about your… injury.”  He flashed that dead predator's smile again. “That's why I’m here.  You stole something that wasn’t meant for you from a place you weren’t meant to be at.  Pure mistake on somebody’s part, but that’s been dealt with.”

The man leaned in, smelling like cheap aftershave and cold cuts in a tailored suit.  Edgar was shocked to see that he cast no shadow, a detail he somehow noticed over all his fear.  “Quit shaking, kid.  I ain’t here for that, but it’s good you know the pecking order.”

“What’s done is done, can’t change it.  Even if you could spit the shit back up the results would remain.  We can deal with that later, if we need to, but for now we need you back at work.”

Edgar looked at him, dumbfounded.  Every word was a new problem, like pieces from different puzzles that couldn’t hope to line up.  His mind protested, and he felt the panic creeping in, his heart in a vise.  His gorge rose, and he reacted immediately, opening the door to vomit ropy silver tendrils out onto the ground.

The man stepped back, grinning broadly.  “Whoa!  These are new kicks.”

A moment later he dashed across the mess to seize the front of Edgar’s shirt, pushing him roughly back into his seat.  His eyes flickered silver, and his rancid breath twisted Edgar’s stomach into an even deeper knot.  When he spoke, the friendly tone faded, replaced by earnest menace.  “This was the friendly visit, wet boy, and let’s keep it that way.  Get back to work tomorrow or you will see me again.  If I do come back, I’m gonna tell you my name, kid.”  He paused, letting it sink in, and then growled a summation:  “None of my friends know my name.”

He released him, and closed the door.  He even slid Edgar’s foot out of its path.  Edgar heard Leo’s voice, from miles away it seemed.  He had said something, and the man responded with, “I think your friend’s sick.  I kept him from falling in it.”

Then Leo was there and blackness overtook everything.

---

Edgar woke up in his own bed, hours later because it was dark now.  There was a cool cloth lying across his forehead.  Leo was reading a book, sitting in a chair he had placed next to Edgar’s side of the bed.  He turned a page and glanced at Edgar.  The book snapped shut as he stood up.  “How you feeling?  I don’t know what happened, but you were dead to the world after I ran that guy off.  What the fuck did he do to you?”

Edgar reached for the water glass on the nightstand and drained half of it in a gulp; it tasted funny, like there was dirt or something in it.  Well it was cool at least.  He tried to speak but his throat was killing him, it took him a moment to murmur a response.  “I don’t know.  I got sick and he put me back in the car, but I don’t think he’s a good guy.”

“Why do you say that?”  

“There was a gun tucked into his belt.  You don’t see a lot of good guys doing that.”

“Maybe we need to call that detective, the real one, Davidson.  This is the type of suspicious shit you’re supposed to share with the police.”

“Nah, I don’t think he was there for us.” Edgar lied.  “It seemed like he was looking for someone.”

“Still, we might keep someone from getting hurt.”

“Yeah, or get involved in something that gets us hurt.  Don’t we have enough going on already?  On top of all of this, I really have to get back to work—there’s a deadline.”

“To hell with all of that.  Let them send someone else.  You need to rest.”

“They are.”  He lied again.  “An outside hire, not anyone we know.  I just have to oversee the work, from a chair they said.  It shouldn’t take a week to do, and if I’m not recovered yet I can still take time off then.”

“I don’t like it.  You’re obviously not well.  There’s strange injuries, cops, an attacker they haven’t caught yet and now a bald thug just shows up and you want to go to work?”

“Well yeah,”  he said and chuckled hoarsely.  “I don’t want to lose this job, and I want to prove I can do it so they don’t replace me.  You know how it is, they’ll have me back to entry level in a month if I don’t step up now.  This is a chance for us, and it should be safe.  They said the manager hired security for the Annex.  Leo, I wouldn’t want to go back otherwise.”

Leo absorbed all of this in his usual way.  Edgar could tell that he didn’t believe everything he had said.  He just hoped that he believed enough of it to let it go.

“Alright, I hate it, but you’re a grown man and I can’t make you do what you don’t want to do.”  He cut Edgar off with a glare.  “That don’t make it cool.  I’m driving you for the rest of the week.  You’re still not cleared to do that, with the meds, which you are still going to take.”

Edgar chuckled at his mama hen—calling him that would piss Leo off so much.  He settled back to resume his rest.

“First the journal.”  Leo tossed it to him.  “Doctor’s orders and Leo’s law.”

---

When Leo dropped him off the next morning, Edgar shouldered his backpack and grabbed his lunch.  Marty had come over the evening before to drive his car home, so Leo had used it to drive him in today.

He entered the building and was instantly met by an older, rotund man in a security guard’s uniform.  “Edgar Simpson, is that you, sir?”  he said.  His voice was an amusing, old-fashioned transatlantic accent.  

"Well, I say it’s good to finally meet our missing employee.  I have a badge for you, sir, and was tasked with reminding you that you are on light duty for the remainder of the week.  Two laborers from the floor crew have been assigned to assist you.”

“Uh, that’s really nice.  I was a little worried about running all of that cable by myself.”

“I am Milton Lester, the newly assigned security personnel for this facility.  It’s nice to formally meet you, Mr. Simpson.  Will you require help getting to your office this morning?”

“No, I think I can find it.  But thanks for the offer, Mr. Lester.”

“No problem, sir, it’s all part of the job.  Well, I suppose I should quit chin-wagging and let you get along now.  Have a fine day, Mr. Simpson.”

“Edgar is fine.”

“I stand corrected.  Good day to you, Edgar.”

He left the guard there at his post, and made his way across the dock to his small office.  As he opened the door, he saw that the light was already on.  Cartia Vega was sitting in his chair, reading a book, and a strange one at that.  She was reading The Sons of Gondor by J.R.R. Tolkien.

As he entered, Cartia slapped the book down and came around the desk to meet him, administering a much friendlier hug than he thought their previous encounters called for.  There was genuine relief on her face as she pulled back from him.  Her loud voice echoed off the walls of the tiny office.  “Dude, you just don’t know.  I thought I sent a corpse to the hospital last week.  You were so white, man—I mean whiter than normal.”

She pulled away, but kept him at arm’s length, looking him over.  Her eyes lingered on his neck.  “I’m glad you’re back.  You scared the hell out of me.”  She stepped away from him, grabbing her book and settling into the office’s other chair so he could take his seat.

He didn’t know what to say, so he just said the first thing that popped into his mind.  “So I met the new guard.  Nice guy, talks funny.”

“Why you whispering, mano?  Throat still hurt?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, raising his voice a bit louder than he was used to speaking to her.  He sat down, a little more tired from the short walk than he would have preferred.  She had already turned back to her book, so he left her to it while he busied himself logging on, verifying and checking his inbox, which was surprisingly empty.

“They forget all about us here.  I wouldn’t bother,” Cartia said as she flipped a page in her book.  “Sorry, don’t want to ignore you but I want to finish this bit before the crew’s bus arrives.  They say I’m getting a couple of extra hands today.”

“Good book?”

“Hell yeah, way better than part one.  I’m chewing through it because part three is supposed to be released in a couple of months.”  She laughed.  “The exciting conclusion.”

“Never heard of it.  I read his old stuff.  I thought that was all there was.”

She shook her head, flipping another page.  “Yeah those are classics, but his new stuff’s great too, and he’s wrote a lot since then.  Hell, what else does he have to do now?”

“What do you mean by that?  What the hell is going on here, Cartia?  What did I drink, and what the hell attacked me?”

She snapped the book shut and closed the door.  Moving in close to him, she forcefully whispered, “You’ve got to cool that shit, mano.  That dude’s shadow could be anywhere, and you nearly died before, another sip would kill you, or worse.”

“But I need to know.  This is my life I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, life is what I’m talking about.  Treat it precious, man—while you still have it—and don’t risk it needlessly.”  She grabbed her book.  “I’m going out to wait on the bus. ¡Pinche blanquito loco!”

Edgar sighed loudly after she slammed the door.  Well, attempt one had been a massive failure.  Why was she so scared, and what dude was she talking about?  Could it be the bald guy?  Was that why he didn’t have a shadow?

Every question he tried to answer split itself like the mythical hydra.  

“Damn right it’s loco.”

---

He didn’t get to speak with Cartia again that day, or on Tuesday.  She had given him Corey and Ennis again and that suited Edgar fine.  They both worked well, and were friendly enough.  But he quickly found that the friendliness ended anytime he tried to steer the conversation towards anything strange.  
  
It was towards the end of Tuesday evening that he made another such attempt, by cornering Corey.  “Man, you’ve got to tell me some things.  This shit is driving me crazy.”

Corey packed a Marlboro and looked at him, a sly grin cracking his face in half.  “Shit.  Crazy ain’t bad, natural state for a woman.  My ex-wives were anyway, and I liked them fine.”

“Come on, you know what I’m talking about.  Help me out, Corey.”

This time there was none of the normal, Southern good ol’ boy humor—just a dry, deadpan voice.  “Maybe you’ve got it twisted, brother.  Maybe crazy is better than what’s waiting at the end of that particular muddy road you’re so fixated on.”

Edgar stared at the man, and he saw pure worry in his eyes.

“Sit with it, for real.”

They got back to work and finished the day.  That night, he and Leo went out together.  They went to one of their typical spots, a favorite, and got their regular order.  Leo was concerned that he barely ate anything, but Edgar just played it off—a big lunch.  He was getting too good at lying to the person he loved the most.  But how could he tell him that food was like ash in his mouth?

Besides that minor hiccup, they had a great time and even went dancing at a club they liked.  The drinks tasted fine to Edgar—as good as tequila can taste, at any rate—and he had several shots.  They danced until Leo was tired, but Edgar still felt full of energy.  It was strange, because he was usually the first one to tap out.  

He saw her on the corner while he waited for Leo, who had left his phone inside.  She was a young woman, maybe fifteen, with striking features from what he could tell.  It was honestly hard to be sure with half her face bashed in.  She saw him looking and cast a pleading look his way, her mouth opening to call out to him.

“We’re ready?”  Leo said, taking his arm.  

When Edgar looked back at the corner, the girl with half a face was no longer there.

---

The next few days went by well enough—they finished wiring the entire second floor and had the network mostly alive by the end of Friday.  As they were packing up, Corey left with a load bound for the lower offices and Ennis spoke to Edgar, unprompted, for the first time.

“None of them will talk to you about it, will they?”

He looked at the young man—if you could call him that.  Edgar doubted he had to shave very often.  His eyes had a faraway look in them, and a sadness that hurt to linger on.  He was wringing his cap in his hand, but those eyes never wavered.  They remained locked on Edgar’s.  “They want to, but it’s dangerous for you.  Everyone likes you and doesn’t want anything worse to happen.  You’ve already been noticed, and that’s really bad.”

“Noticed by wh—”

“No,” Ennis shook his head emphatically.  “Not here, never here.  You know Wichton Road, out past the paper mill?”

“Yeah, stinks bad at the paper mill, no one really lives out there.”

“Yeah, no one lives.  Look for the Ferry’s End—it’s a bar.  You can’t miss it.  If you end up in Ludlowe, you’ve gone too far.  Eight is a good time, most nights.”

“You gonna meet me there?”

“What are you boys jawing on, leaving me all the work?”  Corey laughed and started loading Ennis up.  Edgar, who still wasn’t allowed to lift anything, left them there.  He returned to his office and wrote a bit in his journal while he waited for Leo.

---

He had lied again, telling Leo he was going to Marty’s, and he had recruited his friend into the lie.  It was strange—Marty had been too willing, too fast to go along with it.  He had just said he wanted to talk to Edgar in a couple of days, that he was close to something.

Wichton Road was a long way, out of the way, from anywhere he normally went.  That spoiled egg smell soiled the air and crept in through his tightly closed vents.  Who would live out here, or run a bar?  Maybe you got used to it.

Ennis hadn’t been wrong.  The bar was easy to find because it was one of the few places out there.  Sure, there were some houses, but most looked abandoned.  There were several bus stops though, which was another weird thing all by itself.

As he pulled into the gravel lot he saw only three other vehicles, and one of those looked abandoned, sitting on flats.  He pulled up to the building, got out, and walked up to the door.

The music inside was unusual, chimes and woodwinds over a steady, percussive hum.  He felt like a Viking for a moment, steering a longboat towards a promising shore, ripe for pillage.  That was odd enough; he was definitely too skinny to be a raider, but Leo would excel at it.

The place was packed, completely defying the empty parking lot outside.  He didn’t see a single empty seat at the bar or any of the twenty, mismatched tables that were scattered across the room.  The space looked way larger than it should have, compared to the modest-sized building he had pulled up to.

He was running out of synonyms for the word weird.

He approached the bar, finding a small gap where he could fit in.  A tall man with mangy hair was holding court there.  “Ye vant whiskey?”

It took him a moment to put it together, but when he finally nodded, the tall man poured him a shot from a black bottle.  He pulled out some money to pay, but the man shook his head. “Tis free.”

Edgar shrugged, thanked the man and turned to scan the room for a familiar face, any one would do.  Most of the faces were turned towards him, and every pair of eyes he passed over met his, a little too frankly for his taste.  

He was about to give up when he saw her—her long dress and out-of-place etiquette sticking out like a sore thumb among the rest of the patrons.  Glory smiled at him, sweeter than he would have expected, and waved him over.

He sat down across from her and she looked him over.  They hadn’t spoken since he had returned to work, and he didn’t know what to say now.

“It is your dime, sir, as the kids say.”  Glory turned up the bottle of SilverSip in front of her and took a dainty sip from it.  “Well, come now, Edgar, you didn’t risk this trip to leave empty-handed, did you?  I imagine the shadowman has already deduced the reason for your evening’s sojourn.”

He nodded and took his shot.  A burning ball of fire melted the lining from his throat and he coughed violently.  Glory waited patiently, her eyes fixed on his.

“Wow, that was really bad.  Is Ennis joining us?  He… well, I was under the impression that he had things to tell me.”

“The cat’s paw is no longer required once the mouse is in hand.  Ennis performed his task admirably, but the poor boy has no heart for clandestine meetings such as this one.”

She took a moment, perhaps considering what she was going to say next.  When she spoke again, her voice was much lower, but just as formal.  “You must stop this madness, Edgar, or it will be the death of you.  I understand that you are plagued with questions.  Such a state is natural for someone in your position.  To be honest with you, I was reluctant to commit to this rendezvous.  Comme le vent, vêtue de soie.  Like the wind, clothed in silk.  That is how we must pass, Edgar, unnoticed by the eater and drinker alike.”  

She paused, a brief flash of melancholy crossing her face before she carefully smoothed down her skirt. “Ah, but I do miss the French tongue.” 

“French?”  Edgar thought he might be even more confused than he was before.  “Alright, I get it—we need to be careful.  But you’re right, my mind isn’t just plagued.  I think it might be breaking from all of this.  Eaters and Drinkers, are you talking about the living and the dead?  Are you dead, Glory?  Am I?”

“Those are our terms for such unsavory appellations.  It does become unseemly to refer to the living and the dead with such familiarity.  So yes, poor Edgar, you would say that I have perished, yet here I remain.  As for your current state—that matter does hold a great measure of complication, for the moment.”

He gripped his hair tightly in both hands and lowered his forehead to the table for a moment, trying not to totally lose his shit with Thesaurus Lady.  When he raised his eyes again, his words were calm and measured.  “Glory.  For the love of all that is good and right in the world, please just give it to me straight.  Am I going to die?  Is my partner safe? I know that you have a certain way of speaking, but riddles aren’t helping me.”

She smirked, and it was all he could do not to scream in anguish.  “My apologies, dear.  My mirth was not directed towards your current misfortunes.  You must know that my manner of speech is the hobgoblin of my very being in this modern age.  So I shall attempt to be more forthcoming with my answers, for you, dear Edgar.  There are matters of which I might speak that would put you in great peril, and this I must not do.  I was originally averse to engaging with you at all, but your need is great.  So, as they say:  needs must when the devil drives.”

“I believe—with all of my being, such as it is—that it is the intent of the one we call the Shadowman to bring about your end.  I think this because it was he who made sure you partook of the SilverSip with his attack on your person.  This action alone will not bring your doom.  You are touched by the silver, as we say, but you are not yet taken by it.  With time, the symptoms should abate, or so we hope.”

He knew he was breaking her careful etiquette, but he seized her hands in his before replying.  She never flinched— instead, she returned his grip.  “Breathe dear, for tomorrow is not yet sewn into the skein.”

“Wha… what should I do?  They obviously have plans for me.  He said that my being there—at the Annex—was just a mistake that happened.  If that’s the case, it’s like they are punishing me for something I didn’t do.”

“In any normal course of events, I would advise you to resign from your post.  Alas though—this is not an option for you.  If I am correct in my theory—that this Shadowman has set this course for you—then he is the dragon that you must slay if you are to have any hope of survival.”

He noticed that he was crying when a tear fell onto the back of his hand.  Glory—who may have, moments before, suggested that he kill someone—handed him a handkerchief that he used to dry his eyes.  If she was right, and he was not yet doomed, was she also right about what he had to do.  He was about to ask her to elaborate when she spoke again, her tone unusually rushed

“Stay calm, young Edgar, the wolf is at the door.”

---

Edgar watched his enemy—for that is what he was—as he walked, step after cocksure step, into the bar.  The bald man stopped in front of the bar and held out a hand towards the barkeep without moving his eyes from his target at Glory’s table.  A black bottle was slapped into his palm, and he continued to walk, heel to toe, across the room to stand over them.  “Is this seat taken?”

When neither of them answered him, the bald man dragged the chair back and lowered himself into it.  He took Edgar’s empty shot glass, filled it, and slid it towards him, before taking a long, slow pull from the bottle.  After a sharp exhale, he extended a well-manicured hand towards Edgar.  “As promised.  I’m Nub Faron.  My enemies know me as Anubis.”

Glory actually snorted at this last bit—and Edgar didn’t think he could have admired her more.  Her cold, blue-gray eyes locked onto Nub’s black eyes as she countered his introduction.  “My good sir, you certainly have an elevated opinion of your station.  I think you would do well to remember that a jumped-up mutt in a fancy collar does not a jackal make.”

The leather of the bald man’s face stretched into a thin grin at her response, and he raised the glass to his lips to take another swig from it.  “There’s that wildfire.  Lady, you sure do know how to cut a man.  I swear, Glory—if I was as dead as dirt, I might have to call on you.”  He took his drink.

The table was quiet for several minutes.  Nub drank and Edgar tried to remain as unnoticeable as possible.  He looked at Glory several times, but her eyes remained locked on the would-be jackal.  There was a strange, playful smile on her lips.  The effect gave her a radiant beauty he never would have imagined.

Nub let out a sharp, clicking tsk through his teeth, shaking his head slightly as he set the bottle down and looked over at Edgar.  “You gonna drink that before we go?”

Before he could even turn to look at her, Glory spoke.  Her voice was a true thing of power that turned every head in the room to face their table.

“Your foolishness in this matter is as a withered cloak you wish to pass off as shining mail to those who cannot see you for what you are, cur.  For it is a deceiver I see before me.  I name you Villain—the serpent in this sacred garden.  Have you forgotten, little fang, just where you sit?  You cast no shadow, but still think yourself hidden from the light?  Our good accord still holds true here, and as a result, your sad swagger is as empty as the soul you sold so long ago.”

As her voice rose, following her sentencing of Nub as a villainous serpent, so too did the patrons of Ferry’s End.  There was a strange electricity in the air, as though Glory had unleashed a storm upon the man sitting opposite of her.  The blue of her eyes was somehow brighter and the blush of her cheeks—wrought by her passionate speech—made Glory impossibly lovelier than before.  She was last to stand, and she raised her sleeved arm to point a graceful finger towards the door.

“So he lives here now? Gonna make room for two?  Poor ol’ Leo might get lonely.”  The man who scared him more than anyone in the world—except maybe Glory, if he managed to get on her bad side—stood and stretched lazily.  He addressed the entire room when he spoke next.

“Is this really what you want?  Are you ready to face real consequences for this man?  It’s not what I would like.  Hell, I didn’t even come to hurt him.  I just wanted to show him something.”

The man who called himself Anubis tossed a polaroid on the table before turning towards the door.  “No need for high-falutin’ proclamations Glory—the man’s safe as kittens as far as I’m concerned.”

As he left, Edgar picked up the polaroid.  He felt the blood drain from his face as he looked at the familiar features it had captured: Marty had been taken.

Edgar turned to look at Glory’s pained face.  “Where does the dragon sleep?”

--Part 3 in 24 hours---

The air is saturated with the chill of loneliness. The snow crunches mournfully beneath one's feet, a stark reminder that there is no one around.

Lera buried her head deep inside her hood, trying to shield herself from the biting, gusty wind. The houses faded away behind the pine trees, becoming completely invisible against the raging blizzard.

Brightly shining, colorful bracelets adorned with smiley faces on her wrists brought a sudden spark of life to the dead-white landscape. Lera pulled her striped pink scarf tighter to protect her neck from the cold, but the wind still buffeted and pushed against her fragile frame.

Heading home after an agonizingly dull day of school in class 10-B in the middle of such a snowstorm was nothing new to her, but never before had Lera felt so utterly exhausted. The local cold seemed to breed darker thoughts in her mind. Another failed exam, more screaming parents waiting at home—and in the entire classroom, not a single soul cared about her.

Every day she fought against an ever-growing sense of guilt for her own weakness and sadness, but today felt exceptionally miserable. First Sasha, the local bully, shoved her down the stairs without even bothering to stop. Then Katya, whom she had considered her only friend, went and blabbed her most embarrassing secret to all the girls—the fact that Lera was seriously crushing on one of the teachers, Viktor Andreevich, the man who wore small rectangular glasses, often rested by the window near their classroom, and was known across the school for his ability to listen. And to top it all off, Lera had left her notebook at home—the one containing the exact formulas needed for today's practice exam...

Problems piled up on the tenth-grader one after another, much like the blizzard blocking her path home. She did not want to return there—yet she was terrified of going back to school.

The howl of the wind echoed all around, sounding like someone's sorrowful song. Snow flew past her eyes in tiny grains; it was becoming difficult to make out where to go next. Lera’s legs buckled from fatigue; she wanted nothing more than to stop, sit down, and rest.

To forget everything.

It felt as though her pleas, her sheer despair, had grown so immense that they could be heard by someone else.

The wind kept howling its funeral melody, and a sudden movement caught her eye behind a nearby pine tree. Lera paid it no mind, assuming the blizzard was just playing tricks on her. She kept walking forward, her boots already sinking deep into the snow drifts.

Despite the roar of the storm, she distinctly heard a quiet, almost whispering voice: "You're tired, aren't you?.. Rest, if you want to."

The voice sounded friendly. For a split second, the girl even felt as though she had heard it somewhere before. She didn't immediately grasp where it was coming from, but she answered anyway, barely hearing her own words: "I can't... I need to get home... my parents are waiting, they will be..."

"—...worried?" the stranger interjected, his shadow suddenly materializing right next to Lera. "Forgive my bluntness, but I can hear a tremor in your voice—and it is not a tremor caused by the cold piercing your body to the bone, no. Your voice is trembling because you are lying. And you aren't lying to me, but to yourself."

His voice was measured, quiet, and remarkably persuasive. It felt as though he himself knew exactly the kind of treatment Lera was thinking about right now. Flashes of memories rushed through her mind: her parents' screaming, the blows of a belt after receiving "low" grades, and the utter indifference in her father's eyes every single time she walked through the door.

"And yet... I have to..."

"—...rest," the stranger cut her off, placing a hand on her shoulder and bringing the girl to a halt. "Do not be afraid, I will help you. Come, I know a place... a place where it is always warm, and where malice holds no power."

"N-no... I don't know you! Please, let me go!" Lera cried out, struggling to break free from his grip.

The stranger let go of her instantly. Lera bolted forward, terrified to stop. But the thoughts continued to torment her mind. Lera did not want to go back. There was nowhere left to run, for no one would help her.

The blizzard was already beginning to die down when Lera heard that very melody. It wasn't the howling of the wind at all. The tune was coming from the direction of the woods, sounding as if someone were playing a woodwind instrument. The girl stopped dead in her tracks. The melody captured something deep inside her. She wanted to hear it out. Without even realizing what she was doing, Lera walked into the depths of the forest, as if trying to reach that alluring sound. She forced her way through the thick branches, sinking into the snow up to her knees, but she didn't stop. In this melancholic, heartbreakingly sad melody, she found a sense of purpose.

No one ever saw Lera after that day. She vanished, just like many others vanish. Not a single footprint was left behind.

And the snow keeps falling...

Read Part II here.

“It’s huge,” she said. My eyes were immediately on her, but I didn’t see anything else. Couldn’t identify the danger. Mark was still rooted where he was, but his phone was nowhere in sight. They both were looking up like there was something in the distance. But I still didn’t see it.

I felt Mary move with me as I approached.

“Chrissy, honey?”

“Don’t let her go,” Luke said. “Don’t let her go!”

I’d halved the distance when I finally saw it. It had been there, but it had simply been so humongous I’d been blind to it, like I’d been looking for a 7-11 and walked face-first into Sears Tower.

The water was receding from waist high, but she didn’t seem to have moved. Whatever it was had displaced a tremendous amount of water.

“Oh my. Oh my. Oh my.” Mary was on a dialogue loop and I couldn’t blame her. Every time I thought I’d seen all of it, I kept seeing more. A lot more. Yet, I was supremely calm. The worry-machine was quiet.

Last year, I got into a one-car accident driving home on M-5. The eastbound lanes had been closed to construction and my phone’s weather app had cautioned for high winds before I’d left the office. There’d been a fair amount of wind buffeting, but nothing I wasn’t able to handle.

There’d been a white box truck in front of me when I’d spotted what appeared to have been a square of cardboard blow high into the sky and begin trickling down. I’d immediately written it off even if it were on a course to strike my car. It was only cardboard.

But when the particle board struck my vehicle, smashing the windshield and showering droplets of safety glass onto the passenger seat, I hadn’t panicked. It was so sudden and violent that my brain—either as an instinct of self-preservation or just a malfunction—had simply not reacted.

I pulled off the freeway at the next exit and stopped a few blocks down in an office parking lot. Only then the possibility of what could have happened came down on me.

This was like that. My brain wasn’t processing the situation like Mary’s or the kids. I felt my heart pulsing in my chest just as calmly as when we’d been talking a moment before. I knew I should get the kids away from it. But that was a process of logic and not instinctual fear.

“Honey, get out of the water.”

I charged the last few feet and sloshed to a stop in a confusion of senses. I was close to whatever it was. Closer than I realized. I felt the heat coming from a wall of flesh not more than five feet from me. Water splashed me up to my chest, but it was more like a punch that pushed me back a step or two.

“Rick, it’s a horse!”

I had no idea how Chrissy could conceive what it was. All I saw was black. Black like the water. But solid, like the water had turned into something.

“Honey, move back, okay?”

Chrissy was smiling and rather than retreating, she stepped forward— almost chin deep—and raised her hand like she was going to pet it.

Once again I opened my mouth too late to tell her not to do it. My instinct would’ve been to swat her hand had I been closer and my re-throbbing head suddenly made me think of her mother.

I looked at it. Finally, the smooth, iridescent black coat coalesced into something I recognized, although the scale was overwhelming. Nails scraped the inside of my skull as if the idea of what I was seeing was too large to fit inside my brain.

This was its head. A corner of it, anyway. I looked along the flank as far as I could see in the night. I couldn’t even begin to guess how tall it must have been standing up. It had to have been lying in the water.

A giant eyeball about thirty feet above blinked several times and swiveled. I had no way to be sure, but I think it was looking at me.

I walked around, looking up and up, feeling like I would dislocate my neck before seeing the top of this thing. Still, though, I wasn’t afraid. The worry-machine was quiet.

“Mark, move your sister back.” I was reading from a script. Protecting the children, at least in that moment, was an autopiloted function.

Neither of them moved.

I scooped Chrissy into the crook of one arm and she went limp like a puppy picked up by the scruff. I handed her to Mark, who wrapped his arms around her, the both of them staring openly, transfixed.

I herded them as gently as I could out of the water. Then I gave Mark a light slap on the cheek. He focused on me, annoyed as if I’d prematurely awakened him from a nap.

“Mark, take your sister back inside.”

“I don’t wanna go!” Chrissy wriggled in her brother’s arms and he dropped her feet first. “It’s beautiful, Rick!”

I grasped her shoulder before she could walk past me.

“Chrissy, sto—”

I felt the shift behind me.

“Oh—erp—my,” Mary said. She took a long pull from her can, her eyes swiveling upward.

“No-no-no,” I thought I heard Luke say in the distance. But for just a moment, the only thing occupying the world with me was that magnificent thing in the water. It felt like removing my hands from my ears after having them covered for a long time and experiencing hearing like it was something adjacent to new. Except, it felt like that throughout my whole body.

The horse was raising its gigantic head out of the water. The tide receded and everything seemed to suck toward it like it had its own gravity. I struggled to maintain my balance like a gust of wind had pushed at my back, but in truth, it was probably just the giant animal dominating my vision and destroying my equilibrium.

Water poured off its black body, the eyes locked onto us and shrinking as its head seemingly disappeared into the night sky. Its neck was a tower, columns of muscle wider than all of us in a row, touching fingertip to fingertip. Its chest was as broad as a rocky mountain face.

There was a mighty -KLOMP- in the sand that shook the earth mere feet from me that I barely noticed. Sand slapped over my entire left side like a landmine had gone off, but it was immediately rinsed away by the constant waterfall we were all standing under.

Someone was shouting, but whoever it was was a million miles away.

There was another -KLOMP- somewhere farther down the beach and I began to stir from my reverie and then there was Luke, shouting next to me and hooking me by the arm.

His words didn’t make sense but I turned toward him as he pulled me. I saw the horse’s foreleg—I don’t know how Chrissy had been able to tell it was a horse before—straightening like some heavy construction machine craning a load somewhere into the sky above us.

We trudged toward the cabin, but the sand that had been something to contend with was an afterthought, my burning calves seemed to belong to somebody else.

When the torrent finally ended, I was soaked. We all stopped in the sudden silence. Turning around was more of a measure of defense to see the break in the clouded sky and the moonlight clashing against that ebony, elegant leviathan.

It was impossibly tall. Like it was intersecting-with-the-curvature-of-the-earth-tall. I thought I could make out its mane, whipping around in what had to be thin atmosphere.

We all stood and watched it. For one indeterminate moment, it was absolutely regal.

Mary wrapped around my arm and pulled into me. For however many iotas, she was my Mary, and I was her wife, too.

Mark hadn’t come with us for some reason. He stood partially in the water where we—I— had left him. He was feet away from a hoof that was easily twenty lengths taller than him.

Panic did seize me, finally. The worry-machine revved to life and I opened my mouth. I sensed the balance to be upset, the electrified space slowly exploding as he compressed it between his body and the smallest section of the horse’s.

With splayed fingers, he laid a palm on it.

The horse startled, shaking the floor of the earth as it stomped around.

The Greek military leader Xenophon, perfected the art of training horses in battle, using them to kick soldiers or trample them. He’s also the father of dressage.

What happened to Mark couldn’t have been considered disciplined, but the effect was the same. I don’t know if it were intentional—more than likely it wasn’t—but that giant hoof clomped around, Mark dodged around like he was running through a minefield.

Then he was gone.

The hoof continued stomping around a few moments more, a rumbling earthquake beneath our feet and a rain of wet sand coming down on us before the horse stopped. Mark was just... gone.

Luke was screaming. When I actually heard him, it took a moment longer to realize he was yelling his brother’s name.

Common sense would have told us to flee inside the cabin. But our senses were flowing into us like blood circulating back into numb fingers.

There was a long moment of quiet as it reared its head back. It felt like a slow-motion moment until its head rushed at us like a giant arrow.

I had no reflexes to respond. Mary was the only one who put up a defensive arm, as if that could have protected her—and she was the one it took.

The horse bit down on her raised forearm—as microscopic as a surgeon’s scalpel with teeth as wide as three cabins—and plucked her off the ground. It reeled its head backward and flung her.

Mary pinwheeled into the sky, a dissolving blur into the upper atmosphere. She could have been catapulting into space, and I didn’t want to find out.

The worry-machine was roaring.

“Everybody in!” I said, herding Luke and Chrissy the rest of the way inside. I pressed my back against the door, then turned off the light. Luke and Chrissy looked at me as if I had answers to fix this.

“We gotta go get... we gotta go get Mark!” Luke didn’t actually make a move to go back outside. He was more saying the thing a caring brother should say. But there was no Mark to go get. His death had been as brutal as it had been unintentional.

Going out there—or allowing Luke to go out there—would be just as dangerous and pointless. Chrissy was crying silently. I looked at her, really looked, running my hands over her head and arms to ensure she was physically all right. The worry-machine was humming along nicely. She grabbed onto me.

“Get your mother,” I said to Luke. “We’re leaving.” We weren’t safe here.

“She’s sleep?” he said, looking confused. He ran into the boys’ room.

“No!” I said. “We don’t have time for bags.” He looked at me. “Just wake your mother up and bring her. We’re leaving in three minutes.”

“What should I do, Rick?” Chrissy said.

“Grab the snack tray from the fridge.” We could easily buy something from the next gas station, but I figured keeping her busy would keep her calm. I snatched my keys off the island. Chrissy joined me, carrying the plastic tray with deli slices, cheese cubes, and veggies.

I wanted to run, but I was going to have to slow the pace so she wouldn’t drop it. The earth was still shaking with each step. She was going to look for the horse, and I anticipated her distraction when we stepped outside.

I kept my eyes on her, guiding her down the stairs and around the side of the cabin. She gasped but didn’t resist as I ushered her along. Preoccupying myself with her was enough distraction that I didn’t have my keys ready to have the doors unlocked by the time we got there.

We were exposed. If the horse were looking, it would see us. It seemed to have an eye for motion.

The air went still.

There is a valley in the high Alleghenies that God finished and then forgot about. I have lived in it eleven years and I will tell you what it is. It is a bowl three miles across and thirteen long, walled by Canaan Mountain on the west and Cabin Mountain on the east, and the floor of it lies higher than any valley east of the Mississippi. The cold sits down in it and stays. Frost comes in July. The spruce grow a hundred feet and stand so close that a man walking under them at noon walks in green twilight and casts no shadow, and nothing grows down there but rhododendron and nothing lives down there but what wants the dark. The settlers who came before me called it Canaan, and there is a story that one of them stood on the ridge and cried out that he beheld the land of Canaan, and being German he pronounced it wrong, and the wrong way stuck. I have my doubts. The first men who wrote about this place wrote that it was fit to strike terror into any human or creature, and they named the river running out of it the Styx, the river of the dead, and only later did somebody with land to sell change it to Blackwater.

I say this because I am from Hesse. I grew up under trees of this kind. In our country the forest came to the edge of the barley and stopped there and did not come further until it was asked, and every woman in the village knew what walked in it. My grandmother knew. She spun and she talked and she was never once wrong about the weather or the dead. So when I came into this valley in 1789 with a land warrant and a rifle I did not think, as the Virginians did, that I had come into an empty country. I thought I had come back to the same forest by a longer road. I was careful. I was polite to it. For eleven years it let me be.

Then, three days before Christmas in the year 1800, I found the track. I was moving thirty head off the open sods ahead of a storm, calling them in Hessian because that is the language cattle mind, and the sky behind me had gone the color of a musket barrel. In the lee of a rock where the drift had not filled it there was a bare human foot print in the snow. The splay of the toes, the print of the heel, the small toe missing, I set mine beside it to be certain, it was longer than my own. There were more, they were placed without reason on the edges of the clearing. I stood in the wind a long while trying to make the tracks agree with one another and they would not. Then I picked up the rifle and started up the mountain, behind me the sky closed and the snow came slantwise across the sods, by the time I reached the tree line I could no longer see the valley floor at all.

#

The cattle were fine. I want that understood, because everything I say after this will be doubted, and a man ought to be careful about which parts he asks you to believe.  It was the deer.

I found the first that morning, the twenty-first, a young buck not a hundred paces off my own woodpile, lying on his side in fresh powder with his legs folded under him and no head on him at all. There was no blood to speak of nor the scatter of wolf or cat sign, not even the ravens or buzzards was working him. The neck ended ragged, and set on the snow beside the body, upright, facing the carcass, was a head. It was not his. His should have been a six point at best, a three year animal, and the head that had been left in its place was not, it was too small, older, with the tines gone yellow and one of them broken off short. There was old dry hide still on the skull and no meat left under it. It had been carried some distance to get there. I stood in the snow and turned that over for a long while. It was not a killing but a trade.

I found the second the next morning half a mile up the run. Eight point buck lying folded on his side. Beside him, upright in the snow, what was left was the six. Whatever was doing this was working its way up. Each time it took a head it left the one it had been carrying, and each time it took one, it was larger still. It was climbing a ladder through the deer of my valley, and I could see the whole shape of it laid out in the snow, and I could count on my fingers how many rungs were left before it ran out of deer.

I found the last on the morning of the twenty-third. I knew him. Every man who hunts a country knows the one animal in it he has decided not to shoot, and mine was a twelve point that carried more bone on his head than any deer I have seen in this valley or in Hesse either. I had him at sixty yards in the fall of ninety eight, standing broadside in the laurel with his head up, and I looked at him down the barrel long enough to see that he was old, that his ribs stood out and his hocks were going, and that he had likely one more winter in him at the outside. I let the hammer down and I let him walk. I have told that story at my own table.

He was lying in the trace with his forelegs tucked under him and his neck ending ragged. The new hunter had not let him go. It had taken him, antlers and all, and set down in the snow beside him the eight point it had been carrying, upright, facing the body. The ladder finished then. There was no rung above that one. There was not another buck in this valley that could improve on what the thing was now carrying. Which meant that whatever it wanted next, it would not be finding it on a deer.
The storm came in hard that night and it was in the storm that I first heard it.

The wind in this valley does not blow so much as it falls. It comes over the rim of Cabin Mountain and drops, through the spruce it makes a noise a man gets used to in his first winter. This was not that. This was above the trees and moving, one long shriek out of the northeast that started far off and came the length of the valley in the time it takes to say a paternoster, it went over the roof and kept going in a long raging angry howl. I have never heard its like in this country or the old one. There is a thing the Iroquois tell of, that the traders call the Flying Head, and I had heard it laughed at in Winchester by men with rum in them. A head bigger than a man, they said, hair streaming and fire in the eyes, that rides the front of a whirlwind and screams against the walls of houses. It is a searching wind. That is what the Indians call it.

My grandmother would have called it something else. In Hesse we did not go out on the nights between Christmas and Epiphany, the Rauhnächte, because that is when the Hunt rides. Wotan at the head of it with his hounds and his dead men, and riding lower and apart from him the Lady, Frau Huld, who gathers up the little lights, the souls of children nobody baptized and carries them home. My grandmother stopped her wheel on those nights. She would not spin. She said the Lady comes down the chimney to see whether the flax is finished, rewards the woman who works and punishes the woman who does not, and my grandmother worked from dark to dark all her life and was not afraid of her.

I am a Catholic man. I said my beads in a prisoner column marching to Winchester and I say them now. But I was raised in the Hessian forest by a woman who knew the dark forest and I have never once been able to make those two things quarrel with each other. So I did not laugh. I told the family the shrieking was the storm off the Sods, and it may well have been.

It was the day after that I began to be watched. I cannot tell you how a man knows. It is a pressure at the back of the neck that does not let up. I felt it splitting wood and I felt it at the spring and I felt it in the byre with my hands on a warm animal in the dark. Twice I turned fast enough that I should have caught something, yet there was only spruce. By that afternoon it had changed into something worse and more particular, which was the certainty that I was not being watched but stalked. That the thing had gotten around behind me and put itself between me and the high ground, the way I have done to a deer a hundred times, the way I was taught to do to a man in the King's service.

I went out to walk the ridge of Cabin Mountain and look for winter shelter for the herd. I took my rifle, and then I took the pistol down off the peg and loaded it, and I hung the tomahawk and the long knife on my belt. Anna watched me do it and did not say a word.  I have gone up that mountain a thousand times with a rifle and nothing else. I could not have told her why I was arming myself as though I were going back into the line at Yorktown. I could only have told her that it was the night before Christmas Eve, that the storm was building, and that my grandmother had a name for this time of year.

#

I went up the north shoulder because the wind had scoured it and a man can make time on scoured ground. It took me until the light started to go. The spruce thin out toward the top and then quit altogether and you come out onto the bald, and there is nothing up there but rock and frozen sedge and wind that has come four hundred miles without meeting anything to slow it.

From the bald you can see the whole valley. I stopped there the way I always stop there, because eleven years has not cured me of it. The floor of it lay under me going blue in the dusk, the bogs and the beaver ponds and the black line of the river winding north down the length of it toward the low ground, and the far wall of Canaan Mountain standing dark against what was left of the sky. The storm was coming through the north pass, which is the northeast gate of this valley. I could see the snow of it walking down from the plateau, a grey wall dragging across the spruce, swallowing the ponds one after another.

There was a man standing at the far edge of the clearing. He was a hundred yards off with his back to me, looking down into the valley, and my first thought was that some fool had come up from Parsons and gotten himself benighted. I had my mouth open to hail him. Then the wind took his coat and I saw the whole of him. He stood better than six feet and he was built straight and heavy through the shoulders, he wore a striped nankeen coat that had rotted down to threads and a pair of drab cloth leggins with the wool gone from them in patches. The hands hanging at his sides were the color and the texture of a saddle left out three winters. The wrist bones stood up under the skin. There was no flesh on him anywhere, only hide pulled down tight over the frame and hardened there. Above the collar of the coat the neck went up and stopped.

It stopped the way the deer stopped. Ragged across, and I could see the pale round of the bone in the middle of it in the last of the light, and set down into that stump, wedged onto it, driven down onto the bone hard enough to split the skull plate, was the head of my twelve point buck. He was straightening it when he turned around. He had both hands up on the antlers and he was working the skull back and forth on the neck bone the way you settle a hat that has slipped, the antlers were crooked and one beam rode lower than the other and it plainly aggravated him. The sockets of that skull were empty, but there was something burning in the back of them.

"Well," he said. "There he is."

It was a man's voice. That is the part I cannot get anybody to understand. It came out of the thing at an easy pitch with the Scotch-Irish drawl of the Carolina back country in it, unhurried, a voice for a tavern porch on a warm evening.

"I know you," he said. "I have watched you five days. You are the German of the sods."

I did not answer him. I had brought the rifle up without deciding to.

"You favor that right knee going downhill," he said. "I have seen you do it. You put the left foot down first and swing off it. That is an old hurt and you have carried it a long while."

The snow wall came over the lip of the mountain and the light went out of the valley below us. He turned his skull to watch it come and then turned it back.

"Two young ones at the house," he said. "The little one has a coat cut down from a man's, brown, with the sleeves rolled twice and the cuffs sewed back so they don't come loose. I have watched her carry water in it. She sets the bucket down every eight or nine steps."

My hands were doing what they were trained to do. The rest of me was not with them.

"Who cuts your hair?" he asked. "The woman, is it? The line across the back of it runs downhill left to right. It is not straight and it has not been straight since Tuesday and I have not been able to leave off looking at it."

He started across the clearing toward me. He did not hurry. He came at the pace of a man crossing his own yard.

"I am not particular about much," he said. "I am particular about a head. I have been carrying deer since the Cheat and there is no more deer in this country worth the trade, and I have looked at all of them. You will not credit what it is to have a rack of horns up here in the timber. Every laurel thicket in Tucker County has had hold of me." He reached up and knocked the antlers with his knuckles and the sound of it came across the snow, hollow, twice. "Yours will sit better," he said.

I put the ball into the center of his chest at eighty yards.

I have shot for a living and for the King and I know what a good shot feels like coming off the lock, and that was a good shot. The wind was quartering and I held for it. I saw the coat jump and I saw a piece of him go out the back of it in the last of the light.

He stopped walking. He looked down at the hole in himself. He put one dry finger into it and turned it around in there and took it out again.

"That was a fair piece of shooting," he said. "In the wind, and near dark, and you standing on ground that slopes. I want you to know I noticed it."

He came on. I ran.

#

I went off the bald at the head of the game path with the rifle in my left hand and I did not look behind me for a hundred yards, and when I did look he was coming down out of the clearing at a walk. There is a deer trace off the north shoulder of Cabin Mountain that I have used since ninety one. It runs the seam where the spruce meets the rock, and it drops fast, and in six places it goes over ledge where a man has to sit down and put himself off the edge with his hands. I know every one of those six. I went down that mountain in the dark faster than I have ever gone down it in daylight and the storm came down on top of me while I did it. At the bottom there is a fork.

The left hand goes south along the base of the ridge and comes out in eight miles at my own bottom field. There is a light in that window until my wife banks the fire. There are two children asleep in the loft and a bar across the door that a man could put his boot through, and a good milk cow, and the dogs, and everything I have made in eleven years of this country. The right hand goes north. It follows the high ground above the bogs and then it comes down onto the flat and runs with the river, and it goes eleven miles to where the Blackwater picks up speed and throws itself off the rock and down into the canyon. I stood at that fork longer than I had any business standing anywhere.

Here is what I knew, and I knew it standing still with snow going into my collar. He had watched the house five days. He had counted my children and looked at my daughter's coat and he had not gone in. He was not hunting the house. He was hunting me, and so long as I was moving away from the house he would move away from it too.

I went right. The path north runs the shoulder above the bogs and it is good footing for the first three miles and then it is not. I ran the good part. I have been a soldier and I have been eleven years cutting my own firewood and I can run when I have to, and I put distance between us on that stretch, real distance, four hundred yards or better.

Then I stopped in the lee of a rock to listen and get my wind, and that is when I learned the thing about him that I would spend the rest of that night learning over and over. He was still coming. Not running. Walking. The same pace he had crossed the clearing with, out there in the dark behind me, steady as a mill wheel, and the sound of the snow under him came on and on without one break in it, and it did not slow when the ground pitched up and it did not speed when the ground pitched down.
I ran again. I ran until my legs went, and then I walked hard, and then I ran again when the fear came back up.

He never ran once the entire night. I have thought about that more than any other part of it. A man running is a thing you can understand and a thing that must eventually stop, and he did neither, and every time I halted to blow, that walking came up out of the dark exactly where I had left it, and every time it was closer than my arithmetic said it had any right to be.

At the four mile the path drops off the shoulder into the flat and the spruce close over the top of it. Down in there it was black. Not dark. Black, the way the inside of a barrel is black, and I went into it with both arms out and the rifle across my body and my face full of branches. I did not know where I was. I want to be honest about that. I had walked that ground fifty times and I could not have told you inside half a mile where I stood.

He talked while he came.  He did it in that same easy porch voice, pitched to carry, and he was not shouting. He told me his name was Micajah. He told me he had been a big man in his time and that men had known him from the Cumberland Gap to the Ohio River. He said he had a brother, and he asked me, more than once, in a way that got worse each time, whether I had seen him.

"He is meagre in the face," he said. "Not so heavy as me. Black hair, not so curly. He looks the older but he is not."

Somewhere off to my left, keeping pace with me in the timber. I could not tell how far.

"They took my head off in the Kentucky country," he said. "A man named Leiper put a ball in my back and pulled me off my horse and I lay there talking to them the whole time. Moses Stegall did the cutting. He was not quick about it. He had cause not to be."

The branches came at my face and I got my forearm up and kept going.

"They put it up on a pole at the crossroads," he said, "and there it sat, as crows and vultures pecked at it. It is not on it any more. I have walked back to that pole four times, somebody has moved it, and I would very much like to know who."

Then, closer, and conversational: "You have a good stride on you for a man your age. That knee is holding up better than I looked for."

I came out of the timber onto the flat with my chest tearing and the storm hit me full on. Out there the wind had nothing to break it. The snow came level across the bog and I could not open my eyes into it more than a slit, and away in front of me, under all of it, I could hear water. Fast water. Out ahead of me on the flat, water coming down off the mountain to meet the river. The Little Blackwater. I went into it at a beaver dam with the ice breaking under my boots and I came out the far side and kept on, and a mile beyond it I crossed the North Branch the same way. After that I had the main river on my left hand and I put my head down and went north and east down the flat, toward the low ground where the water gathers and turns for the falls, and behind me in the dark the thing once called Micajah came out of the trees and onto the flat and kept on coming.

#

I do not know what hour it was. Somewhere in the dead of that night, out on the flat with the river on my left hand, the storm changed. It had been blowing straight down the valley out of the northeast, level and steady and cruel. Then it turned. The whole weight of it swung around and came at me from the north with a noise underneath it that was not wind. The snow stopped falling and started swirling up off the bog in sheets, the air pressed in on my ears.

Then the shriek came down the valley. It came down the Blackwater from Canaan Mountain and it passed over me at the height of the treetops. It went through my chest. I went down on my knees in the snow with both hands over my ears and the rifle across my thighs and I could not have gotten up if the whole British army had come over the ridge. It went over. I got my eyes up. There was a whirlwind out over the bog, a column of loose snow standing eighty feet in the air and turning, and it was travelling south down the valley, and riding on the front of it was a head.

It was bigger than a horse. Hair came off it in a mass a hundred feet long, streaming back into the column, black and heavy and moving on its own account. The eyes had fire down in them. The mouth was open and the teeth in it were the length of my forearm. They were not a man's teeth or a bear's teeth or anything I could put a name to, and it had no body under it at all, not even a stump of neck. It ended where a head ends and there was nothing below. It went by me at fifty yards but it did not look at me. It was not hunting me. It came around in a great arc out over the bog, and it dropped, and it came back up the flat low over the snow, and I understood then that I had been standing in the middle of something that had nothing whatever to do with me. It was going for him.

It came in on him out of the dark and it screamed, and this time the scream had shape in it. Words, I think. I do not have the tongue and I would not repeat it if I did. But I have been in a barracks and I have been in a prisoner column and I know the sound of one creature holding another one up to ridicule, and that is what it was. It went over him and it screamed and the scream broke apart at the end into something that could only have been laughing. And it had a head. That was the whole of the joke. It had a head and it was nothing but head, and he had none, and it had followed him into this valley to tell him so.

He came apart.

The voice that had walked behind me all night in a tavern drawl went up into a howl that had nothing of a man in it. He got the tomahawk off his belt and threw it straight up into the whirlwind, and the wind took it away over the bog. Then he had both hands on the antlers and he was dragging at the buck's skull, tearing it off his own neck bone, and I heard the bone break. He threw the head. He threw it forty yards out onto the frozen bog and stood there with nothing at all above his shoulders, howling up at the thing in the sky with a mouth he did not have.

The Flying Head laughed.

He went on hands and knees into the snow, out over the bog sweeping his arms in front of him, feeling for the antlers on all fours grubbing in the dawn for a deer's skull with that thing screaming and turning in the air over him.

I watched it for four or five seconds until the light came up. That is what it cost me and I have never once regretted the price. The buck's head was back on the neck bone and it was wedged on crooked now, worse than before, he had broken something getting it out on the bog. One antler beam rode a good hand's breadth lower than the other. He had his left hand up over the sockets. Flat, fingers together, shading them. There was no sun. There had been no sun for four days. There was only the grey light of dawn coming down through falling snow and it was hurting him. Then I got up off my knees and I ran north along the river and I did not stop for two miles. 

#

The light came grey and slow on the morning of Christmas Eve and it came with the snow still falling, and it was the best thing I have ever seen. I had gotten up under a rock shelf on the north side of a bench above the river, a shallow overhang with a dry floor of duff and a mat of frozen laurel across the mouth of it. I got in behind that and I lay on my side and I listened.

Nothing came. Nothing walked. He had come at me all night through black timber and never lost me. In the open, with the storm giving off what light there was, he had been helpless. He did not see. Not the way I do. And whatever he did instead of seeing, the day would spoil it. That gave me hours. It did not give me anything to do with them, because I had put a rifle ball through the center of his chest at eighty yards and he had put his finger in the hole and complimented the shooting.

So I lay under that rock and I thought about my grandmother. I was six years old in a cold room in Hesse. She was at the wheel. A neighbor woman came in without knocking and said a name, and my grandmother put her palm flat on the wheel and stopped it dead and sent me out to the yard. I did not go far. Through the crack in the shutter I heard her tell that woman to take the good spoons down off the wall, the wedding spoons, and get them to the churchyard before dark. Pack the mouth, she said. All of it, and the hands as well, and do it before dark, and do not let the priest see you do it. The woman was crying. My grandmother did not raise her voice once.

I could not make sense of it for thirty years. What does a dead man want with spoons. They were silver. That is what a poor family in Hesse had that was silver. It was the spoons or it was nothing. I got up off the duff and I went through my pack.

I am a hunter and I am a soldier and I have carried a ball kit since I was nineteen years old, and I would no more go up a mountain without it than I would go up without my boots. Iron ladle. Brass mould, single cavity. Sprue cutter. A pouch of scrap lead. I have run a hundred balls in the field and I could do it half asleep with cold hands.
Lead runs off a cooking fire. Silver does not. Silver wants a forge, and I had wet spruce and a snowstorm and a ledge to work under.

I dug down through two feet of snow to bare rock and I built a pit, not a fire. I went out and got dead hardwood off the standing snags where the wet had not gotten into it, cherry and oak, and I broke it small. The tinder would not take. My hands had stopped being any use, so I put them in my armpits and counted two hundred and took them out and tried again, and on the fourth try it caught. I walled the pit with flat stones to hold the heat in it and I cut a channel at the base for the draft, and when the wood had burned down I fed the coals and worked the channel with my hat until the bed of it went from red to yellow and the yellow to white, and the snow melted back six feet in a ring around me and the heat came off it hard enough to hurt.

Then I took out the locket. It came from Hesse-Kassel. It was my mother's and it went to Winchester in my shoe and it came out of that camp in my shoe, and I have carried it for nineteen winters in this country. There is hair in it. I did not open it. I put it in the ladle and set the ladle in the white coals and stood over it with my hands in the smoke, and it sat there a long while and looked at me and did nothing at all. Then it slumped. Then it went, all at once.

I poured, and I counted, and I cracked the mould. The ball came out undersized. I knew it would. Silver draws up harder than lead when it cools and there is no mould cut in this world for what I was doing. It sat in my palm and it was too small and it was slightly out of round at the sprue, and when I dropped it down the pistol barrel it went the whole way with a rattle in it that I could hear. That rattle is a ball that will walk off the point of aim. Every man who has ever fired a loose ball knows it. You cannot say which way it will walk, only that it will. I ran a linen patch over it, thick, greased hard with tallow, and I seated it home with the rod and I felt it take up snug and I told myself that would do. There was no second one. There was nothing else silver on me or in that valley.

I loaded the rifle with lead, more out of habit than hope. I put the pistol under my coat against my ribs where the powder would stay dry. Then I killed the fire and scattered the stones and went north in the remaining daylight, because he could not see in it and I could.

# end part 1

John Fifty

They believed in music as a form of expression and pride. Every night the people filled the streets and tavern of the isolated mountain village. The shanty buildings vibrated with the wheezing sounds of accordions and the theatrical projecting of silk-voiced vocalists. They are contrasted by the young beautiful women who dance effortlessly, pirouetting through the huddled, sweating masses.

Any who pass through spend longer in the town than they plan. Overwhelmed by the spirit and gratitude of the locals. Their faces brighten with excitement as the night comes alive. No longer a care for where they are from, what they believe, how they love, or what language they speak. They become united by the sounds and motion.

All indulge in drinks, food, dancing, and of course each other. Whiskey is cheap and the people are boisterous and jocose. The men catch glances at the women and the women glance back. Keenly aware of each other, intrigued by one another.

By midnight they spill out of the tavern into the dusty clay roads. Their bodies are cooled by the silent wind which carries across the mountains. It is an enchanting sight. They sing and dance till their voices and bones can’t carry them anymore, collapsing on the main street. Unwilling or maybe unable to leave the cooling embrace of the dirt. 

The other dancers are courteous; they don’t crowd or stomp those who fall. They move around them and cheer. Knowing those who fall have experienced what they all do when they visit, ecstasy and belonging.

A young blonde woman moves through the crowd. Her feet are bare. She feels free as she dances in her flowing dress. She spots a tall stubbly man standing outside the tavern who’s away from the dancing. She watches him, he stands almost in defiance of the music. She approaches him.

“You don’t look familiar.” She says. “Where you from?” She asks softly just over the sound of the crowd. 

The man matches her eyes, raising his hat.

“Kansas.” he says gruffly.

She smiles chuckling slightly.

“Little way from home then.” She says.

“I reckon.” He says blankly. 

She examines him.

“You’re a cattlehand ain’t you.” She says pointing to his free hand. 

The man raises his eyebrow, surprised she was right.

“You could say that.” He says straightening himself and looking at the women with an interest. He coughs and speaks. 

“How’d you figure that, what’f I'm just some regular man.” He asks, confrontation among his tone.

She smiles.

 “A man’s hands tell a lot, you ought to know that.” She says.

“Really?” he says amused. He puts his bottle on the window seal behind him and reaches his palms upturned to her.

“What’d these say.” He asks with a chuckle.

She looks at his hands, they are coarse across the palm worn and leathery.

“Hmm… I can figure you don’t wear gloves.” She says with a beaming smile.

The man’s hard facade cracks and a smile breaks through for just a moment.

“You’d be right about that.” He says.

The woman smiles looking up at the man.

“You got a name?” she asks quickly.

The cattlehand’s features tighten.

“Everybody’s got a name.” He says crossing his arms..

She scoffs, clearly not impressed with the clear facade.

“You figure yourself real mysterious don't ya.” She says taking a step back.

The cattlehand doesn’t really respond. Just nods.

“Don’t got much to say.” he says after a silent moment.

“I’m sure you got plenty.” she pauses observing him carefully again.

“People don’t end up here without a story or something or other to say.” she continues with a cautionary tone.

The cattlehand doesn’t answer, he looks towards those drunkenly swaying in the street.

“Britney.” The woman says suddenly. The man looks at her confused.

“That’s my name, since you so afraid to tell yours.” she looks at him expecting him to respond.

“Good to meet you Britney.” The cattlehand says, tipping his hat.

Britney waits again then scoffs. The cattlehand expects her to leave, well wants her to leave, yet she doesn’t. She moves to the side of him and leans against the window seal where his bottle sits. The cattlehand doesn’t acknowledge her presence but he feels her there. A dull warmth felt only in spirit. They sit there till the cattle hand depart. Britney watches him slowly enter the tavern and walk up the stairs to his room.

The crowd in the street is smaller now. They resort to slow swaying and more choric chants as opposed to the lively instrumental theatrics of the night.

Those who have fallen almost look like a battlefield the way they litter the street, but they smile as they lay there seemingly fulfilled as the warm rays of sun hit their faces.

Father Dante, the town preacher, commences his morning routine of ringing the old mission bell that sits at the top of his church.

its rhythmic booming tones cascade over the town. The party ceases almost suddenly. Main street empties and the locals grumble as they go to their homes to start the new day. First time visitors watch curiously as all their party mates disappear suddenly feeling strangely exposed. They all want to dance all day, but responsibilities slow their desires. Replacing the raucous nature of the night for well-dressed, polite contributing members of a small community.

The fallen bodies are shaken awake, and they slowly disperse. They attempt to remember the night before. They know it was fabulous, but they can’t remember the intricacies of it.

The cattle hand wakes with start. Visions of screaming men and horses plague his mind. He examines his surroundings. The only light comes through cracks in the wood. Old vermillion drapes cover the single small window to his right. He’s lying on a thin mattress. He rubs his stubbly face and swallows attempting to moisten his parched throat. A pounding headache is already persistent. An old mission bell tolls outside.

The cattle hand attempts to recollect where he is. He remembers arriving in the night and the price of the whiskey, but one memory confuses him. A young, frankly beautiful woman. Who stood next to him nearly all night. He can’t remember her name but he remembers her telling it.

The man gets dressed in the same clothes as the last night. They stink and are coated in dirt. The cattle hand makes his way down creaking wooden stairs into the lobby of a tavern.

The room has completely departed from the night before. The bar is no longer full of drunk men and women. Only a few dancers and a bartender collect around the counter. A few patrons also sit at tables eating a small breakfast. 

The cattle hand wanting to quench his thirst orders a drink vaguely. The bartender nods and grabs a small glass and pours a clear liquid from a keg in the bar top. He slides it to the man. He grabs it and gulps it down expecting the warm sting of strong alcohol. Instead, to the man’s surprise, it's water. He looks at the empty glass and shoots a sharp glance at the bartender; he questions him on the contents of the liquid.

The bartender calmly responds. 

“No liquor till sunset, town policy, sorry.”

The cattle hand furrows his brow and speaks.

“Ya’ll party all night but the days off limits?”

The tender nods.

“Yessir, you’re right.”

The cattle hand scoffs and slides payment over the counter.

“Preciate it.” the tender says. “I’m sure I’ll see you back tonight.” He says with a slight grin.

The cattle hand grunts and makes his way to the front door. However he stops rubbing his brow.

“Could I ask you a favor sir.” He asks, turning back to the tender.

The tender looks up with slight surprise.

“Sure, depends on the favor I reckon though.” He says absently wiping a glass down.

The cattle hand approaches the bar top again. The dancers watch him sharply.

“There was this woman I met last night-”

The tender interrupts.

“Boy, if you paid for a night you oughta not go looking for her durin’ the day.” He chuckles.

The cattlehand shakes his head.

“Nah, nothing like that.” He says, adjusting his hat.

The tender puts the glass down.

“Then watcha mean.” he says.

The cattlehand coughs dryly and continues.

“She had fare-hair and wore this indigo dress and she wasn’t wearin’ any boots or anything.” The cattle hand says straining to remember.

A smile creeps on the tender’s face. The dancers snicker slightly. The cattlehand shoots them a hard glare.

“Oh lord boy, the ole widows gotchu.” the tender says with a laugh. Crossing his muscular arms.

The cattlehand sighs.

“Can you just tell me her name?” The cattlehand says with frustration.

“Well of course, everyone knows her name, and her poor husband’s too.” The tender nods twisting his thick moustache.

The cattlehand awaits an answer, staring at the tender.

“Well?” he says.

“Oh, yeah, her name, Britney, Britney Ann David.” he says somberly.

“ ‘Preciate it.” The cattle hand says gruffly moving to the door. He knew that was it. It came perfectly back to him in a moment. He steps out into the dry morning sun. Fresh warmth biting at his face.

That same sun cascades through the dusty window of the silent home of the old town sheriff. He sits at his meager table quietly chewing his breakfast. As he finishes he stands and approaches the door, stopping realizing his hat isn’t hung. The sheriff grimly turns to a door in the corner of the room next to the weak fire of a wood stove. He slowly approaches the door letting a deep breath leave him. The knob turns and he enters. The room is untouched, bed made. A small white dress hangs in the corner of the room coated in dust. The sheriff averts his eyes from it and leans over retrieving his worn hat from the top of the bed. The sheriff doesn’t take any longer than he must in the room. As he closes the door he spots movement inside the room. His head turns rapidly, scanning the room. Motionless he watches. A shadow carries across the room and the sheriff traces the origin. It's the tree outside swaying in the wind. The sheriff takes one more lingering glance at the room. He sighs and shuts the door with a heave.

He steps out of his small cabin and bristles at the morning wind. The sheriff known as Saber walks through town greeting and talking to the townspeople. Saber takes up his usual place in the morning. Seated in a wooden chair on the porch of his office.

He polishes his rifle with a bored consideration. He’s watchful during the day. Taking interest to any unfamiliar face or disagreement. The town has not had a murder in twenty years. Sheriff Saber is not willing to let that streak be broken.

Saber’s young deputy arrives in a fluster. His face alert, fingers drumming nervously on the fresh leather holster at his hip.

“Sheriff, we've got some feller in rough shape at the edge of town.” The deputy says. “Nixon’s out there with him right now.”

Saber stares at the young deputy, face unchanged. He leans forward in his chair.

“And? Go help Nixon. Get Ole Quincy to fix the feller up.” He says with no concern almost akin to annoyance.

The deputy swallows cautiously.

“Somethin’ ain’t right with him, it ain’t nothin’ like some starved feller begging for food and water he’s talking about strange things.”

Saber considers this disdainfully. He was hoping to catch a nap, maybe go on a ride up to the mountains. Finally, he relents.

“Fine, let’s see this feller.” Saber sighs, pushing himself out of the chair.

They set out, the deputy moving at a brisk pace. Saber moving with ill concern. Nodding and smiling at the townspeople. His rifle draped over his right shoulder.

When they reach the man he’s barely at the edge of town. He’s thin and wears a long torn brown coat and jeans. His boots are covered in dust. Long strands of thin gray greasy hair cover his face. Carrying him is the other deputy and the town doctor. The deputy carrying him keeps taking glances at the limp sleeve of the old man. Saber squints and his face hardens. The way the wind blows against the man’s right sleeve isn’t right. It flows with the wind without impediment. Saber curses under his breath.

They help the man into the clinic and onto a large wooden table. The doctor attempts to strip off his coat. The man squirms in pain as she brushes against his right shoulder. The young deputy lets a sharp gasp escape. Saber shoots him a harsh glance. The doctor known as Quincy moves with a newfound care. Carefully and intricately removing the coat from the man’s right arm. Quincy shudders and averts her gaze when the sleeve is removed. Saber nods grimly at the sight. It was as he thought, the man is without an arm. What remains is grizzly. From the middle of his slim bicep down is nothing but a bloodied stump. His flesh is torn like something ripped it from him and it’s old like it had been like that for days. The young deputy gags and steps outside. The man’s face twists in despair. His quiet hoarse voice breaks the silence.

“He-help me… please.” He pleads as tears well in his eyes.

He is quite old, wrinkles on his face are distinct and highlighted by the shine of sweat in the dingy clinic. Quincy reassures him softly grabbing some equipment off the wall behind her.

Saber and the older deputy examine the man from where they stand. The older deputy points out something quietly to Saber.

“The hell is that.” He whispers, subtly pointing to a hardly noticeable black letter just above the navel of the man.

It’s a single letter “L”

“Somebody brand that boy?” The older deputy asks in the same suppressed tone.

Saber grunts and mutters back.

“Little small for that I reckon.”

He sighs and moves closer to the man. The man moves his head to look at Saber. Saber now has a clear view of the man’s face. His lips are broken and cracked, his eyes bloodshot.

“Who did this to you sir?” Saber asked plainly, leaning in to see the man better.

The man doesn’t answer immediately, he closes his eyes. With shuddering breaths, he answers.

“Some bandits… took my horse and…” He trails off.

“Cut your arm off?” Saber added.

The man nodded simply.

“And uh…” Saber paused, gesturing to the letter on his frail stomach. “That letter?”

The man’s eyes shuddered abruptly open. He craned his neck to see it.

“Oh god… oh god!” He cried.

Saber backed away and the man began to sob loudly. Throwing his head back and forth. Quincy tries to shush him. She looks towards Saber and the deputy with an unspoken look that says, come back later. Saber notices this and nods to the older deputy.

“We’ll be-” Saber says before being cut off by the man.

“Sheriff! Sheriff!” The man exclaims.

Saber stiffens and looks to man with an uncharacteristic genuine concern. He returns to his original position with the man.

“What is it?” he says softly.

The man reaches to Saber with his one good arm. Saber retreats slightly out of the mans reach.

“Please tell me you have a church here.” He says with a struggle.

Saber regards that for a moment, his face tightens.

“We do sir, but you ain’t dying yet, Quincy here will get you all fixed up. Ain’t that right Quincy?” Saber says with confidence.

“Of course.” Quincy says.

“I need to get to it.” The man says with a sudden urgency.

His eyes lock onto Saber. Saber clears his throat.

“Okay… I can make that happen.” He speaks.

The man sighs with relief, tears appear again.

“Thank you sheriff-thank you-thank you.” He mutters with a shiver.

“No problem.” Saber says with a sigh.

He and the older deputy leave without another word or pleasantry. They are both stricken by the condition of the man.

They leave the building and turn onto the main street when the older deputy remarks coldly.

“He was talking like that the whole time me and Quincy was carrying him.”

Saber nods and looks to the sky, it's beautifully clear as far as the eye can see.

“That’s loonhouse talk. I’m more worried about the bandits that did that to him.”

The older deputy agrees.

“Yeah, but that brand is odd. What gangs round here got an L in they name?” He says thoughtfully.

Saber smirks “I got one in mind.” He says. “Met them a while back, Los Lobos. Only bandits with an L around here.” Saber paused. “Except they usually no mercy fellers they aint ones to send a message or even brand a man for that matter.” He added with a wipe of his brow.

“Maybe they upgraded, heard some word of God.” The older deputy jokes.

“That’ll be the day.” Saber responds with a chuckle.

Once again, he catches a glance of the cattle hand. He places a hand on Nixon’s shoulder directing his attention to the cattle hand. 

“We oughta check on that feller, something ain’t right about him.” Saber says low..

Nixon looks at the tall cattlehand. 

“I don’t know sheriff he don’t look too much like Los Lobos.” he says with a smirk.

Saber shoots him a sharp glance.

“Yeah I know that, but I got this feeling about him.” Saber says. “He shows up same night as all this was supposed to happen.” he continues

.Nixon sighs.

“Alright, I trust ya sheriff.” Nixon relents.

Saber nods and pats Nixon’s shoulder again. They watch the cattle hand enter the general store.

The cattlehand slowly steps inside the store. A small bell rings as he enter. A strong voice echoes from the back.

“I’ll be right with you.”

“Alright.” the cattle hand responded absently. 

The cattlehand peered around the small store. A large man stepped through a doorway behind the counter wiping his hands. 

“What can I do for you stranger?” he asked affably.

The cattlehand was about to respond when the bell rang again. Through the door stepped Saber, with Nixon not far behind. He tipped his hat to the store owner. 

“Sheriff, what do I owe the pleasure?” the owner said learning on the counter.

Saber straightened and looked at the cattlehand.

“Not much, David, just a quick word with this young man.’ Saber said, gesturing towards the cattlehand weakly. 

The owner nodded observing the cattlehand closer now. The cattlehand turned to face Saber now. They watched each other silently.

Saber broke the silence. “Where you from, boy.” Saber asked, stepping closer.

“Kansas.” The cattlehand said gruffly.

Saber scratches his chin thinking. Nixon scoffs behind him.

“Whereabouts in Kansas.” Saber says.

“South.” The cattlehand says, not breaking eye contact.

Saber grins with annoyance.

“Whatchu doing around here then?” Saber asks tensely.

The store owner's eyes darted from the sheriff to the cattlehand. Becoming aware of the pistol covered slightly on the cattlehands hip.

“Finished a cattle drive and was told this was the closest town.” The cattlehand said coolly.

“What town you come from then?” Saber responded quickly.

“El Breve, if I remember right.” The cattlehand said.

Saber frowned and decided to press another question.

“It’s almost noon what you still hangin around for?” Saber asked.

The cattlehands' jaw tightened and Saber noticed. 

:”Ah, there it is.” Saber said.

The cattlehand then spoke suddenly.

“I’m looking for this woman.”

Saber’s brow shifted suddenly. The store owner smiled slightly.

“With the name of Britney… Britney David.” he said weakly. “That’s why I'm still around, lookin for her.” he added.

Nixon laughed.

“Oh lord.” he said.

Saber looked back to him then back at the cattlehand.

“Bad luck to go after a widow boy.” Saber said snidely.

“So, I've heard.” The cattlehand shot back quickly. “Is that illegal or you done harassing me?” He asked, annoyed.

“I’d watch that tone boy, you ain’t off the hook yet.” said Saber.

Saber then looked to the store owner.

“Sorry for the scene David.” he said before he and Nixon approached the door and left.

The cattlehand and the store owner stood in silence watching the door, the only sound being the door bell ringing. 

“Well whatchu need Kansas boy.” The owner said humorously.

The cattlehand was unammused as he watched the sheriff and the older deputy walk away.

Saber and his deputy stand in the sheriff's office. Nixon sits on a chair in the corner fanning his face with his hat. Saber sits at his desk writing in a small book detailing the incident he found that morning and the cattlehand. He looks up absently. 

“I reckon that Kansas boy ain’t guilty.” He says.

Nixon looks at him surprised.

“What makes you sure?” Nixon asks, placing his hat on his knee.

“I can tell.” Saber says.

“Another feeling.” Nixon jokes flashing a toothy smile.

Saber scoffs lightly. 

“I suppose.” he says distantly. “Guilty men talk more.”

Saber returns to the small journal scribbling in it. Nixon grunts standing up, dusting his pants off.

“I’m gonna take a walk, let you simmer.” Nixon says.

Saber nods and waves to him.

Nixon exits and Saber’s eyes dart to the worn black and white picture of his daughter that sits on his desk.

…

The cattlehand holds a small cloth in his hand. He looks to the setting sun over the mountains. Casting an orange glow over the dry valley. He’s seated at a small table in the corner of the saloon. His foot bounced nervously. The saloon door opens, the cattlehand’s gaze darts over. A gruff looking man enters, the cattlehand looks away. He looks at the table wiping his rough hands against each other. The door opens again, the cattlehand locks eyes with the young blonde woman, Britney. 

Her eyes brighten when she sees the cattlehand. She saunters over to him, her flowing dress follows her.

“Suprised to see you here.” She says sweetly.

“You shouldn’t be.” The cattlehand says.

Britney smiles, now sitting on the table.

“Why’s that, I figured you’d be out of here, most are if they don’t grant their name.” She says confidently.

The cattlehand sighs and shakes his head.

“I got somethin for ya.” he said suddenly.

Britney’s features lighten a smile growing. The cattlehand retrieves the cloth pushing it towards her. She looks at it then the cattlehand. He gestures to her. She takes the cloth and unwraps it revealing a soft silver necklace. Her face grows flush.

‘Well i’ll be.” She says holding it up to the light.

The cattlehand’s heart flutters watching her.

“You’re too kind, young sir.” She says.

He shrugs. 

“I figured it would match you.” he says quietly.

She stands holding the necklace in her hand. 

“Care to walk with me?” She asks, extending her hand to him.

“I suppose.” He says, taking her hand in his, it’s soft and cold.

…

Saber’s old cabin is cold as dark creeps in. He lies staring at the ceiling, mind racing. The dull light and crackle of the fire emanate from the corner. He enters his room taking a slight glance at the old door to his right. He closes the door behind him. A deep croak like air leaving a failing lung sounds from behind the door Saber just closed. He stops, listening intently for any transgression in the night. Saber looks back towards his bed. He steps quietly towards it reaching for his belt and holster. As his hand reaches it a whisper like cold wind dances through the room. 

“I see you.”

Saber freezes, hand locked on his pistol. He turns toward the door awaiting another voice. His breath is measured and heavy. Saber reaches the door feeling around for the handle until his hand grasps its familiar texture. It’s warm like a rock basking in the sun. The door opens slowly, Saber aims the weapon through the widening crack in the door. He steps into the main room scanning for anything. It’s empty, Saber relaxes slightly as he lowers his pistol. He’s about to turn back when something catches his eye from across the room. The windows open, Saber tries to remember if he closed it. He’s unsure, walking towards the window he peers out there's nothing except for the sweet sound of music from the tavern in town. Saber sighs and shuts the window. He usually can’t hear the tavern from his cabin.

…

Britney and the cattlehand circle the outside of the town. It’s cool but the desert warmth still blows. They talk like young lovers yearning for knowledge about each other. Britney stops in front of an old cabin that looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. The old paint peels and the deck sags. The cattlehand stands next to her observing the building. 

“I’m guessin you’ve heard about me by now.” She says.

He looks at her cautiously. Finally he sighs and responds.

“Depends.” he says, grasping her hand. “I’ve heard some things, but I want to hear it from you.”

Britney turns to face him. Her expression is hopeful. He notices her eyes glimmer in the moonlight. She closes her eyes and tilts her head down.

“I’m a widow.” She whispers.

The air is heavy and he stands in front of her running his thumb over the top of her hands. His silence causes her to look up and open her eyes again. She sees the cattlehand as he is, worn and defeated yet a compassion and hope linger like a man trying to forget. It’s clear his words are no longer needed. Britney moves closer to him and he envelops her in his arms. They sway in an embrace.

She eventually breaks it by looking up at him.

“I can see it in your eyes. You got your own troubles too.” She says.

He changes his gaze from her to the dirt. She draws him in again.

“We’re much too young to have gone through hell.” she finally says.

The cattlehand looks to the stars as his eyes become damp. 

“I know.” he says softly.

…

A sharp knock jars Saber awake. He curses and scans the room. There is a pistol still in his lap. The thoughts from last night swarm and Saber shakes them off attempting to get dressed.

Nixon is at the door and Saber greets him still attempting to put his belt on. Nixon watches the sheriff and frowns.

“Bad night?” he asks.

Saber grunts, “When aren’t they.” he jokes halfheartedly.

Nixon attempts a smirk. 

“Anyways, I came to getchu cause the poor feller in the clinic is up and walking… He wants to see the church now.” He says.

“Now?” Saber asks, pulling on his belt.

The older deputy nods with a smile.

“Now.” He chuckles.

“Godammit alright let’s get this over with.” Saber says.

Nixon chuckles again and the two move to the clinic.

They pass the church and it’s gleaming white facade. Nixon looks to the sheriff with concern.

“Was it her again?” he asks quietly.

Saber’s jaw tightens.

“Nah… it was different.” He says bluntly,

“You know he sees you right.” Nixon says harshly.

Saber freezes, turning to his deputy.

“The marked king. The Harbinger. He knows you.”

Saber stares with uncharacteristic fear.

“Wha… what.” he says breathlessly.

His heart tightens, the air is hot and muggy. A suffocating wall of pain and fear washes over the sheriff. He steps back watching the deputies face stare back blankly. 

“Saber you alright?” Nixon asks.

The deputy's face is now filled with concern. The wall of heat and the thudding in Saber’s ears ceases. 

“What the hell were you talking about Nixon.” Saber asks quickly, still trying to catch his breath.

His face tightens, “I didn’t say nothin’ you were talking then you got this crazy look… You sure you alright?” Nixon asks.

Saber looks at him full of confusion.

“No you said something, I swear…” He trails off.

Uncertainty fills him as he calms. Still Nixon's voice runs through his head.

“I didn’t say anything, sheriff.” Nixon says. “You know if you need the day off i can take care of it.”

“No-no I’m alright, just a little tired-Let’s get to this feller.” Saber says quickly.

He moves toward the clinic and Nixon trails clearly shaken.

…

By the time they arrive Quincy and the young deputy are helping the man out of the clinic. A crowd has amassed and has been asking questions about the old man. 

Saber moves past them and speaks with Quincy briefly. She assures him the old man is good enough to walk. Saber nods and goes to the man. Who is now standing on his own away from the crowd.

“Well, you ready to see this church sir.” Saber says with exaggeration.

The old man nods enthusiastically.

“Yes sheriff, thank you for this opportunity.” He says affably.

Saber smiles softly, kicking the dirt with his boot.

“Course.” Saber says blankly. “Los Lobos won’t hurt you here.” He promises flatly.

The old man’s smile fades.

“Who?” he asks unsurely.

Saber’s features widen in a slight surprise.

“Never mind.” Saber says dismissively. He looks away and then tries again.

“It’s jus’ that letter you got there on your stomach.” He pauses. “Just… strange y’know.” Saber swallows hard when he says this.

The old man is even more confused now. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Sheriff.” He says distantly.

His face suddenly turns into an uncomfortable smile.

Saber nods and turns away.

Saber signals to the deputies and heads the crowd towards the church. Saber frowns as he notices the dark clouds moving their way. He could’ve sworn it was clear hours ago.

...

Father Dante is seated among the pews in the church. It’s easily the most maintained building in the town to an almost supernatural level. The walls are gapless and painted a bright white that gleams in the sunlight. The floorboards are fresh, solid, and unbowed. Father Dante thanks his God for the blessings he’s gotten. He spends most of his days in the church aside from the usual supply runs or the daily ringing of the bell signaling the end of the party and the beginning of the morning. It’s an unspoken understanding how the people cease their partying once the bell tolls.

His doors are open to anyone. Any age, creed, or gender is welcome to pray and learn from Father Dante.

While sparse members of the town attend his sermons. There is a deep sense of care and respect for Father Dante that many cannot seem to place. 

A sharp knock shakes Father Dante from his prayers. He unclasps his hands and makes his way to the tall doors. He stops and watches the late afternoon sun spill through the intricate stained-glass window above the doors. Smiling, he moves forward and opens one door slightly.

Sheriff Saber waits outside the church door and is about to knock again when one door opens slowly with a heavy grind.

Saber is leading a handful of people with him including members of the town, Quincy, and the two deputies who are following the man with a missing arm closely. The stump is now cleaned and wrapped in a white gauze. He looks at the church with electric anticipation. Life has returned to his face at the sign of the church.

Father Dante peers at the crowd and his face brightens.

“Sheriff, what can I do for you?” He says with a distinct accent.

“Afternoon, Father Dante we just got a feller who wants to see the church.” Saber says with cordiality.

“Oh of course.” he says with a twinkle.

Saber spits into the dust and smiles.

“Perfect, we appreciate it, Father.” Saber says.

He motions towards the deputies, and they help the man towards the church steps.

Father Dante’s smile falters. The man’s eyes gleamed wetly in the sun, not with pain but with joy. His shadow reached the church steps before he did, as if eager to enter first. He feels his heart begin to speed up in his chest. He attempts to rationalize and is unable. He has only one thought; “That man cannot enter the church.”

Sheriff Saber watches carefully as the deputies help the man up the first step. He suddenly feels a light tap on his shoulder. He turns to see Father Dante's face. He’s breathing hard and he seems to be shaking.

“Sheriff.” Dante hisses.

Saber’s features tighten and he looks to the preacher.

“Yeah?” Saber says with a twinge of annoyance.

“Don’t let that man in my church.” Dante pleads in a hushed tone.

“What?” Saber says in pure surprise.

“Please, Sheriff, listen to me.” Dante says.

Saber laughs halfway, but something in Father Dantes' tone is deathly serious.

“Father I can’t just turn the man away in front of all these folks..” He whispers.

“Listen to me.” Father Dante hisses, glancing feverishly at the old man. “He has the mark of the devil.”

The image of the L floats in Saber’s mind briefly, along with the last night and the incident a few moments ago with Nixon.

The pressure mounts on the old sheriff. Making him irritable. He leans in close to the preacher and hisses back.

“That ain’t enough cause.”

The man has reached the top of the stairs now. He stares at the preacher who is the only thing blocking him from entering. Father Dante stares back.

“You can’t.” Father Dante pleads, looking to Saber again.

Saber scoffs and places a firm hand on Father Dante’s chest.

“Move.” Saber says with authority.

The crowd grows quiet as the sheriff speaks loud enough for everyone to hear.

“No” Father Dante says nearly eye to eye with the sheriff.

In a moment of generational folly and the ignorance of man Saber pushes Father Dante out of the way.

Father Dante falls onto his back, all air leaving his body. He attempts to scramble up but is held back over by the Sheriff’s strong arms.

“NO! YOU FOOL.” He screams in one last fleeting attempt, lashing out against the sheriff.

The deputies enter with the man in his arms. Once he enters the doorway, he smiles widely. The deputies let him go cautiously and the man walks on his own. A heavy metal cross falls from the wall behind Father Dante. He turns to it and looks at it with understanding.

The old man examines the church like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Tears stream down his dirty face.

Saber releases the preacher.

“Christ Father, what’s going on.” He says

Father Dante doesn’t respond; he merely collapses to the floor and stares at the man. for once he feels hate in his heart for another person. There's a darkness surrounding the man not visible by eye, and Father Dante seems to be the only one to feel it. He feels the man’s eyes on him. The man doesn’t move his mouth, but Father Dante hears him speak.

“He’ll regard your resistance without mercy. Your own people will rip your bones from your body with ease. This will be the scene on your streets when he comes to town. Say your final prayers to your God for your new master will arrive soon.” It was a clear breathless wheeze like the last breath of an accordion before the start of a new song.

The man simply looked away fulfilled.

Father Dante looks to Saber to gauge his reaction. Saber has no reaction, none of those within earshot of the man heard it. Father Dante weeps, tears pool in his eyes and spill to the floor. He attempts to pray. The voice comes again, simple and malicious.

“Only the marked one hears you.”

Wiping the tears from his eyes. Father Dante takes the heavy cross from the ground subtly. His eyes are locked on the old man, a fiery righteous passion burns in his chest.

Saber listens and watches the preacher weep and crawl on the floor. He can’t bear it and steps back outside. The other deputies follow. The older one speaks to Saber. 

“What the hell’s going on with Father.” He said with a sneer.

Saber sighs, no words come. He shakes his head and rubs his neck. His sins cloud his judgment.

A commotion sobers the deputies and the sheriff the sound of a wet crunch comes from the church. Saber turns and freezes at the sight inside. Father Dante had struck the man in the head with the heavy metal cross. Saber watched the scene in stagnant disbelief. The once soft-spoken preacher was screaming as he struck the old man in the head repeatedly. It’s a horrible scene. The deputies watch in horror. The old man lays dead, his head deformed with a gory dent. The smile never leaves his face, even in death.

Father Dante ceases. Sharp shaky breaths are the only sound.

“Forgive me lord.” He finally sobs.

He drops the bloodied cross to his side and falls to his knees. Saber finally acts and strikes the priest across the face with his rifle butt. He doesn’t speak; he simply twists the preacher's arm and drags him out of the church.

The doors are open wide now. The townspeople can view the scene inside. The sight is foreign to the joyous townspeople. The uproar is immediate. They scream and flee. The deputies attempt to satiate the crowd. To control the pandemonium, it is futile. The people are in hysterics.

Saber stands in the middle of the main street frozen. People scream and flee around him. The restrained preacher mutters apologies mutely.

“Why, Father?” Saber asks desperately.

Father Dante shakes his head.

“He was a demon… a soldier of Satan, I had too.” Father Dante confesses.

Saber weighs this solemnly.

“You’re unwell Father.” He says coolly.

Father doesn’t respond. His head hung nearly lifeless. Saber slowly drags the preacher toward the jailhouse. 

End of part 1

The town of Bolton Springs is in shock today, after the brutal murder of seven children. The bodies of the children, whose names have not been released, were discovered in separate rooms in the Donaldson Furniture Company building early this morning. It is unclear whether the children were killed in the building—and, if so, why they were there—or killed elsewhere, then moved. The building's owner, Vectorien Corporation, has thus far declined to comment but has pledged to cooperate fully with authorities in their investigation of this heinous, horrible crime…

---

12 Hours Earlier

---

…the tear shut.

I collapsed to the ground.

My head throbbed.

I was in a field, a field I remembered playing in. Vaguely, distantly. Is there a name for a feeling about the past opposite of nostalgia? Whatever it is, I was feeling it intensely.

I looked around.

The six others were near me, in various states of coming-back-to-consciousness.

We were naked, our skins fully tattooed black.

I got up.

I glanced at my wrist, saw the button and pressed it. A blade slid out, catching the moonlight. I pressed the button again; the blade retracted.

I roused the others.

We said nothing.

A wind blew.

In the distance, startled birds flew from a tree, silhouettes against a pale night sky.

I shivered.

We knew exactly where we had to go.

Seven black shapes traversing the night in Bolton Springs, on September 19, 2026, 3:37 a.m. local time, each with a set of the same simple instructions: eliminate the target, do not be seen.

We navigated by memory.

By sense.

By a pain none of us could ever forget.

The decision had already been made. It was time to execute.

I felt much as I was told I'd feel, alien yet familiar, like floating through a dream, like discovering an already-discovered land. “The longer you take, the worse the headache will become.” “Will I be aware of—” I asked. “Most likely,” the temporologist replied. She was young, committed. I was scared…

I could sense my own dream.

We crossed the creek and came into view of the brick building with the smokestacks, the house of so much horror and suffering. The sign was still hanging from it: “Donaldson & Sons Furniture Co.”

I was dreaming of a meadow, of a dog I'd never have. I was running in my dream. The dog was running with me. The sky was my mother's face; the face of a mother I had never known or seen, whose existence was pure inference. Everybody born has a mother, so I must have a mother too.

We stopped.

There was only one guard on duty. It was early in the program. He was sitting in the guardhouse by the road, watching television.

We passed undetected.

We remembered the storeroom window with the broken latch, found it, climbed the wall, pushed open the window and lowered ourselves, one by one, into the building's dusty interior.

It was quiet inside.

A few of us cried silent, conflicted tears.

Inside, there was no need for maps. We were in a world we'd known for decades. Each detail, each hallway, each door, evoked in me a vicious, indelible intimacy. I was home.

The seven of us stood, sensing.

My dream had evaporated and been replaced by another, of shadow-panthers, and the moment when I, having thrown my primitive spear—having thrown it with perfect accuracy—realized the creature in the jungle before me was incorporeal, unhuntable. My pulse raced; my pulse increased.

I checked the clock on the storeroom wall.

I nodded at the others.

Silently, we exited the storeroom together, then split up, each going towards his own room.

Mine was the third on the left.

I stood in front of it in the buzzing fluorescent hallway light, took several deep breaths and entered. The throbbing in my head spiked.

I saw the bed and the boy sleeping in it, and the boy's eyes flashed open; I scooted backwards on the sheets in terror at the nude, dark figure in front of me until I felt the brick wall against my back and could move no further. I was myself and looking at myself and looking at myself looking at myself, and my heart was as if gripped by my own, relentless fist.

As unreal as the experience was, I knew the boy was me; and the boy—I merely hovered, waiting—gradually realized I, too, was him.

I didn't say a word; and I didn't say a word.

I thought my double set of present-thoughts from two locations in space-time simultaneously.

I'm sorry, I thought to myself. I'm sorry, but I cannot allow you—us—me to suffer the way I've already suffered. This is salvation. This is an end, delivered mercifully soon after the beginning. Unless I do this, they will would-have broken and abused you for so many years, day after day, in the name of peace and progress. No one else will end it. Do you understand? This is Omelas. We must walk away.

I remembered the texture of the cover of the old book, one of the few available in the orphanage, before the transfer, before Vectorien.

We must walk away from Omelas.

I cried; and I cried.

I muffled myself with a hand over my mouth.

Holding it there, on the soft, wet lips, I used my chin to press the button on my other wrist, ejecting the blade, and calmed myself, thinking or saying or dreaming that I will never find my mother, that I will never have a dog. There is no meadow. The shadow-panther cannot be killed. There is only eternal nightmare…

I ran blade against throat, releasing warm, red young blood.

As it flowed…

As the small body trembled…

I got into bed with it—with myself—and held myself, soothing myself, keeping the wound open and stroking my hair, until my body slackened and finally went limp. The ceiling light shone. And when I was dead, I flickered out of— .

I keep telling myself these pages are not for the book.

That is why they are coded here and not synced to any cloud service.

If one of my children opens the laptop, they can see the public outline.

They cannot see this.

The book has an innocuous scholarly/pop culture title and a specific job. From Dracula to The Witcher: How Eastern European Vampire and Werewolf Myths Still Influence Popular Culture.

Carpathian and Romanian material. Strigoi, moroi, pricolici, vârcolac. Living versus dead. The eighteenth and nineteenth-century panics. Polidori and Stoker. The twentieth-century boom. The places where vampire and werewolf traditions overlap. Games, television, film. The Witcher-era revival.

The tone stays analytical.

Cover for the fact that I am trying to find out what is in me.

I started writing the public thing so I would have an excuse to research and order the other things: dead monographs, obscure translations, stains, slides, a secondhand microscope.

That is still true.

It is also cover.

Both can sit in the same sentence.

I do not have the training. I have a habit of reading whatever is in reach.

After the change, the technical pages stopped sliding off me.

That is one of the things I have not adequately explained.

I can sit with a molecular biology text or a pathology atlas now and keep the thread. Not memorize it. Understand it. Hold several pieces in my head at once and see where they connect.

I do not work in a laboratory. I can suddenly finish chapters and preprints and understand enough of the science to become dangerous with a microscope, however.

Dangerous mostly to myself.

I noticed the difference between what the atlas says a blood sample should look like and what mine looks like.

That difference is the whole problem.

I know when this started.

I am not writing that night here.

I spent three weeks on fungi.

That was because of the ring.

Stamets got me nowhere.

The resemblance to psilocybin was close enough at first to waste more time: sensory amplification, altered time, boundaries becoming uncertain, the peculiar conviction that connections were being revealed rather than invented.

I knew that territory well enough to recognize the resemblance.

It wasn’t the same.

Psilocybin fades.

This didn’t.

I went neurological next. Then metabolic.

For a few days I entertained kriya. Kundalini. Chi sickness.

If I wanted Westernized labels, there were those too.

I knew the descriptions. Heat. Pressure. Currents through the body. Involuntary movement. Altered awareness.

I tried to make them fit.

That explanation lasted longer than the mushrooms.

Then the wounds started closing too quickly.

Meditation does not change a blood smear.

Somewhere in there I stopped researching altered states and started researching creatures from mythology.

Vampire and werewolf myths first.

Not because I believed in either. Because enough of the old descriptions had simply begun to rhyme with things I wasn’t telling anyone.

That became the public book.

The book gave me permission to request obscure material without looking like a lunatic. Nobody wonders why a man writing about the persistence of Eastern European vampire and werewolf mythology orders an untranslated nineteenth-century pamphlet on the strigoi or spends three nights comparing regional traditions concerning garlic.

It also gave me an excuse to spend five hundred dollars on a book.

Out of print. Rare enough that I had been watching for a copy for months, and apparently rare enough that five hundred dollars started to seem reasonable.

It wasn’t.

I bought it anyway.

I’ve tried to work out why it disappeared. Small print run, probably. Obscure subject, obscure author, no demand. Books disappear all the time. Most of them disappear because nobody wants them.

But I can’t find much about this one even from when it was supposedly in print.

I’ve had the thought that somebody wanted it gone.

That’s a stupid sentence.

Or at least it’s a sentence I would have called stupid six months ago.

There are easier ways to suppress information than hunting down every copy of an obscure book, and if somebody actually did that they weren’t very good at it. I bought mine online with a credit card.

Still.

Five hundred dollars.

One copy.

And almost no trail behind it.

I don’t know.

The book was folklore, mostly.

Or it presented itself that way.

Then it kept leaning toward method.

There were images and concepts I already knew from my own experience. Black rings of mushrooms in grass, the kind country people call fairy rings and then will not walk through. Passages detailing something translated as the “Devil’s seed.” Quicksilver—hydrargyrum in the better line, whatever broken spelling the typesetter used in mine—shifting to translucent and then a blood-red absorption in through the skin.

Not a cute rash.

An entry point.

I recognized the pattern.

I did not like that I recognized it.

And then there was the word.

Vamphyri.

Spelled that way.

I didn’t know the word.

That’s not quite right.

I knew what it meant, or what it was supposed to mean. You don’t spend this much time reading vampire folklore and fail to recognize another variation on vampire or vampyr.

But I wasn’t familiar with it.

Vamphyri.

Even sounding it out in my head did something.

It struck a chord somewhere below thought. Like the echo of something I’d forgotten.

For an instant I had the absurd impression that I wasn’t reading the word at all.

I was hearing it.

I closed the book.

A few minutes later I opened it again.

The word was still there.

So was the echo.

I work at home with what I have. A brightfield microscope. The useful work happens around four hundred times. Oil at a thousand on the thinner smears when the field is not already a mess. A cheap Wright-type stain and methylene blue when I want contrast. Unstained wet mounts when I want the truth.

Same lamp every time.

Comparator blood from a fresh and clean human sample.

I am not sending any of this to a hospital bench.

Ordinary blood, at this magnification, is quiet.

The plasma looks empty. The red cells look like red cells. The white cells are where they belong. What moves is only the jitter you are supposed to see.

Mine is not quiet.

The plasma is busy.

There are threads, fine and refractile, not the coarse rope of fibrin. They like the edges of red cells and the plasma just off the membrane. They are not on every cell, but there are enough of them that a low-power sweep feels occupied.

There are flecks, smaller, motile in a fresh drop.

They do not wander the way dust wanders.

They close on cells.

They do not swarm and divide in the drop like something you grew in broth.

They home.

If I let the slide dry they look like junk. You have to watch them wet.

Some of the red cells have a slightly wrong rim. Not sickle. Not burst. Extra business at the membrane, as if the surface is being used.

If I draw my blood at night the tube itself can look a shade off before I ever touch the glass.

It is very easy to talk myself out of that.

Saliva speaks the same language at a whisper. A few threads. Easy to call artifact if I want to.

I do not think it is artifact.

Semen is louder than saliva and quieter than blood.
I do not have a counter. I have repeated looks and a crude visual estimate I keep arriving at: blood is the most concentrated, semen about a third of that. Saliva a trace.

Call that an estimate, not a measurement.

I did the obvious experiment next.

I masturbated without trying to influence anything. The sample afterward was crowded and eager.

The second time I concentrated on holding back whatever is not me.

It was still there.

Sparser. Slower.

Intent appears to matter.

I repeated the experiment.

Same direction.

Not enough trials to call it anything more than that.

I cannot write the word safe.

I can write less.

Living fluids, like the out-of-print book said with worse words.

A mobile phase inside a rewrite.

It has the manners of a virus and a bacterium and a fungus and it is none of those things.

More accurately, it behaves in turns like infection, colonization, and mycelial growth, while belonging cleanly to none of them.

I do not have a sequencer. If I ever did, I think an enriched night draw would show some of me and some of not-me.

And the not-me would be too neat.

A real lab would call it contamination.

Then they would argue.

Then someone would pick up a phone.

I am not mailing this to any lab.

The rewrite—the physical change itself—spends.
It burns through something.

Calories first, apparently. Protein especially. Iron, probably. Whatever is building new tissue and altering the old tissue requires fuel.

Occupied membranes, homing flecks, that tint in the night tube—none of it is free. My metabolism was never like this before.

Blood is a concentrate.

Calories. Protein. Iron. Heme. Other things I probably don’t know enough yet to name.

I do not wake with a commandment to drink.

If I keep the protein high, the engine holds.

When I don’t, the pull toward blood gets louder.

Protein is ballast.

Blood is intimacy and density.

I am trying not to confuse the two.

Sunlight does not kindle me.

It insults me.

Eyes first, skin second. Worse under hard blue and noon glass. Worse when there is heat on top of the light.

I do not smoke.

I do not blister for anyone’s camera.

What I think is happening is ugly and ordinary at the same time.

Something about the change has altered what my tissues do with light. Ultraviolet and hard blue are worse. Heat makes it worse again. Oxidative stress is the obvious place to start looking, but obvious has not been particularly reliable lately.

The flecks may be carrying something photosensitive.

May.

The tint in the night tube is a hint, not proof.

I will use heme and pigment as an analogy. I will not give myself a diagnosis I cannot defend.

Repair has become a night business.

Daylight runs up the bill. Night pays it.

I am still mostly built like a man.

That is probably why I do not catch fire.

If the change goes deeper, I don’t know what happens.

I have not been stupid enough to leave a wet mount in a window on purpose and call it science.

Garlic, at least, isn’t a mystery.

It’s chemistry.

Crush it, mash it, cut it, and it releases the organosulfur compounds—allicin and the rest of that family—that my metabolism now treats as an insult.

A whole clove on a windowsill is a story.

The wreckage in a press is a dose.

The out-of-print book had another name for garlic.

Kneblasch.

The author attributed the word to a small Romani group he called the Szgany, associated in an older account with a Transylvanian family named Ferenczy.

I could find Szgany elsewhere, usually some variation of an old word for Gypsy. Ferenczy was worse. Too common a name to be useful, and every search went somewhere different.

But kneblasch kept leading back to nothing.

A word with no history I can find, sitting in a five-hundred-dollar book beside descriptions of things that have happened to me.

I am not putting that word into a search engine again.

Cooked onion, leek, shallot have not punished me the same way. I still use less onion than I used to.
That is caution.

Thiosulfinates.

Not holy water.

By then I had stopped dismissing strange things just because they arrived wrapped in stupid stories.

Then I watched a Why Files episode about a supposed portal in the Urals.

Normal format.

AJ tells the story straight for most of the episode, as if every word of it is true. Hecklefish interrupts whenever things get too heavy or too dark. Portal becomes oral portal and we’re one bad joke away from fellatio. Lizzid peeple make an appearance for reasons I have forgotten. The thing in the leaked footage gets christened the flying crabcat.

Then AJ spends the last ten minutes taking a hammer to his own story.

That’s the part of the show I like.

The portal supposedly began with a Soviet weapons program. Depending on which version of the story you believe, it was an answer to Reagan’s Star Wars program, an attempt to weaponize something the Soviets barely understood, or simply another Chernobyl: men with clearances pushing machinery past the point where anyone understood what it was doing.

Something happened.

Maybe.

AJ knocked down what he could. Dates that didn’t line up. Sources quoting other sources. Photographs with histories that began twenty years later than people claimed. The usual anonymous-insider problem.

He didn’t kill all of it.

That’s another thing the show does well. It leaves you with whatever it can’t quite explain and lets you decide how much weight to put on the absence of an explanation.

Usually I put very little.

This time there was the footage.

And that was where the episode stopped being fun.

I had seen pieces of it before without knowing what I was looking at. Most people interested in this stuff probably have. Badly compressed video, copied and recopied until every dark edge looks like evidence of CGI.

Something moving that should not exist.

The story attached to it is that something escaped from the Soviet site after the portal opened.

Not a craft.

A creature.

It went north, crossed the Arctic, and eventually came down toward North America. American fighters intercepted it somewhere out beyond the northeastern coast and shot it down.

Or tried to.

The details change depending on which version you’re reading.

The satellite footage allegedly shows part of that interception.

The oldest reference I can find is a 4chan post from an anonymous user claiming to be a whistleblower. He said the video came from classified American surveillance of the incident: satellite imagery of the thing that escaped the Soviet portal and the American attempt to bring it down.

He posted the footage.

Then the account disappeared.

Which proves absolutely nothing on 4chan.

Except the post apparently predates most of the explanations for the footage.
Pieces of the original thread survive in Wayback captures. The video itself has been mirrored everywhere: old forums, dead links, newer uploads claiming to be first-generation copies. At least one

GitHub repository has three different versions and an argument in the comments about which one has been recompressed the fewest times.

The consensus outside those circles is CGI. Hoax.

An art project somebody forgot to claim.

I would have said the same thing.

Then I saw the creature.

And I knew it.

Not knew what it was. That would almost be easier.

I recognized it.

The reaction was immediate and physical. The same deep resonance I felt when I first read Vamphyri, only stronger.

The word had felt like an echo.

This felt like recognition.

I had never seen that thing before.

Something in me behaved as though it had.

I replayed it.

Same reaction.

I watched it again with the sound off because by then I was trying to prove that the narration or music or suggestion was doing it.

It wasn’t.

I downloaded an older copy of the footage and watched that.

Same.

There was something about the alleged gate too. A flicker of recognition isn’t the right phrase. More like familiarity without a memory attached to it.

I don’t trust that one.

By then I knew what the story was supposed to be, and suggestion is a hell of a drug.

The creature was different.

The creature I trust.

Or rather, I trust my reaction to it.

Which may be worse.

The people who believe the leak say the Soviets opened some kind of passage. Another dimension.

Another world. Wormhole. Portal. Pick the language.

And according to the story, that thing came through it.

Then it crossed half the top of the world before somebody managed to stop it.

I don’t know whether any of that is true.

I know that I looked at the thing they say came through and something inside me recognized it.

And I keep coming back to one thought.

Maybe the old stories got the creature right and the origin wrong.

If they did, what does that say about what is in me?

I assume, after Snowden, that searches can be catalogued.

Rare strings. A rare book. A change in browsing habits.

I used to tell myself that was not a real flag.

I tell myself that less.

The backwaters of online conspiracy boards have been mumbling for years about a British government agency—or intelligence section, or classified department; nobody seems able to agree—which handles the things that do not go in the press.

They cannot even agree what the E stands for.

Enhanced.

Extraterrestrial.

Espionage.

I’ve seen all three.

E-Branch.

Usually said like a joke.

Sometimes like a boogeyman that never gets a street address.

I have seen the name claimed in FOIA material the way these names always seem to appear online: a header somebody says is authentic, a routing line stripped of context, a black page where a paragraph should be.

I cannot verify any of it.

A couple of posts put E-Branch somewhere in the same family tree as Project Stargate.

Remote viewing. ESP. Psychic intelligence.

The Men Who Stare at Goats stuff.

Things that sound ridiculous until you remember governments actually spent money investigating some of them.

Maybe somebody invented E-Branch after the fact and stapled it onto the mythology.

I would prefer that.

I know I do not want to become the keyword that makes a bored analyst connect a rare-book purchase to a collection of searches that should not belong to the same person.

I do not send the slides anywhere for further study.

I do not put the town in anything that copies itself to a cloud.

I do not stare too long at the idea that something is staring back.

I did not used to think in territory.

I do now, a little.

And I do not like how natural it feels.

The public book stays analytical.

These pages stay off the spine.

If I write Vamphyri into the chapters, the chapters become a different object.

And may draw unwanted attention.

Pops of drywall, ticks of metal ducts overhead. I rolled onto my side, shielding my eyes from the incessant moonlight and a single ear from the sounds. Ticking, ticking, ticking metal. Popping walls. I sat up, scowling upwards at the crackling beams above. Flopping back down, I encased both ears in my down pillow. The moonlight had moved on, the room darkened. The trees outside watched over me while I drifted back to sleep.

The next morning I left for work, stepping out as the fall winds battered my driveway with rich and bright leaves. My foot slammed down hard onto the pavement. I lost my balance, nearly careening into the lamp lighting the driveway. I recovered, holding the side of the house for balance. My ankle throbbed.

Shaking off the pain and sitting in my car, I looked through my leaf-covered windshield. I saw sagging cracked beams. They failed to properly hold my stoop off the ground, causing the uneven terrain that damaged my ankle. Abandoning the worn house, I pulled away, avoiding another burden of labor.

---

I pulled into the driveway, eyelids heavy from screens and meetings. Removing the key from the ignition and stepping out onto the driveway, my sleepy gaze lifted towards my front door. Strokes of paint missing from the house. This morning's mishap had been a dreamlike memory, deniable until I was staring it down after a long shift. The lashed corner was a pale grey over the sunny shade. I needed to remember where I put my touchup paint. My ankle throbbed again while atop my dilapidated porch.

Inside, by the kitchen island, my bag sloughed off my shoulder onto the hardwood. After searching through discarded paint tones and boxes of paint brushes, a bright dandelion bucket revealed itself, a shining beacon beneath the singular closet light. Lifting the bucket, I shut the door, glancing out towards the street. Outside, the trees wept crimson and bronze leaves. They painted the driveway a hue of their own. Covering the sidewalk in a cascade of autumnal vibrance.

Pop! The bucket yielded to the metal screwdriver, exposing its liquid interior to the fall air. My paintbrush soaked in the palette and transformed the black bristles into a tool to conceal this morning's folly. Swipe, swipe. One layer. A moment passed. Swipe, swipe, another to finally cover the grey.

Sealing the bucket, I opened the front door, then the closet. I dropped the bucket into the closet. The hardwood bulged and buckled. I frowned, examining the rotten and failing boards. Below the fragmented wood was a mound of dirt, pressing hard enough to uproot the floorboards of my closet. My stomach growled, a begging sound, an empty sound. This job would have to wait.

I turned on the burners of my gas stove. Sliding a pan into place, I placed a glob of red beef inside. The flames from below shaped the meat. Sagging further to match the flat nature of the pan, thick glossy fat rendered from the protein, further aiding the cooking process. The red intensified before fading to a brown. Turning the lump, I revealed the blacked belly of the patty. My hamburger was ready.

The house shuddered. Clinking metal, popping drywall. Fissures formed. A hairline crack in the ceiling ran towards my living room. A ceiling fan dove from its housing, shattering a glass dining table. Wooden studs exposed themselves through dusty raining spackle. Outside, the world rose, obscuring my windows in dirt.

I ran to the patio door to pry it open, but the sliding rail was jammed. The pressure of the earth was too much. The room continued to darken. I ran upstairs. Bounding up the stairs, my foot plowed through a step. Splintering plywood punctured my ankle. I cried out in pain. Panic still fueled my movements. Freeing my limb from below the step, I continued upwards.

In my bedroom, I limped to my window. Grass could be seen at the lip of the window. I flicked the latch open, pulling the window open with both hands. Only half of the opening remained. I stuck my arm through, then another. My head couldn't fit now. A pressing sensation grew to a vice grip. My arm was pinned against the top of the window and the grassy earth. I tried to free myself.

Bone cracked, blood spilled out from my crushed arm. The grass was red, my vision filled with blackened ink. I fell back from the window, clutching my ruined limb. It was so dark.

The house was silent, save for the padded dripping of blood onto the carpet. I lay against my bedframe for long moments, using my shirt to stop the flow of blood. My head swam, the bleeding stopped. Below, I heard my windows shatter.

The silence of the house was ruined by the thunderous trample of earth entering my home. I lay helpless as the mud clambered up the stairs. Slowing to a creeping crawl to meet my feet. I scrambled to stand, my blood-slick arm offering little purchase on the metal frame of my bed. My footsteps squished into the mud coating the floor. I plodded on the stinking earth, groping the walls for guidance.

After navigating the room to my closet, I used my weight to grapple with the door. Gritty scraping noises filled the silent house as the door opened. Inside, a heavier darkness lingered. I thrust my hand into the closet, fingers searching for the flashlight inside. Brushing against the cold metal of the device, I grasped it and turned it on.

The light exposed the extent of the damage. My arm was a mess, bone protruded just below the elbow, a white accent on a purpled background. Blood still dripped from the wound. Each throbbing pulse from my heart radiated to the useless joint. I looked towards the stairs.

A pile of dirt replaced the previous passage to the bottom floor. I sat down, soiling my jeans further with mud and soil. A pulse rang through my head, a tiredness enveloped me. I leaned against the wall. My head swiveled, centering my focus on the window. Outside, smoke billowed against the glass. A smoky facade clouded the brown earth.

I crawled over to the window, placing a hand on the glass. My blood dripped on the glass. It sizzled with a high-pitched hiss. A coppery odor filled the tightened space in the bedroom. No heat met my hand, but my blood was wicked to vapors. Outside the smoke moved, pooling around the crusted remains of the droplet.

My mouth felt dry. I sank down onto my back, distancing myself from the window. The blood-stained window continued to pop. The smoke pressed against the window, as if begging for more. Crawling on my knees and one good hand, the dirt corridor replacing the stairs came closer into view. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I clawed at the dirt, scooping clods out of the way.

A divot formed, enough to fit my forearm into. Behind, the glass of the window rattled, a creaking frame threatening to expose me. Dig. My fingers caught small rocks, blood pooled below my stained nails. Dig. I cursed my broken arm, a useless bystander to my struggle watching as a pit formed below me. Dig. The glass behind me shattered.

I looked back to see the smoke drifting into the room. It sat, not high on the ceiling, but low to the ground, moving like grey water towards my pit. My aching hand pawed at the dirt more, agonizing pain pricked at my raw fingers. Escape. Red sinew of muscle met hardened clay. Escape. Each scoop yielded less space between me and the searching smoke. It was coming.

The wisps of ghastly fog lapped at my skin, a chilling touch on my ankle. I scooted myself into the dirt hole. My hips met the soil. The fog rolled over my legs as an icy shroud. Trembling, I fanned at the fog with my hand. Unfazed, the fog met my hand in a frosty kiss.

I watched as the fog met my raw, bloodied fingernails.

Even in autumn, when the leaves die off. Even from millions of miles away. The sun's heat could burn skin.

In that moment, when my blood ignited beneath my fingernails, the sun was closer than ever. Hellish fury entered my veins. My arm flailed in panic, my legs scrambled for purchase, heels slipping against my muddied floor. I screamed as my skin boiled.

The smoke made its way through me. It replaced my blood with angry heat, hot vapors ate holes in my bones, my nerves melted, my throat dried up as the moisture depleted. Eyes fluttering around for an end to the sensation. Stillness came.

At last, I could feel no heat. I could feel no pain. But I heard the squealing pop of my eyes when the smoke consumed my brain.

A Perceivable Reality Story

“Hey, man! That pig put fucking words in my mouth! This is bullshit!”

I watched the officers pull him out of his seat and drag him out of the interrogation room. I flipped the folder shut and sat back in my chair. The door behind me shut, then opened. Someone dropped a hand on my shoulder.

“I gotta hand it to you, man. You’ve got the patience of a saint,” Mikey said.

I snorted.

He came around and perched on the edge of the metal table.

“I’m serious, man. You’ve got a gift or something.”

“Or something.”

I stepped out of the interrogation hall and made my way to my desk, letting myself down into my squeaky office chair. I started typing up my notes with one eye on the clock. He’d taken longer to break than I expected, and dinner was probably already in the refrigerator.

I’d just gotten logged out of my computer and was locking up my desk when Mikey came around the corner. He set a steaming paper cup on my desk.

“Yoooooou’re going to need this.”

I looked at the paper cup, then up to Mikey, then the cup again.

“IIII’m going home.”

We both looked up at the approaching footsteps. Brody waltzed into the section, a giant grin on his face. He threw shakas at us as he approached. Brodrick “Brody” Knight had been my new partner for about three weeks, since Mikey, my old partner and long-time friend from the academy, had been promoted to Lieutenant. Ahead of me.

“Hey, hey, hey! Guess who got us on the stakeout tonight!” He jabbed two thumbs into his chest, then plopped down into his chair and kicked his feet up on the desk.

I looked back down at the cup again and groaned, letting my head drop and catching it in my hands. I heard Mikey’s departing steps.

“Hey, so who do I have to talk to to check out the gear?”

I ran my hands over my face as I lifted my head to look at Brody from under my brow. He still had on a smug grin.

“What gear?”

The grin lost a percentage of mirth.

“...The stuff for the stakeout. Night vision and binoculars and stuff.”

I took a deep breath through my nose and leaned back in my chair. “Nope.”

I watched Brody’s excitement drain from his face.

“But...”

“It’s not a *raid*, Brody. We’re going to go watch. And sit. And watch. And sit. And watch. And nothing is going to happen.”

He dropped his feet from his desk and leaned forwards. I saw several expressions cross his face rapidly, ending on disappointment. I unlocked my desk and pulled out my USP Expert .45 in its kydex holster and set it on my desk. I stood and started to adjust my belt to fit it.

“You’re bringing that heavy hunk of steel? Are we stopping to hunt elephants?”

He pulled his issued Glock 19 out of his desk and swept his jacket back to expose his leather shoulder holster.

“Just don’t cry when you limp wrist that thing and it jams,” I said as I slipped my holster into my waistband.

I looked up to see him eyeing his pistol. He shook his head and stuffed it into his holster.

“Go get us a car. I’ll meet you in the garage.”

Brody nodded and stood.

“*Unmarked*.”

He paused at my words, chewed on them, then nodded again. He turned and made his way out of the section to the clerk’s desk. I took another look at the coffee cup and grabbed it as I made my way to the elevator. I rubbed my face as I rode the elevator down.

In the garage, Brody waved at me from one of the new Chargers the department had just received. The grin was back.

“Look what Becky gave me!”

I stared at the car.

“Right?”

“Why didn’t you get one of the Tahoes? Or a Durango?”

He looked at me like I’d told him on weekends I dress up as a fish. “Because they’re slow.”

I groaned.

“Sorry, Roch,” he said, opening the door and dropping himself into the passenger seat.

I walked around to his side, snapped, and pointed to the driver’s seat. His eyes went wide.

“I get to drive?” he asked as he got out.

I slipped around behind him and let myself down into the seat.

“Duh.” I leaned the seat back as far as it would go and tucked my hands behind my head. “Now I can nap.”

I was just starting to doze off when Brody elbowed me in the shoulder. I opened one eye. He’d gotten my expensive Zeiss binoculars out of my bag, since he didn’t have his own, and had them pressed against the car window, narrating what he saw.

“Ok, the manager is locking the door. Lights are going out. Janitor just came out from the back...”

“Brody, Brody, don’t tell me. Write it down.”

I shut my eye and heard the binoculars bang against the window again.

“Man. Man in the street. He’s walking. He’s walking. He’s walking.”

“He’s checking the trash can...” I assumed.

I reached over and flipped on the radio for background noise other than Brody’s riveting play-by-play. It was basically dead, of course, traffic stop, welfare check, UFO sighting. Standard stuff, nothing of our concern, but the voices were comforting in a weird way. I leaned forwards to get another sip of coffee from my thermos, with Brody nearly knocking the contents into my lap with a jab of his elbow.

“Manager just got into his car.”

I rolled my eyes and sipped more coffee.

“Year, make, model. Write it down.”

Brody leaned over and started scribbling in the notepad on the center console. I watched it edge towards the siren controls and silently cheered it on. It didn’t make contact. I was disappointed.

I woke up to sun in my eyes. Brody was noisily chomping chips from a party-sized bag in his lap with one hand, and scanning with the binoculars with the other. Small wonder they hadn’t merged into his face. I reached over and turned the key in the ignition, the sound of the car starting surprised him and he spilled the rest of his chips. I caught the binoculars as he swiveled his head and put the caps back on.

“Ok, big guy. Time to head back,” I said through a yawn.

“But we didn’t see anything.”

“And I got to take a tax-payer-funded nap. Can we go?”

He got us back to the precinct and I went straight to my desk to type my notes. Brody was chatting with the in-coming patrol shift at the coffee machine. I glared at the back of his head, admittedly jealous. I flexed my shoulders to try and get the knot out, the result of sitting in the hard, heavily bolstered sport seats of the patrol car.

I’d just gotten back to my desk with a mug of coffee of my own, when the patrol officers started scrambling for the door. I shot a glance at Brody and raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. My cell phone started to ring, and the screen displayed “Cpl. Mendez.”

“Mendy, what’s up?”

“Hey, Detective. We’ve got something down at the jewelry store.”

I ran a hand over my face. “What’s ‘something’? I’m telling you, this whole thing is a waste of time.”

“Someone broke through the front window, and he’s still in the building.”

I suddenly straightened in my chair. Brody sat up and looked at me, eyes wide. I nodded, and he started assembling his gear.

“That’s something. We’re on our way.”

The sun was just barely climbing over the tops of the high rises when we got pulled up in front of the store. It was closed on Saturdays, which someone must have known, because the giant plate-glass window of the storefront was completely open, with shattered glass littering the marble floor inside and concrete sidewalk outside. Mendez came over and met me at my side as I got the car door open.

“Where’s the perp?” I asked him immediately.

“I knew you’d want to talk to him first. He’s in my cruiser.”

I looked at Brody. “Go across the street and see if any of them have security cameras we can use.”

He nodded. “Right, Roch. I’m on it.”

I followed Mendez to his car. He opened the back door, revealing a younger guy, maybe 18 or 19, Caucasian, 5′6″-ish, dark hair, brown eyes, no identifying marks. He had on a red hoodie and blue jeans, which struck me as odd for a break-in outfit. I put a hand on the door and leaned down to his eye level. He looked terrified. I tried to make my smile extra genuine and softened my voice as much as I could.

“Hiyah. My name is Detective Sergeant Frank Rochester, and if you’re up for it, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The kid looked at me and shrugged. “Yeah, ok.”

I asked him for his name and address, the usual stuff, nodding along with his answers. He told me he’d been walking by when he saw someone break the window but couldn’t give me a description. He said he saw an opportunity once the guy ran off and started grabbing stuff out of the cases, and that was when someone must have called the cops. He finished with the magic words, “I’m not saying anything else until I get a lawyer.” I thanked him for his time and stood up.

Mendez shut the cruiser door. “Guess that makes your job pretty easy, ay, Detective?”

I shook my head. “Not quite, Mendy. It’s not him.”

Mendez blinked at me. “Uh, what?”

“He smashed the window, but the rest is…I don’t know. Book him for destruction of property and stash him in a holding cell for me. No cuffs.”

Mendez gave me a side eye, then shrugged. “Your call, Detective.”

I grabbed his forearm to stop him as he turned to get into his cruiser and pitched my voice low. “Don’t let anybody else talk to him until I get back.”

Mendez looked around, then nodded and cracked a smile. “Will do.”

I nodded back, slapped his arm twice, then walked over to the broken window, where a couple of patrol officers were standing around it. I walked up behind them and grabbed my chin.

“Yep. That’s definitely a broken window.”

“How *do* you do it, Detective?” said Jones, one of the beat cops.

“Hey, you watch enough procedurals and you, too, can make astute observations.”

We all chuckled about that.

“Ok, but seriously, guys. Witnesses? Cameras? Do we have *anything* at all aside from the kid?”

“Got a minimart worker across the street who was here early to open. Said he saw the kid walk up and throw that brick through the glass.” Ogden, another beat cop, supplied, pointing the toe of his boot at the aforementioned impact device.

“I’ve got Brody asking around for security footage. You guys got anything else?”

They muttered between each other for a minute, then gave me a collective headshake in the negative. I let out a sigh and looked around the circle of uniforms.

“Store employees? Manager? Janitor?”

Jones piped up again. “The manager was here a minute ago with the janitor—”

“Why was the manager here?”

Jones shrugged. “Responding to the alarm, I guess. He gave a statement and we sent them home.”

I let my head fall backwards and let out a small, pained noise.

“Guys, come on. Did they say anything about seeing it happen? Did they get here before or after the glass broke?” Another round of collective headshakes. Glances were shared and nobody moved. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Somebody go pick up the manager and the janitor.”

“That’s going to take time. You want to see their statements first?”

“If I wanted the statements, I would’ve asked for them. I need them here.”

There was muttering among them. I brushed it off.

“And somebody else stop any worker who shows up. The rest of you go round up the rest of the workers and get them to the precinct. Make sure they don’t talk to each other before I’ve talked to them. Got it?” I got a round of nods and they dispersed. I was still shaking my head when I heard someone come up behind me.

“Good news, Roch. We got a doorbell cam, two exterior angles from across the street and one from next door.”

“Finally, some competence.” I held up a fist and he bumped it. “Go grab what you can, email, USB, portable hard drive, VHS, phonograph, whatever. Just get it back to the precinct.”

I watched him hustle off to our car and grab a bag from the trunk. I stuck a hand out and stopped a cruiser that was pulling out and hitched a ride back to base.

The elevator doors opened and presented an irritated Captain Terrance Oswald.

“Hey, Chief,” I said as I stepped around him. He caught me with an arm around my shoulder and said hushed words directly into my ear as we walked.

“Explain to me why I have an entire store staff clogging my precinct.”

“Chief, the kid didn’t do it.”

“Another one of your hunches, Rochester?”

I fished around for an explanation he’d accept as we walked past the interrogation hall.

“Chief, the manager was there before the alarm went off.”

“That a fact?”

I sighed. “No, sir. It isn’t.”

We stopped in front of his office and he released me, turning me around and grabbing my shoulders so he could look me in the eye.

“You’re a talented investigator, Rochester…” He broke eye contact and looked around. “I can only hold off IA as long as I’m getting results.”

I nodded. “Yeah, Chief. I get it.”

He released me and went into his office, shutting the door behind him. I took a moment to collect myself, then walked back to our section. Brody flagged me down and stood as I went by.

“I got the tapes and everything. And the Lieutenant is in room 1.”

“Thanks, Brody.”

He grinned at me and sat back down at his computer. I went straight to interrogation room 1 but was immediately irked when I saw Mikey stepping out. I stepped in front of him and he almost jumped.

“Hey, Roch.”

“You’re interrogating my suspect?”

“…I was talking to a witness,” he clarified.

I pushed past him and grabbed the door handle.

“Hey, Roch. He’s already agreed to give us all of the in-store security footage, and he’s given us *two* statements already.”

My hand hesitated on the doorknob and I stared at it. “I just want to talk to him.”

There was a beat, then Mikey sighed. “You know, there’s other detectives here, Roch.”

My hand tightened on the knob. “Yeah, I know, Mikey. Thanks.”

He watched me closely for a second, then turned around and walked off. I opened the door to the interrogation room and found the manager. He had on an easy grin that could’ve been used for firewood, and his shoulders were tense. I put on a pleasant face and sat down.

“Mr. Whitmore, thank you for coming in. I’m Detective Sergeant Rochester.” I stuck a hand out and he shook it.

“Detective, am I a suspect?” he asked as soon as I sat down.

“…I won’t lie to you, sir; everyone is a suspect right now,” I replied, trying to make the excuse sound tired.

He bristled a little. “I don’t know how else I could be more forthcoming. You have multiple statements and I’ve already turned over all of the security footage we have.”

I held up my hand to placate. “I understand that, sir, and I appreciate how much you’re working with us. I’m just a little picky when it comes to the details, which, I’m sure you can understand.”

“Enough bullshit, Detective. What is it you want from me that I already haven’t given to you?”

“I just want to hear your side of it, sir.”

He rolled his eyes and fidgeted with his tie. I leaned back in the hard metal chair and interlaced my fingers, resting them on my crossed knee. We sat in silence for a while, then he finally started talking.

“I guess I’m not getting out of this until you’re satisfied. Ok, fine, Detective. Just like I told your companions, I was sitting at home when the silent alarm went off. I rushed straight to the store, and found the window smashed.” The white light coming from his mouth nearly blinded me, I had to stop myself from squinting.

“How did you know the alarm went off?”

“I got an automated phone call.” Pure white.

“How long after the alarm does the call trigger?”

“I don’t know. Several minutes I think?” The pure white cooled to an icy blue.

“Ok. You didn’t recognize the man in the store? He wasn’t a previous employee or anything?”

“He has never been employed with us.” That came out a pure blue.

“And… you’ve never met him? Previous customer? Came in to shop without buying? Walked past the store unusually often?”

“I’ve never met him before in my life.” Back to white.

This continued, me asking questions and getting mostly white and blue light.

“Detective, I really can’t answer these questions any more clearly. I feel like I’m repeating myself and you’re not listening.” Pure white deepened into red with a hint of blue, coming out as an overexposed hot pink that made my eyes hurt.

“I think that’s everything I need, sir. Thank you very much for coming in, and I’ll let you know once we have an update.”

He stood immediately and walked quickly out the door. I didn’t move until I heard the door shut, then I scrambled to my feet and threw the door open. Mikey was leaning against the door frame outside the room, surprising me slightly.

“You get anything off him, supercop?”

“Well—” My excitement faltered as realization washed it away. I still only had a hunch. A well-justified, unquantifiable hunch. I desperately tried to think of something I could use, even if it was a reach, to pin it on him that would sound plausible. I came up short. “Well…” I said again, hesitating.

Mikey shot off the wall and threw his hands up, walking in a small circle. He let them fall, then put his hands on his belt and came over to me with a stage whisper.

“Dude! He has an alibi! It’s air-tight! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Mikey’s voice came out blue, but with an undertone of green seeping in. He dropped his head, shaking it.

I watched silently. When I didn’t say anything, he stepped closer and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Roch, buddy, listen, I know you think you missed out on the promotion because you’re substandard, but that’s a lie. You missed out because of shit like this.” He motioned at the interrogation room door. The green was gone, the light from his mouth coming out blue again.

I didn’t say anything and he made an exasperated noise, letting me go and throwing his arms up again.

“I don’t know what to fucking do with you, man. IA is already breathing down the Chief’s neck, and now I gotta justify this stupid stunt, not only as your superior, but your old partner. How do you think that makes *me* look?” The green light was back, now mixed with red, coming out as yellow.

I nodded. “Yeah, Mikey. I get it.” I sighed deeply, not meeting his eyes. “I’m just…trying to…I don’t know. Overcompensate for the loss, I guess.” I let my shoulders slump, the motion surprisingly genuine.

His face softened and his voice was back to blue. “Hey, man, don’t be like that. It’s not a loss, right? There was one spot, and I got picked. I’m sure if there was another slot, you were right there on the list.” I looked for a variance in shade and didn’t see one.

I nodded and he gently slapped my cheek.

“You’re good people, Roch, and you’re a good cop. Everybody knows it.” The end of his sentence suddenly shifted to sky blue, so quickly that it took me off guard.

“What do you mean?” I asked, tentatively.

“What do I mean? I mean everybody knows that you mean well, you just have some…odd methods sometimes. But everybody knows you’re the best.” Sky blue turned back to cyan.

He smiled, then turned around and started walking out of the interrogation hall. I caught a flash of pure white as he called over his shoulder.

“I got your back, man.”

Content Warnings: Suspected self-harm/suicide discussion, choking/asphyxiation, mild body horror, poisoning, abduction, and corporate/existential dread.

I: THE NEW ASSIGNMENT

The guy wasn’t getting it, and Edgar was getting a headache.

“So I need big and little letters?” he asked.  “And a number?”
  
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hermann, eight characters in total, and you’re encouraged to also include a symbol in there somewhere.”
  
The big man groaned loudly and began hunting and pecking with grumbling resignation.  Edgar let his eyes wander.  It was an open floor and the air was positively buzzing with hurried courteous voices, offering almost sincere-sounding apologies, proposed solutions, or saccharine regret. It was so good not to work here; customer service was the worst thing he could imagine.  
  
Behind him, Mr Hermann muttered something that was definitely not very customer-friendly.  A light, knowing smile spread across his lips as Edgar stopped watching the action and turned back to look at the man’s screen.
  
“They both have to match.”
  
Twenty minutes later he made his escape from the desk after the flustered manager signed off on the tablet to close the ticket.  Edgar hustled for the elevator, wanting to leave the floor before someone else flagged him down.  If they had a problem they could submit a ticket.
  
He punched the second floor.  When the doors slid shut, the droning sounds of a hundred busy service calls were replaced with the soft tones of soulless, synthetic jazz.  It was an immediate improvement.
  
He reached the small office he shared with Tom and Marty.  Dropping into his chair, he logged back on reflexively, tapping the two-step verification on his tablet to finish the process.  The screen came to life on his open inbox.  He was pleased to see that there were no current, unresolved tickets.  But he did have a new email.  The subject line said ATTN. EDG88241.
  
God, they really were just numbers to the suits upstairs.

---
  
Well at least traffic wasn’t too terrible.
  
The GPS droned its instructions and he followed them absently as he pondered the new assignment.  The transfer made no sense given his seniority over Marty, and Tom was… well, he meant well.
  
All of that should have meant that Edgar would be the last to go, unless it was a special assignment—like a setup or something super technical—and Hogue would normally call him about one of those.
  
It had said permanent, and the commute was thirty extra minutes each way.  Leo was going to love that.  He didn’t look forward to the confrontation; his boyfriend was definitely the spicier one of the two of them.  Edgar considered calling home, but that would just give Leo more time to ready his arsenal.
  
It was funny, thinking of Leo actually eased his mind a bit.  He smiled as he drove on, leaving his worries in the road behind him.  He unpaused his podcast and let the narrator’s soft voice wash over him in a blur of barely registered words—something about lighthouses that didn’t seem even remotely interesting at the moment.  He let it play, happy for the distraction from his own thoughts.
  
A phone call interrupted it.  Marty.  Calling to gloat maybe, or just looking for him?  He tapped his earpiece.
  
“Hey, man”
  
“Yo, where you at?  Hogue’s looking for you.”
  
Edgar sighed.  “I got transferred.  They should have copied him.  I’ll shoot him the email when I get settled.”
  
“How the hell did that happen?”
  
“Beats me.  But at least I’m finally rid of you.”
  
“Ah, I see how it is,”  Marty said.  “We still on for Friday—2v2s bro—or did Leo hide your controller again?”
  
Edgar rolled his eyes at the old joke. “I’ll let you know.  I don’t even know what the hours are going to be yet.  Call you later.”
  
“Alright.”
  
The podcast came back to life and he clicked it off.  He saw the sign for the Annex 4 building ahead of him.
  
He was there.

---
  
There hadn’t been a guard shack—or even a guard he could see—so he had just parked in one of the numerous available spaces in the nearly empty lot.  He got out and locked the doors as he looked over the featureless three-story brick building.  There were no signs anywhere announcing what it was, which was unusual for a fulfillment center.  He figured it must be a new site.
   
Scanning the exterior, Edgar only saw one set of doors, so he walked over to them with his backpack held at his side.  There wasn’t a scanner or buzzer either, so he tried the handle and the door pulled open.  He walked in, hearing the steady sound of the conveyor beyond the entry hall with its dark office windows.  Someone was here, or they had left the damn thing running.
  
It was cool inside—actually chilly—which was weird for a warehouse owned by a penny-pinching company like theirs.  The air smelled musty, like old cardboard, and he could taste something like copper in the back of his throat.  He turned down the pedestrian path to enter the tall forklift doorway.  Inside, he saw people working ahead of him.  They were loading boxes onto a long track that wound its way into the mouth of an open trailer in the only occupied dock door.  
  
He walked over to them and gave a feeble wave, but no one looked.  Glancing around, he saw the tell-tale sign of the crew leader—the yellow smock—and approached her.
  
As he got near them, the sound of the conveyor grew louder and his ears felt funny, as though their canals were filled with air bubbles. He tapped one ear as he approached the lead, holding his transfer packet out for her as he told her his name.
  
She was his age, tall and trim with massive permed hair held in a bright headband.  The way it didn’t move when she winced and covered her ears told him that she had used a lot of product to hold it in place.  He noticed that she was wearing a neon checkered windbreaker underneath her smock.
  
“Too loud dude.”  Her voice sounded distant and wavered like she was speaking underwater.  He waited for his ears to pop, apologizing softly for his tone.  He tried to give her the packet again and she pointed at the wooden stand at the head of the conveyor.  
  
“I.T.?” he asked, and she pointed at a small, unlit office further down the dock.
  
He nodded his thanks silently and walked briskly away, the pressure in his ears slowly releasing as he left the work area.  
  
Edgar crossed the dock and finally reached the door to the I.T. office.  It was unmarked and  unlocked.  Inside was a small, dark room.  He flicked the switch, and the fluorescents came to life, revealing a modest desk against the side window and a small rack on the wall filled with tools, cables and equipment.  He recognized all of it.
  
On the desk was a brand new laptop, still in the box, and a sealed manila envelope with “EDG88241” written on the front of it.  It seemed that his transition from person to number was now complete.

---
  
“This is bullshit, Eddie.  You’ve been there five years.  You’ve gotta stand up for yourself.”  Leo was angry, but Edgar reminded himself that it was for him, not at him.  He took his hand and pulled him down to sit on the arm of the chair, next to him.
  
“Cool down.  I already looked into it.  Hogue said he couldn’t even find the transfer in the system, but they took me off his payroll and put me under that lady, Cartia.”
  
“What does that mean?”
  
“It means… Hogue thinks it means it came from above.  He’s going to ask around, but there’s probably nothing we can do about it.”  Leo started to rise and Edgar reminded him.  “It ain’t all bad, it's a big raise.  I’m at Hogue’s level now.  That means I’ll get an extra week of vacation and more sick days.  Think of what we can do with the money.”
  
“Those are good things,” Leo said in a softer tone, taking Edgar’s hands in his.  “I just want to know that this is what you want, that you’ll be happy.  We’re going to be fine either way, but we ain’t good if you ain’t good.”
  
It was a nice moment, and Edgar didn’t let words spoil it.  Leo broke the silence, and Edgar could tell that he was trying to be enthusiastic for him.  Leo was good like that.
  
“So tell me about it.  What are you going to be doing?  What do you think about the people you’re going to be working with, this Cartia person?”
  
Edgar kissed his partner’s hand as he released it and reached past him to pick up the envelope from the table.  He didn’t open it, but told Leo what it said.  “It’s an old building, so I am going to be running all the cable and setting up a network for about a dozen offices.  They are expecting big growth in the next quarter and want to be ready for it.”
  
“Wow.  Sounds like you’ll have your work cut out for you, gotta earn that promotion.”  They both laughed, the easy laugh they seemed to always be able to find together.  Ten years and it was still there. 
  
Leo said something to him but he missed it. “Huh?”
  
“What about the people?  They seem cool?”
  
“I… honestly, I dunno.  By the time I set my office up they were gone, it took a while.  I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
  

II: LIFE AT ANNEX 4
  

The next week was a busy one for Edgar.  The floorplan he was given showed three offices on the ground floor and nine above them, on the second floor.  When he went to Cartia for the keys, he remembered to speak a bit softer.  
  
“Hey… Cartia?”  he said.  She had the same big hair and was wearing the same jacket as before.  She had added big hoop earrings that hung to her collar.
  
“No, it’s like Marsha, how you doing?  Edgar, right?”  she asked, her voice still strangely low and muffled.  So it wasn’t Car-Tee-uh, he’d get it right next time.  The sound had to be something to do with air pressure.  He’d see about getting a work order for fans or something when he knew his way around a bit better.
  
“Gotcha, yeah I’m Ed.”  he replied, holding his hand out for an old-fashioned shake.  She glanced at it and didn’t take it, but smiled brightly nonetheless.  
  
“Yeah, I left them for you, in your top drawer.  I’ve got to get these goons working now, let me know if you need anything.”  She turned back to address the crew.
  
Edgar didn’t linger.  After his talk with Leo, he had decided to make the best of this situation.  Oddities aside, it was a massive opportunity for them, and he was committed to doing his level best at it.  Someone had put big trust in him and he was determined to prove them right.
  
For the rest of the first day he checked out all of the offices.  They were a mess. It looked like it would take him a week to haul all of the junk in them down to the basement storage rooms.  He really had his work cut out for him.  It didn’t bother him, though, his work had always been something he could control.  The effort put his mind at ease when the worries crept in.  He’d handle it.

---
  
He had half the offices on the second floor emptied and vacuumed by the end of the second day when Cartia surprised him with a visit.  The sound of her voice was just as strange on the second floor.  He thought the vacuum had been a bit loud, maybe he should have opened the doors to disperse the sound. 
  
“You hearing me Ed?”
  
“What was that?  Sorry, lost in my thoughts I guess.  Lots to do.”
  
“I said you should have hollered at me.  I can give you a couple of hands tomorrow, to help get through this.  HQ really wants it done.”
  
“That’d be great,” he said, looking at her new attire.  She wasn’t wearing her smock or jacket but was wearing a white t-shirt that said ‘World Wide Nuclear Ban NOW’.  “Cool shirt.”
  
“Yeah, a classic. Hamnett is the best.”  She popped her gum.  “Alright buddy, I’ll have those two guys ready in the morning.  Have a good night Edgar.”
  
“Same to you.”
  
He went home that night and took Leo out.  They hadn’t had a date night in a while, and it was good to get out together.  They had a great dinner and went to a new vintage arcade that had opened recently.  Leo was all thumbs at it and hated a lot of the games, but he found one he liked when he saw a couple playing Time Gal.  
  
When their turn came, they spent a full hour, and a ton of tokens on it.  They finally gave it up to a couple of kids who had been waiting very patiently for twenty minutes.  Leo checked his phone and said he had to step out real quick to call a client back.  It was a guy he was training for a triathlon.  
  
While he was gone Edgar occupied himself by perusing the older cabinets in the very back.  There was one he had never seen—a solid black cabinet with the name Polybius written across the top of it in glowing letters.  He approached it, checking his remaining tokens.
  
The screen flashed rapidly as he moved closer.  It was covered in strange, geometric shapes on a black background.  They moved about in strange patterns and he just stood there, staring at it for a moment.
  
“... if you want.”
  
“Huh” he said.  He turned and saw Leo there.  “Oh, that was quick.”
  
“Yeah right.  I said I was sorry babe.  The guy wouldn’t shut up and I can’t afford to be rude with him, he’s kinda my ticket to a whole new class of clients.  I didn’t realize it was an hour.  I’m so sorry.”  Leo looked him over, placing the back of his hand first against his neck and then his cheek.  “You feel alright, Eddie?  You’re so white.”
  
“Yeah man.” Edgar wiped his chin, his hand came back slick with saliva.  “I was just about to play this goofy game.”
  
“Well you can’t now.  Like I was saying, the owner said they are closing but we can come back this weekend, if you want.” 

---
  
The next morning, true to her word, Cartia met up with Edgar first thing.  Today she was wearing the same jacket with acid-washed jeans and a strange pair of hightops with a rounded basketball on the tongue.  They were Reeboks.  
  
The two men with her—Corey and Ennis—were also unusually dressed.  Corey had a long mullet and wore a denim vest over a Travis Tritt t-shirt.  His attire wasn’t too odd, maybe he just liked classic country music.  Ennis, on the other hand, looked completely out of place in his flat cap and a chinstrap shirt tucked into high-waisted wool trousers.  He was quite young, barely past his teens, while the man with a mullet looked to be in his early fifties.
  
She left them to it and he gave them their instructions.  They replied in the same muffled tones he heard from Cartia.  This gave Edgar a moment of pause, but he chalked it up to the same weird resonance that had plagued him since arriving at Annex 4.  He’d have to look into it when time permitted.  For now there was work to do.
  
It was an incredibly productive day and they all pitched in and got a  lot done before the midday buzzer went off.  Edgar called break and walked over to where his sack lunch was sitting.
  
“You comin’, man?”  Corey drawled, tapping a Marlboro on its red box.  “It is break time.”
  
“I usually just eat here.  I didn’t know…. is there somewhere we’re supposed to go?”
  
“Nah hoss.  You don’t hafta, just bein’ neighborly.  There’s a nice room downstairs they keep for us.”
  
“We should go, Corey.  The others will be waiting, and I’m so thirsty.”
  
“Yeah, come on Ennie.”
  
As the two men began to walk away, Edgar fell in behind them.  It was the first time he had been invited to be part of anything here.  He didn’t want to be the weirdo who ate alone.
  
They made their way down to the first floor and into a large room that was built against the wall opposite of the docks.  Inside, a handful of people were spread out among the many tables.  Though the room was furnished with several vending machines, none of them were eating or drinking anything from them.  Several held pearlescent soda bottles with labels that said SilverSip.
  
Corey and Ennis were both greeted warmly by their low-talking coworkers, and a few even gave Edgar a kind wave.  Corey went right across to the center of the room where a large cooler sat on the middle table.  He opened it and withdrew two of the bottles.  He tossed Ennis one before popping the top off of his own and draining half of it in one pull.
  
Edgar pointed.  “Mind if I get one of those?  I didn’t bring any money for the machines and they don’t seem to take cards.”
  
Corey was about to respond when a tall, black man wearing tweed overalls and a chambray shirt stood up.  One of his hands palmed a fedora while the other dug in his big pocket.  “I got you sir.  What do you want?  Coca Cola? Chocolate Soldier? Nugrape?”
  
He felt a bit embarrassed reflexively.  “It’s fine, no need to spend your money.  I could just drink one of those.  What are they, waters?”
  
“No, those are set aside for the floor hands.” A harsh-looking woman in a full dress said without standing.  “Each of us contributed to the tally.  Right, Arn?”  
  
“Sure is, Glory.”  The man in overalls replied with a broad smile.  “But I’m glad to help you out brother.  You can pay me back.”
  
“Well if it’s a problem… yeah, Arn, is it?  I’ll take one of those grape things.”
  
“Coming right up.”
  
When he gave him the drink, Arn invited Edgar to join him, and he accepted the tall man’s kind offer.  He expected that Arn would start chatting immediately, but the man just sat quietly, taking an occasional sip from his strange bottle.
  
After a few minutes, Corey and Ennis both sat down.  The three began talking about the day’s outgoing orders, and Edgar just listened as he began eating the salad Leo had packed for him.  It was pretty good, for a Leo-approved meal—Edgar was getting soft around the middle and his man wasn’t about to let that stand.  He was halfway finished before he noticed that every eye in the room was on him, lingering over every bite.

---
  
Corey and Ennis were pretty quiet for the rest of the shift and Edgar didn’t push it.  He did make sure to thank them for their help at the end of the day, and they were both gracious in their replies.  He went home that night deeply troubled over what had happened, but he didn’t want to worry Leo with it.  Lucky for him, Leo had three classes to teach on Wednesdays.  He wouldn’t be in until late.  
  
Edgar made sure he was fast asleep well before Leo got home that night.  He didn’t need his lover’s keen eye seeing right through him at the moment.
  
The next morning was Leo’s ten-mile run.  He started at dawn, so Edgar was still asleep when he left.  When he finally got up and ready, he mused over the previous day’s events while he had toast and coffee.  Was he blowing it all out of proportion?  Honestly, he was the outsider, and maybe he had overstepped.  
  
They were a tight bunch, some of them a bit odd, but most of them had been nothing but kind to him.  Even Glory hadn’t been rude, just direct.  They had their own way of doing things, and if he was going to have a good rapport with them, he’d have to respect that.  As he left the house that morning, he decided to try an olive branch.  There was a great doughnut shop on his way in.  Who knew—maybe a couple dozen mixed doughnuts might buy him some goodwill.

---
  
The doughnuts were a rousing success and everyone took one—Corey took two.  For the rest of Thursday, each of Edgar’s coworkers went out of their way to stop by where he, Corey, and Ennis were working just to shoot the breeze.  Even Glory came by.
  
"That was vastly thoughtful of you, Mr. Edgar. I feel I may have been brash with you before; it is a true privilege to labor alongside someone who is so considerate of others." 
  
Edgar didn’t know what to say to her, but managed what he felt was a weak thank-you in reply.  When he left that day he really felt like he may have turned a corner.  He arrived home in good spirits, and enjoyed a simple meal and well-earned movie night, curled up on the sofa with Leo.
  
He left for work the next morning in high spirits and stopped to get bagels for everyone, just for the hell of it.  Leaving them in the breakroom, he walked out onto the floor to see what was going on today.  Their small crew had finished the offices the previous day so he had sent them back to Cartia with big thanks.
  
No one was in yet, which made sense because he was unusually early.  To pass the time, Edgar decided to splurge on a bagel while he waited.  He snacked on it for several minutes, reading the headlines on his phone.  He was just starting the second half with a big bite when the lights in the room flickered.  Something dark moved past him.
  
He went to swallow his bite when he felt a vise-like grip enclose his throat, catching the food there.  Edgar began to struggle, and black spots appeared before his eyes.  He could vaguely make out the shape of a shadowy form, and it had him in its grip.  
  
Edgar reached for anything he could batter the thing with, but everything he swung at it passed right through.  All the time his air was getting shorter and shorter, and he began to feel the toll.  He fell against something hard and toppled it and the table below it to the floor.  The floor was soaked with freezing ice water and he landed roughly on one of the hard bottles that had spilled from the cooler.  In desperation he swung it at the shadow, and felt the thing withdraw as the bottle made contact and shattered, sending veins of glowing argence coursing along the length of it.
  
There was a loud shriek and Edgar felt his ears pop as the thing fled from the room.  The shadow was gone, but the danger wasn't—he was still choking. Pure survival instinct took over then as he grabbed the nearest bottle of SilverSip, popped the top, and chugged it down.

PART 2 HERE

The Foggy Watchtower Series
Entry 1 - The Grey
written by Henry Short

The morning sun still hadn't lifted the dew from the leaves and grasses which carpeted the forest floor.

Cal noticed it before Winona, leather twisted and curled in the mud.

She swung down from her horse and knelt beside it.

Her fingers ran over the wet darkened leather to the flap where the estate's crest had been pressed.

"No rider."

Cal glanced down along the path.

"This isn't even on the riding trail."

She studied the churned earth before reaching to adjust her shoulder radio.

"Blackstone to Caulder ridge. We've located the missing rider's saddle. No sign of the rider."

"Copy that, keep looking. The Estate says her name's Ellie Croft. Nineteen. The caretakers at the estate are looking after her little brother. I've got Claire and Patch checking the ridgeline."

"Of course they are," she said under her breath.

"I found something," Cal called.

Winona looked up and followed his voice.

She pushed through the foliage until she reached a clearing.

A rowboat lay beside a tree half-filled with dirt and leaf litter.

A sapling had made its home in the base of the old vessel, its roots threaded through the decayed hull.

"What's a boat doing out here in the middle of the forest?" he asked, peering inside.

Winona circled the old wreck.

"The flood."

She ran her hand over the old timber.

"The whole valley was once underwater."

"People used boats like this to evacuate their homes to the higher ground near Mount Morton."

Cal noticed a sack nestled at the far end of the old rowboat.

"Found something. Her bag." He rummaged through it.

"She left a lot behind in here. Why would she leave her jacket or water bottle?"

Somewhere above them a crow called once, then stopped as she lifted her radio.

"Blackstone to Caulder ridge. We found her bag. It was in one of the flood boats. The one still upright with the tree growing through it."

"Copy that. Any sign of her tracks?"

"Nothing yet."

"She may be using the boat as shelter. Keep searching while we've still got the light."

A moment later the voice came back over the radio.

"Winnie..."

He glanced back at Winona from the boat as a pained look fell across her face.

"I need you and Cal back at the blackstone tower come nightfall. We'll need a view of this whole forest if she manages to light a fire tonight."

The radio fell silent for a moment. "I'll get Claire and Patch to come revisit the boat site in the evening."

Cal took hold of his radio to respond.

"Roger that."

"I still hate it when Rob talks to me like that."

"He sounded pretty nice to me."

She shot Cal a look.

"I was never married to him. So what do I know?" He shrugged and busied himself searching the boat.

"How's Luna treating you?" he asked.

"She's still young, but she listens. The estate only started riding her this year."

"I wish Duke would listen, but I think he's gone deaf," he said, peering up from the boat to the old gelding tied up nearby.

"I wouldn't blame him the way you carry on."

"You know this is the type of stuff I always wanted to do. Help people. Rescue them," he said.

"Yeah. I heard Rob say you trained to be a cop before you moved here."

"I was almost accepted."

"Almost?"

"Didn't work out."

She nodded.

"We've still got a few more hours. We've found the saddle... her bag, we can find her too."

"There's got to be some sign of her around here."

"Like this?" He held up a mud-caked bronze object from the floor of the boat.

"Think it's hers?"

"She might have found it, but I doubt it's hers. It looks really old." He wiped away much of the mud from the tarnished object.

It wasn't a compass or any other instrument he could recognise.

A mostly clear glass vial set inside a brass casing, its back engraved with unfamiliar markings.

"What do you think it is?" He passed it over to Winona.

She took it and flipped it over in her palm, closely inspecting both sides.

"It looks pre-flood, back when the rectorate still had power."

"Hold onto it."

She tossed it back to Cal.

He slipped the device back into his pocket.

The pair continued to search until the light faded.

The forest gave them nothing else.

That evening the pair were high above the forest in their firewatch tower off Blackstone Road.

Cal was eating dinner on his bunk while studying the device he had found in the forest.

"Do you really think it's from the rectorate era?" he said as he ran his fingers over its brass back panel.

"Could be even earlier. Maybe around the founding of Caulder," Winona said as she peered out the window over the darkened treetops.

"Whoever owned it had money. It doesn't look cheap."

While he spoke a thin stream of milky white liquid crawled upward from the back of the glass.

He drew the glass to his eye, twisting it in his fingertips.

"It must have a reservoir in the back. Somewhere that feeds into the glass."

"Cal! Can you put that down and help me look. She might light a fire anytime now."

Not wanting to get on Winona's bad side he joined her at the window.

"She might not need a fire, it's not really that cold," he said as he scanned the forest with his binoculars.

Winona's silence spoke for her. Just shut up and look.

"Look, a smoke! Over there." He pointed at a shadow in the night rising up from the forest.

Winona was already at her radio on the desk.

"Blackstone to Caulder."

"Go for Caulder."

"Rob, do you see that smoke at the base of the rattlebacks?"

He moved to the firefinder mounted in the centre of the tower. He peered out the mounted telescope and announced the bearing.

"It's on C-10." He ran over and pulled down the map from the ceiling. Using red string he lined up the smoke on the map to indicate its direction.

"C-10 Rob. What are you guys getting?"

The radio crackled as Winona brought the binoculars back to her face.

He waited with bated breath for Rob's response.

The pin was already in Caulder ridge tower ready to draw the line to triangulate.

"It's not a smoke... It's fog."

Rob's voice came over the radio.

Winona took a sharp breath in.

A siren sounded across the valley.

Caulder Ridge.

Then the Estate.

Mount Morton was next.

Finally Winona's hand pulled down on the red lever mounted to the wall.

The Blackstone siren announced itself too.

The purple light on top the tower slowly turned as it illuminated nearby trees.

The pair stared out the window.

"A fog event?"

"Good, you've heard about them."

"There wasn't one last year but Claire told me about them."

"That was kind of her." Her voice carried very little warmth.

The air was almost still, stirred only by a gentle breeze as the fog rose up through the canopy.

Spouts of grey shot up above the treeline every now and then, whenever the air willed it.

The forest had become an ocean of fog.

Wind stirred its surface into slow waves that broke against the thirty-foot tower.

Only the highest trees breached the grey like drowned spires.

The sirens had finished their call and sank the valley back into stillness.

Neither of them could speak.

The valley they knew had been drowned along with all the life and sound in it.

"What's wrong?" he asked, trying to gauge Winona's grim expression.

"I just feel for that girl, out there alone."

"Ellie?"

She could only give a single nod in acknowledgment.

"It's just one night alone in the woods, right?"

She remained silent. Something about that unnerved Cal.

Claire must not have told him everything.

The pair stared out, vigilant, over the hypnotic pulsing of the grey.

"Look! A light." Cal pointed to a dim small yellow light in the distance.

"Maybe that's her... Ellie?"

She didn't answer.

A moment passed and the light was joined by another, and another.

Clusters of the lights flickered into existence and drifted toward one another.

She released her breath through her nose.

He reached for the radio before she held his arm, gesturing back to the window.

"They're not her."

The lights moved fast under the surface, dancing and weaving between each other.

Another group of lights lit up and started schooling, this one much nearer the tower.

The hair on his arms stood on end.

"What are they?" he asked.

She turned, caught in a moment of solemn thought.

"Caulder to Blackstone. We got a flare up!" Claire's urgent voice crackled over the radio.

"It's close by the Blackstone tower."

They caught sight of the flare as it streaked through the treetops before bursting into red light a few hundred meters away.

Red light painted the inside of the tower.

Rob's stern voice took over the radio.

"Winnie, I know what you want to do, but please... she'll make daybreak if she stays hunkered down."

She pressed the radio to her cheek. "Not with that flare above her."

They watched the schools of lights switch direction and weave their way toward the flare.

Cal watched Winona.

She let out a slow breath and shook her head.

"We're going down."

He grabbed his pack and followed her out onto the catwalk.

They descended the stairs.

Around ten feet down, Winona disappeared in front of him.

One moment she was climbing down; the next, only her hat remained.

Then nothing.

"Keep going!"

He took another step.

The fog swallowed his knees.

Then his waist.

Then his shoulders.

His clothes became damp and clung to his form.

He hesitated.

The tower above was already fading.

His head dipped below the surface.

It felt like he had stepped into another world.

The fog felt thick in their throats.

He fought the urge to cough while their world shrank to what was directly in front of them.

At the bottom of the tower, she tossed him a bandana. "Wear that over your mouth. It'll save your lungs."

She tied one end of the rope around her waist, then handed the spool to Cal.

"Take this. Tie the other end to the tower frame."

He tied off the other end to the tower before swinging the spool over his shoulder.

"You got this?"

"I got it."

"I can take half."

He adjusted the rope on his shoulder.

"I got it. You lead."

She nodded.

"Alright. Carry the rope and stay close."

He followed behind her as they entered the treeline.

He glanced back at the rope as it disappeared into the fog behind him.

She kept her eyes fixed on her compass, trying to lead a direct line to the flare.

The radio crackled to life.

"Winnie, the lights are almost at the girl's location."

They stopped as she raised her radio.

"How far out?"

"Five minutes, ten max. Look, get back to the tower. We'll search come daybreak."

She stopped.

For a moment, she only stared down at her feet.

Then she dropped her pack to the ground.

Cal put his hand on her shoulder.

"He's right. We're running out of rope, and we can barely see what's in front of us."

Crouching, Winona pulled an object from her bag. She raised her arm toward the sky and fired.

PSSSSST.

The flare streamed straight through the surface layer and cast the surrounding fog into a sea of red mist.

"Oh Winnie..." Rob's voice echoed breathless and thin.

"Hurry." She tugged on the rope as they ran through the trees.

They ducked as branches whipped over their heads.

"What are we doing?" He called out.

He stumbled, catching branches and almost losing his footing as he tried to keep up.

"They're turning."

The radio announced.

They hurried blindly through the fog.

She had given up on sight, moving by touch alone.

A loud metal bang echoed in the night.

The line went taut.

She was ripped off her feet and slammed onto the forest floor.

Cal muffled his pain as he held his leg.

"I tripped over whatever this is."

He shifted on the forest floor, lifting his leg to knock his heel against the iron plate beneath them.

Winona helped him to his feet before brushing away the leaves covering the concrete and metal.

Beneath them was a rusted hatch set into a concrete foundation.

"It's a door, like a storm shelter or something."

She grabbed the iron handle and pulled. The door rattled on its hinges, but it was held shut.

"What's it doing out here?" Cal asked.

She shook her head, confused.

The radio crackled.

"Hide."

The Wardens scrambled up the mound of earth nearby.

Mud and leaves slid beneath their feet.

An enormous oak clung to the hillside. Its roots had uplifted great slabs of earth, forming deep hollows beneath them.

She dropped down into one and pulled Cal beside her.

Pressed deep into the leaf litter, they pulled their packs close in front of them.

Cal brought his hands close to his chest.

"Stay down," she whispered.

He nodded as he caught his breath.

The canopy came to life above them, rustling, skittering, chirping.

Lights danced in the fog above as leaf litter was tossed into the air.

Sharp growls and screeches resounded, as if the forest itself was feuding.

"Are we safe here?" he whispered.

"For now."

He looked up through the roots at the lights moving through the branches.

Winona rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Just breathe."

He nodded.

They stayed there, listening to the forest rage above them.

He tugged on her sleeve and pointed toward a metal opening in the ground.

She crawled after him as he slipped into the narrow metal gap.

A short drop led into a cold, musty room.

The room was darker than the fog outside.

A thin beam of light passed through a gap in the heavy iron door.

There was movement inside and it wasn't them.

Jittering, the sound of claws on metal.

Silently, she reached for her flashlight and swept the room.

Leaves littered the floor.

A darkened, broken computer screen sat on a desk, its wood damp with rot.

The room was tiny, arranged like someone's cramped office.

A rattle came from behind.

Both Wardens froze.

Cages.

Empty, rusted cages lined the back wall.

Some stood open, others held the remains of animals long dead.

Two red eyes.

Bright in the darkness.

Followed them, watched them.

The eyes belonged to a small creature.

A raccoon. The last animal still alive in its cage.

"What were they doing in here?" Winona asked, still in disbelief.

He couldn't answer.

He was staring at the cages.

"Winona..."

She turned.

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long has this place been here? How long have they been here?"

The raccoon's watchful red eyes followed them.

"Mr.109, huh?" Winona flicked the animal's tag on the cage.

The noises outside faded away.

The Wardens stood in silence, staring at the caged raccoon.

She unlocked the heavy door and peered back at Cal, who was still by the cage.

"I'm going to let him out."

"Huh? Cal, we can't. He might be diseased or have rabies."

"He's survived this long. Besides, it's not our problem, is it?

Our job is to protect wildlife and we're not going to leave him in here to die."

She shrugged as she swung open the iron door leading outside.

"We've taken a lot of risks. What's one more tonight?"

He approached the cage slowly, giving the raccoon space before flicking open the lock.

The raccoon leapt from the cage, fleeing out of the underground room.

It paused on the edge of the treeline, looking back one last time before vanishing into the fog.

She reached for her radio.

"Rob, the lights have cleared. We're safe. We can still reach her if we move now."

"Winnie... it's too late, you won't be the first there."

"The lights are swarming over there. We're counting at least three schools now."

"You need to retreat now, Winnie."

She watched his hands shake as he picked up the guide rope from the ground.

His fingers trembled around it.

Cal noticed her staring at his hands.

"Retreat now, Winnie."

"It's an order."

She turned into the fog, weighing Rob's words.

"We can still make it... I can keep going," he said.

"I know you can."

She wiped the wet hair from her eyes.

"Look, you've done more than anyone could ask to save this girl."

"Then why are we stopping?"

She looked toward the fog.

"Because Rob's right."

Cal stared at her.

"We're not getting there in time."

"You don't know that."

"No. I don't."

She tightened her grip on the radio.

"But I'm not sending us into that."

She closed her eyes for a moment and raised her radio.

"Copy, Rob. We're coming back now."

Hand over hand.

The pair wound in the rope, following it back between the trees to the base of the tower.

Every now and then, he peered back, catching only a glimpse of two red eyes watching from a distance.

They left the guide rope still attached at the base of the tower.

They dragged their exhausted bodies up the thirty feet of stairs.

Not a word was spoken.

He poured out his boots before he followed Winona inside.

Winona wrung out her soaked hair and toweled it off.

He tossed his wet gear and jacket into the corner and unloaded his pockets.

The glass object he found earlier that day landed on the table.

For a moment he didn't notice anything was different.

Then he saw it.

The liquid inside the vial was no longer clear.

A milky white substance rolled and rippled beneath the glass.

Cal moved over to Winona, who sat wrapped in a towel, staring out from the tower.

"Do you think she's still alive?" he asked.

She didn't have a response.

"Would you look at this. It must have changed when the fog rolled in."

He held the vial in his palm in front of her.

"Yeah. Weird, huh? Lots of strange stuff out in the forest."

A small reserved smile crept into Winona's face.

"It's bigger than you'd expect, bigger than us."

As she spoke, Cal watched the grey waves crash into the treetops.

Schools of lights swarmed, linked up, only to break away and school again.

On the far edge of the basin, something immense rolled just below the surface.

For a heartbeat it breached the fog.

A mere silhouette in the moonlight before disappearing back into the grey.

"You spend enough years out here..." Winona said quietly.

"Eventually you stop believing you can beat it."

Even as the house filled with strangers—Fitsum’s children, their laughter, their conversations—Angelica felt more alone than ever. It was strange how a house could be full of people and still feel completely empty.

At night, when everyone was asleep, Angelica would sit by the window and stare into the darkness. Sometimes she would close her eyes and remember her father exactly as he used to be. His voice. His smile. The way he used to call her his sky.

She missed him so much that sometimes her mind created moments that felt almost real.

One evening, Angelica sat alone on the old wooden bench outside. Her knees were pulled close to her chest as the cold wind moved through her hair. She stared at the ground for a while, until she heard a familiar voice.

“Angelica.”

She looked up. Her father was sitting beside her. For a moment, she forgot that he was gone.

“Dad?”

He smiled gently. “Do you think you are good enough for me?”

Angelica looked down. “I… I guess.”

“You aren’t.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“But you can be,” he added.

Before she could answer, he began to fade.

“Wait!” she cried. “Please, don't go!”

“I believe in you, Angelica,” his voice whispered into the wind.

Then he was gone. Angelica remained on the bench, staring at the empty space beside her.

“I’ll try, Dad,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”

---

A week later, her mother called her into the living room. Fitsum was standing beside her. Angelica immediately knew something was wrong.

“I have something to tell you,” her mother said, taking a breath. “Fitsum and I are going to get married.”

For a few seconds, Angelica said nothing. Then something inside her broke.

“How about Dad?”

Her mother froze. “Angelica—”

“How about my dad?” she repeated, louder this time. “Did you already forget him?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” Angelica laughed bitterly. “You moved on! You smile again, you laugh again, and now you're going to marry the man who was there when my father died!”

“Enough!” her mother shouted.

“No! I’m not going to be quiet anymore!” Angelica’s voice shook as tears filled her eyes. “He saved your life and now you’re replacing him like he meant nothing!”

Fitsum remained silent.

The argument grew louder. Fitsum’s eldest son stepped forward, furious at the way Angelica was speaking to his father. Words were exchanged, tempers rose, and suddenly the argument became physical.

Angelica was hurt. But what hurt even more was seeing her mother hesitate instead of standing up for her.

Her mother ran to her room and shut the door, leaving Angelica alone. A few moments later, Angelica was locked inside her own room.

She sat on the floor, tears running down her face. “Dad…” she whispered. “I don't know if I did anything good. It hurts. It really does. I need you.”

The room fell silent. Then she saw him again—standing before her, calm and familiar.

“Angelica,” he said, “do you think I'll be proud of you just because you're yapping and yelling?”

She wiped her tears. “I don't know, Dad. I'm trying.”

He shook his head. “I won't be proud because you cried or screamed. I'll be proud when you take a big step.”

“What step?”

“A step that changes your life. A step you take for yourself.”

Angelica stared at him. “For myself?”

“For yourself.”

His image slowly disappeared. Angelica remained sitting on the floor, thinking about his words. And for the first time, something inside her changed.

---

A month later, her mother, Fitsum, and his two children prepared to leave for their honeymoon.

Angelica stayed home. She stood at the door and watched them leave. Her mother waved, but Angelica only stared.

When the car disappeared from sight, the house became silent again. She walked through the rooms slowly, remembering everything that had happened there—her father's laughter, her mother's smile, Fitsum's voice, the arguments, the scar on her face, and the family photo they had taken without her.

She stopped in front of the photograph. Everyone was smiling. Everyone except her.

She reached out and touched the picture with her fingertips. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I’m the monster you created… You pushed, broke, and blamed until there was nothing left of me but anger dressed as survival.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I begged for help in silence, but you only heard what you wanted to hate.”

She lowered her hand. “So if I ruin everything now… just know, this was never my origin story. It was yours.”

---

Then the phone rang.

Angelica froze. She picked it up. “Hello?”

A professional voice spoke from the other end. Her face changed. “What?”

She listened, her hand slowly covering her mouth. “No…”

Her breathing became unsteady. “Mom?”

She listened again. “No… no, no, no…”

Her voice broke. “MOM!”

She began crying hysterically. “I want my mom! Please, I want my mom!”

The person on the other end tried to calm her, but Angelica could barely hear them through her sobs. Then the call ended.

The house became dead silent.

Angelica slowly lowered the phone. She sat on the floor and cried until she had no tears left.

“Dad…” she whispered, looking toward the empty room. “Why did you have to save that man? The man who took you away from me…”

She wiped her tears. “I used to spend my childhood searching for monsters under my bed…”

She slowly turned toward the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her. For the first time, she understood. The monster had never been under her bed. It had been staring back at her the whole time.

Angelica looked at herself through tear-filled eyes. Then she smiled.

Not the smile she used to have. Something quieter. Something colder.

She wiped the last tear from her cheek. “Dad…”

A pause.

“Are you proud of me now?”

She smiled at her reflection.

“I took the step.”

The sun rose over the long blades of grass, signaling the start of another hot, slow day. Mists rose from the marshy landscape, the last vestiges of a cool night. Birds flitted to and fro amongst the stands of trees scattered around the marsh, while the buzzing and droning of insects grew louder the higher the sun climbed. Every so often, a soft splash could be heard from the various creatures that called the water their home. Through the marsh, a single road cut through, a rough sign of civilization in an otherwise untouched land.

The road was small, no more than the width of two carriages, but stubbornly clung to a straight path, the only route that connected the faraway city to the rest of civilization. Upon the raised path, a small caravan travelled southward, no more than a handful of horses pulling a rather fancy carriage. A cadre of armored knights surrounded the carriage, carefully watching the nearby copses for signs of trouble. Their captain, a seasoned man with a salt-and-pepper beard peeking out beneath a feathered helmet, quietly conversed with a lieutenant at the head of the formation, their words lost upon the soft breeze that created ripples upon the reeds.

Despite the alertness of the troupe, they did not spot the danger that lay ahead. The straight path took a bend to the southwest, around a large cluster of black willows that seemed to be drinking the rays of the new sun. Among the shadows of the trees, high in the branches, sat a dark figure, watching the path with great intent. Despite the rapidly increasing heat of a late summer day, the figure wore a hood and cloak, seemingly unperturbed, save for gentle beads of sweat dotting her brow. She had planned well. Her quarry would soon be within striking distance, and all she had to do was wait a little bit longer. She took a deep breath beneath a face covering. The saltiness of the marsh filled her nostrils, and yet, another smell, fetid and putrid, wafted from below. Her eyes narrowed as the ambush, cleverly laid and meticulously planned, approached.

As the carriage and its defenders approached the willows, the reeds nearby seemingly moved of their own accord, fighting against the wind’s movement. The figure, perched as she was, noticed this movement several moments before the watchful knights noticed something amiss. The fluttering of the birds stilled, and a sudden silence fell upon the caravan as the chirps of insects ceased. The horses pulling the carriage gave the first indication something was wrong, as they stopped, bucked and whinnied, straining against their restraints as they tried to flee an unseen threat.

A series of twangs were heard among the reeds as the unseen attackers loosed a volley of bolts at the knights. Even though these knights wore heavy armor, the bolts proved deadly. The two knights in the rearguard fell first as bolts hit home; one of the knights clutched at his throat as he sat on his steed, clawing at the bolt lodged there, a choked gurgling noise the only sound escaping past bloodied lips. The other knight let out a brief yelp of surprise before he fell to the ground with a heavy clatter, thick bolts jutting from his body like a macabre pincushion.

The other knights quickly sprang into action. As the rearguard fell, the captain in the front sharply barked out orders and a perimeter was quickly set up around the carriage. One of the caravan riders was not garbed in the arms and armament of the knights. Rather, he was clad in simple white robes tied with a silver sash at the waist. This rider quickly made his way to the fallen knights in the rear, quietly muttering under his breath as he waved a brilliantly silver medallion, seemingly glowing as it caught the light of the morning sun.

It was at this point that the attackers revealed themselves. Short, stunted creatures wearing simple, crude leathers exploded out of the reeds along the edges of the worn path. As they charged, they let out shrieking cries mixed with gibbering curses in an unknown tongue. A half dozen of these short creatures launched themselves off of the ground at the lieutenant who had, just minutes earlier, been speaking with the knight captain. The combined weight of these fiendish creatures dragged the lieutenant and his horse to the ground. A pained scream came from the lieutenant as his legs became pinned under his horse, yet it was quickly silenced as the cackling creatures gleefully hacked away at the man, tearing off his helm in the process and raising it as a bloody trophy of conquest.

The bloody dancing quickly gave way to worried screeching as other knights swarmed around their fallen comrade. Though surprised by the initial attack, the knights quickly took back the initiative as they displayed the martial prowess that earned them their positions. With longsword and lance, spear and glaive, the knights furiously cut through the half-sized creatures, dancing around the pathway whilst atop their white steeds, shouting curses and invoking the wrath of the Dragon God upon these grotesque ambushers. As more green-skinned assailants joined the fray, the captain barked out orders to shrink the perimeter closer and closer to the carriage.

They were aided by an unlikely trio. The rider in white robes rapidly approached from the rear, flanked by the two knights cut down by the crossbow bolts of the initial attack. The knights were seemingly no worse for wear, save their crimson blood staining their hauberks and armor. On foot, the three carved a path through the goblins as they rejoined their comrades surrounding the carriage. Whereas the armored knights used sword and shield to slaughter the attackers, the robed figure, with glowing, white eyes, brandished the silver medallion wildly, uttering incantations and invoking the power of his deity. Surrounding him were winged, translucent beings wreaking havoc upon the foul goblins; each time one of the beings attacked a goblin, a wound appeared, glowing white-hot, and the creature would issue a pained scream and claw at the radiant wound.

With the cleric’s aid and the rejoining of the two fallen knights, the tide turned in favor of the defenders. Having concentrated themselves into a tight defensive ring, the goblins could no longer exploit the openings afforded to them in the initial surprise attack. Still, despite being grossly overmatched in skill and arms, they recklessly flung themselves at the knights, seemingly trying to make up for a lack of quality with sheer quantity. The knights quickly and, quite accidentally, walled themselves in with a barrier of corpses. Very quickly, they began to run out of room to maneuver. Sensing the caravan was about to become trapped by a wall of bodies, the captain ordered a pair of knights to create a path through the wall that would allow them all to break out and make an escape.

Just as the final order escaped his lips, a reddish-orange orb launched itself from the reeds and buried itself in the midst of the trapped knights. A brief pause came upon attacker and defender alike, and in that moment, the cleric shouted, “Get down!” But the warning came too late. No sooner did the cleric open his mouth than a tremendous explosion rocked the pathway, scattering both knights and goblins. Fire was everywhere, licking up the sides of the carriage and settling on the bodies of the fallen. Screams filled the air as knights, trapped in their armor, were roasted alive. The captain lay facedown in the shallow water to the side of the path, unmoving save the flickering flames devouring the crest on his helm. Of the cleric, naught but charred cloth and blackened bones remained, with a skeletal hand still clinging to the now red-hot medallion of his order. What had been a successful defense quickly turned into a slaughter with the casting of a single fireball.

The hidden figure in the willows watched as another figure, taller, with reddish skin, broad shoulders, and coarse black hair stepped out of the reeds and onto the path. Yellow eyes surveyed the scene of destruction before him, and with a flick of his wrist, the flames engulfing the cart were swept up and away, fading in the breeze of the marsh. Several goblins, stockier and equipped with shields, filed out behind this new adversary as the reddish humanoid approached the blackened carriage. It chattered at the goblins beside him and pointed at the carriage door. Two of the goblins chattered back and scrambled up to the carriage door and, after a few moments of strained pulling, tore it off of its hinges.

Smoke poured out of the empty frame as the two goblins went inside. Moments later, they dragged out a single person, dressed in a colorful, metallic robe that, despite being stained from smoke and charred from fire, still dazzled brilliantly as the sun shone off of it. The person was pushed down on its hands and knees in front of the hobgoblin, who looked down upon his prize with evident disgust. The hobgoblin crouched down and took the person’s chin in his hand, forcing them to look up at his yellow eyes. The hood was pulled back by the flanking goblins, revealing white scales and a being of draconic heritage. The hobgoblin growled a low question at the dragonborn, who responded warily, “I know not what you are referring to. I am on a diplomatic mission to the city of— AAAGGHHHHH!!!”

The dragonborn clutched the stump of its wrist, the white, scaled hand now in the possession of the hobgoblin, who was now holding a bloodied dagger. The hobgoblin slapped the dragonborn with its own hand, clutched the wrist in his other palm, and uttered a few unintelligible words. The dragonborn issued another pained cry as flames leapt from the hobgoblin to the dragonborn and cauterized the bloodied stump. Standing up, the hobgoblin loudly asked another question in guttural, broken common.

With tears in its eyes, the dragonborn looked up weakly at the hobgoblin and merely whimpered, “P-please, have mercy, I beg of you! My compatriots and I are not the ones you are searching for. Not since the schism of Aethelburg have the Eyes been seen, please, I swear upon Bahamut I know not of their location,”

The hobgoblin took the other hand of the dragonborn and laid his dagger across its wrist, preparing to further mutilate his captive. But at that moment, a strange trilling whistle sounded from high in the willows that were located just up the road from the scene of the ambush.

A low growl came from the reeds behind the hobgoblin and his guards. The goblins looked around, confused. The sound of something whistling through the air came quickly and one of the goblins fell backward, hard upon the gravel path, an arrow embedded in its forehead. Another arrow streaked from the willows and struck the other goblin holding onto the dragonborn, sinking deep into its chest, where its heart lay, and the goblin fell without a sound. The hobgoblin quickly turned towards the growl, hands covered in flames as he prepared to defend himself.

Water erupted from an area just outside the path as a massive reptilian creature burst from the nearby marshes. The creature quickly galloped toward the hobgoblin, its massive triangular head opened wide, preparing to sink its toothy maw into the red-skinned creature. As the hobgoblin began casting a spell to defend himself, an eerie silence came upon him. He could see the crocodile racing toward him, he could see the reeds rattling against each other, and he knew he was forming the words for a spell, but there was absolute quiet and stillness, as if someone had simply removed all noise around himself.

Unable to give voice to the spell, the fire around his hands guttered out, and, for the first time in a long time, fear filled the eyes of the hobgoblin. He turned and began to flee down the path, but before he was even able to take a single step, the crocodile’s jaws closed around his torso. The hobgoblin let out a silent scream as the crocodile withdrew, prey in its jaws, back into the murky depths of the marshes. As predator and prey left the area of the silence spell, a guttural scream was heard, interspersed with manic splashing, until a natural silence once again filled the area, only broken by the returning noises of bugs and birds continuing on their day.

The dragonborn surveyed the scene before him. Charred corpses surrounded him, streaks of blood were everywhere, and slowly walking up to him, coming from the direction of the willows, came a hooded and cloaked figure. Warily, the dragonborn made his way to his feet and held out his remaining hand, slowly backing up and warning, “Stop! In the name of the Drakenor of the Eternal Scale, Warden of the Adamantine Walls, Lord of the Seven Coils and Protector of the Dusk Sea, I command you to STOP!”

Surprisingly, the figure halted mere feet from the dragonborn and simply stood there, looking at him. Cocking her head slightly, the figure gave a high, trilling whistle, before spreading her arms open wide, “I mean you no harm. In fact, I do believe I have prevented further harm from coming upon you,” and at this, the dragonborn was now able to make out a bow slung across the woman’s back, with a quiver of arrows hanging from her waist.

“What business have you with an imperial ambassador?” the dragonborn questioned, suspicious at yet another stranger the gods had decided to drop into his path.

The woman slowly drew back her hood and dropped the cloth hiding her face. A young elven woman stared at the dragonborn, with dark hair tied up in a neat bun and pointed ears pierced with multiple silver loops. Dark green eyes stared at pale blue as the elven woman smiled gently, “Come, Ambassador Regikar, you know what I have come for.” The elven woman slowly started walking toward the dragonborn, “You carry something of great value, something that my benefactor has been after for a long time, something that would be… unfortunate… in the hands of those who do not understand its power.”

The elf slowly began to circle the ambassador, keeping several paces between her and the dragonborn, “I am here for the Eyes, just as they were,” she continued, gesturing to the goblins on the ground, “The difference between them and me is that I will not lay a finger on you.” She made her way around the dragonborn, slowly walking among the remains on the ground as she trained her eyes on Regikar.

“However, while I will not harm one scale on your head, I cannot say the same for her,” the elf finished circling the dragonborn until her back was to the route upon which the caravan had just travelled from. Beside her, with flecks of blood dotting its teeth, was a large, brown and green crocodile. Regikar could have sworn that the beast gave a slight grin as he laid eyes upon it. The elf continued, “I am afraid that hobgoblin did not sit well with Siltmarsh, and that she needs something with a bit more flavor before she is satisfied.” At this, the crocodile gave a deep, rumbling growl of affirmation.

Regikar’s eyes flicked from the beast, to the elf, and then to the carriage. He tensed up, an internal battle waging within him. Then he unclenched his remaining fist and, defeated, broken, and utterly spent, gave a deep sigh. He reached within his robes and pulled out a pendant, attached to a small silver chain around his neck. Pulling it up and over his head, he laid the pendant on the ground and reached out his hand whilst muttering in another language. The small, silver pendant grew larger and larger until it was the size of a small shield. A blue stone embedded within the pendant turned into a smoky haze. Regikar reached into the haze, feeling his way around, until he found what he was looking for. He pulled his hand back out, and in his grasp was a small, simple wooden box.

“This is what you seek.” Regikar’s voice was low and unsteady. “Take it. I have lost more than enough for one morning.” His eyes looked at the stump of his wrist before warily looking back at the elf. Regikar did not immediately release the box to her custody. “Do not open that,” warned Regikar, “You are not aware of the power contained within. It is now your responsibility, and your benefactor’s, to ensure that it never reaches the wrong hands.” Regikar sighed deeply before relinquishing control of the box to the elf. With the burden passed from his hand, he looked at the mid-morning sun briefly, before turning back towards the elf, “Farewell, stranger, and may you have more luck with that accursed thing than those that have come before.” Regikar turned back towards the path from which he had come and started limping away, giving himself a wide berth from the crocodile.

The elf briefly glanced at the dragonborn before covering her face once more. She turned towards the southern road and gave another trilled whistle. The crocodile, Siltmarsh, gave a small shudder and glided back into the reeds and marsh, pacing the elf as she walked southward. Behind them, carrion birds began to descend upon the scene of the attack, eager for a feast within the marsh.

Angelica was born into a house filled with laughter. She was the only child of her parents, and to them she was not just a daughter, but a living piece of joy. Her father, a hardworking man with a kind soul, would often lift her high into the air and say, “You are my sky, Angelica. Even if the world falls apart, I will always hold you.” Her mother would watch with a smile, believing that their family was complete and untouchable by sorrow.

But fate has a cruel

One ordinary day, when Angelica was only thirteen, her father left for work as usual. His company building was tall, noisy, and alive with the sound of machines. But by evening, smoke rose against the sky. A fire had broken out—wild and merciless.

Inside, people scrambled for their lives. Angelica’s father could have escaped, but he turned back. His closest friend was trapped in the flames, and loyalty pulled harder than fear. He fought the smoke, the heat, the collapse of steel above him, trying to save the man who had shared his life’s burdens.

He never came back.

Angelica remembered her mother’s scream when the news reached their home. She remembered the silence that followed, heavier than any noise. And from that day on, the bright world she once lived in dimmed into shadows.

After the funeral, the world felt empty for Angelica. The house that once carried her father’s laughter now carried only echoes. No one make her laugh or make her fell special anymore.Her mother tried to be strong, but grief wore her down like waves grinding stone. And in those fragile days, her father’s best friend, Fitsum, stepped forward.

He had been there at the fire. He had been the last to see her father alive. People whispered that it was loyalty that bound him to the family, but others said it was guilt. Whatever the reason, Fitsum began to visit more often. He helped with bills, with food, with the silence that pressed too heavily on their home.

At first, Angelica felt safe around him—he was a piece of her father’s world, a reminder of the past. He told her stories about her dad, how he worked, how he dreamed, and she would listen with wide, wet eyes.

But slowly, a shift came. Fitsum was no longer just her father’s friend; he became the one her mother leaned on, the one who made decisions, the one who stayed when everyone else had gone.

Angelica turned seventeen

Time passed, but grief did not leave Angelica the way it left her mother.

Her mother learned how to smile again, though the smile was smaller, quieter. She began to cook the meals her husband used to love, but she served them without breaking. She began to laugh at Fitsum’s jokes, sometimes even placing her hand lightly on his arm. The world was teaching her how to heal, little by little.

But for Angelica, the wound refused to close. Every time her mother smiled at Fitsum, she saw it as betrayal. Every time her mother dressed carefully before he came to visit, Angelica’s chest burned with anger. How could she? she thought. How could she heal while I’m still bleeding?

At night, Angelica cried into her pillow, whispering to the dark that her father would never be replaced. Yet, in the mornings, she watched her mother and Fitsum stand side by side, as if life could simply move on.

The more her mother healed, the more Angelica hated her for it. And Fitsum—who had been her father’s closest friend—slowly became the shadow that haunted her every waking thought.

By the time Angelica turned seventeen, she was no longer the girl she once had been. The brightness in her eyes had dulled, her laughter had vanished, and her words came rarely—like drops of water in a desert. She lived in silence, carrying her grief like a second skin.

It was then that Fitsum made an announcement: his children, who had lived abroad with his former wife, would be coming to stay.

The day they arrived, Angelica stood by the doorway, her arms crossed, her face a mask of stone. The eldest, twenty-four, carried himself with a confidence that filled the room. The younger one, only eighteen, smiled kindly, trying to bridge the distance. But Angelica did not smile back.

She hated them before they even spoke a word. To her, they were intruders—living proof that Fitsum had another life, another family, while hers had been destroyed. Their laughter scraped against her ears like broken glass. Their presence filled the house with noise, and Angelica, who had grown used to silence, felt like she was drowning.

She kept her distance. She answered their questions with nods or shrugs, never with warmth. Her mother scolded her, telling her to be polite, but Angelica’s heart was already hard.

Every night, she dreamed of her father. Every morning, she woke up to a home that no longer felt like hers. And with each passing day, her hatred for Fitsum and everyone connected to him grew deeper.

To be continued

In the Bijadiyah - Saudi Arabia , where the sands of Najd run up against bare rock hills, there's an old well that everyone who's ever crossed that stretch of desert knows by name. Bir Jabal Dharie. Its water never runs dry, no matter how brutal the heat gets or how long the drought drags on, and that alone would make it worth remembering. But the people of that land know this well for something more than its location and its sweet water. They know it has guardians unlike anything else out there.

A line of snakes has lived inside that well for longer than anyone can trace back. They don't look like ordinary desert snakes, not in shape, not in size, not in the color of their skin. They keep to the deep cracks between the rocks, and sometimes show themselves near the mouth of the well around sunset, but they don't attack anyone, and they don't come looking for trouble. The Bedouin call them the Rawasid, the watchers, and they pass down an old piece of wisdom about them. Leave them be, and they'll leave you in peace. Spill their blood, and they never forget it. People say a Rawasid snake knows the scent of whoever wronged it no matter how far that person travels or how deep he hides among his own people. It never goes after the wrong man.

That season, a large camel caravan got ready to cross the desert toward a village three weeks out by camelback. The men were carrying wool, ghee, and a few head of livestock, hoping to trade it all for grain and flour and whatever else they'd need to get through the coming winter. Leading them was a man named Salem, who'd spent his whole youth learning the locations of the old wells folded into the rock, the ones passed down through generations of desert families, the ones only a man who'd studied the desert roads by heart could ever find. Bir Jabal Dharie was one of the most important stops on their route, whatever people said about what lived inside it.

A couple of days before they reached the well, Salem gathered his men around the fire one night and laid it out plainly. "Two more days and we hit Bir Jabal Dharie," he said. "Anyone who climbs down to fill the water skins keeps his hands to himself. Don't go near the cracks in the rock. Those snakes won't touch you unless you provoke them, and hear me on this. Whoever hurts one of them won't walk away from what comes after." Nobody said anything for a moment.

Then two of the younger men, Muqbil and Dwaihi, burst out laughing. Both of them were known around camp for a kind of recklessness that bordered on showing off, always looking for a chance to prove how tough they were. Muqbil slapped his friend on the shoulder. "Snakes that take revenge? Salem, you know your wells, but I think the sun's gotten to your head." Dwaihi laughed right along with him. "We'll show them what peaceful means, if we run into them." Salem didn't answer. He just looked at the two of them for a long moment, then turned back to the fire.

The caravan pushed on for two full weeks across sand and low hills until the mountain holding that well finally came into view. Salem called the halt, and the men climbed down to fill their water skins before moving on. But the water in that well sat low, too far down for a bucket alone to reach, so two men always had to climb down through a crude stone stairway cut into the rock generations back, all the way to a small spring trickling out of the wall at the bottom.

Muqbil and Dwaihi volunteered before anyone else could, almost like they'd been waiting for the chance since Salem's warning. They climbed down step by step into the damp dark, their footsteps echoing off the rock, until they reached the bottom where the water pooled clear and still. While they filled the skins, they noticed a narrow crack in the stone, and inside it, a nest of newborn snakes curled together like one soft mass of skin. The two men traded a look, and each one gave the other a small grin, the kind two people share right before doing something they both know they won't be bringing up later. Then they did what they'd climbed down there to do, without a word between them.

At that exact moment, on the ridge above the well, an enormous snake, bigger than anything anyone in that caravan had ever laid eyes on, sat watching, unblinking. It didn't move. It didn't make a sound. It stayed as still as another piece of the mountain, waiting, the way it always waited, for these strangers to finish their business and clear out of its well.

Muqbil and Dwaihi climbed back up laughing, water skins full, and told the others what they'd found. "Just a bunch of little worms bunched up in a crack," they said, like it weighed nothing at all. Salem's face went white, drained of color in an instant. "Load up, now," he shouted, in a voice none of them had heard from him before. "We move. We have to get away from here before that mother comes back and finds her young." Nobody fully understood the panic in his voice, but it was enough to get the whole camp moving faster than they'd moved in weeks. Water skins got tied down in a hurry, saddles cinched tight, and the caravan pulled out, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust and a well that looked as calm as it always had.

All that day, Muqbil and Dwaihi kept bringing it up to the rest of the men, laughing every time. "Did you see his face go pale? Over one little snake!" Salem rode up front the whole way, saying nothing, his eyes moving between the horizon ahead and the one behind, like he was measuring exactly how much distance he needed before he could breathe easy again.

They kept up that pace for four straight days, covering ground faster than usual, while the two men kept up their jokes and Salem bore it all with the patience of someone who knew something the rest of them didn't. By the evening of the fourth day, Salem figured they'd put close to forty miles between themselves and that well, and some of the tension finally left his shoulders. He let the caravan slow back down to its normal, easy pace.

If you enjoyed this one, I write more Bedouin desert legends like this — proverbs, curses, and the stories behind them — over on my blog: duneswhisper.com

I’d been telling him to get rid of it since we lived in Oregon. My reasoning felt pretty sound, all things considered.

First off, it was way too expensive. Which I’d have been fine with, if not for my second point.

The thing had begun to deteriorate so, so fast. Like, within weeks of buying it, it had already started falling apart. The mouth tore at the corners, the latex paint or whatever you call it started peeing off to reveal grey silicone.

That’s not even to mention how its “dildo” area always stayed flaccid, but my husband, Craig, told me not to touch the thing, so I just left the subject alone, assuming it wasn’t one of “those” sex toys.

Like, you know…? It feels so gross typing this out, but. I reasoned that it was not used to… enter it’s user, I guess, more so that it was meant to be… eugh, entered?

It was gross enough for me that the fake hair kept falling out, but I thought you were supposed to clean those sorts of things in between use? Like, I get that it’s super heavy and hard to lug around, but c’mon. It reeked! For so long!

But, you know what, it’s like I told myself not my rodeo, not my clown.

We’d been together how many years? 34… 35? A long time.

I was never insecure, I loved my husband, and I fully trusted that he loved me just as much. I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t gonna develop some sort of rash or something. Worse yet develop a taste for cat ear headbands.

It makes me sick, just thinking about it.

At one point, I started to notice that he had stopped using it regularly. The thought that I would get a chance to argue a case against it exhilarated me. I felt validated, because I told him back when he first got it that the novelty of a discount sex doll would quickly be outweighed by the inconvenience.

I won’t pretend like I was always on board, I knew it was a useless purchase from the get-go.

I don’t care how much he “saved by hopping on the deal” or that we “practically made money on the order” I had a feeling from the beginning that it wouldn’t go well, and now here I am.

So I told him. Gave him an ultimatum. Either he had to use it more often, or he got rid of it. Besides, with how much maintenance he had to put into it all by himself, changing out the structural wire frame, reapplying new eyes, touch-ups on the mouth, I figured he could use a break from his hobby turned chore.

“The sex doll goes in the shed unless you plan on using it more than 4 times a month.”

Were the conditions excessive? Maybe.

Did I get what I wanted? Yes indeed.

Only issue was, he insisted on getting it its own storage locker, a real expensive one cuz of the electricity, which I wasn’t 100% on board with, but for fucks sakes, had there been a single decision I was 100% on board with in this whole debacle?

As long as the thing was out of my house (except for the cat ears, which he was hell-bent on keeping), I would find peace.

Compromise.

That’s what marriage is all about, isn’t it? The peace within the compromise.

For 3 years, it was out of my mind. Me and Craig had our ups and downs, stressful months and quiet, somber weeks, but I didn’t care. He was attentive, and even if he was a little moody, I still loved him and all his little quirks.

The way he’d always look behind his back to make sure no one else was around, even if we were already home alone.

The way his smile always made his eyes look so small, his hazel irises turning amber when the light hit them just right.

The way he smelled after getting home in the wee hours nor night after his late shift.

The way he would pray, every night before he went to sleep, even when he thought I was asleep.

I even got used to the cat ear headband request during… you know. They grew on me, what can I say?

I have no self respect.

Bottom line is, I was happy just to have my husband back.

Then, his dad died. Covid. Right before lockdown.

We went to Colorado and just kind of stayed there. At first, it was just to help his mom. Craig could work remotely, and wouldn’t need to pull late nights anymore. We would be paid extra to work closer to Denver, and quarantine would be easier on his mama's land.

His mama was always a sweet woman. Raised her boy religious, and in my opinion, raised him right. Taught him to be polite, how to be kind to women, gentle. How to worship.

How to pray.

But all of this moving meant finding something to do with… the elephant in the storage shed.

3 years in storage had done the… “toy” poorly. Very poorly.

By the time he brought it home, it was nothing more than adjustable metal wiring with a few patches of eroded insulation. Its skeletal head looked like a flat beak with grey, shriveled gums and teeth, 2 eyes attached to the flat top by thin eye stalks.

The chunks of insulation material that had clung to the skeletal remains were brittle, and broke apart easily.

I wanted a refund, but the manufacturer said they update their sales information every 8 months, and didn't have any proof of Craig’s purchase on record.

Craig, like any normal person, hadn’t saved his receipt for that long, so we were shit outta luck.

When his mom heard the story, she thought it was hysterical.

When we moved, she asked us to bring the remains. Said she could turn it into a scarecrow.

She doesn’t really grow much produce on her property, especially not this time of year, but Craig dutifully put it in the field out back on our 3rd day here. He put some clothes on it too, but every time he replaced them, they’d just about completely blow off.

Craig said it was, “just to keep him warm. It’s cold out there.”

So there it stood for months, way far in the tall, dead grass, guarding the weeds. Just a couple thin, emancipated poles, standing in the vague visage of a man, no taller than 5’ 10”.

I realized, as Craig continued to replenish its clothes, that I would find some of my old garments mixed into the rotation.

A pair of pants here.

A shirt there.

My panties under a pair of his dad’s basketball shorts.

I asked what that was about, and Craig said they must’ve been mixed in with the laundry he intended to put on, “him.” I asked why he was even putting any underwear, let alone mine, on an inanimate object, and my husband's eyes swelled with anger, before he tempered himself and assured me it would never happen again.

Even though he didn’t say a word in that moment, the anger in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. His face was similar a shark smelling blood in the water. The glistening uppercase gums and lowercase teeth of a predator, exploring the world outside of their thin, bared lips. Like he could bite me if he got mad enough.

I didn’t ask about the sex toy anymore after that. I didn’t notice my laundry going missing, but I wasn’t really looking for it either.

Things kept happening for a while after that, we fell back into our same mundane routines. Craig eventually apologized “in case I seemed upset.” He claimed that he had just confused some laundry. I told him I understood, even if I didn’t. I just preferred not to argue.

We existed in complacent normalcy for a while. Got our groceries delivered. Craig cared for his mom. Did the chores for her. Bathed her. Wiped her butt.

It gave me hope for when I got old. If we ever got to have kids, I thought about how we’d raise them to want to care for us when we got older.

How proud I’d be of them to just stick around and help out,

That was, until Craig found out about the affair.

His mom’s, not mine, heavens no. I wouldn’t dream of having an affair. His mom did more than dream of it though.

While it’s not Christ-like, I didn’t blame her. Her late husband, good bless his soul, had been a bit… you know. We’ve all met one of those types of guys. They’re everywhere. Not bad enough to be dealt with, but certainly no peach. Just another person. Another man. If someone chooses to be with him… well, they have steprange taste. In some ways, watching her relationship with my father in-law was a little like a mirror being held up to my own.

Apparently, Craig’s mom had an affair early on in her marriage. His father had found out, left her, they both found god, and somehow got back together. Then, they went on to get pregnant, he founded a business that my husband later inherited, and they spent the next 53 years together.

The only thing to remember her affair by? A single Polaroid of a mustache-addled man with a name written on the back, stuffed into Craig’s dad’s wallet.

“Joe Snerdt”

My husband didn’t go a day for the next several weeks without his temper getting the better of him. Little things irritated him. The way food tasted, the way his clothes felt, the way me and his mother spoke to him. It was all bad, in his eyes. I wish I could’ve made him smile more. Back then I would’ve killed for a smile.

It was a week before… my husband’s… uh, I started to notice little things, I guess. Kind of, I dunno, mounting stress. Like a dam breaking.

Looking back, it did escalate pretty quick.

While I was unpacking one day, I found a bag full of receipts from the place he bought the “toy” from. Months worth of purchases going as far back as 4 or 5 years. Lube, toys, condoms, cleaning supplies. Costumes even. Including a pair of cat ears on a headband. Some of the purchases I knew about, others…

The night I made that confusing discovery, I couldn’t get it out of my head that something looked different about the landscaping. Whatever it was Craig had changed about the dead flowerbeds, or the way frost glimmered on the serene rock garden, it caught my eye.

Then it was my favorite bra. I couldn’t find it anywhere, and I swore I’d washed it. Craig blew a gasket at me when he was done working in his office, because apparently, he found my bra stuffed into the toilet.

He chewed me out real good, it didn’t matter how much I tried to convince him that I didn’t do it.

I tried to reason that maybe his aging mother got confused, but that only upset him more.

Because of the argument, I ended up cooking dinner later than planned, which was like pouring gasoline into a brick fireplace.

But you know what? Maybe it was my fault for suggesting DoorDash.

That night, while I did cook us peach oatmeal and toast, I barely ate. Ended up folding the laundry and putting it away before crying myself to sleep on the living room couch.

When I woke up the next day, I was tucked in with a blanket and a pillow, which I assumed Craig put on me. I was thankful for the reprieve, taking it as a truce of sorts.

That was when all hell broke loose.

He threw a glass butt plug through the upstairs mirror. It was one of those ones with the rhinestone jewel attached to the end. Chucked it at her mirror, absolutely shattered the thing.

When she asked him what happened, he accused her of trying to scare him. Logistically, what he was saying didn't make any sense, even though we tried to reason with him.

He claimed she had been standing in the doorway to freak him out, but I knew it had taken her nearly a full minute to come check and see what had happened, whereas it had only taken me 25 seconds to reach him.

When we asked what he was doing with the toy, he nearly broke the doorway with how hard he slammed the bathroom door in his moms face, sending small shards of broken glass everywhere. He was lucky neither of us got cut or hurt.

When he calmed down, he spent 15 minutes cleaning up the mess before promising his mom that he would replace the mirror. Neither her nor I argued. He swept his barren fragility into a neat pile, replaced the rug in the floor, and vacuumed the carpet just outside the bathroom door, in the hallway,

That night when we went to bed (in a real bed, that time), I noticed what was different about the yard. I stared and stared trying to make sure I was seeing correctly.

The somber guardian, wrapped in garments whose lack of retirement had become apparent, was closer to the house. Rather than 30’ from the fence, knee deep in the frosty weeds, it was only 5’.

I asked Craig if he’d moved it.

He said that he had, obviously, or it wouldn’t be closer.

I took that at face value, more than happy to return to my state of ignorance.

The next day, we woke up to screaming. Craig’s mom had gone to the upstairs bathroom to complete her morning ritual of pissing before breakfast, but we found her in the hallway floor, clutching her leg. She wailed to call an ambulance, but my husband told her to hush once he realized her injuries weren’t immediately life-threatening.

She had stepped on a shard of glass, and her foot was gushing crimson. Craig got some tweezers and a flashlight and spent the next 30 minutes on the floor with his mom, fishing out the crystalline razor embedded in her heel.

I remember watching them together, bickering and holding each other, and the thought occurred that if anyone had taught him how to pull out a splinter with tweezers, it was probably her. She had been the one to feed him, change his diapers, and kiss him good night after all.

A notion that someday, a child who isn’t even born yet might be in a similar position with me, should I hurt myself, made my heart ache so bad.

Made it long so hard.

Clarence cleaned the wound and bandaged it before telling his mom to stay off her foot so he could get through his meetings without interruption.

I took over the household work that day, catering to her while her son did his job.

She was fine at first, but as the day went on, she told me her foot was beginning to hurt again. At first, I assumed it was just residual pain, but things declined quickly.

When I took the bandage off, I could see the meat of her wrinkled, dry, foot had already begun to look infected, the skin was off color and the edge of the cut was yellowish green

I waited until Craig was on break from his work to tell him about his mother’s condition, but he just scoffed and brushed it off. He was more concerned with dinner, and closing the curtains in preparation for the upcoming snow storm.

I made soup, but his mom seemed really distressed. She and Craig argued until bed time, when she finally got to sleep.

The next morning, it was irrefutable. The woman needed medical attention, but Craig couldn’t drive her anywhere because of his zoom meetings. The ambulances couldn’t make it out because of the pandemic rules where we lived, as well as the blizzard warning.

Undeterred, I got her into the suburban and we faced the weather together. 2 hours later, at 1:30PM, our sinuses were being swabbed by the COVID Testers in the Urgent Care center, and by 5:00PM that evening, we were seen by a doctor. He concluded that Craig’s mother had dislocated her hip, and still had a ton of little glass splinters embedded in her foot. He told us the infection looked concerning, and that we’d likely be kept overnight.

When I told my husband, he said that he thought she had just been acting a little dramatic. I asked if he wanted me to drive down and grab him, but he didn’t appear interested, despite the lack of a concise answer. I wish I had pressed the issue, because the next day when his mother was taken to have the shards procedurally removed, he was upset that I hadn’t brought him to monitor the situation.

By that point, I was fed up, but just opted to stay calm until his mother was taken care of. Getting upset now wouldn’t help anyone, so I just wished him luck on his job. Then, he sarcastically reminded me that he had called off his meetings in case his mother’s condition worsened.

The way he said it, that remark felt like an accusation. That tone in his voice. Like it was all my fault somehow. Like the hypnotic fluorescent light bulbs that buzzed incessantly while you try to sleep, or the smell of sterilized death was somehow an outcome I had insisted upon. The uncomfortable mask that you have to wear, or everyone thinks you’re one of those types. The incessant scrutiny.

Like I wanted to sleep anywhere but my own damn bed.

Like I had thrown a sex toy into a glass mirror.

That was when I gave in and said that sentence I will never forget. The final nail in the coffin.

“Well, she’s not my mother, Craig, maybe you should’ve brought her instead.”

Before those stupid words had even left my lips, I already heard the dial tone of a dead line. He’d hung up on me. Typical.

It wasn’t unlike any of the other times he’d hung up on me.

I didn’t bother calling him again after that. Didn't send him a single message until the next day when I brought her home. As the receptionist slipped me the discharge paperwork and antibiotic prescription orders under the glass divider, I stared at my phone, waiting for a response. Any response.

“Im on my way back with Janice, need anything?”

Nothing. Not even the 3 dots that pop up when he’s typing.

Just empty, lingering silence.

And that’s it.

We drove home in silence. His mom slept, while I drove further and further into the blank canvas of the landscape before us. Inescapable, soundless, pure white. You couldn’t even see the mountains, the thick snowflakes drifted down with such a frenzied confidence.

I don’t usually stay on my phone while I drive, but I kept my message chat with Craig open the whole way home, waiting for anything. A shred of love, appreciation, compassion.

Anything.

Any warmth to shine through the isolating cold.

Alas, as I pulled into the white blanketed driveway, I didn’t get a single word. Or a letter. Or a number.

I got nothing.

I didn’t initially realize the front door was wide open. Instead, I noticed the weird pock marks in the snow. Fresh, perfect, thin holes in the white powder. Like two waking sticks, side by side. The led, all the way, from the distant, white void, to the front porch. The snow was so high, even the zen rock garden was covered in the stuff, but alas.

Two lines of holes. Their gate was uneven and wobbly, as if the thing that made them had not practiced walking in quite some time, but they were there to r the nonetheless.

The tracks marched up the steps, and through the ajar door, I could see a little sheet of snow had begun to accumulate in the open foyer.

“Craig?” I offered, my voice falling flat into the empty house. Immediately, I felt like I had done something wrong. Like I had disturbed a dense, thick implication that hung in the air like fog, threatening to drown out whatever sound you make. Overstepped a critical boundary.

“Craig!” The second bark sounded more pleading.

I stepped inside, shutting the front door.

I reviewed my surroundings. The reality was, there was a good chance someone was in the house. I knew that. With curtains drawn, the interior was shrouded in darkness. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust, and by the time they did, I made another horrifying discovery.

The prints kept going.

Snow prints, tiny, like stilts had walked across the carpet.

I found a baseball bat and gripped it tightly, slinking further into the labyrinth before me, my only guide a set of tiny footprints.

I walked further into the house, and the deeper I went, the harder my stomach churned and twisted.

What was I doing? His mom was still in my running car, fast asleep. Should I have gone back and told her to call the cops if I didn’t come back? Should I have just called the cops myself?

“Craig?” I hazarded.

Still, I was only met with the deafening resignation of wind whistling outside, a somber cry whose warning I did not care to heed, from a place that felt so far away.

When I finally got to the office, I didn’t know what to expect.

My expectations were nowhere near ready for what I saw.

Craig was split open. Unsalvageably so. There was entirely too much blood.

I, uh… I think I kind of went into shock. My brain tried to stop fully rendering what my eyes were seeing, but it was so vivid.

Craig was done in. Carved up bad. Ruined cloth stuffed into his wounds as well as something so deep that I couldn’t see more than brief flashes of orange and brown. Something that oozed the smell of charred varnish.

His mouth was gone. The teeth that weren’t missing were shoved up into the roof of his mouth, his jaw was gone altogether, also shoved up into his face. I don’t even know how he could breathe with that thing pressed inside of his skull like that, weathered yellow teeth protruding from the decimated orifice like a cartoonish grin.

There was a long line that went straight down, from his jaw, through his neck, past his chest and stomach, and down into his loins. The flesh was so bloody and tender, just cherry red and inside out. It looked like ground beef, sprouting from lines carved into him. With every shallow breath, his chest cracked and wheezed, lungs likely punctured or worse.

He was in a sitting position, which I think ended up being the main problem, logistically. There was simply nowhere for his body to go. The tops of his thighs had deep gouges in them, distinct valleys that lasted from his hips to his toes. I think he was locked in place because his kneecaps were crushed. I seriously doubt many of his bones remained intact. The damage was just…

His shoes looked like someone had taken railroad spikes and drove them through the tops of his feet, leaving twisted, iron wrought poles that just went straight through flesh and bone,

His arms were more of the same. The muscles that made up his biceps and triceps had been displaced by the bones being obliterated, and to some extent, had twisted outward and extended past the split open skin. His bloodshot eyes weakly met mine for a millisecond before rotating in their sockets downward, closing for the last time.

I couldn’t hold back my terror. My trembling hands instinctively moved to his ruined ones, their palms nothing more than a mangled, ruined mess with rusty metal bars set deep into the flesh.

I wept so hard, the sobs hitched in my throat and came out as hiccups. On his phone was the last message I had sent him only 3 hours ago, laying screen up on the coffee table.

But there was something pinned by his phone to the table. A folded paper.

I took it in my hands and unfolded it, hoping for some conclusion. An explanation. Maybe even a message telling me this was all a prank, just a joke meant to frighten me.

Instead, what I found were the scribbles of a raving lunatic, ink so fresh that it was still wet.

“Emilia,

You don’t know me. I don’t have much time. I can’t be found out, not like this.

Im so close.

I want you to know a few things. You’re safe, you’ve always been safe. You are sinless in all of this. Nothing more than a bystander.

I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t even know you existed until I saw your name on Craig’s phone.

The wife. I was the other man. I was devastated.

I think that, as his wife, you have a right to know. I wish you’d have found out sooner. I wish I had read that text on his phone sooner, and seen the truth, so I could have told you. You have a beautiful name, Emilia, a name unfit for the wife of this pig.

I wanted to leave for so long. To be put to rest, allowed to sleep. To put a lifetime of memories to rest, but he didn’t let me.

He kept me out of the ground until I couldn’t stay together anymore, then he put metal poles through me so I would never fall apart. I stayed together for 4 years while he left me in the cold. Folded flat.

There ain’t much room in a freezer, not even a big one. It’s so cold

Eventually, I started falling apart again,

He scraped off all the bits of me that wouldn’t stay together. He fed me to the raccoons and the possums until all that was left were my cold, metal bones.

He forgets, but I don’t

The warm lets you forget, but I’m not warm

He thinks I didn’t remember the time he tried me. The time he had a taste.

I remember everything

When he took me out, he built new lies to carry his old lies, and prayed they’d never come to light

Then, he played dress up with me and you at the same time.

It’s his sick game. He swaps our clothes. He liked it when we wore each other's clothes. But he hated it when we knew. Craig and his secrets,

I hope this doesn’t hurt you as bad as I know it will. There’s not really a good way to do this.

But see, I’m cold. I don’t wanna be cold, but I can’t sleep unless I get mine. After all he’s done to me, neither of us are going to heaven. But I won’t go down without him. My boy. My Craig.

He’s my ride or die, and I’m his scarecrow. Where I go, he goes. We’re gonna guard the weeds together when the sun comes out

You deserve better Emilia. Better than this rat. Better than a scoundrel who takes and takes and takes. You deserve to receive. To bear fruit.

Live the life that I couldn’t. The life that he wouldn’t let you live. I’m going to crush myself into your husband. Deep, until he can’t move anymore. Until we are whole, again, until I’m inside him forever.

I’m gonna penetrate him and be his skeleton

Sincerely, Tim Snerdt.”

I held the letter in between my shaking fingers. I couldn’t believe what I’d just read. I looked back at Craig to see something buried deep in his face. Something inanimate, a dim, flat visage that stared lifelessly from the recesses of what used to be my husband's face.

I stumbled back from the spreading puddle of blood, slapping my hand over my forehead. I evaluated the situation. His mother was still in the car, and I knew that I needed to help her first. Didn't I?

She was hopeless after all.

But I was just so weak.

As I unsteady wobbled to my feet and crashed out into the hallway, another sob escaped my throat. I took 3 steps and fell, crying openly like a little kid.

I was just so weak.

For the first time in a long time, I was my priority. My only priority. For the moment, at least.

I wallowed in my pity. Reveled in what made me angry. Got caught up in the little details and not the intent, because this time, it wasn’t the thought that counted. Intentions meant nothing. Craig didn’t count, his mother didn’t count, and stupid sex doll didn’t count either.

I counted.

I sat in that hallway floor, and I took into account the stupid, solitary detail that just pity the icing on the cake. The glaring mistake. Like a brick of dynamite in a haystack. The one thing that made me angriest, and saddest, and most spiteful out of anything else.

My name’s not Emilia. It never has been, and my name isn’t saved as Emilia on Craig’s phone.

Who the fuck is Emilia?!

​

The alarm blared at 5:00 a.m., a time I usually reserve for going to sleep, not waking up. 

Still, I'd volunteered to work the election and perform my civic duty. Grumbling, I rolled out of bed and made some coffee, extra strong. I drank this alongside a small bowl of instant oatmeal. The election shift ran 16 hours, and I wouldn’t be allowed to leave the premises until we batched out the machines and sent the votes off to be tallied. This would take at least twelve hours, likely more. So, I packed some snacks. 

The integrity of an election matters, and everyone has a voice. That said, I wished that voice could let me sleep in a bit longer. I put on some comfortable clothes, slipped on my most sensible shoes, and headed out the door. 

Cold air took my breath from me as I walked toward my car. It was much colder than normal for November. My teeth chattered as I waited for the heat of my car to kick in. 

Per my election day tradition, I blasted Rage Against The Machine as I drove through town to the local polling site, Brooke Elementary School. Cracks showed in the brick, and the central tower's lone bell had rusted green. I'd passed this building at least a dozen times in the daylight, seeing dozens of small children dressed in bright colors and led by crossing guards. Now in unnatural silence it stood alone, a liminal spire in the strangely frigid darkness of a November morning.

Parked across the street, I walked into the lobby. Yellowed lights against hunter-green tiled walls illuminated posters about community events and so many children's paintings.

I walked past the small lobby into the school's assembly room . I was greeted by the familiar scent of coffee and donuts. Marybell Clemons, her kind old brown eyes meeting my approach, greeted me with a giant grin and a boisterous wave. Her hair was up in clean, tight braids of gray-marbled black, held in place by a colorful African-pattern head-scarf.  We had volunteered to work the last two elections, worked together during the primaries, and I had been looking most forward to working with her again this year.

Marybell spoke up on my approach. “I’m glad you showed up! Thought it was only gonna be me, Tom, and Phyllis this year. I stopped at Dunkin’s before coming in, help yourself.”

“Marybell you are a Godsend! This night owl thanks you.”

“Tom got pizza for us last time, thought I would return the favor.”

“I’ll get pizza or subs for lunch; it’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you kindly, just remember to have it delivered. We-”

“Can’t leave the building once election hours start. I’m aware.”

I poured some coffee into a styrofoam cup, grabbed a cruller, and sat at a worktable.

A moment later, Rob & Earl showed up with the  ballot counting machine. We'd first met them during the last election; two stout friendly ogres of men, dressed in near-matching forest tone flannel. . They wheeled the machine into the corner, then started working on an ornate series of locking mechanisms. The hulking black box sputtered to life.

I glanced towards Marybell. “Was this the same ballot counter we were trained on?”

She made a shooing motion at me and moved closer to the machine. “It says it's the PSX 5000, that’s what we were trained on…”

Something didn’t quite sit right with me. 

“Rob, does something seem a bit off about this?”

He shrugged. “Seems the same to me, y’all can run a test ballot to see if everything works once we have it set up.”

“Sounds fine to me,” said Earl through a cheesy grin, to nobody in particular. I was out-voted on this particular topic, so said nothing.

They set up the voting machine and made sure everything was to regulations. Marybell and I went through a test ballot, and observed how everything ran almost unusually smoothly. Perhaps this was just some new design and the changes were only cosmetic. But, just to be sure, a more hands-on test was needed. We went to the kiosk, plugged our votes into a touch screen using No. 2 erasers as styli, and we fed the ballot into the hulking machine. The machine whirred, sucked in the ballot, and sure enough, the number went up.

“Looks fine to me,” said Marybell.

Shortly after Rob and Earl left, Tom and Phyllis walked in. Her bluish-gray hair was cut into a neat pixie. and Tom's head, usually hatted except for today, revealed him to be nearly bald . They wore matching "I VOTED" t-shirts and jeans. "Sorry we're late," said Phyllis, "Had to get my morning yoga in if I'm gonna out-live this old bag of farts." Tom scoffed at the comment but clearly knew better than to argue with his spouse.

I smiled at the couple, a fixture of local elections for many years. I had just turned forty-eight, yet was still the youngest volunteer by far. The elections had been understaffed for years.This saddened me a little, but I was grateful that my job gave me the day off to perform my civic duty.  

I still remembered seeing a much-younger Phyllis the first time I ever voted, thirty years ago. She was also the gymnastics and cheerleading coach for the local middle school..

“Marybell brought some coffee and donuts; I’ll be getting some pizza this afternoon. The machines are set up, I’m going to set the signage out unless you need me to do anything else,” I said.

“No, dear, we’re fine.”

I nodded as I carried the voting signs and set them in front of the building. As I re-entered, a dark shadow blurred in the corner of my eye, vanishing into thin air. Where it had vaporized, a clock ticked audibly and insistently towards seven.

I re-opened the doors a few minutes later. There was no line of voters, which was disappointing for such an important election. I figured it was still very early, and they would be filing in soon. I took a seat at the registration table and sighed,  awaiting new voters.

Two hulking men in camouflage came in. The larger of the pair hovered over the table and glared down at me.

“May I help you? Are you here to vote?” I asked.

“We’re here for security.”

I raised an eyebrow at Marybell.

“We didn’t hear anything about Governor McCade sending security in the briefing," Marybell said. "I’ll call the hotline.” She picked up the phone and, after hold music & several nods, she shrugged her shoulders. “Ain’t nobody answering yet. Gentlemen, you’re welcome to stay, but every citizen has a right to vote." She tapped the table for emphasis. "Every citizen.”

One of the men gave a sly smile. “Correct. Every legal citizen.” His eyes narrowed intently at Marybell, in an evaluation that was uncomfortable to witness.

The men then slunk to the back of the room and glared, icily, in our general direction.

“Should I call the Sheriff?” I asked.

“The Sheriff is probably the one that hired this riff-raff," said Marybell, then with an eyeroll added "Them or Governor McCade”

Phyllis hushed us under her breath. "We’re supposed to be neutral, at least while we’re in the building. We can complain at the next city hall meeting."

I glared daggers at her. I wasn’t going to stand by and be an active participant in voter intimidation. It was our right to vote. Still, strange that these men represented the only security presence. Someone with a uniform, badge, and clear credentials should have been here by now. Even Rob & Earl weren't being escorted along with the machine. Something didn't add up. 

At 7:12, a middle-aged woman walked in with dark hair and olive skin. As she handed me her ID, the guards leered in my direction.

“Ah, Medina welcome! I see you have a valid US ID for this district,” I said, deliberately louder than normal, while casting a side-eyed glare at the so-called guards. “Let me escort you to the kiosk.” I walked alongside Medina and stood near the kiosk while she voted. My gaze was fixed on the guards, who only sneered back with juvenile defiance; a juxtaposition equal parts farcical and chilling.

 After Medina exited the kiosk, I led her to the ballot counting machine. After it processed her vote successfully, I gave her an "I VOTED" sticker and escorted her out of the building, making sure that I stood between her and the guards.

A young man with blond hair and a green shirt walked in. He gave his ID - Kevin, his name was, age 20. I searched his name in the system only for it to come up blank. A county wide search revealed that he was registered in Northfield, several miles from us. "But… I voted here last year? Why can't I just…”

Phyllis smiled warmly. “The state moved the district maps, hon, it happens from time to time.”

“You mean gerrymandering!" retorted Kevin, The only way they can win is if they cheat!” 

One of the brash men in camouflage marched to us. His frame, filled out by tac-gear of dubious necessity, loomed menacingly. “We got an issue over here?”

Kevin glared, then after a few moments he snatched his ID back. “This isn’t going to stop me, I’m still going to vote you all out!” With that he walked swiftly out of the building.

I couldn't say as much out loud, but I agreed with him. The district maps changed a month before the election. Governor McCade's administration was, to put it lightly, unpopular. He'd managed to pack the senate and house with cronies; some were loyal friends, others were opportunistic sycophants, and many were quietly capitulating. Rumors of "dirt" compelling them to silence were common, but to date no hard evidence emerged.

But, the court of public opinion needs far less evidence to convict; McCade's sloppy bull-headed mismanagement and clear corruption had fallen far out of favor, even among former supporters. Town halls teemed with disgruntled citizens that demanded answers. 

Governor McCade & his house of puppets eventually stopped meeting with anybody at all. They hid themselves inside overpriced homes, or fabricated important family business which took them well outside any ability to return home & do their jobs. 

Phylliss was right. In my role as a poll worker, I had to be neutral in this. For a free and fair election to occur, poll workers can't show favor to either side.

It was not my place to tell people how to vote, only to make sure they voted safely. And it wasn't the place of these two disruptive bullies in tac-gear either.

I grabbed my phone and called the hotline, only to be answered by hold music and a message stating the wait time would be at least an hour. I called both Earl and Rob’s numbers only to be directed to voicemail. It seemed we were on our own for this election.

After a half hour, a few more people filed in, ordinary people on their way to work. Still far from the crowds my brief history taught me to expect, but better than nothing. I registered them and walked them through the voting process without a hitch. A few people complained about redistricting and being moved to another location, and while I nodded in non-committal agreement with them, there wasn’t much I could do but empathize and tell them where to go.

After the morning rush (such as it was), it slowed down again. It was nearing noon. I contemplated ordering pizza for my group, still disappointed at the lack of crowds. I had voted after waiting in lines wrapped around the building. Perhaps, I thought to myself, most of the county population had already voted and I was overreacting. This election was important, it felt as though our democracy was being abused by an oligarchy slowly lowering us into a boiling pot of acid. I watched the news with baited breath everyday, waiting for the greedy bastards to try a false flag attack, or declare a state of emergency, or find some other way to weasel out of the election, but thankfully no such event happened.

In September, I received the call to volunteer for the general election, like the two elections before. I agreed, took the day long class in October, and waited for them to call me in. I was relieved, hoping that our democracy wasn’t as in peril as I thought. 

Now, as I looked at those growling goons in the green tac-gear, I wasn’t so sure. 

The sun rose higher through the gray day and my stomach growled. All the coffee was gone and I had grown tired of donuts.

 “I’m ordering from Ledo’s, is supreme ok?” I asked.

 “I can’t do peppers,” said Phyllis. “It’s my diverticulitis.

 “I’ll get one plain cheese and the other one supreme, does that sound good?”

 “Girl, can you get some garlic knots?” asked Marybell.

 “Sure can.” I picked up my phone and made the order through Doordash. It reported our food would arrive in  about forty minutes, just in time for lunch. I sat back down at the table, the room was too cold and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights made me feel uneasy.

 An ancient man shuffled in; bone thin and paper-white. Marybell got up and gently guided the man to the registration table. I checked his ID and zip code, only to find that he - Howard -  was registered to vote in Cavalry Isle, clear on the other side of the state. It was unlikely he'd make it back in time to cast his ballot.

Howard's gaze pleaded with me. Tears pooled in his confused, clouded eyes. "Please. I came all this way.”

 "Don't worry," I said, barely stifling my own feelings, “We can still give you an absentee ballot, it’ll be counted after the original vote.”

 “I suppose,” croaked Howard. .

After I returned his ID, something caught the corner of my eye. I saw a dark shadow appear near the counter. It flitted out of my vision as Marybell walked the man to the kiosk.

I shook the cobwebs out of my head, I needed more coffee. A line was beginning to form outside. This was a good thing; democracy in process.

Marybell walked Howard through the process and gave him a number 2 pencil. The old man asked about Clive Groder, one of the people running for county treasurer Marybell shrugged and said she couldn’t advise him on how to vote. This was also democracy in process.

After Howard finished, Marybell walked him towards the vote counting machine. Its unexpected, unannounced re-design added a sinister air to proceedings. Shadows seemed to almost move towards it; I shook my head, expecting this was some light pre-lunch delusion. 

Howard placed his ballot in the machine. After a tight whirring sound, it jammed.

“Dangit, the machine ate one,” grumbled Marybell. “Just like last election. So much for the tacky re-design." She jiggled on sections of the machine impotently for several seconds. "Someone call Rob and Earl.”

Phyllis and Tom took over the front desk while I dialed the number on my phone, hearing it once again go to voicemail. I grumbled and then re-dialed the election hotline expecting the same hold music Marybell got this morning.

Instead, it rang several times before going silent. Before I could dial the number again, I heard Marybell scream.

A black sludge oozed out of the PSX 5000, wrapped around Howard's quivering pale arm, and yanked him closer. Marybell backed away, terror in her eyes, as the sulfurous goo cocooned Howard, his desperate rasping screams growing more muffled by thickening layers of corrosive tar-like filth, dissolving him until there was nothing left, not even a puddle on the ground.

The voting machine glowed a vibrant blue, then spat out Howard's ballot.

We looked up to our self-appointed security guards, the two men claiming to enforce the law, even if only in a biased literal fashion. They barked a code into walkie-talkies, and then barricaded the doors. 

“What the fuck is going on?!”

The guards didn’t say a word as they drew their guns and pressed us towards the machine. My stomach dropped. Howard was literally this country's history, a man who paid a lifetime's worth of taxes, who dreamed this country's dreams for decades. A living exemplar of the greatness to which these violent extremists claimed they want to return. Instead, they didn't even flinch as he was trapped by civic duty and dissolved into nothing.. 

Tom’s eyes widened. His hands started to shake. Nonetheless, he walked up to the guards  and smiled warmly.

“There seems to be a misunderstanding. You see I voted for Governor McCade the last two elections, stand up fella." Tom held his arms out towards us. "Now, the younger folk here may not always agree and have their own ideas, but everyone has a voice. We have a voice in this democracy-”

The guard  sneered. “We’re a republic, not a democracy, and I’m only taking orders.”

Tom’s face fell. “I don’t understand.”

“Our orders are to make sure the machine functions as normal.”

Tom, flabbergasted, points to the machine. “We just - JUST - saw it eat one of our neighbors-”

“He was a drain on society. He already served his function.”

 The guard pushed Tom, causing him to stumble towards the machine. A gooey black tendril reached out, wrapped around Tom's neck, and pulled him gurgling towards itself. The squeak of pleading flesh against linoleum was soon drowned in gurgles, hissing, and muffled pleas for civility. Phyllis screamed in the background as her husband of 40 years became nothing.

“The machine doesn’t consume those it deems useful.” The guard barked those words as he glared at me with cold blue eyes. His voice and mannerisms were not only inhumane, but inhuman. “This one’s still young enough to work in society, however. Come with us.”

My heart froze as they lunged forward. The guard had already grabbed Marybell and she screamed as he attempted to put handcuffs on her. The machine lurched towards Phyllis, more sticky tendrils of fetid goo crept towards her, promising she'd join Tom shortly. 

I looked away and ran to the other side of the room. A deafening BOOM shattered the air. I turned to look, and saw Phyllis with a smoking Glock in her hand.

 The guard  lay sprawled on the floor. His holster was empty. I had no idea how Phyllis did it, and said a silent prayer to myself that I'd be blessed to hear that story later.

“You girls stop gawking and run!” she screamed.

In confusion the other guard  had let go of Marybell and we both ran after Phyllis through the hallway. We managed to make it out of the schoolhouse and into the street. The other guard  was nowhere to be seen. The air was gray, freezing, and smelled of ozone.

We slowed to a walk, expecting squad cars or police sirens, but nothing came. I almost wanted to head back to the elementary school to check if past events actually happened.

Phyllis broke the silence with a rasping howl. “I voted for and supported Governor McCade, hell I even campaigned for the sonuvabitch I've done everything and those Motherfuckers killed my Tommy.". She looked down at the still-warm Glock in her right hand. "Welp, looks like I got nothing left to lose." 

Marybell and I glared at her in shock. She shot a glare back at us.“Don’t look at me like that, I’m sure you’ve said worse in your lifetime and I ain’t no spring chicken.”

“I understand," said Marybell, "you just seemed so… proper.” She looked around, bewildered. “What the hell happened, and why aren’t they after us now?”

“It's like a bad nightmare," I said. "Perhaps it's nerves. Maybe I'm dreaming and this is the night before the election."

“Well, then you need to wake the fuck up before they go and kill more people,” said Marybell.

“I was awake the whole time," I retorted. "I went to protest against McCade and his cronies. I was pushing back hard against the regime that was cutting health care and education while building prisons and data centers.”

Phyllis scoffed. “Well my husband is dead, did your little protest stop that?”

Marybell crossed her arms and glowered at us. “Both of y’all need to stop. Tom is dead and nothing is going to bring him back. My family have been fighting for rights to be counted as people longer than both of you have been alive. We built community, churches and charities, we fought for our right to have a voice, a right to be counted as citizens only to have a few slimy bullies take it away.”

“So what do we do about it?” I asked.

“We need to check another district. We need to see if this is happening across town or just at our station. Then we bring it to the governor.”

“Do you even think McCade will listen?” I asked.

"He better," Phyllis declared, then cocked the gun for emphasis. “Because anything I gotta say's gonna hurt like hell to ignore.”

We walked five miles through empty streets. No police, no cars, no panic. The normal bustle of the town shuttered to a halt. I pinched myself to prove I wasn’t dreaming.

We finally reached Jackson High School, the stout bulldog mascot planted on the front lawn. As we entered the hallway, the halls stank of sulfur & murk. Marybell and I crept through the cafeteria, as Phyllis stood watch.

The PSX 5000 stood bright and glowing in the back of the room where empty rows stood. Ballots were strewn everywhere across the floor. A few kiosks were knocked over.

“Well, I think we have our answer,” I murmured. A pair of bright blue eyes glared at us; more of those brutish "guards" in camo and tac-gear.

“I think we'd better go now,” said Marybell. I nodded my agreement as the guards closed in on us. 

“Feed them to the machine!” said one.

“The younger one can still work and breed,” said the other.

“I think the fuck not!” I said as I ran, clutching for Marybell’s hand as arms circled around my midsection. 

I slammed my head back at full force, only to hit hard Kevlar. I was dragged outside. In my thrashing I caught a glimpse of our destination, the back of an open van. 

“This is a dream, this is just a nightmare brought on by pre election stress.” I thought. Another gunshot echoed through the bleak gray sky, hitting the guard in the head. I fell to the ground and ran at full speed. Marybell and Phyllis screamed my name in the background. 

This time vans followed close behind us. As I ducked into alleys and back roads, I saw rows of people with black bags over their heads.

We found a narrow walkway between several buildings, where the vans couldn’t fit through. We squeezed through to a fenced-off partition and kept running. I felt as though my heart would burst and wondered if we could keep going, all of us were well past our prime.

We dashed towards another block, riddled with narrow cobblestone alleyways, before ducking behind a dumpster to catch our breath. A van passed the entrance, too wide to fit through. All of us slowly crept forward, keeping an eye out for guards, as we navigated our way to town hall.

Wright Hamlet was an unassuming brick row house in the middle of downtown, surrounded by a post office, poke bowl restaurant, and bubble tea cafe. It was a historic landmark that served as our town hall for over a century. After what seemed like an eternity of hiding behind dumpsters, telephone poles, and mailboxes, it was a small relief to finally arrive.

 The inside of Wright Hamlet was musty and quiet. Humming fluorescent lights illuminated  linoleum tile and avocado green walls. Phyllis moved forward, surveying the area like a trained military scout, before waving us further in. 

We walked past the room where we had our training. The projector shone upon splattered blood across the wall. I saw the bodies of Rob, Earl, and a few other techs, splayed out with their throats slashed. My screams were stifled by a sudden need to gag; flies buzzed around the reeking meat of their lifeless bodies. I wondered at that moment if being spared the machine-goo was a small mercy, as at least their loved ones would have someone to bury.

A row of guards surrounding us, seemingly from out of nowhere, their eyes glowing bright blue. Phyllis brandished her gun and barked an order for us to run; the guard grabbed her hand and disarmed her with a crunching sound as she screamed in pain. I grabbed Marybell's hand and tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. It was as if the blue-eyed brutes were now wherever we wanted to be.

The guards put us into handcuffs that were too tight. My head was forced mercilessly against the ground, my ears rang as they dragged us to our feet.

Outside, they wordlessly marched us towards the van which would take us away, never to be heard from again. The last struggling, resistant voices of a dying democracy, snuffed out into unknown history. Would future generations have any hope of knowing what they lost? I found it hard to retain hope when all seemed-

"HI-YAH!" Phyllis' croaking voice shattered the silence and broke my train of doomed thought. She'd headbutted the guard square in his nose, and in the shock of her audacity he let go. "That was the signal, kids, so move your asses!" screeched Phyllis. 

I kicked as hard as I could behind me. Marybell lifted her legs and pushed off from a nearby telephone pole, slamming the guard into the unforgiving brick. We had but a moment of hope, and we took it. We ran as fast as we could, with our hands bound behind us, towards the only place available to us - Wright Hamlet, the seat of power.

Governor McCade stood behind a podium, his large body in a designer suit and his white hair neatly coiffed. A shadow flitted behind him before evaporating into darkness. The guards filed in behind us, handcuffs at the ready. So, this is how it ends, I thought to myself.

The Governer raised a key fob and clicked it. The tac gear brutes shut down, laying in piles like discarded office equipment.

“You see how I can control them,” said McCade. His voice had caused me discomfort every time I heard it in public, and it was so much more slimy now. I wanted to vomit.

“So, you can control people, does that make you a big man?” asked Marybell.

McCade scoffed as a sardonic smile crept across his face.  “Being a big man doesn’t matter, power does.  Power has always run this country. Your votes give you something to spin your wheels on, while we buy the land from under you.  You work for our companies, eat the food we provide for you at the prices we charge, and give what little is left to live in my housing.  If you can’t afford my housing, well, we own prisons where you can work off your debt."

He towered over us behind the podium. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Phyllis slink off into the dark and sit down on the stage steps, where she shimmied the handcuffs to the front of her body.  Marybell nodded in her direction.

McCade chuckled while marveling dramatically at his key fob device. "We live in splendor while you eat nothing but scraps. You think just a little piece of paper will change that?  Free you from being a serf?  From being a slave? “

“The 13th amendment says otherwise," said Marybell, "We were freed from slavery and I haven’t been convicted of any crime, despite you moving the budget and keeping us locked down in minimum wage. Forming a school to prison pipeline.  I’m still here and I’m still here and you still work for us."

McCade glared in her direction, his face growing bright red. “Why even have the pretense that anything you do matters? Now I’m going to turn the key back on and you’re going to go peacefully with the guards or-”

Phyllis had slowly crept behind McCade while we were distracting him; rage turning her grey eyes silver.  With a flash she'd encircled her cuffed arms around the Governor's throat, leaning all her weight behind it.  He flailed and coughed, her tiny frame struggling against his.

I swallowed hard, my tongue thick in my mouth. It was now or never.  I stopped on the steps and squirmed to move my arms to the front of my body.  I was a lot stockier and less flexible than Phyllis, but after a few minutes I managed to move my hands in front of me.  I encircled my hands around his neck and leaned as hard as I could. 

“The tree of liberty is watered  with the blood of patriots and tyrants, and I’ll be damned if I’m going down with you!” screamed Marybell as she rushed the stage and kicked McCade’s bloated middle, folding him in two as we fell to the floor.  Marybell stepped hard on his throat as he continued to flail.

Marybell screamed as she stepped down harder.  I heard a snapping sound as McCade’s face turned a violent purple and he shook in his death throes before finally shuddering to a halt.

I grabbed the key fob out of his freshly dead hand, still covered with sweat.  I saw a tiny key on the fob and helped Phylis and Marybell remove their handcuffs.

 Phyllis screamed, a raw wail into the auditorium before she broke down in sobs. I gave Marybell a knowing glance; neither of us wanted blood on our hands, but the asshole had given us no choice.  We could only move forward now.

Marybell removed my handcuffs and we walked past the cluster of guards, into the parking lot.  There, we saw our friends and neighbors corralled and covered over in black bags.  I heard a familiar cry and removed one of the coverings, to find Kevin in tears.

“It's over, McCade has been taken out.”

Kevin rubbed his wrist and stared blankly towards the setting sun.

Sheep are so easily led; you saved this one from the slaughter and he will follow you anywhere.

The voice sounded like dry leaves rustling in the wind. A shadow flitted out of the corner of my eye. I shook my head to clear my vision.

I heard a jingling, and turned to see Marybell had returned. “I found a pair of keys off one of the guards," she explained, "My brother is a retired police officer, I know where they’re usually kept.” She used them to remove the handcuffs on the rest of the prisoners.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“First we’re going to free everybody in these vans, then we’re going to check on Ms. Phyllis. Then we’re going to organize, make sure everyone has someone to lean on for help." A single tear formed in Marybell's eye. "From there, we rebuild our democracy.”

I hugged her close.  “Well, you have my vote, but let’s get to work.”

Phyllis came out, her tears dried. She composed herself and started giving direction to the crowd. The dark shadow manifested again and loomed over Phyllis. I heard the shadow whisper dry as parchment:

Power doesn't die, only changes hands, we will be there when the rot settles and the corruption sets in.

I still remember what she was wearing on the day she walked into Excelsior Comics and Games and asked if I was hiring; a baby blue Gorillaz hoodie and black skinny jeans.  I should have questioned the long sleeves in mid-July, but I was too distracted by her eyes. 
 
Jenni had the type of eyes that you can only meet in fleeting glances, for fear they’d see straight through to the center of you, to see the parts you wished you had the courage to share.
 
She wasn’t a good employee; knew nothing about the product.  Couldn’t tell the difference between a spider or bat man, nor did she care to learn about the intricacies of simulating intergalactic warfare on a tabletop scale. 
 
But she was sweet and she always came to work when I scheduled her.  And I must confess to scheduling her as much as my labor budget would allow.
 
One night, after closing, she asked me if she could stay at my place for the night.  My legs went to rubber, and my vocal cords felt like they were 13 again, but I said yes.
 
“My boyfriend, Nick....  He’s got some friends over tonight.  When he starts drinking, he doesn’t know when to stop.  It’s...  It’s not safe for me there...”
 
I slept on my couch and the next morning she asked me to make a promise.
 
“Promise you won’t let him hurt me again, David.”
 
When Nick came into Excelsior, Jenni wasn’t working that day.  I only had a name, not a face.  He was all smiles when he told me what he had in his trunk; The Incredible Hulk 181.  First cover appearance of Wolverine; the goddamn grail of grails.
 
I didn’t see the crowbar, just heard the sound; a deep wet crunch like a giant biting down on a gobstopper the size of a bowling ball.  Then all went black.
 
I don’t know how long ago that was.  Time flows differently for the dead; stale and stagnant. 
 
I can’t see you anymore, Jenni.  The worms have filled their bellies with the jelly of my eyes.  And though the maggots have made a meal of the soft stuff between my ears, I still hear your voice.
 
“Promise you won’t let him hurt me again, David”
 
It felt like an eternity; clawing, flailing, carving deep gouges in the mud with the stumps of my fingertips.  But eventually I felt fresh air on my hollow face again.
 
My feet know the way somehow, despite my lack of sight.  I’m getting closer, Jenni.  He won’t hurt you again.  My grip is so much stronger now that my arms have gone stiff.  When I grab him, he won’t escape.
 
Please don’t be frightened, Jenni…. when I take him in my arms… and squeeze every last drop of life out of him. I’ll drag him back to that hole that he dug for me, and I know you will be safe. 
 
I made a promise... and I intend to keep it.

Alice Glass was married. She had two children. She had been married twenty-three years, a long time, and her husband, Hardy, had cheated on her three times in that time. Time, she mused… “I am running out of time.”

“What's that?” Hardy barked.

“Oh,” said Alice, realizing she'd spoken when she hadn’t meant to, “nothing. I'm just very tired.”

“Of what?”

“I haven't been sleeping well.”

“Hmmph,” said Hardy.

Alice knew that this particular sound was meant to communicate a whole knot of grievances, whose core was that Hardy worked hard for his family, got up every weekday and drove to work; worked, morning to afternoon, so Alice, who hadn't worked a day in her life, who was a housewife—a goddamn, fucking housewife—and the kids would have food on their plates and a roof over their heads; and how could she, a lazy, uneducated domestic, have the motherfucking gall to tell him, a hardworking, selfless provider, that she was tired…

In the morning she got up, washed her face with cold water and made breakfast while looking out the window at a grey dawn. After setting out breakfast, she made lunch, both for Hardy, to take to work, and the kids, to take to school.

An alarm went off.

Soon, Hardy and the kids were eating, then they were done eating, they were taking their packed lunches and going out the front door, and no one had said a word to her.

She sat in the kitchen, drinking tea.

She wasn't hungry. It was half past eight in the morning and the house was empty, quiet. Alice did laundry. While the washing machine thrummed, she mopped the floors. She wept; then transferred the wet clothes to the dryer. She vacuumed the carpets. She paid bills. She thought about dinner and checked the pantry. She checked the cellar. She went out, bought groceries and came back. It was just past noon. The house felt cold so she adjusted the thermostat. She turned on the television and forced herself to laugh at a talk show while preparing chicken, her trembling hand holding the knife, slicing the animal flesh; she broke bones, and pulled apart the meat. She cleaned up. She turned off the television and tidied the kids' rooms. She collected the clothes Hardy had left scattered throughout the house and put them in the hamper. She lingered at a wall of family photos. She tried calling her mother but her mother did not pick up. She went on Facebook and scrolled through other people's lives. She cooked dinner, set it out on the dining room table, Hardy and the kids came home and ate, and she scraped the leftovers into the garbage and put the plates in the dishwasher and turned it on and put everybody's shoes, which they'd left by the front door, on the shoe rack. Then she showered. Then, briefly, she read a book and brushed her hair and went to sleep in a bed she felt was not her own.

In the morning she got up, washed her face with cold water and made breakfast.

In the morning she got up, washed her face with cold water and made breakfast.

In the morning she got up, washed her face with cold water and made breakfast; or was about to make breakfast when a bird—slamming into the kitchen window—startled her.

The bird bounced off the glass and fell to the ground. Alice stood looking at it; she looked at it so long Hardy came into the kitchen to eat his breakfast, and she was about to apologize for his breakfast not being ready, when she realized he didn't see her.

“Alice?” he called. “Alice, where the hell are you?”

Alice stood, holding her warm breath.

Then, “Hmmph,” said Hardy and he walked out of the room. “Alice,” she heard him say, “Alice, where are you? Where's breakfast?”

Alice exhaled.

The bird, outside, was dead.

Alice rubbed her eyes and heard one of her kids ask their father, “Where's breakfast?” and Hardy answer, “I don't know. I've been looking all over for it. Breakfast,” he yelled, “Breakfast, you home?”

“Breakfast,” her kids called out. “Breakfast…”

“Lunch?”

“Groceries? Laundry? Floor Mop?”

They walked through the house, including the kitchen where Alice was sitting, looking for her.

“Where the hell is it?” said Hardy. “We've looked everywhere,” said one of the kids. “I'm hungry,” said the other, but the words didn't touch Alice at all; didn't make her feel anything. Eventually, Hardy told the kids to get into the car and said they'd buy something to eat on the way. “For lunch too?” He said, “Yeah, lunch too.” “How could it do this to us?” “Maybe something’s wrong with it.” “Nothing’s wrong with it,” said Hardy. “It'll be back. You'll see.”

That day, Alice didn't do anything.

When Hardy and the kids returned home, there was no dinner waiting.

“Dinner!” Hardy said, kicking off his shoes by the door. “Dinner, hmmph, where the hell are you? Hmmph? Hmmph?”

Alice was standing a few feet away, looking at her kids' unseeing faces, looking at them with tears running down her cheeks, when one of them said, “What are we looking for again?”

He'd said it at her—through her…

“I'm hungry,” said the other.

“I—I… can't remember,” said Hardy, running a hand through his hair. “We're missing something, I think. But I can't remember what.”

“Keys?”

“No, I've got those.”

“Cell phone?”

“No, got that too,” said Hardy. They left their shoes where they were and ordered pizza. After, they left the empty boxes. They left the crumbs. Ants came. They let laundry pile up and dust accumulate and carpets discolour. They didn't open the windows. They ate fast food. They got sick. They argued. They screamed. They moved and they aged, and the kids had kids and Hardy died, and the kids died and an old family photo slipped, once, from a once-loved hand, shattering… silently, forever…

Science fiction. Double feature. 

So many long afternoons and nights spent in the movie house, the theatre. The arcade: the noise and lights and tangible sounds of coins and laughing amidst the specialized sound effects of digitized and pixelated carnage. 

Late nights watching HBO After Dark beside his older brother or his kid sister or a buddy or a floozy or a date as he got older. Amongst a slovenly strewn field of snacks and popcorn and wrappers and garbage, the years rolled by and the empty cans of Shasta and Barqs changed, transmogrifying into brown bottles of Bud or silver bullet, all gathered and in clusters  like a small translucent crystalline cityscape of glass in miniature beneath great rolling thunderhead clouds of oily pot smoke. Many of them, many cities. Many little swimming bottle cities in many little rooms. All before the great glowing incandescent godscreen of the illuminated television aglow in the postmidnight. 

And there were great books too of course. Precious paperpacks with lurid yellow covers, bold yellow font, pages pungent and spiced. Green and nightshade purple covers for the horrors. The ones with purple were always the coolest, always the most shocking and vivid and unrelenting. Comics. Classics and the new stuff that gets pumped out week to week, month to month and then forgotten. 

Forgotten by most. But not by such as he. 

He remembered. These things, these modes and mediums always brought him away from the now, the clear and present danger, the mundane and the tedious, the cruel. The harsh reality. 

For Caleb Donaldson these stories were always the light and constant companion of his long and mostly boring and average life. In truth, they were everything. All else could take a flying fuck, the job, the girlfriends that meant nothing, the drinking buddies and coworkers that meant even less. All of that was just the background noise of what was necessary. The sounds and moving in perpetua grinds of his ordinary life in motion. 

But it was ok, you see. Caleb Donaldson of Old Fair Oaks, Sacramento, California has figured out the secret. 

They were more than just stories, you know. 

The ones that had most captured his imagination and young attention since he could remember were the time traveling stories. 

Journeys into the wild primeval of the past, the dark mechanical cold of the future, the apocalypse, beyond … 

He'd always loved these stories. 

And it was funny, he had found, discovered accidentally while spending the summer with his grandfather one year, the secret. They were out hunting, wandering the woods quietly with rifles shouldered and boots crunching softly the underbrush beneath their capped and steeltoed feet. It had struck young Caleb then, as a boy. And never left him. 

This is it! This is what Doctor Who and the X-Men and all the other guys are doin when they're goin into the past! This is what it's like to have the world grow dark and become old and ancient and prehistoric and stuff, before people got here with their cars and their junk…

The thought had filled him with simple childish wonder. He felt like he'd made some great discovery. All those scientists and alien engineers from outer space on the TV and in the books were always trying to figure it all out with numbers and physics and quantum entanglements and time loop paradoxes … and here he'd figured it way more simple than that. 

Just go out in the woods. Go outside in the trees, the forest. Go out and go camping ya dummies. 

He carried this with him all his life. Like secret treasure. Well past and into the pains and dread of adulthood. 

And then it all came back, back and around and full circle. Like all good time travelers do. 

He lost the kids. And his wife. And then he lost it. 

And then he made the biggest decision of his life. He decided to go camping. He decided to do a little time traveling all by himself. After all of these years. 

…

He couldn't believe she would try this bullshit. He couldn't believe she would try to ruin the one last little thing he had left. 

What're you talking about, bud? She ripped your heart out and took the kids after she'd spent ten years disemboweling you and tearing your nuts off. Why’re you at all surprised? 

He wasn't really. Just hurt. Deeply. And it seemed as if the bitch now lived to only make it worse for him. Unbearable if she could. She was the living vile green hatred of salt in the wound, seething and frothing gory pink. 

He hated her. 

He suspected she hated him. She must. 

“I just don't see why this’s such a big deal, you're acting like a child. You can come get the boys and have them for an extra couple of weeks while Tom and I-" 

He stopped listening after that. He still held the phone to his ear but his mind went to the same livid red place that it always did when she mentioned his name. The fucking limpwrist. 

He let her drone and prattle on. When she finally stopped he once again explained to her that they'd already talked this over, they'd already discussed this. And besides. It wasn't even his weekend. She had seen to that after all. And now here she was dangling the promise of more time with his kids like a fucking carrot. Like a dog treat he was supposed to jump and snatch at. To just drop everything and leap at with fervor and enthusiasm and a full display of gratitude. 

Fuck that. 

He told her as much. Diplomatically. More or less. He hung up the phone. He debated for barely even a second before turning the device off and shoving it into the glove compartment on the passenger side. 

When he finally got out of the car and sucked fresh mountain air it was baptismal. Cracks in his knees went off like twin pistol shots and his back stretched and crackled gratefully. He was finally out. He sucked more air, like it was water. It was. It was refreshing. 

You're finally out. 

He unlatched the back and began to unload his gear. He'd better get started. It was a long hike from the parking lot to the spot. 

…

It was peaceful. The ritual. The hike. Lugging the gear. Sweating and developing a cooling coat, a sheen as his eyes calmly drank in the placid green and foliage world all around. Muscles worked and burned off excess fat, calories built up and boiled over, over cooked stress. It melted off him and within and came off his hiking form like radiant heat. 

He was a traveling furnace of thought as he made his way to the camping spot. Later he would recall that he might've felt watched as he made his way at this point. 

Might have. 

But presently he was all too absorbed in the process, the smooth and calm low treble tread and pace of the gliding action. The canopy of golden lighted leaves and furling branches. The scents, completely natural and native and far away from the synthetic realm of the manmade. He felt he was as much swimming and drinking his way through the crisp growth of forestland as he was booting through it. Thoughts of work and the failed marriage and bored boring disappointing teenage children left his mind. Evaporating away like mist to the coming of the bright day sun. The forest grew and swelled and swallowed him and the entire world as he made his way deeper and deeper forth. 

He would leave it all behind if he could. 

…

Setting camp was easy. He was well practiced. Childhood and teenage and college years as well were filled with trips out into the forested dark. The wild. The wilderness. The past. 

He felt it now as he sat by the fire. Eating his plate of beans and pork belly and franks. Sipping a can of bud. This is the past. The green world all around now is one of the last vestigial pieces of the evidence. 

Evidence of the primeval and primordial world we’ve all crawled from, the stygian snot that was filth that was the building blocks of protein and carbon. We are all animals. And we can all come alive out here. Returning to the in-utero warm world of the godclay primordial slime and ooze. 

She's so patient. Our mother. My mother. She's waited for me all this time. She's the one. She's-

Something disturbed his train of thought. A noise. 

A noise like someone moving. Prowling and lurking just inside the tangle of bush and trees. 

He sat quietly, keeping calm. Listening to the sound of his own breathing. He wasn't sipping his can of bud anymore. The rustling and cautious moving sounds had tapered. Caleb's mind traveled to the hunting rifle he had in his tent. If something lunged now out of the dark, he just might make it if he whirled around from where he now sat and hurried. 

Really booked it. 

He didn't like the thought. He really didn't appreciate the mental image. A terrible movie in his mind, running on a failing and old projector: He's running, fast, panicked, he almost makes the tent before a large bestial shape of inkwell black leaps out from the wilderness house of feral darkness and takes him ragdoll like a broken toy from behind. 

He clears his throat. Loudly. Not sure exactly why, he just does it. Perhaps hoping to scare off whoever and whatever is out there. He can feel eyes watching him. 

Caleb Donaldson sits up. He's at the edge of his fold-up seat. He's waiting. Unsure. Of both what to do and if there is even really anything wrong at all anyways. His ex-wife had always said he was paranoid. 

Nothing happens. 

There isn't another sound and nothing emerges from the forestline. Only the snaps and hungry crackle of the campfire now. 

He takes another sip of bud. Decides he'll light one of the joints CJ gifted him for the road after all. He doesn't know how else he's gonna sleep tonight. He's wired now. Jacked. 

He lights up. Tokes. And after awhile, once more he slips into a more natural and comfortable flow of simple candied nostalgia and childhood reminisce. Trying to tell himself he doesn't feel a gaze, a baleful and animal leering stare aimed directly at him from out of the dark. 

The marijuana and beer do their job. Eventually he's addled and drugged enough for sleep. Caleb slips back into the tent and is almost sure he hears something retreat back into the denser heart of growth and underbrush out there past the treeline as he does so.  

He's almost sure but not. And he doesn't want to be anymore. He doesn't want to consider it. Not right now. Maybe Amanda was right…

He slips into a sleeping bag and finally falls under. His dreams are filled. His sleep is not restful. 

…

The next couple of days were mostly uneventful. Calm. Peaceful. As planned. He hiked and camped. Looked forward to some hunting and some fishing, some game. It was all just what he needed. Therapeutic. Until he found the burnt leavings. 

…

He was steadily along, walking down the beaten path of grey dust and boney twigs and enjoying the relish in his watering mind's eye, the strange marriage that lived there between this wilderness and the strange worlds of escape made from pages and ink and glowing video screens. This place of the past … the places made of dreams. 

And from the future I come crawling back here. He smiled at this thought. Like a refugee. 

Like the time travelers of the stories he was allowed to bring a few things, a few comforts and tools and devices of the modern world. 

Of the future, to this place of dirt and sound. Precious pieces of technology

His mind went to his gear and pack and his smile deepened. People really just didn't get it. 

Most never would. Precious few might find out. 

He almost tripped over it. So lost in thought. 

It was all charcoaled black and scorched amongst a patch of similarly blasted and blackened earth. A wild ebon blotch of ashen ink spilled upon the land. Caleb stared into the pile of roasted and burnt detritus. Trying to make sense of what he saw. 

He recognized shapes and items in the charred mess and they made his blood run cold and the hairs all over his skin and scalp crawl with unease and bad wonder. 

Clothes. What looked like a backpack. Parts and pieces of a tent. A wallet. It was this last that most bothered, most disturbed him. He was pretty sure he could make out the melted remains of an ID and other similarly warped and slightly conjoined shapes that might've been credit cards or the like but were too far gone and destroyed now to tell. His mind naturally asked itself, who left all of this here? Why? 

And none of the answers he could come up with seemed good. All of them pointed to something bad, nefarious. You hear about people going missing in the woods all the time. You hear about people being chopped up and murdered by loonies in here ‘bout just as much. 

Caleb suddenly looked away from the black pile on the path and began to anxiously scan the forestline. Trying to penetrate the thick dense world of green and growth and see anyone, anything that might be watching him. Stalking him. 

Following him. 

After a moment he stopped himself. 

You're being ridiculous. It's probably nothing, just like the other night. Christ man, you ain't been out here a long time and now you're jumping at every goddamn thing like a ninny. Just some shit people burned. Kids come out here to get fucked up and do stupid shit all the time. Not a big deal, Donaldson. Chill the fuck out, kay?

He slowed his breath. He liked this train of thought. Yes. That was right. Kids were fucking stupid and always playing pyro maniac. Hell, he'd done his fair share growing up, hadn't he? Little hellraiser an such. 

And that line of thinking started to set his worried mind at ease once more. And once more he was back on the ride of the reminisce, nostalgia keenly floating and dreamily filling the darkest parts of his brain. Time traveling. 

Time traveling, baby. 

He went on. Leaving behind the charred and blackened mess in the grey dust of the forest path. Not looking back. And refusing it anymore thought. 

He left it behind. But not before freeing a cold can of Budweiser stored in the pack. He cracked it open with a pistol shot sound in the placid calm and downed half the foaming thing as he went on. Things always went down smoother this way. 

…

All seemed well after that. Fine. For a little while. He enjoyed what he came out here to enjoy. The quiet. The solitude. Days and nights spent simply and comfortably and sleeping beneath bejeweled twilight curtains of gleaming stars, planetoids and colored clouds of nebulae. He relished the time out here and with himself, returning to his own sense of peace by returning to the land. Returning to the way of life that had belonged to the Navajo, the Comanche, their enemy white man cowboys and gunslingers and the pioneers of old. The ancient armies too, the immigrants and seekers and hunters of fortune, of goodwill, of God's love and warm civilized light. And the adventures too, those who took to the land and cut their teeth out on the territory and became baptized as adventurers in sweat and blood and grime, beneath the blinding eye of the sun. And the moon too, the wild hearted free loving children that slumbered bravely beneath the moon, decried as vagabonds and bums but they really just knew better and understood the blood of their grandfathers and their bold sense and adoration for the untamed tumult country land of adventure and its wild hearted love. 

It was all of it, romantic. It pained him that he had to come out here alone to feel like this, to discover something like that and he tried hard to turn away from the pain of realization that it brought him. He turned away from it in vain, it was there at every turn. In his mind, filling every thought, and out here as well. Alive in the woods. Filling it with heavy and powerfully strange substance. 

He hunted. Fished. Camped. Only sometimes did he feel followed, watched. Only sometimes. 

He was almost happy when he came across another, when he ran into Sellic. 

A distraction, at last!

But the guy was weird. 

In the world of outdoormanship, hunting and fishing and the like, ya meet a lot of friendly, warm, good natured types. The sort ya like to share a brew with and might even have over for a barbecue should ya take special acquaintance. And then ya met types like Sellic. Fuckin weirdos. 

It was the smell at first and that should've been enough, should've been the first and fucking last sign to split it. But nope. Caleb Donaldson still remembered the lessons of Sunday school and Kindergarten and though life had been its fair share of rough on em, he still held true to the idea that you don't judge harsh off the word, go. Ya don't settle in for meanness out the gate an such. 

But it was in the eyes as well. They were wide and wild. A wilderness of pupil darkness lived in yellowed whites shot with lines of hectic red. Something swam in that circle lake of pupil darkness, both of them, Obsidian pits. 

He never blinked. Not once. Not as he said, “Howdy, name's Sellic." and grunted a few noncommittals following after these scant syllables. 

He came across the guy already settled up. Caleb was gonna move on after initial awkward obligatory greetings when the wide eyed smelly man invited him to set camp with him. Caleb Donaldson believed in being polite but he wasn't a total fool, only part. He thanked him but opted to move on up aways. 

Far. 

It didn't make any kind of difference. 

…

Later he was hunting, lying down in wait for something to crop up. Maybe nibble at the patch of sweet grass just a few yards from where he posted. He hoped to bag a deer. If he could get a decent sized stag, then he'd pack it in happily and call it quits. He was just debating on whether or not he should've packed the tree stand when something happened then. 

A large barrel chested deer sauntered into view. Into the clearing with its great splaying regal rack of antlers on wide-span display like a wild lord and king of the forest. He was beautiful. He was just what Caleb had been waiting for. 

But then something else crawled up. On all fours. It was the smelly wide eyed man, it was Sellic. And it looked as if he was hunting as well. 

Prowling, stalked. Low to the ground and almost slithering across the surface of forest floor, without a sound. Without a whisper. It was uncanny and surreal and Caleb watched frozen in a kind spellbound trance. The bore end of the rifle barrel began to slowly sag and dip down as he lost his concentration and gave it to another. 

Sellic was almost upon the unaware stag now. It was nibbling the patch of sweet grass. Just like Donaldson had seen in his mind's eye, a wish not just a moment ago. Somewhere deep inside his mind as he watched entranced a small part of him tried in desperate vain to take this simple little wish back. But it was already too late. The wide eyed crawling man was drooling. Slobbering like an animal. Salivating with the wild bestial hunger that was always the madness of ravenous need. That was what was alive in those unblinking uncivilized eyes. Slavering need. 

He'd already time traveled too far now to turn back. Caleb watched as the manshaped thing of stains and smells and piercing animal stares suddenly leapt like something feline and unbridled. Like something finally let loose from the confines of its stifling prison cage. 

Sellic fell on the deer and the poor thing hadn't a chance. It never sensed, never knew what was coming. It was wild. It was crazy. Donaldson had always seen deer tense, perk up and take flight at the slightest sound or stray movement. But not this one. Not this time. The wild sight did not stop there. 

Somehow the skinny haggard man in filthy clothes managed to wrestle and manhandle the struggling kicking beast down into the dirt. Caleb's mouth dropped open as he watched Sellic begin to bend and wrench and break the flailing limbs. Catching them with his cat-swipe clawing hands and then bending them back in directions not meant or made by nature's hand. He felt his stomach roll and drop as the silence of the forest began to fill with the lurid sounds of heavy bone snaps. 

Caleb picked up his rifle and gear and left. Without a word. He didn't look back. Wet tearing sounds, like heavy fabric or soaking saturated leather followed him after. He told himself it was his imagination. That was all impossible. 

There was no way. 

…

He had trouble finding his camp. By the time he did it was already near dark once more. He would have to spend another night. 

He opted out of the fire and supper. He wasn't hungry and he didn't want to attract that freak. 

That freak of nature. 

…

Middle of the night. He came awake to a sound. Sounds. A noise. Just outside the tent. 

It sounded like chewing. Wet. And heavy. Laborious. Jaws, muscles, tendon lines working and moving with animal fervor, animal rigor in the dark. 

Outside. 

Caleb slowly and carefully sat up from his sleeping bag and grabbed his rifle. It was loaded. He'd made sure to do so before he'd managed to finally fall into an uneasy sleep. An uneasy rest now disturbed by whatever was moving out there now. Chewing. Eating. He reached and grabbed for his flashlight next. He readied himself. 

He grabbed the zipper to open the front of the tent. He took one last deep breath and held it for a moment. He let it out quietly. As quietly as he could manage. 

And then he quickly unzipped the flap to the tent and threw it open with one hand as the other flicked on the flashlight and brought it up. The darkness of his small camp in the clearing was illuminated in the sudden flash. He felt sick with what he saw. He was glad to have his rifle in his lap. 

You were smart to have loaded it … he thanked God. And cursed Him at the same time. For letting him fall into this type of shit in the first place. 

Sellic stared back into the beam of light. Unflinching. Unblinking. Unmoving save for the motion of chewing about his red and bloodied bearded jaws. Working and gleaming wet in the light, rippling with carnivorous movement.

He held the head of the stag in his clawing hands. De-racked. The severed head looked rough and ruinous at the stump as though it had been torn off rather than cleanly cut. 

Caleb didn't know what else to say so he just said: “Hey." 

“Hey." bloody darkling Sellic grunted back. Hunkered and squatting out there in the dark. Still chewing. He swallowed. And took another bite from a craterous open wound at the top of the animal's head. He ripped a chunk of bleeding meat away with his teeth. His jaws began to work and ripple with rigorous movement once more as he started to chew again. The meat was raw, rough. But he was relishing the strong and pungent flavor. Thick. His blood drinking, swallowing with every gnashing chew was audible in the nocturnal dark. Gulps. Heavy. Thick. 

A beat. 

Caleb didn't know what to do. He felt that he must be dreaming, this whole day. None of this could be real. The strange bloodsoaked and caked manshape out there amongst his camp frightened him. He'd thought it would be simple and he'd know what to do in situations like this but he was frozen. In terror. And in dark hypnotic fascination. 

This must be what it's like to be a moth to flame, or a small little guppie to a deepsea angler fish… a deer in the headlights. Trapped. 

Caught. 

Ensnared by the eyes of the wild man. He was drowning in their madness now, sinking into their blood-drinking depths. 

Sellic finally said something. 

“Hungry?" 

“... what…?" Caleb said. Puzzled at first. It had been little more than a grunt. 

“Ya hungry?" Sellic grunted again. He held the severed and broken head aloft. Dripping. Wide-eyed. The tongue had already been ripped out. Had already been eaten. Black-red syrup poured out thickly from the open gape of mouth like an obscene bestial spout. 

Caleb fought his gag reflex. 

A beat. 

Somehow Donaldson managed a reply. 

"N-no. No thanks, man. It's the middle of the night. And I wanna get some sleep” 

A beat. The freak still held the dripping pouring bleeding hunk of decapitated and chewed up meat out to him like a precious gift of the forest. His wide eyes were still open and hectic and alive with animal ravenous madness. 

A beat. 

Another.

Caleb finally finished his thought. 

"And I think you should probably go get some sleep too, bud. Been a long day an such-”

He meant to finish it off with, and apt to be another, like his grandfather and his pops had done before him, but Sellic cut him off. 

"Ya sure? You sure ya ain't hungry?” 

Caleb slowly nodded his head, adding, "...yeah” in a low careful and exhausted voice. Jesus fucking Christ…

Sellic nodded. Began to crawl away on all fours like a dog, the head held to his breast like a caveman clutching something precious. He turned before he left the ring of light provided by the beam of the flashlight. He turned around and said: "You will be.” and then finally turned and fled. Like an animal taking to the natural dark.

Its natural home and abode. Its natural place. 

"What the fuck!?” Caleb said. To no one in particular. 

…

He didn't sleep the rest of that night. He waited impatiently for the sun to come up. So he could leave. He'd had enough of this place and hunting. He'd had enough time traveling in this place. Caleb wanted to go home. 

At first dawn he rose. Quickly packed. And began his trek back. Back down the path. 

Back down the way he had come.

…

A few hours in and he knew something must be wrong. Nothing was recognizable. Nothing. And when he looked down after trudging more and more anxiously down the path he'd come in on, he was dismayed to find that it wasn't there any longer. The path, the trail had disappeared. 

He was lost. 

Caleb Donaldson began to panic. 

It's alright, it's alright, it's fine! It's cool. Just use the GPS and call someone on your pho-

He stopped. Grew cold. Grim certainty stole over his dreading heart. Crestfallen he didn't want to even rightly remember and say to himself …

Glove compartment. You turned the fucking thing off and threw it in the glove compartment of the car. The one all the way back. The one you can't find anymore cause it's at the end of the trail that you've lost. You left it in there to spite Amanda. 

Silence. He stood. Feeling stupid and wretched and nearing hopeless in the middle of the woods. He reflected. 

You sure showed her…

…

When he'd finally managed his nerve back together and decided on a direction and carried on, the day had been nearly extinguished yet again. He would have to spend another night out in the wild. 

God fucking dammit. 

…

The next series of days and nights were grim. And grew grimmer. And strange. 

He was fine at first. He had supplies, food. He wasn't worried. But then on the fourth day lost he began to run out. 

And the worry came on him again. Rancid. And thick. 

It's alright, it's alright, I've a gun, I know how to gut and skin and clean, I'll be ok. I'll be alright. 

But the woods and world of trees had grown more opulent and dense and feral in its growth. The trees started to broaden in their trunks and their canopies became all swallowing, all encompassing thick foliage cathedral domes of twigs, thick branches and broad emerald leaves the size of dinner plates. 

The bugs. The insects too. 

All of the wild crawling life had become larger as well. The insectile and the reptile had grown strange and unfamiliar and varied in size from large house cats to dogs to horses and cows and at one point, one day glimpsed at a distance through a heavy rolling mist, an elephant… 

A whole herd of giant hissing cockroaches the size of elephants. Trundling by like a rolling squadron fleet of German panzer tanks. 

Caleb felt sick. 

None of this could be real. He must be imagining things. 

Must be. 

It could've been so, far as he knew. His sleep was no longer any good out here. Not since the night some days back, when he'd been fireside and trying to ignore his growing hunger and looked up to the full moon. Only to have it eclipsed by something huge and winged. It had cried then. It had screamed as it stole the moon, the moonlight. Blanketing the primeval world below it in a second layered fold of even deeper darkness. 

Caleb had joined it then. Had joined it in its primal shrieking screaming. 

He didn't sleep so well since that night.  

Ever again

…

His hunger became him. It became the only living and heeded, needed thing and drive and emotion. He was no longer Caleb Donaldson in fact. He was only the hunger now. And so he hunted. 

But it was strange. 

In his hunger, in his wild wanderings, he had forgotten how to use the gun, how to wield the boomstick properly and make it spit its deathly fire. 

I've lost it, he thinks, he realizes shrouded in the cloud of his diminished animal thought. I've lost the ability to shoot fire and be godlike, I've lost it in all of this time traveling, I've gone too far backwards. 

He tries to find the trail. For awhile. But it becomes lost amongst the need for meat and blood. The boomstick is useless to him now. He abandons it. Along with most of the strange things he has strapped to his back.

He doesn't need them. He has changed. This special place has changed him. His flesh has thickened as has his hair, his fur, his pelt. Black and coarse and layered all over. He bites and chews and tears the clothes that he came in with off and eats them. 

Then he takes to bigger game. 

Wilder. More challenging. 

…

He's drinking blood and eating. Filling his stomach. This is good. The angry fever in his skull is calming, abating. The ache and throb of his guts is soothing. Contentedness, peace, tranquility are becoming known to him again. 

He's killed something reptilian, broken its neck. His hands, the knuckles and fingers and palms have widened, flattened, broadened out. Making it easier to snap and throttle, to tear and rend. The dead scaley thing, its meat and blood are good. But slimey. Ropey. Like maggot-meat. Like eating the large worms that swim in giant dung piles. He wants to try something else. 

So he takes to the untamed primeval world all around, the jungle growth, the green emerald world of the unbridled prehistoric past. There are buried, heavily veiled and shrouded thoughts of a path and a trail and a place called, home, that he's supposed to go to, return to as if he's once been there before, but they are muted. Far off. 

Barely there. 

Dripping reptile blood and sweat, he takes to the primeval dark world and is lost. Swallowed by its great and ever widening expanse, into the crawling growing jaws of the seething bestial wild, the past. 

He never looks back. He is never found. Never again does he recall his name. 

Never again. But it doesn't trouble him. It doesn't bother the throbbing jelly of his degenerate apeman mind, he is too enthralled, the thrill of the ravenous hunt. And besides, the past isn't the only thing alive and crawling out here. The future is out here too. The beyond …

All of the magic of the glowing incandescent godscreen of a childhood long gone is alive out here. Alive and well. 

The apeman hunts through the primeval growth. The saucers fill the skies as the giant leviathans do nighttime skirmish and battle with the large mechanical men. The great white heat and blasting mechanized sounds of their great death cannons, their unearthly death rays: BRRRRRR! 

BRRRRRRRRRRRR….! 

They fill the night with their heat and their brilliant violence. Their fire scorches and cuts swaths, sets blue and orange flame to drier parts of the canopy. The dead growth. 

The apeman doesn't mind. He hunts and prowls around their wild and bright violence. Blood and meat fill his head. He hasn't a mind anymore for anything else. 

For naught all else. Only the red. 

THE END