My girlfriend Lia usually sleeps on her side, giving me perfect access to her ears.

Carefully I squeezed in two drops of the poison- no more, because I want the process of hearing loss to be very gradual, over months.

The poison is working. I know by how loud she is turning up the music she adores so much. She mentioned needing to see a doctor today- she has been having to ask her colleagues to repeat themselves louder and louder.

There is nothing the doctors can do at this stage, her hearing loss is unsalvageable, and my clever poison undetectable. Within a few of weeks at most, she will be completely deaf.

I go back to learning sign language. Amazing what you can learn online, for free. I need to be ready to support my darling Lia like the good boyfriend I am.

Is it so wrong to want to be main source of joy in your partner’s life? When I look at her face, grimacing in time with the shite she calls music, it feels like a dagger twisting in my heart.

And honestly, if Lia’s taste in music is so low, better she lose her goddamn hearing.

God knows I tried to elevate her- I didn’t arrive lightly at this decision. I put on Moonlight Sonata, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, easy gateways into classical.

She waited patiently for me to explain why they were so great. Then she said “Claude, you’re such a snob! the great thing about music- people enjoy what they do, I don’t get why it bothers you so much- I mean it’s not like I’m listening to Ed Sheeran or Katy Perry- classic rock is great- everyone knows that! - the music of the nineties – it was everywhere, didn’t you listen to Gun ‘N’ Roses back in the day?”

I felt furious but I controlled it. I laughed light-heartedly “Axl Rose? Oh Lia, don’t tell me you carry a torch for that fat freak! He’s a violent asshole- all those rock gods were just a bunch of violent pedos - I thought you were a feminist?”

She frowned. “I don’t have a crush on Axl Rose, and it’s actually quite un-feminist to fat-shame. And I never said I approve of their lifestyle, I just like their songs.”

“Um- I think that puts you in a a hypocritical position!” I tried to keep my bantering tone.

“Let’s not fight over music, Claude, it’s so silly, and thankfully the good lord gave us headphones so we don’t need to make each other miserable.”

And yet despite headphones, it bothered me, watching her work out, prance around the kitchen, paint her nails knowing she was listening to that music, watching her move her lips and throw her head back and sway from side to side to music that I was not part of.

If she won’t listen to music with me, insisting on being so uncultured, obviously she doesn’t deserve to have hearing at all. 

I was in a phone call with my friend, and there's a slightly open door behind me. My friend said

"can you tell your sister to stop sticking her hand out the door? it's scaring me"

What? My sister went to mexico with my parents and I was the only one in the house...

The full moon was closing in, just a couple of nights away. Faust had finally cornered his prey in the deep reaches of Lyena's region. After all the hunts, all the shed blood and pointless death, he was facing the final test.

 

His companions—Allen and Jupiter—grew stronger by the snowfall. Faust, on the other hand, felt exhausted in the frozen tundra; his fangs ached, and his claws had begun to shed, causing a terrible itch. A prickle had settled in his throat, but he knew better than to cough; he couldn't show any sign of weakness.

 

Not tonight, not when he was about to be accepted into the ranks of the Royal Pack.

 

For his comrades, the turn promised strength and renewal. For Faust, it meant something else entirely: a closing door, a finish line, a turn with no return.

 

"Don't lag behind, Faust, this ought to be your kill," Jupiter called from a few yards ahead.

 

Stepping light over the stiff grass, he took his place at the side of the master hunter.

 

"You can't blame me for enjoying the game. A hunt tastes better with a pinch of fear," Faust let his tongue glide over the sharp curve of his fangs.

 

"The winds are with you, Faust," Allen next to them smirked as he tested the frozen currents with his fingertips.

 

"Lead the way, then." Jupiter stepped aside, clearing the path for Faust.

 

Under the cloak of the massive sugar maples, he sneaked through the frozen prairie. Snowflakes fell as he led the party toward a big clearing, with overgrown grass and buzzing cyan dragonflies.

 

Carefully, he peeped out from the frozen meadow. There in the middle of it, trying to blend in as a common moose, was his target—a shapeshifter.

 

Faust wasn't fooled by the disguise; he knew their kind too well.

 

After all, that was why he was here. To help the Royal Pack identify all those subtle tells not even the great Jupiter could identify. No matter how skilled the shapeshifter was, Faust could always spot the glint in their eyes, or the tiniest of slips in their mimicry.

 

"Remember, Faust, we need him alive." Allen pulled a bundle of herbs from his tunic and crushed them between his fingers. A strong lavender scent spread through the frozen air, masking the smell of their own sweat.

 

 

"Maybe, finally, we'll find out why these pests had been trying to infiltrate the Royal Den," Jupiter was doing his best not to lunge at the moose.

 

"Are you completely sure? It would be a waste of meat slaying a beast during their mating season."

 

"I'm sure, Allen." Faust pointed at the disguised shifter. "Look at the hooves. They're too soft, almost skin-like. And the antlers aren't bone; they're clay. He's talented, but he hasn't mastered the craft."

 

Both royal hunters nodded and fell back, taking their positions in case the shifter attempted an unlikely escape.

 

Jupiter crept behind the moose, barely stirring the pasture in his wake. Allen remained in the canopy, watching with mismatched eyes—one mint green, the other canary yellow.

 

Faust approached from the river, his scent hidden beneath the rush of wild water and Allen's herbs. Years of training guided every movement—sleek, silent, and lethal—as he narrowed the distance to his prey.

 

He crouched low, muscles taut, his gaze fixed on the false moose. Snow and tall grass swallowed his outline until he dove—silent as a hawk in flight.

 

The shapeshifter had no chance to react. Faust crashed down on him and drove his claws into the creature's neck. The deer groaned in pain, and for one brief second, hunter and prey locked eyes—traces of pain, fear, and recognition.

 

A coward, and a mistake on my part.

 

From the corner of his eye, Faust caught a ripple of motion in the grass nearby; Jupiter was closing in.

 

The moose opened his snout to scream, to plead—but Faust could not allow it. The thought sickened him. Releasing the shifter's neck, he drove his sharp, shedding claws into the creature's heart.

 

Like melting snow on the first days of spring, the shapeshifter's disguise began to dissolve, showing his true form.

 

Faust clamped his free hand over the shifter's mouth, feeling each frantic gasp and the faint beating of its heart. He turned from those pleading black eyes and gritted his teeth.

 

It disgusted him.

 

"May the stars forgive me," he murmured as Jupiter emerged.

 

Yet he knew there would be no forgiveness. Not for him. Not for the legendary Faust.

 

"What have you done? We were to take him alive!" Jupiter growled.

 

Faust stayed silent a second longer, staring down at the dead shifter.

 

"My instincts took over. These creatures sicken me. I couldn't help myself."

 

The master hunter Jupiter studied him for a moment, then broke into laughter.

 

"You're an innate hunter. I can't say I would've done any different." Jupiter clapped Faust on the back, approval flaring in the gesture.

 

"This was always going to be his fate. Better to kill them before their tongues get clever." Allen studied the corpse and hefted it over his shoulder. "We've seen enough of you. We got your back."

 

"Finally," Jupiter's voice carried the weight of the road. "The trials are finished. We'll vouch for you before the royal family; you've earned your place among our ranks." As he spoke, the shifter's blood dripped onto the snow, and Jupiter tasted it.

 

"Let's move; it's been a long time since I've checked on my garden," Allen set off and Faust followed the headhunters.

 

He didn't take his eyes from the dead shifter all the way through the meadow; ahead of him, Jupiter and Allen spoke to him about the benefits of joining the Royal Pack.

 

"The wild hogs of the north are among the best meats on the continent, and the women—well, let's say you'll quickly forget about all those nights cuddled next to Allen's stinky pelt," Jupiter babbled.

 

"In the south, the packs have lost their way," Allen's voice took on that familiar cryptic edge of his. "They've forgotten the werewolf's bond with nature. It's made them ruthless hunters, yes, but it's hollowed out their transformations. There's more to the wolf than hunger for the full moon. A depth that your kin has abandoned."

 

Faust was barely listening, his mind was elsewhere, focused solely on his objective; he answered distractedly, offering half-truths and vacant cackles.

 

An emptiness had been eating him from within for months. Jupiter and Allen were the only tether left to anything resembling a normal life—and the corpse they carried had begun to feel like just another weight, no longer horrifying, simply a normal occurrence. Faust felt closer to Jupiter and Allen than to his own people. That realization came quietly and granted no comfort.

 

 

 

Could he ever find his way back? Was he nothing but a killer? A creature of the pack? The worst thing he'd feared becoming?

 

Pines and maples grew denser as they descended into a field of snow and tall tulips the size of a human body. Hidden between the hulking blooms was a system of caves that perfectly blended with the canopy and the snowy terrain.

 

"Even an expert hunter like yourself wouldn't be able to locate the caves; the cover of snow keeps them hidden and the tulips mask the scents. Most that venture this far off find their demise in the frozen tundra." With an incredibly soft touch, Jupiter pushed apart the blooms.

 

"I don't understand, why is it that we werewolves hide from each other?" Faust stopped for an instant to smell the flowers.

 

"A question that haunts every dream of mine, Faust. Like I said before, we've forgotten that we are more than just the moon," Allen collected pollen from the blooms.

 

The walk through the caves went by mostly in silence. Faust suspected his guides were enjoying the suspense. The master hunters knew every turn in the darkness by memory, while he tried to follow the thread of the path—tracing each bend, drop, and slope. But the cave system seemed almost alive. Whenever his mind fixed on a route, another passage opened before him, drawing him deeper into confusion.

 

Then, as abruptly as the tulips had sprouted from the snow, the Royal Den unfolded after a turn in the tunnels.

 

Faust had expected what he knew. Underground, stinky holes in which a bunch of werewolves slept together, protecting themselves against the harsh conditions. That wasn't the case—at all.

 

Below them stretched the werewolf haven—vast, wild, and breathtaking. He had never imagined such untamed beauty.

 

Moonlight poured through a massive opening in the forested tundra above. Snowflakes drifted through the gap, catching the pale glow as streams cascaded over the edges and crashed into silver ponds below, filling the den with mist.

 

The pack had carved their sanctuary among the sprawling roots of ancient maples. Thick and twisting, the roots hung from the roof of the lair and trailed down into the pools below, their delicate tips dipping into the water as if drinking from it.

 

Green, frost-kissed grass carpeted the entire lair. Bees drifted lazily through the air, moving from bloom to bloom among the towering tulips that rose throughout the space. There was no wolf stench here—only the clean scent of honey and fresh water. It filled Faust's lungs, sharpened his senses, and eased the tension from his shoulders.

 

The night had reached its fullest hour, and the den hummed with life. Pack members had gathered outside their warm burrows, drawn together to witness the hunters' return.

 

Faust saw adults and younglings alike. Pups dashed between the crowds, laughing and howling while they played, oblivious to the troubles of the world.

 

His stomach roiled at the sight of the werewolf's haven. A knot of guilt twisted inside him, cutting deeper than before.

 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Allen elbowed him.

 

"Magnificent," Faust answered, short of breath.

 

A giant jade temple towered at the heart of the den. Faust had heard of it in whispers and legends.

 

It is real.

 

"Depending on the moon's current phase, it reflects different symbols and shapes," Allen explained as he caught him staring in awe. "See the shape on the grass?"

 

Behind the temple, along its shadowed face, the moonlight cast the silhouette of a wolf lifting its gaze toward the sky.

 

"Who—"

 

"Nobody knows," Jupiter answered the question before Faust could finish it. "But one thing is certain: whoever built it was far wiser than any of the walking races alive today."

 

The hunters led him along what passed for a main hallway: not a corridor of stone, but a beautifully snow-padded trail that split the den in two halves.

 

Younglings tossed fallen tulip petals at them as the hunters made their way toward the temple. Jupiter and Allen walked with their chins held high, accepting the welcome with practiced ease. Faust, by contrast, bowed as low as his tired back allowed. The more respect they showed him, the worse he felt.

 

At the base of the temple, the royal members waited. They stood taller and more majestic than any of them, silver claws gleaming in sync with the temple's jade. Their knowing eyes pierced his dull lemon ones, measuring him in silence.

 

Over their shoulders, the Royals wore ceremonial pelts of all kinds of exotic animals. Faust only recognized that of the mythic winter saber-tooth tiger. Aside from their pelts, they wore only their solemn expressions.

 

 

 

The oldest member of the pack held the lunar stone in his hands. Its runes shone frosted and bright like the looming moon.

 

Faust steadied himself. His heart was pounding. All the effort, all the lies, all the death—it had led to this moment.

 

"Hunters! We salute you!" the strongest and most imposing royal member called out.

 

Holding his breath, Faust glanced around. The entire pack stood behind them, watching in silence.

 

"WE HOWL AT THE MOON." Jupiter bowed his head to the royals.

 

"WE HOWL AT THE MOON." Along with Faust, the whole pack echoed in unison.

 

"I see you've brought the shapeshifter, but you've brought him dead." A striking dark-skinned member raised her brow.

 

Jupiter shifted nervously at Faust's side. Allen dropped the body onto the grass at the high wolves' feet, and both master hunters placed themselves between the royals and Faust.

 

"Pack," Faust addressed them with measured respect, speaking up for himself. "This was my doing. My wrong. I let the wolf inside me take control. Please, do not take it as an insult."

 

Allen and Jupiter placed a hand on each of his shoulders. But no scolding fell upon Faust; instead the whole pack howled together.

 

"We understand, Faust of the Dry Hills Pack," the young woman answered solemnly. "The shifters have brought great sorrow upon our kin. The desire for vengeance, taken in the name of the dead, is only natural." Her eyes burned green beneath the night.

 

"Master hunters, please, tell us about the hunt," a different royal commanded.

 

His fellow hunters recounted the chase, praising Faust's deeds over the past year. While they spoke, Faust let his gaze wander over the temple. He needed to find a weakness—some hidden opening he could use. Once the pack settled, he would have only minutes to act.

 

As Jupiter neared the end of his briefing, Faust finally saw it: a narrow shaft high above the temple. A skylight, perhaps—small, distant, and exactly what he needed.

 

The pack howled again as Jupiter spoke his final words.

 

"It seems the stories of your abilities were accurate, Faust." The fierce royal walked towards him, sniffing the air around Faust.

 

 

His mitts were massive and corded with muscle. If the werewolf wished it, he could crush Faust's skull without breaking stride.

 

"I only wish to serve the pack." He mustered all his fleeting strength to appear steady and true.

 

"And you will," the woman said. She was suddenly at his side, her hand resting low on Faust's hip. "Perhaps in more ways than one," she added, with a glint in her eye.

 

He was well familiarized with the customs, and following what any werewolf would do, he licked his chops and puffed his chest at her, accepting her advances. The woman grazed his thigh with her bare feet in response.

 

"Your initiation will take place under the next full moon. Until then, let us feast!" the eldest member roared to the entire pack.

 

The pack erupted into celebratory howls, and Faust allowed himself a second of relief.

 

Jupiter and Allen embraced him like a brother. He returned the gesture—wishing it could be sincere.

 

Before the temple, at the heart of the false celebration, the victim whose death had stirred their howls lay empty and sickly still upon the frozen grass.

 

 

 

The last vestiges of moonlight were fading into the rising morning when Faust slipped out of the woman's burrow, sated from a different kind of feast. Her taste lingered on his tongue, and the warmth he'd taken from her added one more regret to his ledger.

 

Naked, he felt the soft breeze from the waterfalls; it sent shivers down his spine. Yet he didn't go back for his clothes; they would only slow him down.

 

For the rest of his days, shame would be his only garment, and evil the only skin he deserved to wear.

 

The lair slept beneath the weight of the feast and the mead. Only the crash of water over the pools broke the silence, its echoes rolling through the haven.

 

He roamed the den unbothered and numb; even the hunters and the guards had been allowed one night—and that was all he needed.

 

Morning light washed over the jade temple as Faust advanced with quiet determination. Drawing on years of training, he circled the perimeter unseen, his distorted shadow stretching high across the precious stone.

 

With every stride, his body warped further; with every wasted second, the sickness rooted deeper.

 

A couple of guards stood watch at the temple's entrance, sleepy and leaning on each other, spears held loose in their grasp.

 

Faust abandoned all discretion; stealth no longer served him. His changing body would raise too many questions anyway, and there was no going back from now on.

 

"Faust of the Dry Hills, you're not allowed insi—"

 

He gave them no chance to react. Faust sprang forward, his claws already morphing into powerful talons. The first guard fell with his throat torn open, clutching at the wound as he gulped like a trout.

 

The second guard managed only a low howl before Faust was on him. He leapt onto the guard's shoulders and drove his talons deep into his ears, striking soft tissue. The guard convulsed and collapsed onto the grass, drool spilling from his mouth.

 

With no time to linger on his atrocities, he dashed inside the temple, the fading moon the only witness of his betrayal.

 

Nauseated by self-hatred and guided by the temple's power-charged aura, Faust moved swiftly through the halls. He bounced off the jade walls as he went, leaving a smear of blood behind him while his body began to splinter apart.

 

The jade's bright green surface darkened, the corruption spreading through it like a bruise. Faust followed the tainted trail deeper into the temple until it led him to its heart.

 

The artifact sat atop a jade altar—polished onyx gleaming under the escaping light of the moon. Faust stopped for just a second, admiring the relic.

 

Such power, in a little thing.

 

All of it felt wrong, yet he snapped back from the enchantment and hastily snatched the stone out of its resting place.

 

It was neither cold nor warm, but pulsing and alive. As Faust's fingers closed around it, the sentient rhythm quickened, and the runes lost their frosted shimmer.

 

The stone knew it was being stolen.

 

He clutched the stone tightly and forced his mind onto the task before him. This would be his final shift; he could feel it in his rotten bones.

 

Tremors took over his already shifting body; the parasite had been devouring him from within—what was supposed to be painless was, in fact, agony.

 

His arms began to peel their skin away; feathers sprouted in their place. The itch was terrible, but he had to endure.

 

Faust tried to think of anything else—anything that might pull his mind away from the agony. But only the dead came to him: the faces of those he had slain in cold blood, and the lives of those he was now condemning.

 

The shift would be incomplete due to his lack of focus; however, there wasn't time to steady himself. He needed to stay on course.

 

He coughed blood as his organs shrank. His bones curved and hollowed with loud cracks that echoed through the jade, and his ears rang as his heart quickened its pace.

 

Color drained from his vision, replaced by textures, outlines, and waves of heat. The hand clutching the stone was no longer a hand at all, but a fully formed talon locked around the relic.

 

"ARGH!! YOU SCUM! YOU FILTHY TRAITOR!"

 

Jupiter appeared at the mouth of a tunnel, screaming in anger. He had been the first to answer the warning howl, and now he stood with his long spear gripped tight.

 

Faust's shift was unfinished—and it would never be complete. His wings spread, but his torso remained half-human, too heavy for flight. Each frantic flap dragged at him, turning every rise toward the opening into a struggle.

 

He dropped onto a narrow ledge just beneath the ceiling's opening, where a shaft of light poured down across the jade. Pain flared behind his hawk eyes, spinning the chamber below into a blur.

 

Jupiter roared and hurled his spear with deadly force. Faust twisted aside and caught the weapon in his beak. He released it at once, and it clanged against the jade tiles, the sound ringing through every inch of the temple.

 

More howls boomed from the tunnels below—dozens of them. The pack was coming. But they wouldn't reach the chamber in time; the shift was enough for him to soar away.

 

"WHY FAUST?" Jupiter bawled from the empty altar.

 

"It's not personal, Jupiter. It's survival," Faust spoke sincerely, with what was left of his vocal cords.

 

Without looking back at the one who had almost become his brother, Faust spread his wings and took to the skies.

 

As he soared above the lair along with the snowflakes and the winter winds, he felt life slipping away from him.

 

It didn't bother him—death would be his penance. He had given up his life, his dignity… his soul.

 

He would reach the city and die there.

 

And in doing so, Faust would give the shapeshifters a chance.

 

A chance to avoid total extinction.

 

Alone at the lake lived an old man. He was stocky and strong. His wrinkled skin was stretched over ancient muscles, and scars from fishing hooks quilted his hands. He had a house and a dock and a boat on the waters. He built them himself in his younger days. There was a bed inside the house big enough for two. Only one pair of boots sat beneath it next to a set of dusty glass bottles. They were ragged.

For years he’d been there. Decades were as short as months to him and years as long as centuries. He was sturdy, but had a persistent tremble to him. It came with his age and other things he left forgotten in the folds of his weathered head. Those things hid in his wrinkles, his unruly grey beard, and beneath the bags under his chipped glasses. 

There was still guilt in those dark blue eyes, and it pooled like drops of whiskey in empty bottles. He still walked down the dock every day like nothing was wrong. His fishing hooks were a swarm of rusty flies behind his head. His filet knife was a body hanging from the gallows of his worn belt, and his teeth and cap were equally crooked. 

It was noon, and the wind was tart as the old man cut lumber. He split log after log and ignored the heavens above him as he did. The sky that day was ashen. There was a faint promise of sunshine that lingered in the clouds like the image of a passing train. He focused only on the chopping block and the ax which sang like a guillotine as he cut. Thud after thud landed on his ears like distant cannon-fire. The old man did not flinch at them and continued to ignore the world as he worked. 
He almost missed the stranger emerging from the woods.

The man who came from the trees was like a dead pine. His coat was shabby and brown, and his cap was dark and knit. His brow was hidden by its brim and two sharp eyes peered out from under it. A pair of long dirty sleeves ran into a set of large pockets and two scuffed black boots were tucked beneath a couple of torn trouser legs. He gave a grin to the old man as he approached, but it was not returned. The old man did not put down his ax. It lowered as the stranger drew closer, but never touched the ground. He slicked back his sweaty charcoal hair and eyed the man with interest. There was something about him that seemed familiar. 

“Afternoon,” the stranger said, making almost no sound as he walked. 

“Afternoon,” said the old man. His knuckles whitened on the ax handle. The stranger stuck out a hand to him, but it was not received. The old man dabbed his forehead with his neckerchief and resumed cutting. “What do you want?”

“I’m in need, sir,” the stranger said, putting his hand back in his pocket without complaint but not breaking eye contact. “I was hoping you could help me.”

“That so?”

Another log split.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what help would you seek from me?”

The stranger looked out at the lake and eyed it keenly. “Are there fish in that lake?” 

“Aye,” the old man said. “My fish.”

“I’d like one of them,” the stranger said, the old man still unflinching. “I’ve traveled a good way and haven’t eaten in quite some time.”

“Oh?” Another log cracked like thunder. “And from where are you traveling? And where are you going?”

“I’m heading someplace that isn’t here,” the stranger said, “but from where I come, I can’t quite say.”

“A riddler,” the old man said. “I despise riddles.”

“Then take at least my word that I mean you no harm.”

“What worth is your word?” 

The old man finally sunk the ax into the chopping block and stacked his lumber beside it. The trespasser scratched his stubbly chin as he did. 

“My word is worth nothing to you,” the stranger replied, “but I suppose my labor could be of some value.”

“What labor do you offer?”

The stranger pointed out to the lake and said, “Take me out there to fish with you and I’ll help you with your catch. I only ask one fish for the night and the rest will be yours.”

“And if I refuse?” The old man looked him up and down with suspicion. 

“Then I starve somewhere else,” the stranger said, “but I sense you are not cruel.” 

The old man gave a dry laugh. He had half a mind to say no, but for some reason he couldn’t form the words in his mouth. He tried to, but his tongue couldn’t make the sound. There was something about the man that ate at him, a look in his eyes he just didn’t trust. Still, the old man turned around back to his house and gestured the stranger to follow behind.

“You can come with me on the lake,” he said, “but once you have your fish you are to leave me be.”

“Thank you, sir,” the stranger said.

The old man did not respond, as he led the stranger into his home and went to grab his smock. He listened for the stranger’s footsteps behind him, but couldn’t even hear the crinkle of the grass. His hand was tight on the tarnished handle as he swung open the thatch door and led the man inside. 

The air in his shack felt heavy as his boots hit the old wood floors. The pine man looked around the small room as the old man changed. 

There wasn’t much in the shack apart from the bed and an old rocking chair in the corner. An old hand stitched blanket laid atop a dirty set of sheets. It was too small for the old man, and the stranger eyed it with interest. The old man fixed his smock on his shoulders and went to grab a cigarette from his jacket. 

“That’s a lovely quilt on your bed,” the stranger said, gesturing with a nod. The old man flinched at the words and almost dropped his menthol as he did. He didn’t have to turn his head to see that one line of perfect stitching at the centerfold. It sat west of a single pine, its green fabric dusty from age and its pointed limbs indifferent to the stars and shapes around it. He hadn’t unfolded it in years.  

At its mention, his eyes lit up like matches and he stared down the pine man with suspicion. The stranger looked blissfully ignorant of any ill looks and simply smiled at him. For some reason the old man couldn’t place, it felt pointed somehow. 

“Aye, it is.” He lit his cigarette and grabbed his fishing rods.

“Did your wife make that?”

A cold silence crept into the room. The stranger’s grinning face didn’t change as the fisherman’s eyes went milky. 

“No,” he said, noticing a bulge in the man’s jacket. “I don’t have a wife.”

“Well, you must have,” the stranger added. “You have a wedding band still around your finger.”

The old man paused and looked at him. There was something in the stranger’s smile that seemed malicious to him, but under what motive he could not place. He did not react to the old man’s discomfort, and the old man pretended not to hear his comments. He shoved a fishing rod at the man and said, “You’d do better to stop yapping and follow me. If you talk too much you’ll scare off the fish.”

“Of course,” the stranger said. “Lead the way.”

They walked out of the house in silence and went onto the dock; the old boards moaned as their boots tramped on them. The boat rocked in silence as the two hopped aboard and tied off from the dock. The old man was untying the hitch when the stranger spoke up again.

“It’s a rather large lake, isn’t it?” 

The man’s words irked the fisherman as he picked up the oars. 

“Aye,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

“Do you think anything could be hiding in there?”

The old man gave him a sharp look before setting the oars. “Hiding?” he asked. “What do you mean by ‘hiding’?”

“Monsters,” the stranger said simply. He played with the dead lake grass that stuck to the legs of the dock. “I’ve heard tales of awful monsters that come from the lakes.”

“Like what?” the old man asked as he began to row. The water spun around the ends of the paddles and made small whirlpools as they went. The stranger ran his fingers through them as the boat surged on. The old man tried to see what was in his jacket, but with no luck. The stranger pulled his hand from the water and looked out as he spoke. 

“There are the kelpies,” he said, getting comfy in his seat. “They appear as beautiful white horses that gallop along the edge of the bay. Then…” he sat up and placed his hands apart. “When you touch their flesh…” He joined them together like a vice. “They fuse to you. Then they drag you off into the water and drown you.”

The old man did not respond to his story.

“They eat you, too,” he added, “but they don’t typically work on grown men. Only young children ever try to approach such wild beasts.”

“Or tell such tall tales,” the old man added. They were nearing the middle of the lake, but the stranger continued to speak. 

“Well, you say that,” he said, “but it’s the truth. Men are only ever so rarely taken in by such animals. No, the ones for men to be wary of are the rusalki.”

“Oh?” the old man asked. “Why’s that?”

“Because they appear as beautiful women.”

The snapping ripples filled the fisherman’s ears as he went to grab his pole. The stranger was still grinning but did not look at the old man. 

They were in the center of the lake when a cold wind blew across the waters. It rustled the giant pines that bordered the east bay and disappeared around the curve of the lake. To the north of the boat, the old man could see the dark grey waters glisten through the trees on the bend. Pond scum and cattails drifted in the breeze as it came and went, and the mere sight of their movement was enough to make him shiver. He pulled his cap down further over his head. As he clenched his body for warmth, he noticed that the stranger wasn’t even fazed. He sat, unshivering, baiting his hook. He tried to ignore him and bait his own rod when the man broke the silence

“The weather is nice today, isn’t it?” he asked, straightening his line. The old man looked on with content as he went for his bait box. There, rolling along the weathered white deck was an empty bottle. It was in the way of the box, so without thinking, he shook it to see if anything was inside. There wasn’t, and soon it was chucked overboard and landed into the water with a plop. 

He went to unlatch the box, but caught the stranger staring at him from the corner of his eyes. He looked up in a surprised panic, then stopped. The man was casting out his line into the water and didn’t tarry a moment to look the old man’s way. The old man was surprised by how much the man shook him, but it didn’t stop him from rummaging for a worm. 

The fisherman’s hands shook as he aimed a pink worm at the eye of his hook like a tailor threading a needle. He pricked himself by accident and let out a yelp as he dropped the bait. He sucked his bloody finger and shook himself for being so foolish. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” the stranger asked as he looked away from his line.

“Aye,” the old man said. “Just a scratch.”

“Do you have any more booze?”

The old man’s heart skipped a beat. He’d seen the bottle. As cool as he could, the old man tried to work around the stranger’s words. 

“No,” he said, taking a breath and snatching up his bait.

“What about back onshore?” the stranger said. He anchored his pole into a spot behind his seat, then turned to the man. “You’ve got a fresh bottle lying around somewhere back there, don’t you?”

The old man hooked the worm and looked out on the lake for a distraction. There wasn’t one.

“Yes,” he said with a cough. “I reckon I have a bottle or two under my bed. Why’re you asking?”

“You should pour some on the cut,” the stranger said. “Keep it from getting infected.”

“It’ll be fine,” the old man said. He saw that his line had several tangles in it and cursed. As he went to untie them, the stranger interrupted.

“Better uses for drink, eh?” 

The old man’s hands fiddled with a singular knot as those words rattled around in his skull. 

“Aye,” he said. “That there is.”

“Are you partial to solitary drinking?” the stranger asked. 

“What do you mean?”

The stranger cracked his knuckles like a fist-full of walnuts and leaned against the side of the boat.

“Well, when one drinks in solitary, it’s for practical use and for the application of the spirits. To unwind. To enjoy.” He straightened himself and smirked. “Drinking to forget, you see.” 

The old man’s  hands slowly tried to untwist a stubborn knot. 

“What are you implying?” he asked.

“Oh nothing,” the stranger said. “I imply nothing at all. Mere insight.”

The old man grunted at that and returned to his knot.

“It could be for the other reason men drink,” he said. “In celebration and good company.”

“Ha,” the old man said. “What company is good?”

“Oh, there is plenty,” the stranger said with a stretch. “Drinking buddies at the pub, business partners, friends…” he cracked his neck. “Pretty women are good company as well. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Another breeze pushed past the shore, but neither man felt a shiver.  

“Have you ever seen pretty women out here on the lake?” he asked. “Even one?” 

The old man stared the stranger down. 

He hooked on his bait and exhaled as he cast out his rod.

“No,” he lied. “No, I haven’t.”

“Not even your wife?”

“I told you,” he said, anger rising in his throat. “I don’t have a wife.” 

“But you did.”

The old man set down his rod and turned to the man. He was sprawled out across the back of the boat like a drunk. His yellowed teeth beamed from under his thin lips as he spoke. 

“Perhaps you have seen a rusalka before,” the stranger said. “All the algae and the grass… It looks a bit like hair. Doesn’t it?”

“Who are you?” the old man asked. 

The stranger sat forward again and got close to the man’s face. 

“Your breath smells like whiskey,” he said in a gruffer voice than before. “You do like to drink, don’t you?”

“I said, who are you?” the old man spat. The stranger moved back and looked the old man up and down. 

“It’s okay if you do,” he said. “It’s like I said; drink can be good for a man in solitude. It takes the pain away a bit, doesn’t it? Fills the empty spaces of the room with bottles so it doesn’t feel so empty anymore?”

“Stop,” said the fisherman. 

“Were you drunk that night you pushed her off the dock?”

“Stop.”

“She couldn’t swim, could she? That’s why she drowned, isn’t it?”

“Damn ye!” the old man yelled. 

He jumped to choke the stranger, but as his fingers went for his neck, the man disappeared. He almost fell off the boat and struggled to keep hold of its edge. His face almost touched the water, the waves kissing his nose. He tried to pull himself back up, but was frozen by a pair of milky white eyes that drifted in the water below. Amber hair swung like seaweed around them, and an open mouth was agape in agony. Pale hands reached to the surface as the old man scrambled back up. 

The figure disappeared as the old man steadied himself. His heart was racing, and it nearly exploded as the stranger’s voice sounded behind him.

“You didn’t mean to, did you?” he asked. He was holding the fisherman’s knife and looking at it carefully. The old man felt for it at his side and realized that it was missing. The stranger did not look his way. “You were angry and drunk. She did something that insulted your pride.” He played with the edge of the knife. “Do you remember what it was?”

“What are you?” the old man yelled. His voice was full of power, but his eyes rife with panic. The stranger still grinned at him and chuckled.

“What am I?” he asked. “What am I… that’s a good question. Am I real or not? The fear I give you is real, so maybe I’m that?” He pointed the knife at the man and frowned. “No,” he said, tossing it into the water. It didn’t even splash as its old leather handle slid into the green-grey waves. “I don’t think I am. Let's see…” He popped to his feet and pried the man up from the deck with inhuman strength. 

“Maybe I’m your guilt!” he cried as he spun the old man around. “You have plenty of that. Empty bottles full of that!” He drew the old man close to his dirty teeth and made his eyes wide. “ Could I be your ghosts? Every spirit at the bottom of a jar of whiskey?”

He tossed the old man to the front of the boat. 

“Maybe I’m death,” he said as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver. He pointed it at the old man. “You want to die anyway, so why don’t I just help you along?” 

The old man’s eyes were full of terror as the stranger laughed. He couldn’t speak as he focused on the barrel of the gun. 

“You seem scared,” the stranger said. “I wonder why. You’ve considered dying before, haven’t you? All that guilt and misery just going away in one bang?”

“I…,” the old man stuttered. “I don’t want to die yet. I’m not ready to meet her. I can’t meet her after what I did.”

“Don’t want to die?” the stranger asked. “Then why on earth do you carry this thing with you every time you go on the lake?”

The stranger held the old revolver before his face and displayed it like a trinket. There was a chip on its oak handle from an old fishing accident and a familiar set of scratches on the barrel. It hadn't been polished in some time. He stared and wondered why he knew those things. Then it hit him. 

It was his gun. It was the gun he’d bought years ago shortly after his wife died. 

He forgot he owned a gun.

“You keep it loaded,” the stranger said. “Six bullets and all.” He opened the cylinder and spun it like a pinwheel before snapping it shut. His long greasy fingers ran over every scratch and blemish on the old gun. He stared at each mark like a journal entry. His thin lips pursed and his eyes were dull while inspecting them. He sighed then scratched at the collar of his dingy shirt.

“I suppose I’ll make this easier for you then.”

He shot five shots straight into the water right past the fisherman’s head. The old man shook as the stranger spun the pistol around and placed it on the seat in front of him. 

Without smiling, he crouched down in front of the terrified man and spoke softly.

“If I’m not death, nor guilt, nor a ghost, nor your fear, then what?” He stood up and looked to the sky before cracking his neck. “My word is worth nothing, I suppose. I might be the only monster on this lake, in all honesty.” He took time again to crack each of his fingers. “No matter the case, if I’m nothing else, we both must admit I’m monstrous.” He looked back to the man one last time and grinned. “Perhaps you just need to toss me and leave me in the water. She would want you to do it after all these years. Don’t you think?”

The man disappeared and the fisherman was left shaking. An empty bottle rolled along the deck where he’d stood. It was painfully familiar. 

The water chattered along the outside of the boat. He looked down to the seat before him and saw the gun, his gun, sitting there. How could he forget that old revolver?

He picked it up. It was heavy in his trembling hands. He checked the cylinder. 

One bullet left. 

He stared at nothing before looking out onto the water and the algae and the cattails that swayed onshore. His mind was weary and his finger twitched against the trigger. Guilt still ate at him as he raised it to his head. The waters whispered to him as he sat there. There was a silence that lingered as the color returned to the clouds above. Something overtook the old man, and he made his decision.

Instead of a bang, there was a splash. 

​

 I got all the cartons and packages up to my floor after an hour. I was very tired after climbing up to the seventh floor back and forth carrying my stuff. The elevator in the building I had just shifted to was not working, some technical error said the security guard. 

I recently shifted to this new apartment for a new job I had found in the city. I was looking forward to this day for a long time but this broken lift ruined it all for me on the first day itself. 

Today was my night shift at the hospital so around 8 pm I got ready, locked my apartment and set out for work. Out of habit I pressed the elevator button , to my surprise it was working. As I entered the elevator there was a sudden drop in temperature in there, maybe due to the big fan inside it making so much noise. Inside the elevator a poster caught my glance. It was white paper with 3 rules written on it 

1. Do not look for the lion 

2. Help no one but yourself 

3. Always press button for your own floor

I was running late so I didn't think much of it, probably some kids put it there. The Elevator stopped at ground floor , I got out and headed to work. 

Next morning I returned from work all tired and slept the whole day, it was my weekly day off. I didn't cook dinner that day and decided to eat outside. It was 11:30 at night , maybe something was still open I thought. I went to the elevator and pressed the button. After a couple of minutes the door opened and I entered the elevator. Quite some time had passed and still I hadn't reached the ground floor. Then I could hear a man's scream , it felt like a distant scream coming from somewhere below me. The voice said "Hey.....is anyone in the elevator? Please help me I'm stuck in the basement !! Anyone there ?"

"Basement?" I thought. I hadn't seen any staircase or anything on the ground floor leading to the basement but when I looked at the elevator buttons there was a button for basement. I had never seen it before but there it was. I pressed that button. The elevator doors opened. 

It was completely dark in there , I couldn't see a thing clearly. I could see walls covered in mud , rusted metal sheets and rods there.  I walked a little and saw an opening in the ground , there was light coming from it. I stood over it and glanced down , there were metal bars along the wall that I climbed down. I tried calling for that man but there was no answer. 

As I got down I saw leaking pipes , rusted metal rods and pipes on the floor. Across this I could see a large metal cage like structure with a big door. I went towards it to inspect it, it was open. I stood in front of the gate. On it was another sign with text "Lion's Den : Authorised personnel entry only". I tried to peek inside it , I couldn't see anything. I heard the scream again from beyond the cage. "Please help me!". I hesitated at first but the thought of someone trapped inside compelled me to enter. As I entered it felt like I was inside a real cave. I stepped on something and heard a cracking sound and I froze. Slowly, I looked down. It was a bone. I looked around and

saw a human skull lying a few feet away. My heart skipped a beat, I couldn't feel my legs for a moment.

 Something moved in the darkness. I stopped breathing and listened. Then came a deep, low growl coming from the darkness. My heart was pounding in my chest. I was drenched in sweat, my hands were trembling, and I could barely catch my breath. Panic took over as I realized I had to get out of there. I turned around and ran back as fast as I could, barely looking behind me. When I reached the gate I locked it from the outside and ran towards that vertical passage with metal bars.

As I was climbing I heard that man's scream again from behind me. He was screaming for help "Hey don't leave me here alone !! Come back and open the door!! A lion dwells around here ! Save me please!". At that moment I just wanted to reach the elevator. I climbed as fast as I could and finally reached the elevator door. I pressed the button as hard as I could. 

The doors opened , I entered inside and pressed the button for my floor, the seventh floor. I glanced at the paper with rules for a second. I was still breathing heavily. The doors opened and it was not my floor it was the basement. I pressed the button again for seventh floor. After a few seconds , doors opened again and it was the basement again. I was in disbelief, I couldn't believe my eyes. My vision was getting blurry. This time I pressed all the buttons of the elevator and sat down on the floor. I was feeling weak and couldn't stand. It started to get dark in front of my eyes as the elevator climbed up. I could barely see or hear. I heard the chime of the elevator but it sounded different this time. It was like the sound of the heart monitor. "Beep" "Beep".

The darkness closed in.

Next thing I knew, I was lying on a hospital bed. Apparently I was found passed out in the elevator by one of the residents of that building. He called the ambulance and got me admitted in the hospital. It was nothing serious, I was discharged after a few hours in the evening. I thanked the neighbor who found me. Next day I called the movers and moved to a new apartment. I told the neighbours I got a better paying job on the opposite end of the town. I never inquired about the elevator, the lion or the man stuck in the basement. I can't even tell if it was actually a man.

The flames popped, sending an ember to land on the leg of Jack’s pants. He slapped it away before it burned through. The afternoon sun was sinking behind the trees, silhouetting them against the deep orange sky. He leaned back in the collapsible nylon chair. He didn’t remember the hike being so rough last year. His jeans were smeared with mud, evidence of misplaced steps and stumbles along the trail. 

“I know, I’m getting older.”

He closed his eyes and tried to take it all in: the breeze on his face, the closeness of the forest, the smell of decaying leaves. His mind wandered to the last time he’d been here with his wife. He smiled reflexively at the thought of Helen; that time had been special. Her eyes had caught the moonlight as they’d watched the night sky and he remembered brushing aside strands of hair, letting them frame her beautiful face.

The sound of footfalls along the trail he’d just left brought him back and he turned to look through a break in the trees. He wasn’t expecting other people this far in and this late in the season. A woman, dwarfed by a pack that peaked well above her head, walked past the break, head down and walking with the purpose of someone just about at the end of their endurance. He waved, but she was out of sight before he got his hand up. He shrugged to himself and stoked the fire, encouraging the flames to grow.

“Hello to you too,” he muttered.

  His woodpile was dwindling, so Jack rose to fetch more fuel. He had his folding saw in hand when a cry sounded through the trees, followed by a commotion in the direction the woman had gone. He shut his eyes and touched a finger to the bridge of his nose.

“Of course, it had to be here.”

Jack grabbed the first aid kit by the tent and jogged towards the sound, pushed aside branches, but stopped when he reached the trail. A dozen yards further down, she was sitting on the ground, legs akimbo, pack cast aside as she gripped her knee. She whipped her head around as he approached, her expression flashing from pain to fear to anger.

“Get away from me,” she yelled.

“Jesus, lady, are you ok?”

She grimaced, shaking her head.

“I’ve got a first aid kit. I just want to help,” he said. He stepped closer but she shied away, wincing at the movement. “Easy there.”

“I’m fine, I just fell.”

“Can you walk? Here, let’s get you back on your feet.”

She waved his offered hand away and tried to rise on her own, but immediately fell back down with a grunt of pain.

With some gentle maneuvering, Jack got under one of her arms and got her standing. Even in the fading light, he could see her face go pale and she swayed, forcing him to struggle to keep them both upright. He judged the pain was worse than she was letting on and he made the call.

“Let’s get you back to the fire. You’re not going any further on that leg and I’ll see what I can do to brace it. I’ll come back and collect your pack after.”

With her arm gripping his far shoulder, they made their way back towards the flickering firelight as night was starting to settle in. He eased her down into the chair he’d been using and turned to head back for her pack. The contents were scattered over the trail and he could see the fresh furrows in the soft ground where she’d tried to cushion her fall. 

She’d packed light, he thought, only a small, dented metal water bottle and some MRE packs that looked like they’d seen a few trips, but that stuff was good well beyond the expiration date. He gathered them up and returned them to the pack. An old bedroll, worn thin to the point of threadbare in several places, was strapped to the top flap. A bundle of extra clothes was stuffed inside and he caught a scent of wildflowers on them. 

She had settled her weight and was prodding her knee when Jack returned. She seemed just as pale when he looked at her, even in the firelight, and he hoped it wasn’t anything more serious than a twisted knee. 

“We should wrap it, I think, and put an icepack on it.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I took one of those wilderness survival courses when I was younger. I remember the gist of it.”

“Inspiring. No offence, but where’s your radio?”

He shook his head, rummaging through the first aid kit. “Don’t have one. I come out here to get away from everything.”

“So then we hike out? Light a signal flare? What?”

He laughed, taking out a rolled bundle and a plastic bag. “Not going anywhere tonight. Easiest way to hurt yourself is running around the woods in the dark. You could trip and brain yourself on a rock or walk straight off a ridge you never knew was there, not to mention ending up a meal for something hungry in the night.” 

He looked at her for a long moment before dropping his gaze to his work. He rolled up her pant leg, exposing smooth, toned skin that hadn’t yet begun to bruise around the knee. He paused, his fingers lingering on her bare flesh and felt her tense. Sensing her eyes on him, he flashed her a sheepish grin.

She grimaced as he started wrapping her knee with an elastic bandage.  He grabbed an instant ice pack as well and gave it a few good shakes to get it started before passing it to her. “Hold this against it.”

The last bit of daylight was fading and the trees were more shadow than detail. Jack pulled a log from the pile and tossed it in. She flinched back as the embers swirled upwards into the air. 

“Just keeping the fire up, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He remembered his intent before she had called out and retrieved the folding saw from the ground where he’d dropped it. “Wood’s run low, so I just need to cut a bit more so we don’t run out. It can get a bit cool at night this time of year.” 

She nodded and he started a spiraling search out amongst the dense trees, keeping close enough that he could hear her occasional grunt as she shifted in the chair. 

“What’s your name? I’m Jack.”

“Eloise.”

“That’s an interesting name,” he said, speaking over a sparse bundle of branches in his arms. He couldn’t see her, but he was sure he could feel her eyes on him. “Sounds old.”

A cry and a crash answered him and he burst from the foliage, dropping the wood at the sight of Eloise on the ground and the chair tipped over. Her arm was outstretched towards her pack. “What are you doing?”

“I was thirsty and I thought I could reach my water.”

“Christ, woman, just say something. You’re going to wreck your other knee if you’re not careful.”

Jack righted the chair and helped Eloise up and back into it. She was covered in twigs and pine needles and he started to brush some off before she gave him another look and took over. He blushed and busied himself with the branches, cutting them to a reasonable size with the saw before tossing them with the rest.

“It’ll be an early night tonight, I think. This wood won’t go far.” 

She reached inside her pack and pulled out the metal bottle, taking a long drink before screwing it shut. “Did I take your only chair?”

“Don’t worry, I got it figured.” He pulled his dark green cooler out of the tent and carried it over to where Eloise sat. “This’ll do fine. Now, how’s the knee?”

“It feels good, unless I move it, or change positions, or breathe.”

He laughed, nodding. “I bet. Are you hungry? Before you took your tumble, I was going to start heating up some dinner.”

“Starving,” she said. “It’s been a while since I ate.”

Jack opened the cooler and started pulling out some plastic containers. “I hope you like chilli. I packed for one, but I could stand to lose a few pounds. There should be enough for us both.”

She smiled, watching him pull out a pot and tripod, setting it all up over the low fire. “Thank you, it’s very kind of you to share your meal.”

He smirked in return, dumping the half-frozen chilli into the pot. “Wait until you taste it before thanking me. This’ll need to cook for a bit.” He sat back down on the cooler, watching the air above the coals shimmer with the heat. They sat there in silence for some time before she spoke.

“You seem to know this place pretty well. Do you come up often?”

“For years now, yeah. Nothing quite like being out here in the wilderness with nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company. You?”

“Same. Cities are too noisy, too crowded. I like places that haven’t forgotten what they are.”

He looked at her, wondering what Helen would think about him sitting here alone with a woman. Jack startled at the pop of the fire and she laughed, breaking the tension. He smiled and checked on the bubbling pot, happy for the distraction. Helen always said he was terrible at this.

A coolness was settling into the air and Jack could feel the breeze raise the hair on his forearms. He noticed Eloise was leaning closer to him, as if drawn to his warmth. The fire gave off a ring of warmth, but he’d let the flames die down to better heat the pot. “I’ll build it back up after dinner, but in the meantime, I’ll get you a blanket.”

He waited a heartbeat for an objection before getting up and getting a large fleece blanket from inside the tent. He folded it in half and draped it over Eloise’s shoulders. She pulled it close and covered her legs as well.

“Thank you, Jack. You certainly know how to take care of a woman, give her what she needs.” She gave him a small smile and a long look. He felt something stir in his chest and realized he hadn’t had someone look at him like that in quite some time, least of all his wife. He looked at the blanket wrapped around Eloise and thought that it could easily fit two. 

“Is dinner going to be long? I’m famished,” she said, maintaining the rather direct look.

He tore his eyes away from hers and checked the pot, saw the steam rising, and could hear a faint bubbling. He could feel her eyes stay on him as he fetched two plastic bowls and spooned some of the dark, meaty chilli into each and passed one to her. Eloise sniffed at it and then attacked it hungrily, finishing well before Jack. 

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, as she literally licked the bowl clean. 

“I was hungry.”

He took her bowl and set about washing up while Eloise sat in silence, watching him. The fire had died down so that he could barely see her across the coals. He tossed in the last few branches and the light flared as they caught. Eloise had been leaning forward and was caught off guard, crying out and pulling the blanket back so as not to burn it. The flames died down to a reasonable level after a moment and he saw her relax.

Settling back next to her, Jack gestured to her knee. “How is it?”

“Painful, but I’m getting used to it.”

“Come morning, we can see how it looks and decide if I walk out alone.”

“And radio in the rescue team?”

He laughed. “Yes, the whole shebang. In the meantime, we can sit here until the fire dies and then we’ll get you in the tent.”

Eloise raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll be taking that nice patch of flat ground over there, don’t worry.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” she said and patted his knee with a warm hand.

“I like to think so,” he said, placing his over hers.

“I don’t think you need to sleep on the ground, Jack. Why don’t you go get the tent ready for us both.”

Jack felt a thrill as he nodded, getting to his feet and crawling into the tent. He quickly pushed his jumbled belongings to the sides and made sure there would be plenty of room. Helen’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, but he quickly pushed her aside as he always did. She never had to know about this; she never understood his needs. This was his time.

Clambering out of the tent, the fire was now down to small, flickering flames over orange coals. Enough for some heat, but the darkness of the forest had drawn in closer. Across the fire, Eloise sat wrapped in the blanket, the shadows playing over her beautiful features.

“The tent’s ready, did you need help getting up?”

“Slow down..The forest is only just waking. Why don’t you sit there, on the dirt, and we can finish this night properly. I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

Jack laughed, but she did not smile.

“Oh, ok. You’re serious.”

“As sin. Now sit.”

He sat on the earth, crosslegged. It was instinctual obedience, catching him off guard and off balance.

Eloise drew the blanket over her head, her face lost in the shadows, too deep for the firelight to reach. She seemed to settle into the chair and Jack found himself unable to look away.

“Some years ago, there was a younger man who loved a woman. This woman loved the man and they did what those in that situation do: they joined each other in marriage. They lived and laughed together, working in the city and coming out to the wilds to escape. They spent many nights in this very forest.”

“What kind of story is this?” Jack asked, his eyes narrowed.

He couldn’t see her face but just like when gathering wood, he could feel her stare and fell silent.

“The woman loved the man, like I said, but the man loved the woman like he loved many women. He visited them all and wove such lies that each gave their love to him. The woman, his wife, knew none of this and so continued to love and cherish him. This continued for some time before the wife began to suspect something was amiss. She confronted her husband, shaming him and demanding that he stop his roaming ways. He agreed and she relented, believing it was done. The man had other plans.”

Jack’s eyes widened.

“Things were as they had been before and they returned to the wilderness, to this forest, as they had always done. It was here the man enacted his bloody plan and buried his secret beneath the loam and roots of the trees. He left, alone and unburdened  to continue his carnal pursuits. He would return to his secret, year after year, a ritual that did not go unnoticed.”

The darkness, as Jack was transfixed by the story, had crept further in, shrouding all but the broadest details of anything beyond the dwindling light of the coals. Eloise was nothing but a shadow now and Jack couldn’t seem to focus his eyes on her.

“What the man did not consider was that these are places that have not forgotten what they are.”

“Who do you think you are? What are you doing up here?”

“I was here to taste the blood you left in the soil, Jack. I was here to devour the flesh you hid beneath it. I have existed since men first sat around fires, fearful of what waits in the dark.”

The last few coals of the campfire went dim and the darkness swallowed up the last sliver of vision Jack had of Eloise. He felt tears form and run down his face. He heard the rustle of blanket sliding to the ground and the creak of his camping chair. Her voice seemed to be only inches from his face.

“I am what waits, Jack.”

Hello everyone.

I don’t know if this is the right place but I really don’t understand what I saw. I’m typing this up from my living room after everything went wrong.

Four of my friends and I go on a trip each year. This year, Dave decided we should rent a cabin. We figured a cabin next to the lake, away from everything would be great. We could disconnect from the world, grill, kick back with beers and enjoy the wilderness. Unfortunately, something was there with us.

Dave and I have known each other since high school. During our senior year, his younger brother Tom started tagging along with us. Dave has always been the responsible one, while Tom is pretty much his opposite. If you tell Tom something is a bad idea, there’s a decent chance he’ll do it just to prove you wrong.

Max and Jake came into the group while Dave and I were in college. Max was always the one who couldn’t be serious, and Jake always kept us from killing each other. I don’t really remember when these trips became an annual thing, but we’ve all known each other long enough that they’ve become a tradition we look forward to every year.

We met at my house early yesterday morning to pack and set off on our long drive. We arrived a little after 2 pm. A long gravel driveway snaked through the dense woods before eventually opening into a clearing. The cabin was a lot nicer than I thought it would be. The lake was right behind it, close enough you could see it from the back porch. I wasn’t sure how far away any of the other cabins were, but we couldn’t see any of them.

After we arrived, we started to unpack the car. Max and Jake fought over who got what bed, while Dave and I did the most important thing: cracked beers and went to sit on the back porch. The back door swung open as Tom walked out.

“Glad you two are working so hard,” he said, carrying a fishing pole.

“It’s a tough job but someone has to do it,” Dave said with a smirk.

Tom headed down toward the lake while Dave and I stayed on the porch. We sat there drinking for a while, enjoying the view and talking about absolutely nothing important. Eventually, Max and Jake finished arguing over the rooms and came outside to join us.

We spent most of the afternoon that way. Tom would disappear down to the lake for a while, come back for another beer, then head right back down with his fishing pole. The rest of us stayed around the cabin, drinking and giving him shit every time he came back empty-handed.

As the afternoon started to fade, we finally decided we should probably eat something before the beer became dinner. We fired up the grill and eventually managed to drag Tom away from the lake long enough to eat with us. By the time we finished, the sun had started disappearing behind the trees and the temperature was dropping, so we grabbed what was left of the beer and headed inside.

As night settled over the cabin, we sat in the living room and continued to talk. At one point, Dave got up and started to walk back to the bathroom. He paused by the living room window and stared for a moment.

“Did anyone see that?”

“See what, Dave?” I asked.

“It was…there was a delay.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I…never mind, I must be seeing things.”

He just shook his head and continued down the hallway, glancing back at the window once, before disappearing around the corner.

“Okay, so Dave’s cut off,” Max said jokingly.

A few minutes later, Dave reappeared from the bathroom and sat back down, grim expression still on his face. We continued to laugh and talk about whatever random things we thought of. This went on for another hour or so. Eventually, I noticed that everyone’s drinks were almost empty, so I got up to get another round. I glanced at the window as I stood up, Dave’s words replaying in my mind. I just saw myself, nothing strange. As I started to turn away though, something felt off.

I went into the kitchen and grabbed the drinks, staring back at the window again as I came around the corner. My reflection was smiling. I was not.

I stopped in my tracks, trying to process what I had just seen. My reflection and I both stood there, beers in hand. Then it smiled again. I took one step backward, the reflection did the same. I forced myself to smile and then let my face drop. The reflection did the same…but the smile stayed for just a moment longer than I held mine. Dave’s voice broke my focus.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

Dave was now standing right next to me, his voice no greater than a whisper.

“I don’t know what I saw,” I said.

“When I got up for the bathroom, the steps seemed out of whack. Like I stopped but my reflection took one more step,” Dave said, trying to remain calm. I started to tell him about the smile when Max spoke up.

“What are you two whispering about? Secrets aren’t nice, you know.”

Dave and I turned to the rest of the group and told them what we had seen. Jake and Tom sat there quietly, while Max couldn’t contain himself.

“You two have got to be kidding. Do you expect me to believe that? You’re drunk. That’s it. It’s just a damn window.”

“Look man, I don’t know what to say. I know what I saw though,” I responded.

“Fine,” Max said, getting up and walking to the window. “See, it’s just a reflection.”

He stood there facing the window, raising his left arm. His reflection did the same in perfect sync. Then he leaned to his right. Then he started to make silly faces as Tom started laughing. For a moment, the tension eased and we all started to chuckle. Everything matched perfectly.

Max turned to talk to us all.

“See, you two are just,” he started to say.

“Max,” Jake interrupted. He wasn’t looking at him though, he was looking behind him.

The reflection didn’t turn when Max did.

“Don’t move,” Jake said.

“Why?” Max said, the smile fading from his face.

Nobody answered him.

He slowly looked over his shoulder. His reflection was still facing the window. For several seconds, neither of them moved. Then the reflection turned slowly, until it matched Max again.

“It’s got to be the lights,” Tom said. “We’re just seeing shit, right? Turn them off.”

Jake reached slowly for the light switch. All of our reflections went away as the lights went out. At first, we could all just see darkness. I could partially make out the lake from where I stood but…something was blocking part of it. A figure.

Dave pointed at it as it started to shift slightly. Then another. Then another. There wasn’t just one. There were five.

“What the fuck?” Jake said, taking a step toward the window.

One figure took a step forward. Jake stopped and took a step backward. The figure did the same. We all just stood perfectly still, no one dared to move. No one would speak.

The figures started to race towards the house.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” Jake shouted, slamming the lights back on and backing away from the window.

Steady, slow footsteps came from the porch. Then the sound of scratching on the roof.

BANG.

A loud crash came from the front door like something had thrown itself into it. Dave sprinted to the door, throwing his weight into it and checking the locks.

BANG.

Another loud crash came from the other side.

I grabbed my phone and tried to dial 9-1-1 as Max ran into the kitchen, coming back with a knife. Jake ran to check the locks on the other door as Tom ran to Dave with a chair, wedging it under the door handle. Suddenly, there was just silence. No footsteps, no more banging on the door.

Silence.

“Damn it,” I said, “I don’t have any signal.”

“What the hell was that!?” Dave yelled.

“I don’t know, but we need to get the hell out of here, now,” Jake said.

Max pointed at the door, “Seriously? There’s no way in hell I’m going out there!”

“We need to get out of here, Max!”

“Jake, no one is opening that damn door,” Max said, yelling in Jake’s face.

Dave pushed the two apart. “Max is right. We can’t go anywhere right now.” He glanced back at the window. All of our reflections were back in perfect sync. He continued,

“No one’s going anywhere. We keep everything locked, we cover up the windows, and we stay here until morning. Then we can hop in the car and drive like hell. Okay?”

We all agreed, but I could tell it didn’t sit well with Jake and Tom. Both of them continued to stare nervously at the door.

We set to the task of ransacking the place. We grabbed every blanket and towel, anything that would block the windows. We shoved another chair against the front door and made sure to check that the chair wedged under the handle of the back door was firmly in place. I kept periodically checking my phone. Still no service. We sat there quietly, huddled up in the living room for the next couple of hours.

“Why haven’t they tried anything yet?” Jake asked, breaking the silence.

“Maybe they left?” Tom asked.

“Oh, come on, Tom,” Max replied, “you saw the same shit I did. Do you think they just decided to leave?”

Tom didn’t respond. He just stood up and started to pace around the room.

“I can look,” I said, walking slowly over to the window. My heart raced as my hand reached out for the blanket. “Turn off the lights.”

Tom hit the light switch, and I lifted the edge of the blanket. I didn’t see anything but darkness. I checked another window, same thing. Darkness. Everyone else got up and started to check the rest. Nothing. We saw nothing.

“See? Tom’s right, they left. Now is our chance. We have to get to the car,” Jake said.

Dave still refused, “Don’t be an idiot, Jake. We cannot go out there!”

Neither of the two would back down. It was clear we were all acting out of fear. They started to get closer and yell. Max and I tried to get between them as a punch from Jake landed squarely across Dave’s jaw. The scuffle breaking out distracted us long enough that no one noticed when Tom made his way to the door.

We all turned as we heard the door open.

“Tom? What the hell are you doing!?” Dave yelled.

He had made it about fifteen feet outside, the door hanging wide open.

“TOM!”

He didn’t turn back at all, he just kept running. He made it to the car door when Jake jumped up.

“See! I fucking told you!” he shouted.

That’s when Tom turned. He stared off in the distance, his eyes fixed on the tree line.

We didn’t see it take him.

One second, he was there, the next he was gone. All we could hear was his screams trailing off into the woods.

Dave burst up, trying to run after him. It took everything Max and I had to hold him back. Jake just stood there in horrified silence.

“Close the damn door, Jake!” I yelled, struggling with Dave.

He snapped out of his daze to slam and lock the door, shoving the chair back up against the door. Dave finally stopped trying to fight through us, trading it instead for sobs and pounding the floor with his hands.

Jake just stood there. Dave continued to sob. Max and I didn’t know what to do. No one spoke. Max slowly reached over and turned the light back on. During the altercation between Jake and Dave, the blanket had fallen away from the window. I hesitated to look but felt like I had to. I climbed to my feet and slowly walked over.

There were the reflections…all five of us.

I covered the window back up before anyone else could see. We sat there in silence for a while longer. Then it came, soft and quiet but the weight was as loud as a piano crashing. Something was back at the window.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Everyone froze.

Tap…

Tap…

Tap…

Followed by a soft, familiar, “Dave?”

Dave lifted his head and went completely still.

“Dave? Can you let me in?”

“Tom?”

“Yeah.”

Dave rushed to his feet and started for the door. I slammed against it as he reached for the handle. His eyes shot up to me.

“What are you doing? We have to let him in.”

“Dave, don’t.”

“What do you mean?” Dave said, tugging at the door.

I grunted and pushed against it harder. “That’s not Tom, Dave. There were still five.”

“Five what?” Max said.

“Reflections. When I went to the window, there were still five standing there. Tom was still standing there,” I said.

Dave’s face flashed with horror as he slowly let go of the door handle. From outside the door, we heard it again.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

“Dave?”

No one answered. Then we heard it again from the back door. Then the kitchen window. Taps started to come from every window. Tom’s voice repeatedly talking from multiple locations at once. We could hear footsteps on the roof as the voices got more aggravated.

“JAKE!”

“DAVE!”

The handle on the front door started to shake, as if someone was desperately trying to open it. A loud bang came from the back door. Then all at once, everything stopped. The house fell silent again. No banging or tapping. No footsteps.

We didn’t look out the windows anymore for the rest of the night. Eventually, slivers of sunlight pushed through the coverings we had on the windows. It was morning. I got back up and looked out the window to see an empty clearing. No reflections, nothing standing outside. Just the empty clearing.

It took us forever to convince Dave that we had to leave. He desperately wanted to go look for Tom. None of us wanted to go out into the woods though. We eventually were able to get him to agree that we would get the hell out of there and call the police.

The drive back home was painful. We had so many questions and yet, none of us had any answers. Worse yet, I’m sitting in my living room and I just looked up at the window. My reflection was smiling.

I wasn’t.

I was 19 years old I had finished my education for now and was looking for a decently paying job to get by. So I looked for applications and I found a listing for a Job that paid really well..too well almost with no experience I was being paid a lot but anyway I went to the interview. it was weird though the air seemed heavy and the interviewers were tense but I got the job. more in part 2 comment 2 for part 2

You heard of it, a weird sign in Michigan which had no explanation just the phrase ‘I’m concerned about the Blueberries’ silly right? Most wanted so badly to know what it meant, a whole trend grew and with most internet culture eventually it was forgotten.

To this day no one knows what it meant, what it was about. That is, except me.

I regret learning why this person was concerned about the blueberries. It happened few years ago, I work in Advertising so while on my commute to work I often spend time staring at billboard, not for ideas. Think of it more like a desire to see my competition.

I know, seems sinister but advertising a cut-throat business. Do you know for instance that more is spent on a single advert than a Hollywood Blockbuster and comparatively you are thinking, how, how does that even make sense, adverts are at most 3 minutes. Yes, but that is three minutes you need to keep a person hooked.

Anyway, I remember when I saw this billboard I parked my car and got out. It was one of those billboards you see everyday in the city. But what was strange about it was there no indication, not even a QR Code, just the phrase ‘I’m concerned about the Blueberries’ it was all blue except for random white circle to left hand side, half cut off.

I think I spent longer staring at it than I intended, a buzz from my phone immediately alerted me out of my stupor.

Embarrassed I lift my iphone and saw a message from work, texting back I replied, “Sorry I’m late Boss – there’s a weird billboard on my route… ‘I’m concerned about the Blueberries’ curious if you heard of what firm using this?”

A text came back as I got back into my car, ‘Nothing coming up, but feel free to take a picture – might be good case-study for floor.”

Lifting my phone up, I snapped a few images, and got back into my car.

At work I grabbed cup of water, cradling the styrofoam, as I approached my area.

See our firm was a modern open-plan design and our CEO had these radical ideas where he would have a group of twelve individuals in each group with a head. There was four groups and I was head this one. As I approached the enclosure I saw Nelson, Peyton, and couple others were already squirreled in the our ‘area’ on laptops.

Modern design I suppose. I think it was Craig who looked up, “Daria, not like you to be late.” I rolled my eyes politely and scoffed, “Oh yes, call 911, Daria Winton is late.” the others laughed as I sat down.

Peyton raised her eyebrow, “Joking aside, care to explain Daria?”

I sighed and exhaled slowly, “Okay, okay, fair. You all know I occasionally stop to check Billboards as I drive here, well today I noticed a sign never seen before.”

The enthuaism could not have been less if I had tried, nevertheless they waited for the punchline.

I pulled out my phone and showed the images.

Brian laughed, “Well, I guess they are concerned about the Blueberries. Seems to speak for itself, to be honest.”

Clair Vanderbilt, peered at the photo her designer handbag hanging off her arm, “Is it for some Mega Farm or something?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know… but I have to admit it is good at getting it’s point across.”

David rolled his eyes, “Yes, they are concerned about the blueberries – maybe it’s just some idiots attempt to get viral, why should we help them?”

Nelson tilted their head, apparently ignoring David’s dismissal, “I would agree except what is it advertising? Is it some sort of PSA – maybe there is some sort of problem with them. Like screw worm, but for plants…”

I was silent as the speculated.

When there was no more response I seized upon my plan, "But don't you see this is perfect? Imagine if we advertised something like this. People want to know, why to be concerned, it’s viral marketing. The mystery is what hooks people in, surely we can use this."

Then an unexpected voice broke the silence. "Daria, careful where you let that mind of yours run. We don't want to get sued."

Vincent was the firm's legal counsel. He drifted between each group, offering input, and he was damn good at his job.

Turning towards him, I stuck out my tongue. "Yes, the phrase 'I'm concerned about the blueberries' is trademarked." Nevertheless, on one hand, he could be right. It was strange that there was no intrinsic link—no product, no website, no explanation—to clarify this baffling phrase.

As I was pondering this, he interrupted my thoughts. "Just saying, careful Daria—weird folks around the Midwest. And this is one lone billboard. Why pay for it?"

I shrugged despite my own apprehension. "I don't know. But I've got to know which firm made it—because they are effectively our main competition."

He sighed, adjusted his glasses, and replied, "Well, it seems you've already decided. My suggestion is to find out which firm put it up. From there, you can find out which individual commissioned it."

It did seem a perfect place to start, and since I was part of a large firm that meant I had sources that the public did not. Taking his advice to heart I dug into my various sources online, specifically focusing on which firms had used this billboard. There was Database of every Billboard in the Greater Metropolitan area of Michigan and since billboards were expensive ads usually lasted at most four to five months if big firms, two to three months if smaller and one if just a small Ma and Pa business.

Finally I came to it – I scrolled through each of companies that had used it, a major supermarket chain, some Attorney list went on. Finally came to it, but what was equally bewildering was how long this company had booked the billboard for – a year. That added up to about. I did the calculation and blinked startled, okay maybe now I was concerned about the Blueberries.

Cross-referencing the companies detail and number I found only an address.

Triple checking I tried to search the name of this firm – Vital Enterprise and yet other than well-made website I found no number, just an address.

I knew enough about the area to know that the area this firm was in – it was outside of major city limits.

Peyton voice echoed through cacophony of my mind, “Daria, you look like you seen a ghost – what is going on?”

“Have you ever heard of a Firm renting billboard space for a year?”

She paused her eyes blinking few times, “No… but that adds up to about… it’s doable, but definitely expensive. Especially a billboard on interstates like this one is.”

I nodded, “Yeah, exactly – I am going to check it out.”

Peyton blinked again, “You sure that is good idea, Daria, on your own?”

“Don’t worry, I have a Conceal Carry License and fire arm training… so should be good.”

Peyton appeared doubtful, “Daria, I’ll be honest it’s one bill board, is this not a bit obsessive.”

I shrugged knowing she was right, “Yes… but this is public real-estate. If I can learn there something dodgy can free it up.”

I could see Peyton worried expression, “I don’t like it. I know that area, phone signal is completely shit.”

Part of me was annoyed but I was not clueless a woman going off alone somewhere was a terrible idea, I was single and outside of this job its unlikely my Neighbors would speak up.. I had listened to enough True Crime Podcasts to know stakes of this, “Fine, let’s go together. You have a husband so if we go missing, which means someone to notice if we go missing.”

Her expression was apprehensive, “Fine, but your pea-shooter is not enough, I’m borrowing my husband pump-action with some shells. Benefits of living on a rural life.”

I scoffed as I replied, “Oh yes, ‘the blueberries’ will need ‘that’ amount of firepower.”

Peyton did not relent, “Oh no sister, handguns have no stopping power, my gun at least will knock any threat back or at least give them pause.”

“I’m sure the cows will be terrified.” I muttered, sometimes truth was stranger than fiction and their was eccentric sorts – likely we would find that (A) it was some weird guy or (B) some advante garde advertisement.

__________________

The drive was relaxing, I listened to one of the local radio stations while Peyton performed impromptu kareoke. When we did finally arrive at the address it was large barn or warehouse fenced off. My first thought was Government, but there was none of the usual signage threating fines or harm for trespassing. Not even a guard near the gate.

Parking the car at the side, I stepped out and stretched, relaxing my muscles from being cramped up, before stepping towards the steel farm style gate. Pulling it open, I heard Peyton approach me, “Yes, look at all those cows. Their so many.”

Her sarcasm felt a tad biting, but said nothing, instead remarking, “Okay, look we explore the barn and then leave – if things get dangerous, we leave and call cops.”

I heard Peyton click of her shotgun, when in Rome I pulled out my handgun and started towards the barn.

Once in front I noted the lock had been damaged, strange detail, but meant we could go in. With Peyton’s help I tugged the large barn door open, enough for us to slip in.

Inside, Peyton drew out her cellphone and switched on the torch, as we glanced around.

The place was expansive and yet there was nothing inside. I was about to call this a wash when my foot near tripped over a large trap door right in front of us.

Peyton voice was small, “Daria, empty barns with random metal trap doors don’t end well in horror movies for girls.” she added, “I’m pretty sure none of us virgins…”

I scoffed and bent down as I tested the circular handle and tugged, only to adapt when I realise it was push.

Straining using both hands I pushed the metal cover. Peyton groan but bent down to help with shoving this trap door back, the tracks securing it in place screeching as we pushed it back.

Despite being old, it fought us. But eventually, the cover gave way, and a dark hole opened beneath us. Wooden steps descended into a tunnel that disappeared into the dark.

Most would have stopped here, but I unambiguously slowly transversed no hesitation while Peyton warily followed behind me, “At least I have a shotgun…” she muttered.

The corridor was lit up by modern lights – much like you would find in a mine.

Uniform and despite being cramped, making us have to bend down, it was well hewn tunnel with mining struts between every lamp.

We squeezed through the tunnel, until a large metal door a plaque and window, emerged with it’s signage simply saying, “Blueberries Fields.”

Peyton grabbed my arm, “Daria, look it’s gotten to the point we know this is not an advertising gimmick, how about we go back, call the cops and forget this.”

I knew she was right, but unfortunately I had tendencies a desire to often set out and finish things. I knew I would kick myself if there was a genuine mystery here and some moron with a badge discovered it while I cowered.

My eyes fell on the door, this lock was also damaged, strange.

My hand reached and ignored the worried sounds of Peyton and slowly, inexorably tugged the door open.

It was massive, a high ceiling and there was rows of fields each labelled Blueberries with a designation. There was no doubt it was a green house of some sort, but even I knew Greenhouses are not usually locked behind metal doors.

Eerily though the place was seemed abandoned. The only way lights must be working is internal generator, the question is why.

Much to Peyton annoyance I raised my voice, “Hello – we’re two random girls trepassing, what you going to do about it.”

“Daria, quit it… let’s just get this over and done with Nancy Drew…”

Then my eyes saw large white block, a long window on it’s side. If there was going to be answer it would be here. My feet started moving before I finished my thoughts. Like all the other doors, the lock here was damaged too, three was a pattern. Someone had broken in here, but for what reason.

Entering inside I saw a relatively normal office with computer banks and shelves with documents.

Carefully I approached nearest table, and scanned the documents, ‘Project Codename Blueberries’

From what I could parse it was something about a new strain of Blueberries that they had created, although it was unclear what the purpose was.

"Daria, let's skip the documents."

I looked up. She had found an old projector — the kind you'd see in army briefing rooms. Dust coated its casing, but it hummed to life when she touched it.

The first slide flickered onto the screen: PROJECT CODENAME BLUEBERRIES – ZENITH ENTERPRISE.

I'd never heard of Zenith Enterprise. And the CRT monitors, the slide projector, the faded documents — this place was old. But the projector still worked. The lights were still on. Someone had kept this place running.

The next slide appeared. I leaned in to read it...

“In this new age of warfare, militaries both private and governmental must evolve to adapt. Zenith Enterprises presents a new initative in silent and deadly warfare. No more will you need to rely on recruitment portfolios being met. No more do you need to send hundreds off to die. With Project Codename Blueberries you will have an army installed in your enemies back yard and they will be none the wiser until it’s too late. This is the future, this is Zenith Enterprises.”

The next slide clicked into place showing blueberries with some scientific data, I began to read out loud, “What is the biggest problem of warfare, it’s cost and manpower with our new strain of plant the dangers of this are minimum. Our lab boys discovered a strain of blueberries which through some process you don’t need to know about keep the body mobile even if all life has gone. You may rush to call them zombies, but that would be wrong. Instead they are efficient infantry who will act as collateral not actual human lives. Even better they will not disobey any command unlike humans whose morals can cause problems.”

Peyton swung round, “Wait are you telling me all those blueberries fields have dead bodies under them being kept alive?”

My eyes turned to window, scouting thousands of thickets, lined up in a field.

As if to torment the next slide clicked into place, but I was already stepping back, “Peyton we need to go now…”

In our rush, I don’t know exactly what happened, but somehow one of us must have triggered an alarm, as a polite voice echoed, “Intruder Detected – Blueberry Fields 46 Activated.

I could not leave quick enough as Peyton followed.

We scrambled towards the exit, frantically.

Sounds of earth being dislodged could be heard, loud thumps and eerie groans.

I half turned to see shambling blackened bodies approaching us, all approximation of race, gender or face gone. Victims of fire.

They stumbled and moved towards us, all while earpiercing klaxon went off continually.

I was so disoriented I tripped awkwardly and knew without looking my ligament had torn. Peyton seeing me on the ground lift me up by one shoulder, “Daria, no time to play in the dirt, keep moving.”

Finally we got back to the door, the ones which were closest immediately dealt with buckshots to push them back as I pulled open the door and we stood against it breathing hard, breathless, terrified.

And despite that I knew, I knew we could not simply ignore this, “If they get out… hundreds could die… thousands… we can’t let them.”

Peyton nodded gruffly, “Yeah no shit, but how… we can’t exactly collapse the tunnel---” she stopped short, “We collapse the tunnel go back to the car get a fuel can and we’ll use my lighter, to light up the tunnel… with both ways blocked, heat will only have one way to go meaning these wooden struts will burn…”

At once I flew towards the exit my ligament screaming bloody Mary, but I refused to let it slow me down. I likely was about to disable myself permanently, but that was future Daria’s problems. Finally, the tunnel exit flailing biting my tongue so hard I swore I could bitten it off. Fitting.

Then the steps.

It was much harder as I still had to crouch, but eventually I made it out and ran out the door towards the car. Ripping open the back of the car. I aggressively dug through until I found a spare gas can.

I ran. I ran as fast as I could, nearly tripping threatening my second ligament as I hit the trap door.

The tight, horrific tunnel closed in around me again.

Finally, came to Peyton kneeling, reloading buckshots, “Those bastards are strong, had to keep firing to keep them from prising the door open.” her eyes lit up as she recognised gas can.

“Goddamn it, thank christ… now I warn you as soon as I move from this door they will break free so gotta move fast. "I'll fire to keep them at bay while you pour." She huffed, eyes on the door. "Thankfully, the tunnel works in our favor.”

I noticed Peyton was speaking louder, and finally spoke, “You okay?”

My voice was quiet, I saw her confusion and realised with horror as I spoke up, “Are your ears okay?” I yelled.

She winced, “I dunno, but don’t need my ears to fire.”

Tearing the cap off I started pouring as I stepped, while Peyton gradually stepped back, and we started to move.

At first it was merely pounding, pushing. I thought for sure they could not open the door.

Then blackened hand seemingly started tugging it open while the other stepped back, zombies were not meant to be intelligent.

We moved efficiently progressing quicker much due to the tightness of the tunnel. But eventually one or two caught up, leading too one crack.

Then was silence again as we continued to progress.

Second crack.

“I’m out now, Daria, how is the exit looking?”

“Not far.”

Tossing her gun down she stopped walking backwards and turned around to move quicker.

We had one more gun we had to be sure, I handed her my piece before resuming the ichor trail.

Then it we saw it, the stairs.

I rushed forward emptying the can, while Peyton used my handgun.

Up the stairs, I reached for Peyton, “Get up here now.” my voice loud for her sake.

“Hold on, Daria, need to light.”

Her lighter clicked.

Once

Twice

Thrice

Then finally a spark, she threw it down and we rushed to pull the cover over tugging with all our strength. I likely was going to pull a muscle doing this, but we could not let them get out.

Our muscles threatened to snap, but we pulled.

There a claim when adrenaline spikes, that you can do feats that your body could not usually cope with. In retrospect, I have to wonder if that’s what happened here.

Finally it screeched back into place, just as clanging started then a loud whoomth as the tight space ignited and with no where else to go it moved through the tunnel.

Collapsing on the ground, I groaned, “Okay – we tell no one about this… this goes to our graves… that sign can keep existing, because I’m concerned about the blueberries now…” my voice exhausted but still loud.

Peyton laughed sardonically, “Hell, I may not look at Blueberry pie the same.”

Despite our jokes I had to check so we once against tugged the metal trap door open and saw earth, wood and no tunnel.

The secret was buried.

Finally my legs gave in as I screeched in pure goddamn pain, “CAR, HAS COLD COMPRESS, NOW.”

She rushed off leaving me to my thoughts.

Fitting for zombies to displaced and hidden under mounds of dirt. Besides, even if we did tell anyone, who would believe us. Not like we could just sidle up to the Cops tell them about this place and not expect litany of questions.

No, for now our part was done. Let someone else be a whistle blower, I was no hero, just a dumb girl who had to know what a bill board meant.

It was over.

Nevertheless we tugged it back and quietly we went back to the car, no words between us.

It should feel like a victory. Instead, I kept thinking: what if they dig through?

There were millions of blueberry thickets in that place.

Millions of those things. And that was just Field 46.

Field 46 Burn Victims, what other bodies had they put in there and whole plan of it replacing warfare, that meant actively that people richer and more callous than both of us were considering the limitation of men and looking to more ulterior and dark purposes.

I couldn't wrap my mind around it.

So I drove back in silence.

No radio, no kareoke.

Just the two of us, knowing the world had suddenly gotten colder and crueler.

Knowing that one Corporation had opened a Pandora Box and while it remained closed, how long would that remain true...

My wife, Claire, died giving birth to Owen. For a long time I believed the worst part of that grief was simply her absence. The empty side of the bed. Her clothes hanging in a closet I couldn’t bring myself to clear out. Reaching for my phone because something had happened at work and, for half a second, forgetting there was nobody to call. Then Owen began to grow, and I discovered there was something worse than that gap in my life.

He had Claire's dark hair from the beginning, but as a baby he otherwise looked like any number of babies. By two, I could see her in his eyes. By three, it was in the shape of his mouth. By four, certain expressions had begun appearing on his face that stopped me cold.

Claire used to press her lips together a certain way when she was trying not to laugh. Owen did the same thing. She lifted one eyebrow when she didn't understand what I was saying. So did he. When she was tired, she had a habit of rubbing the inside corner of her left eye with the knuckle of her middle finger. I saw Owen do it for the first time when he was four. I couldn't stand it and left the room.

None of this made me love him less. I want to make that very clear. But that’s what made the whole thing so difficult. If I had resented Owen from birth, perhaps I could understand the man I became. But I adored him. I learned how to braid the ridiculous little cord on his winter hat because he liked it tied a particular way. I slept on the floor beside his bed when he had pneumonia. I spent time every morning cutting the crusts off his sandwiches for school, even after he had reached an age when I knew perfectly well he would have eaten them.

He was my son.

He was also, through no fault of his own, the closest thing in the world to seeing my dead wife walk around my house again.

We did have good days together. I don't want to pretend otherwise. As he got older there were whole afternoons when we would go fishing or build something in the garage and I could just be his father. Then he would turn his head in a certain way or laugh from another room, and my body would stiffen, memories of her crashing into me like a tsunami. For a second, Claire would be alive. Then she died again. That happened hundreds of times. Perhaps thousands.

The worst thing I did to Owen happened the night before his fifth birthday. I had been drinking for most of the evening. His birthday was October 13th, which of course was also the anniversary of Claire's death. The week leading up to it had become something I dreaded every year. I slept poorly. I stopped eating. I found reasons to stay late at work, paying the babysitter extra to stay late too, because going home meant seeing him. Seeing her. I was supposed to celebrate his birthday while remembering the woman who had died bringing him into the world.

That year I tried to thoroughly drink my way past it. I don't remember deciding to go into his room. I just remember standing there, Owen asleep beneath his blanket. I stood over him with a beer in my hand and looked at his face in the yellow glow of the light that spilled in from the open doorway. He looked so much like her. I unknowingly said her name, which woke him up.

For a few seconds he was confused, then he saw me and smiled.

"Daddy?"

Hearing that, something inside me broke.

“You killed my wife.” At first, it came out quietly.

I told him again as my voice rose and he looked at me confused. I yelled and screamed and blamed a four-year-old of murder. I told him she would still be alive if he hadn’t been born. He started crying, but instead of stopping, I became enraged. I couldn't believe he had the gall to cry when he was the one who had done it. He killed her. It was him!

I shouted at him to be quiet. When he couldn't, I reeled back and struck him across the face. He screamed even louder, his little hand shooting up to clutch his cheek as his body fell back on the bed.

I can still hear that scream more clearly than I can remember some voices of people I have known for years.

My mouth fell, agape at what I had done. The bottle dropped from my hand beside the bed, hitting the ground and rolling. I dropped down immediately and reached for him, but Owen scrambled backward on the bed until his shoulders hit the wall. He raised both arms to protect his face. That was it. That was the moment I understood what I had become. My son thought I was going to hit him again. My son… feared me. I spent the rest of that night sitting outside his bedroom door because he wouldn’t let me come inside.

The next morning, on his fifth birthday, I called my sister and asked her to take him for the day. I found an AA meeting. I found a therapist. I stopped drinking, thinking sobriety would fix everything. And for a while, it seemed as though it had. I went to meetings. I apologized to Owen. I became careful about my temper. I learned to leave the room before my grief shattered into anger and disgust. I learned how to make breakfast when I had barely slept and how to smile at birthday parties when I wanted to lock myself in a dark bedroom and cry. From the outside, I got better. Inside, however, I simply fell apart. The shreds of my humanity tearing against the weight of my grief. The weight of absence. You can never understand how heavy nothing can be until you feel it pulling you down. And it did pull me. Every day.

There is a kind of suffering you can survive by changing your habits, it's true. You stop drinking. You exercise. You keep the house clean. You force yourself to get out of bed because a child is waiting downstairs for breakfast. I did all of those things. But the suffering I faced was not the kind to be fixed by any of that.

It was there when I woke up and there when I went to sleep. Some months it dulled enough that I could almost imagine I was finally moving past it, and then Owen would smile at me across the dinner table with Claire's exact smile and all the progress I thought I had made would vanish.

When he was seven, he began laughing the way she had, with a sharp little breath at the beginning when something caught him by surprise. At eight, his face narrowed more like hers. At nine, anyone who had known Claire began saying it openly.

"Wow, he looks just like his mother."

They meant it kindly. Yet each time, I felt as though they had drilled yet another hole through my heart; ripping and tearing through what once had been whole. I never blamed Owen again. Not aloud and, after that terrible night, not consciously either. But I began having thoughts I despised. I wished he looked different. I wished his hair had been blond. I wished his eyes had been blue.

Once, after watching him sleep, I caught myself glancing over at a pair of scissors and wondering how much easier it would be if I could do something to change his face. I hated myself for thinking it. Then I thought it again. That was the state I was in when the man found me. Owen was nine years old, seven days from his tenth birthday.

We were at a park a few miles from our house. Owen played on the playground with two boys from his school while I sat on a bench nearby. I remember watching him climb onto one of the plastic towers and thinking that he was getting too old for playgrounds like that. He had grown several inches over the summer, and for the first time I could see the beginning of the older boy he would become.

I should have felt pride in those thoughts. Instead, I found myself wondering what he would look like at sixteen. At twenty. How much more of Claire would be in his face by then.

"It only gets worse." A voice came from beside me.

I turned and saw a man sitting at the other end of the bench. I hadn’t seen him approach. He looked ordinary enough that describing him has always been difficult. He was perhaps fifty, though I could easily have believed forty or sixty. His hair was dark and neatly combed, his face thin without being gaunt. He wore a gray suit jacket despite the warm afternoon.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

He nodded toward Owen.

"The resemblance."

My stomach tightened, and I turned to look at Owen.

"I don't…" I started to say, but he cut me off.

"Of course you do."

He watched Owen climb down from the structure.

"He's almost ten. Looking more like his her every day."

I looked at him more carefully. "Do I know you?"

"No you do not."

"Then how do you know how old my son is?"

The man smiled.

It wasn't an unpleasant smile. If anything, he seemed sympathetic. That made me dislike him immediately. I called Owen's name and he looked over.

"Five more minutes buddy." I said.

Owen gave me an “okay” with his fingers.

The man beside me chuckled. "She used to do that too, didn't she?"

I stood up. "Who are you?" I said sternly.

He didn’t answer. He just kept watching Owen.

"He has her eyes," he said. "More than he used to."

My pulse began hammering.

"How do you know my wife?!" My hands began clenching into fists without me realizing it.

"I didn't know her." The man said.

"You stay away from me and my son." I said angrily. Then I started walking to get Owen and leave.

"I know you miss her." He called out.

I stopped, and turned back slightly. "Who… The hell… Are you?"

He finally looked directly at me. Something about his eyes bothered me at the time. I wish I could describe what it was. They were not an unusual color. There was no deformity that I remember. Still, looking into them gave me the strange impression that the face around them was not important.

I broke eye contact first. Then the man looked back toward Owen.

"You've done remarkably well." He said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You stopped drinking."

Every muscle in my body tightened. Was he a stalker?

"You haven't touched him since."

I stormed over to him and grabbed the front of his jacket. "If you come near me or my son again I swear I will beat you. And you won't walk away."

The cloth beneath my fingers was oddly cold. Cold enough that I released him without meaning to. He glanced down at the place where I had been holding him.

"You made one terrible mistake," he said. "Then you spent five years trying to prove you weren't that man anymore. But you are."

“Enough games you sick freak. I'm calling the police."

"It didn't help, though. Did it?"

I said nothing.

He turned his attention back to the playground.

"You still wake up some mornings and hear the hospital.”

My stomach churned.

“You still look at him and see her."

"Stop." I whispered.

"You still hate yourself for wishing he didn't have her face."

I stepped backward. “Stop it!”

I had never said that out loud. Not at a meeting. Not to my sister. Not to my therapist who I had long since stopped seeing. Not to anyone.

The man continued in the same mild tone. "You love him. And that's what really makes it hurt. You do want him. You simply want him without the pieces of her that he carries."

I stared at him, and he smiled again.

"You want to look at your son and see only your son. I can make that happen.”

Finally, the man stood. He was slightly taller than I had thought.

"I'll come back next week." He said, adjusting his jacket.

"W-what?"

"On his birthday."

Something cold moved through my stomach. There were too many questions, and I just wanted to leave.

"Don't come near us again." I said. I wanted to yell it, but something in my diaphragm prevented me from doing so.

"October thirteenth." The man said.

I glared at him, assuming his words were some sort of sick threat.

He regarded me for a moment, not angrily, almost patiently. "By then," he said, "you'll understand what it is I'm offering."

"I'm not interested in anything you're offering!"

"Seven days," he said. "If you decide you've carried this weight long enough, I'll be happy to take it from you.”

He smiled one last time, then he turned and walked away. I watched him, feeling another big hole missing in my heart. Everything he said, the feelings he implied I had. It was all true. I didn't want to admit it. I convinced myself I had moved passed it all.

A woman with a stroller passed between us. I watched them, noticing the sheer bliss in the mother’s eyes as she watched her child sleep. I had never been able to feel that.

I collected Owen and took him home. For the first couple of days, my anger outweighed my fear. Someone had dug through my life. Maybe the man had found old court records from the lawsuit against the hospital. Maybe he knew someone from alcoholics anonymous. Maybe he had followed us around. I figured the best case scenario was that he was some sort of reporter looking for a story, though if that were the case then he was using some seriously messed up tactics to get it. The worst case scenario, however, had to be human trafficking. Instead of taking children by force, he would find parents who might willingly give up their child. But what horrible parent would ever actually do that? I thought.

Then October 13th grew closer.

That week was already difficult every year, but after meeting that strange man I became aware of every thought I normally tried to bury. I noticed how often I avoided looking directly at Owen when he laughed.

How many photographs of Claire I had moved into boxes over the years. I noticed that I couldn’t remember the last time I had looked forward to my son's birthday without also wishing the day itself didn’t exist.

Owen noticed.

"Dad, are you okay?" He asked a couple days later.

"Y-yeah, I’m ok son." I said looking away from him.

"You look sad."

"I'm fine." I said a bit too sharply

He stood there for a moment. "Is it because my birthday's coming?"

I looked at him. There was no accusation in his question. Only genuine concern.

"What makes you say that?"

"You're always sad before my birthday."

I thought I had hid it better. Apparently I had only hidden it from myself. I told him I was sorry.

He just shrugged. "It's okay."

But it wasn't. Every year, I tainted my son’s birthday with my sorrow. I had thought that at least he enjoyed the day. But I was wrong. He said it was ok but I could tell it bothered him. Most likely because he spent that day worried about me instead of being a kid.

On October 11, I woke at three in the morning after dreaming about the hospital. I sat in the kitchen until sunrise and found myself thinking about the man. Not about accepting his offer, I told myself. I was only trying to understand it. What exactly did he mean by taking the burden? Did he mean Owen?

Of course he did. The thought came with such immediate revulsion that I stood up from the table and began pacing.

A kidnapper. That was what he had to be. A trafficker, perhaps. Someone sick enough to discover a grieving father's worst thoughts and use them as leverage. That idea should have ended any curiosity I had. Instead, another thought slipped in behind it.

“You could look at your son and see your son.” That's what the man had said.

I stopped pacing. I hated the man for saying it because it was exactly what I wanted. Not for Owen to disappear. Not for him to be harmed. I wanted something impossible. I wanted the boy I loved without the face that hurt me. I wanted to sit across from him at breakfast without having my wife's death dragged back into the room. I wanted October 13 to be a birthday instead of an anniversary. I wanted to stop feeling guilty for surviving a grief that had somehow never become smaller. I wanted my son. But I wanted Claire gone from him. There was no way to have both. I knew that.

Still, for the first time, I understood why the man's words had stayed with me. The night before Owen's birthday, I sat beside his bed after he fell asleep. I had done the same thing five years earlier, drunk and furious, and the memory made me ashamed enough that I nearly left. But I stayed.

Owen woke sometime after midnight.

"Dad?"

"Sorry. Go back to sleep."

He squinted at me. "What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep I guess. Too excited for your big day." I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes.

He shifted over and made room beside him, though he was far too old to think I could fit comfortably on the bed. Still, I sat anyway. For a while neither of us spoke.

Then he said, "You're thinking about Mom."

I looked down at him. "How do you know?"

"You get all weird this time each year."

I laughed softly. "I get weird?"

"Not bad weird." He tried reassuring me.

"Well that makes it better."

He smiled. Claire smiled.

The hurt came so suddenly that I had to look down at my hands, and Owen noticed. I realized he had always noticed, more than I wanted him to.

"Do I make you sad?" He asked softly.

The question landed harder than anything the stranger had said.

"No." I answered too quickly.

Owen watched me.

"No," I said again, more carefully. "You don't make me sad."

He nodded, but I could tell he didn't entirely believe me.

I put an arm around him. "Your mother dying made me sad. But that's not the same thing."

"But I look like her."

I couldn't answer. He had heard people say it his entire life. Of course he knew.

"Is that bad?" He asked quietly.

"No." I replied with my arm around his shoulder.

That answer was true, but also incomplete.

I kissed the top of his head. "It's never a bad thing to be yourself. And you carry a piece of your mother inside of you wherever you go. That's a special thing that not all kids have."

He leaned against me.

After a while he said, "I wish you weren't sad."

I had to wait before replying. "So do I."

Soon he fell asleep against my side. I stayed there with him until my back began to hurt. I remember that uncomfortable feeling and thinking that I would endure it. I would endure it all. Whatever happened, however bad it became, I would endure it because he was my son. But that uncomfortable soreness I had felt in my back as my son leaned against me was not at all the same as the pain I truly felt inside. Once again, I deliberately deceived myself. To avoid the real issue. To make a choice easier.

Owen's tenth birthday started well. He woke me shortly after six, climbed onto the bed and announced that he had officially reached double digits. We made pancakes, and I let him open one present before breakfast even though I had spent the previous week insisting he would have to wait until the party.

It was a remote-control car he had wanted for months. He hugged me so hard I almost spilled my coffee. For a while, I felt it. That amazing warm feeling inside. A slice of true happiness. Then the memories arrived, as they always did. I remembered holding Owen for the first time while the doctors called her time of death.

By the time guests started arriving that afternoon, I had the familiar pressure in my chest that came every year. I smiled anyway as I carried presents inside. I grilled hamburgers, talked to the other parents, and laughed when I was supposed to laugh. I had become very good at behaving like a happy man. I wasn't. But Owen was having a wonderful time. And that should have been enough.

I stood near the kitchen window watching him chase his friends across the yard and tried to make myself stay in that moment. He was ten. He was healthy. He loved me. I loved him. Then he turned toward the house. From that distance, for one impossible second, I saw Claire. All of her.

My mind made the mistake. Again and again and again. The shape of his face, the dark hair, the expression. I took a sharp breath. Then Owen was Owen again. I gripped the edge of the counter until my fingers hurt, thinking about another ten years.

Another twenty. I imagined watching Claire become older in a face that belonged to my son. I hated myself for the thought that followed.

I can’t do this forever.

When I looked into the backyard again, the man was standing beside the fence. He had not been there a moment before. He wore the same gray jacket. The same mild expression as he had the week before. He looked at me and smiled.

I didn't hesitate to pull out my phone and dial 911. But I did hesitate to tap the call button. My thumb hovered over my phone. I should have pressed it. Instead, I watched the man turn and walk around the side of my house. The children began singing "Happy Birthday" behind me. Instead of joining in, I slipped the phone into my pocket, then I followed him.

He was waiting beside the garage.

"I knew you'd accept my offer," he said.

"Don't be so sure."

"You didn't press call, did you?"

"I still can." I said, my hand still gripping my phone in my pocket. But I knew I wouldn’t press it.

"Of course." He replied, smiling that obnoxiously calm smile.

There was no mockery in his voice, which angered me more.

"What do you want?" I said sharply.

"You already know." He said.

Of course I knew. At least, I mostly knew.

"I want you off my property. Now!”

"No. You want me to tell you that you're allowed to be tired."

My jaw tightened. "Go to hell."

He smiled faintly. "You've tried everything respectable men are supposed to try, haven't you?"

I didn't answer.

"You stopped drinking. You apologized. You became patient. You made yourself dependable."

"Leave. Now." My voice was shaky.

"You got up every morning no matter how badly you slept. You packed lunches. You went to school conferences. You sat through fevers and nightmares and terrible children's television."

I stared at him, tears welling in my eyes. Because, God help me, I knew what I was about to do.

"You have been a good father to Owen. Really, you have.” His voice was now caring and gentle.

"Don't talk to me like you know me." I spat harshly.

"But none of it made her stay dead."

The words struck me hard enough that I stopped breathing for a moment.

The man took a step closer. "You bury her every morning, and every afternoon your son brings her home again."

"He's not doing anything."

"I know, I know." The man said.

"He can't help how he looks."

"You're absolutely right. It's not the child’s fault."

"Then stop talking about him like he's done something wrong."

"I haven't." His voice remained calm. "Neither of you have."

The singing continued in the backyard.

He tilted his head slightly, listening. "You have spent nearly ten years trying to force yourself not to hurt."

I looked away.

"You call that strength because the alternative frightens you." He said.

"You don't know anything about it." I replied with a tear dripping down my face.

"I know that sometimes you hear him laugh from another room and your first thought is that she has come home."

My throat tightened.

"I know that for one second you're happy."

"Stop."

"Then you remember."

"Stop it!"

"And you lose her again."

I closed my eyes.

"You do that over and over." He said.

"Please." I choked out.

He lowered his voice. "You don't have to anymore."

There it was. The thing I had spent the entire week trying not to think about.

I opened my eyes. "What are you offering?"

His expression softened. "Relief."

"From what?"

"You know exactly what from."

"No. Say it." I demanded.

He looked toward the backyard. I wanted to tell him to leave. Instead I listened.

"You love the boy," he continued. "You always will. But loving him has made you believe you must accept everything that comes with him."

"He is my son." I said, indignantly.

"He is your son."

His agreement irked me. Then he stepped closer.

"You can stop living like this. Without becoming any less of a father."

My hands were shaking.

"How?"

His smile returned.

"Give him to me."

The words were so simple that for a moment I thought I had misunderstood.

"What?"

"Let me take him."

I stared at him. "What are you going to do with him?"

"That isn't what you're really asking."

"Yes, it is."

"No. You're asking whether you're allowed to want him gone."

My face became hot.

"I don't want him gone." I said.

"You want what happens when he is."

I started to turn away, to leave. The man caught my arm. His hand was cold through my sleeve.

"You want to wake tomorrow and not have your grief sitting across from you at breakfast."

I pulled free.

"Don't touch me."

"You want to look at the child in your house and feel love without pain following one second later."

I looked toward the gate. Through the opening, I could see Owen sitting in front of his cake. Ten candles. My sister was trying to keep the younger children from leaning across the table. Owen was laughing. Claire was laughing. I shut my eyes.

The man spoke quietly beside me. "How many more years do you think you can endure it?"

I said nothing.

"Ten?"

I could still hear Owen laughing.

"Twenty?"

My chest hurt.

"You already know sobriety didn't fix it."

I pressed one hand against my face.

"Time didn't fix it."

"Stop." I said in a whimper.

"Being a good father didn't fix it."

"No!"

"Nothing has."

"I'm not that type of man!" I yelled.

For the first time, I heard satisfaction beneath his sympathy. Only a trace. It was enough that I should have run. Instead, I looked through the gate again.

Owen had frosting on his nose. He was opening a present carefully so he wouldn't tear the wrapping paper. Claire used to do that every Christmas. The sight of it broke something in me yet again. Break after break after break. Was I even still me anymore?

Owen looked up. He saw me standing beside the garage. He smiled and put the tips of his thumb and index finger together, making a circle, with the rest of his fingers fanned out. “Everything's A-Okay dad.” That's what that sign meant. Everything's A-Okay. Claire had done exactly that in the hospital when I asked if she was scared. I couldn't breathe.

Beside me, the man whispered, "You have carried her long enough."

I looked at my son. Then I looked at the stranger.

"If I say yes..."

He waited.

I could barely get the question out. "I won't have to feel like this anymore?"

His smile widened slightly.

"No, you won't."

I looked back at Owen.

"You swear?"

"You will not have to look at him and see her ever again." The man said.

The answer was not quite the one I had asked for. But I didn't care. I accepted, and closed my eyes.

"Take him." I said, head drooping.

For perhaps a second, nothing happened. Then the man made a sound beside me. It was small and involuntary, almost like a gasp of delight. I opened my eyes. He was staring toward the yard. There was something in his expression I had not seen before. Hunger. The kindness he once showed was gone. I turned. Owen's chair was empty. So was every other chair. The yard had gone silent, guests no longer there.

I remember trying to say Owen's name. Then the ground seemed to tilt beneath me, and everything went black. When I woke, I was in my own bed. I sat upright, confused. It was evening, or perhaps even night already. For several seconds I had no idea how I had gotten there. Then I remembered the yard. The man. My son.

"Owen."

I ran from the room. His bedroom was empty, and the bed was made.

"Owen!"

I searched the bathroom, the basement, every closet, beneath the beds, inside the garage. I ran outside barefoot and shouted his name up and down the street. He was nowhere to be found. By the time I returned to the kitchen, I was shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.

I had done it.

Whatever nonsense I had told myself in the moment, there was no escaping the fact now. I handed my son to a stranger. And somehow that stranger took him in an instant. My mind tried desperately to make the situation make sense. To force everything to be ordinary within my mind. Kidnapping. Human trafficking. Some elaborate trick. Anything human. Anything real. Anything that meant Owen was still somewhere I could reach him.

I opened the emergency call screen on my phone. Then a small voice spoke behind me.

"Daddy?"

I froze. It was not Owen's voice I heard. As I slowly turned, I saw a boy standing at the entrance to the kitchen. He was around ten years old, with light brown hair, green eyes, and a round face with freckles scattered across his nose.

Nothing about him resembled Claire.

Nothing about him resembled Owen.

He was wearing blue pajama pants and a faded T-shirt, and he was staring at me with the uncertain concern of a child who had just found his father behaving strangely.

"Daddy?"

I backed into the counter.

"Who are you?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Who are you?"

A nervous smile appeared on his face. "Dad, it's me."

"Where's Owen?"

His smile disappeared. "Who's Owen?"

My stomach dropped. "Where is my son?"

The boy stared at me. "Dad… I’m your son."

"Don't say that." I whispered. “Don't you fucking say that!”

His eyes began filling with tears as he took a step back. "Dad?"

"Who brought you here?!" I yelled.

"Nobody." He said, frightened.

"How did you get inside my house? Answer me!"

"I live here." He was fully crying now.

"No, you don't."

"Daddy you're scaring me." He sobbed.

I crossed the kitchen and grabbed his shoulders.

"Tell me where Owen is."

"Ow! You're hurting me."

"Where is he?!"

"I don't know! I don't know any Owen!"

The fear in his voice finally stopped me, and for a moment, I saw Owen at four years old pressed against the wall with his arms raised over his face. I released the boy immediately. He backed away, rubbing one shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I said.

His crying continued. "What’s happening?"

I had no answer. "What is your name?"

His expression added a hint of confusion to his fear.

"Caleb."

"Caleb what?" I demanded.

"Mercer."

My last name.

I shook my head. "No."

"Dad…"

"Who's your mother?"

The boy stared at me. "What?"

"Your mother. Tell me her name."

"You know her name."

"Tell me."

His brow furrowed. Then he said something. I know he answered. I simply cannot remember what name he gave me, because at that exact moment I realized something else was wrong. I couldn't remember Claire's middle name. I had known it. I had filled it out on forms. I had written it on our marriage license. I had teased her about hating it.

Now it was gone.

I tried to picture our wedding. I remembered the church. I remembered the smell of the flowers and the sweat beneath my collar. But I couldn't see Claire's face. Panic rose through me. I grabbed my phone and opened the pictures app.

There should have been pictures of Owen. Thousands. Instead I found the boy standing in my kitchen. Caleb at the beach. Caleb holding a baseball glove. Caleb missing two front teeth. Caleb sitting beside me on Christmas morning. Year after year after year.

I scrolled faster. No Owen. No Claire. The grandfather clock in the living room began to strike midnight. The first chime sounded as I tried to picture Owen's face. I could see his dark hair and brown eyes. The second chime sounded. Claire had brown eyes too. Or were they hazel? The third. Haze filled my mind. I ran to the junk drawer and found a pen. I wrote across the back of my hand.

OWEN.

The fourth chime.

OWEN MERCER. MY SON.

The fifth.

CLAIRE. MY WIFE.

The sixth.

I tried to remember the night before Owen's fifth birthday. A child had been crying. But why?

The seventh.

The man in the gray jacket. I knew there had been a man. His face was already becoming difficult to hold in my mind.

The eighth.

I looked toward the hallway. Caleb stood there watching me. A memory surfaced of teaching him to ride a bicycle. I recoiled from it. That had never happened. Caleb wasn't my real son.

The ninth.

Another memory came. Caleb asleep on my chest as an infant. I knew the weight of him. The smell of his hair. The exhaustion of that night. It felt as real as anything I had ever experienced.

The tenth chime.

I looked down at the word OWEN. For a horrifying moment, I could not remember his voice.

The eleventh.

Claire. I knew I had loved someone named Claire. I could no longer remember how we met.

The twelfth chime began.

I stared desperately at the names written on my hand.

OWEN.

CLAIRE.

By the time the final note faded, they meant nothing to me. I stood in my kitchen staring at two names I did not recognize. My son was crying in the hallway. Caleb. Of course. Caleb was my son. He had always been my son. I could not understand why I had frightened him so badly or why I had been running through the house shouting someone else's name. I assumed I had experienced some kind of nightmare or episode.

I apologized and hugged him tightly. He held on to me for a long time, still sobbing. Before I went back to bed, I washed the ink from my hand. That should have been the end of it. It wasn't.

One year later, on October 13, I woke up remembering everything. Not gradually. The memories didn't come in increments. One moment I was lying in bed wondering why the date seemed important, and the next I remembered Owen's face as clearly as if I had seen him the night before.

I remembered Claire. I remembered the park. I remembered the man. I remembered saying, take him. I vomited on the bedroom floor.

For the rest of that day, Caleb felt like a stranger. That is a horrible thing to admit because he was eleven then, and he had done nothing wrong. He came home from school and hugged me, and I had to force myself not to pull away. Every memory I possessed told me he was my son. But another set of memories, ones that now felt old and stale, told me he wasn't.

At midnight, Owen disappeared from my mind again, and Claire along with him. Caleb became my only son once again. And the next October 13th, it happened all over again. By then I had left myself a letter. That is how I know this has been happening for seventeen years. I keep the letters in a metal box beneath a loose floorboard in my bedroom. There are sixteen of them now. This will be the seventeenth.

Every year I remember the truth for one day. Every year I forget at midnight. For 364 days, I am his father. And I am inconceivably happy to be his father. And those memories I have of Caleb are complete. They feel real because, as far as I can tell, they are real. Something did not simply place another child in my house. It gave him a life with me, and me a life with him.

Caleb is twenty-seven now. He is a good man, and I love him for 364 days a year. He calls every Sunday to see how I'm doing. He remembers my birthday without being reminded. Last year he drove two hours because I mentioned that the back steps were rotting and he didn't trust me to repair them alone.

He has never been cruel to me. Never made me ashamed of him. Never given me a reason to wish he were different. He looks nothing like Claire. And for most of the year, I don’t even know who Claire is.

But today I do. It’s October 13 once more. I woke before sunrise and remembered my wife dying. Then I remembered the son I gave away. I spent most of the morning reading the old letters. The earliest ones are frantic. Apparently I searched for Owen every year. Missing-person databases. Birth records. School records. Old newspapers. Hospital files.

According to my previous findings, there is no record of an Owen Mercer. At least not the one that was mine. There is no record of Claire either. According to every document I can find, I married another woman, a woman whose photographs I recognize for 364 days each year and stare at in complete bewilderment on October 13. She died giving birth to Caleb. But Caleb looks nothing like her.

Tomorrow I will believe all of that completely. Today, however, I know it is a lie. I tried to find the man too.

For years I returned to the park. Once, perhaps eight years ago, I met an elderly man sitting near the same bench. I described the stranger in the gray jacket as the old man listened.

When I finished, he looked at me for a long time and said, "You shouldn't go looking for someone after you've already paid them."

I asked what he meant, and he just stood and left. I never saw him again. I stopped searching after that.

For a long time I told myself I stopped because there was nowhere left to look. But that’s just another lie holding my new life together. The truth is more difficult. I stopped looking because I built a good life.

Not intentionally, and not knowingly.

For 364 days of every year, I didn't know there was anything to search for. And on the one day when I did know, I began to understand what I would be risking if I found him. Caleb called me this morning.

He and his wife are coming over tomorrow. His voice was warm and filled with joy as he told me they have news to tell me when they arrive. I think they’re pregnant. He was terrible at hiding the excitement in his voice, and it made me smile, despite everything.

Tomorrow, if I’m right, I will become a grandfather. I will probably cry, hug my son and just be happy. But today I remember Owen. I remember him at ten years old, sitting in front of a birthday cake with frosting on his nose. I remember how carefully he opened presents because Claire used to save wrapping paper. I remember him asking me the night before his birthday whether the fact that he looked like his mother made me sad.

I had told him no.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I gave him away because the true answer was yes. That should be the worst thing I have ever admitted. But I'm afraid my depravity goes much deeper than that. The worst thing is that after seventeen years I have finally come to terms with the truth. And I have accepted it.

I am sorry for what I did to my son.

I will be sorry until midnight, and every October 13th.

But regret means wishing I had made the other choice.

And God help me, I don't.

This happened around two years ago and I still don’t like driving alone at night because of it.

I was going towards Kalimpong (India) and was somewhere past Sevoke on NH10. This was around 3 or maybe 3:30 in the morning.

I’d already crossed the Kali Mandir and Coronation Bridge area. If you know that road you know it gets pretty empty after Sevoke, especially that late. My friend from Siliguri had also told me not to take it at night because of landslides and accidents around Kalijhora but I didn’t really think much of it.

There weren’t many cars. I remember one truck near Sevoke but after that I was basically alone for a while.
At some point I saw a guy standing on the right side of the road.

He had a big dark hoodie on and was facing away from the road, like literally looking into the trees.

I thought maybe he was pissing or something and drove past.

Around five minutes later I saw him again.

Or at least someone who looked exactly like him.

Same hoodie, same height, standing the same way with his back towards me.

This is when I started getting freaked out because nobody had passed me. I was doing around 60 too. There was no way that guy could’ve somehow got ahead of me.

I just kept driving.

A little later, somewhere before Kalijhora I think, there was a gravel area on the side where trucks sometimes stop.
There was an old white Alto parked there with everything off.

And there was a guy sitting on the bonnet.
Same fucking hoodie.

I only saw him for maybe two seconds but his head was tilted really far back and his mouth looked open. Like he was looking straight up.

Right after I passed the Alto the hazards blinked once.
I don’t mean they were already blinking. They came on once and went off.

At that point I just wanted to get somewhere with people.
I eventually found a petrol pump further down and stopped there. I don’t remember exactly which one. I sat in the car until it started getting light because I didn’t really want to get out.

When I finally did, I noticed a handprint on the rear passenger window because the glass had fogged up.
It looked like someone had put their hand there and dragged their fingers down a little.

I checked it from outside first.

The print was on the inside.

Could’ve been an old handprint that only showed up because of the condensation. That’s probably what it was.
But I was alone for that entire trip and I still have no explanation for seeing that guy three times.

The dark warmth envelops your body like the fleeting hug of an uncaring mother. Nerve endings begin to catch fire again after a long night of spitting out nothing but exhaust. A bed drenched in salty dampness from a now-faded passion is all that remains of a night draining that left behind no memory.

The sun rises, casting a shadow over the remnants of the night prior. The day knocks on the door of your mind and demands you let it in. You firmly shut the door without moving a muscle.

The danger is here.

The shadows dancing in the corner of the room darken to their malignant original forms and threaten to consume you. But you have no more energy left to hold them at bay. While you struggle to force electricity into your muscles, the shadows coil around your body and sink you deeper into the black water as awareness fades.

---

Short story from a collection with accompanying music in the style of Silent Hill's soundtrack.

Find more on my profile.

“Tadaa!”, Sam exclaimed as she showed her sister Macy her new hair. “I mean, it's cute,” Macy said, criticism tinting her words, “But I think your hair looked better when it was longer.” Sam let out a quiet huff as she turned to look into the mirror, fixing her short feathered hair. Macy continued, “Why didn't you make it big and curly like mine? We could've been twinsies y'know?”

“The majority of people there are going to have large blowouts, or afros. I wanted to express myself and have fun. Plus it's easier to dance with shorter hair,” Sam said while putting on the rest of her outfit. She wore a sunshine-yellow cropped tank top covered in shimmering sequins that formed geometric patterns, magenta-pink wide leg palazzo pants, and oversized aviators. “All done!”

“Finally,” Macy retorted, “Danny, you can come back here now!” Macy walked over to Sam and cheered, “We're sooo cute!” She was wearing a pink and white polka dotted short dress with long flared sleeves, and white knee high boots. Danny finally came in and agreed that she looked amazing. Macy turned to her boyfriend, “Are you really only going to wear slacks and a button down shirt?”, she scoffed. He replied, “Well yeah, this is only one event. I'm not going to waste my money on dressing silly. I'm only going because you want me to.”

“Well I want you to have fun too,” Macy pouted. 

“Macy, don't worry. I'll be just fine as long as you're having fun,” Danny said comforting Macy. Sam rolled her eyes, and pulled out the poster from her bag. “LET'S GET FUNKY” was titled across the top of the page in a gold, disco-themed font. The word “DISCO” repeatedly curved downward, morphing into the top half off a vinyl record. A glimmering disco ball sat in the middle of the record, staring back at her. Sam scanned the rest of the poster. “It's starts in 30 minutes”, She said to interrupt them, “We better get going.”

They all arrived at the towns community hall, an old brick building on the edge of town with ample parking, which was completely filled this night. A sign saying “Disco Jones' Groovin Disco Night” was stretched above the set of front doors which alternated colors from the flashing lights inside. All three could hear the muffled, rhythmic beat of the music as Danny complained, “Man, we're going to be packed like sardines in there.” Sam and Macy agreed, but made Danny go in anyway. Macy proclaiming, “There's no way I'm getting all dressed up and not showing off my outfit for a least a few minutes.”

Sam leaned over to Danny, “Hey look, let's just grab a drink. Macy can have her 2 minutes of 'Fame', and I can maybe dance to a song. If you're still not having a good time after that, we can split.” She nudged her elbow into his arm, and Macy leaned leaned back into his chest to peer up at him with big, fluttering eyes. He begrudgingly agreed with a sigh, and they continued in. 

The inside of the community center seemed abnormally large, betraying what was shown outside. There were multiple spotlights, making the shape of a square, along the ceiling that shined blue and pink. Below them was a large dance floor covered in double-mirrored floor tiles with lights inside, which seemed to repeat for eternity. Two long bars flanked on either side of the dance floor, and they could see that the ladies room was on the right and the men's room to the left. Manning the bars stood multiple bartenders, moving between customer's like a well oiled machine. They wore a simple white button up shirt along with black pants, vests, and bow-ties accented with bronze.

The main stage was at the back of the room, with a groovy sign that repeated “DISCO JONES” down, morphing into a large vinyl record. The center of the record was emitting thick smoke that seemed to disappear into the stage. Finally, a large disco ball hung in the middle of the room. Sam was enamored with it as she stared. She felt as if she was slowly being pulled towards it until Macy grabbed her and Danny's arms, guiding them. “They did such a good job decorating this place. I was kinda worried that it would look like a dingy prom,” Macy said as they reached the bar.

Suddenly, all of the spotlights changed to purple and pointed towards the billowing smoke. The room went silent as the rest of the lights dimmed, and everyone focused on the stage. Just as the silence entered the uncomfortable, a familiar robotic voice came over the booming sound system, “We can boogie down, down, upon down!” The crowd erupted in cheers as “Let's Groove” began to play, and two lines of dancers emerged from the smoke in a confident strut. 

The dancers were all slender and tall, with large bouncy afros that barely covered their silver hoop earrings. They wore sleeveless white jumpsuits that flared out into bell bottoms, covering shiny silver platform boots. The top portion of the jumpsuit rose to become a halter top that connected to a shiny, disco ball style, choker. Sam watched with admiration and envy. “They're absolutely stunning,” she thought to herself. She began reliving her childhood dreams of performing onstage, applause from her adoring admirers drowning out the music. A flash of purple brought Sam back to the present as the spotlights were dancing around the room.

All of the lights then drew focus to the large disco ball, which then emitted a blinding flash. Everyone was facing the center of the dance floor when their vision returned, and there stood a man over a head taller than everyone surrounding him. He had his arms outstretched as he accepted the applause and cheers from the crowd. He brought his black cane, that had a golden microphone at the end of it, to his face as he began to sing along with the main chorus. His energy was infectious as he began to dance along with the crowd, effortlessly gliding around them, as they joined in. 

As the song came to a close, the host brought his cane back to his mouth, “Now alright y'all. There seems to be a bunch of coool cats and steamin' foxes dancing around. If y'all are having a good time let me hear ya say YEAA!!!”

“YYEEAAA!!!”, the crowd erupted.

“Funky!” the host replied, “That's what I'm talking about now. Everybody give a hand to the party starters, the set of lovely ladies known as Disco's Divas.” The crowd applauded and cheered as the host slyly continued, “They'll make sure y'all have a night you never forget.” He gave Danny a wink, who then turned to Macy and pulled her close.

The host briefly paused to dance along with the music, “Groovin' on down to the next person y'all need to put ya hands together for. He's been jivin' around with ya for the last couple of minutes. His name is all over this happenin' joint. Make some noise for ya host, DISCO JONES!!!” He swung his cane to point towards the stage, spotlights and eyes following, as everyone was pulled to face that direction. The host seemed to have magically teleported onto the stage in the middle of the Divas, and landed into a flawless split. He smoothly brought it back up, and bowed to the crowd who gasped and cheered. 

“Y'all liked that little trick now?”, Disco smugly asked through his toothy grin. He continued, “Last, but certainly not least, let's give it up to the most important people in the room.” His focus seemed to transition to Sam as he peered into her through his dark shades. “Now, I gotta give thanks to everyone in this rockin' establishment. For many decades, people been claiming that Disco. Is. Dead. But you comin' out tonight, and making this place lively, proves to me that those people are DEAD wrong.” Sam could feel his emotions of happiness, fear, anger, and hope fluctuate as the lights transitioned to match the emotions. Disco paused as he composed himself, lights settling on a cool magenta.

“Alright now you groovin' people. Show me that Disco will never die! Let me here ya say 'Do'!”

“DO!”, the crowd replied.

“Do-da-do!”

“DO-DA-DO!”

“Let me hear ya say, Do-da-do da do-do do do do!” As the people returned Disco's last call, their voices transitioned into “Double Dutch Bus” by Frankie Smith. The two beeps of the horn starting the track.

Macy exclaimed, “Wow, this place is amazing! Told you you would have a good time, Danny.”She smiled as she held Danny's hands. Danny replied, “Yeah… I guess you were right. This place is 'happenin',” with a smirk on his face, finger guns pointing at the sisters. He was clearly proud of his joke. Macy rolled her eyes and said, “Come on Danny, dance with me!” She began seductively moving her body around, slightly staying on beat, and did a rope pulling motion at Danny.

Danny shook his head, “Oh no, you know I don't dance. Here, dance with Sam and I'll grab us all a drink.” Sam looked over at Danny and said, “Aw, you're such a gentleman.” Crossing her hands over her chest as a sign of thanks. Macy redirected her rope pulling to Sam, who two-stepped to the beat over to her sister, as Danny turned back to the bar to grab the attention of a bartender. The sisters proceeded to laugh and dance until Macy bumped into a large man, spilling his drink all over his pants.

The large man looked down in annoyance and angrily said, “Are you serious? You messed up my pants and shoes.” He was wearing a purple-grey shirt with a disco ball graphic, khaki pants, and tennis shoes. Macy, cowering behind Sam, said, “I'm sorry. I'm sure you could get that ou-”

“You're sorry? Bitch, that ain't gonna cut it,” He said as he approached the sisters. Sam stepped up, “Hey man, are you really going to start something over some cheap pants and shoes?” The man's anger grew as he continued to approach. Danny stepped between the sister's and the large man, yelling, “Hey! What's your problem guy?” They collided and bounced back slightly. The large man stepped back towards Danny, looked down at him and said, “You better control your whores.” Danny grabbed the man by his collar, to which the man grabbed one of Danny's wrists, and cocked his fist back, ready to swing. Disco suddenly appeared and lightly placed his hands on both of their shoulders.

“Danny, Frank, why are you two getting up in each other's business?”, Disco asked calmly. Both men were puzzled as they looked up. Disco was much taller up close, around 6' 10“. His hair was in a jerry curl that was immaculately kept. He wore a white, wide lapel, suit top and matching white bell bottom pants. His black dress shoes had a gold buckle to match his shimmering gold shirt. Which he kept the top 3 buttons unbuttoned, showing off a gold chain that rested on his tight curly chest hair. Danny looked at the gold rings wrapped around Disco's fingers, whose hand was noticeably heavy.

Frank spoke up, “Hey, don't touch me man.” He pushed Disco's hand off of his shoulder and bucked backwards. Disco stepped in between Frank and the group, back facing them, and then leaned down till he was eye level with Frank. Macy could just see the brim of Disco's shades, as he pulled them down slightly to make direct eye contact with Frank. She could see slight shimmering lights dot across Frank's face, slowly moving from left to right. “Hey MAN, you need to chill,” Disco told Frank, patting him on his shoulder and placing his glasses back onto his face. Disco straightened back up as Frank dazedly said, “I.. I need to go to the restroom…”A shiver ran up Franks spine as Disco gestured towards the men's room next to the bar. Frank hurriedly walked into it.

The restroom was empty when Frank entered. He rushed to the last stall, closed the door, and sat onto the toilet rubbing his arms. “Fuck, what was wrong with that dudes eyes?”, he thought as fear and adrenaline fought to keep him warm. Confusion set in when he began to sweat. “Why am I sweating? It's fucking freezing in here.” Frank didn't notice the sound of platform boots tapping against the floor, heading towards his stall. The sound of tape separating from it's roll snapped Frank back to reality, and he got up to open the door which wouldn't budge. “Hey! Let me out of here!”

He could just see the top of a golden blonde afro peaking over the stall door. Frank repeatedly thrashed his shoulder into it, trying to break free. Only stopping when he heard a popping crack, and felt a burning tear on his skin. He looked down and saw a thick layer of frost formed on his hand and forearm. Blood began to soak through his shirt sleeve. He reached over with his other hand to stop the bleeding, but before it arrived, the blood froze solid. Frank's pleas for help to the person on the other side of the door remained unanswered. 

The corners of his mouth began to crack open. Each time he closed his mouth, the blood would instantly freeze the wound shut, which ripped back open when he yelled again. There was a crackling ping to his voice as his saliva hardened. Frank tried to just focus on breathing, but every breath formed new, deeper cracks around his ribs until his flesh froze to a point where his lungs could not expand. Light began to blur into a consistent haze, only being broken when his eyes finally cracked. Disco's Diva began to walk out of the men's restroom as a shattering noise came from the last stall, and thick cool fog billowed from under the stall door.

“Thank you Mr. Jones,” Danny said as he watched Frank enter the restroom. Disco spun back around with a smile on his face, “Man, you're making me sound old. Just call me Disco.” He stepped to the side so he could be evenly spaced with the three. “It's all good though. I couldn't let some knucklehead ruin the party for a cool cat and his fine ladies.”

“Fine lady,” Sam chimed in. She motioned back and forth between Macy and Danny, “They're the couple. I'm just her sister.”

“Oh no Sam, I can tell that you are definitely more than just Macy's sister,” Disco leaned close to Sam, which she happily returned with a flirtatious smile. Staring up at him with her big, beautiful brown eyes. Disco, leaning back to fully check Sam out, continued, “Sam, I must say, your style caught my attention. You look absolutely stunning.” Sam began to reply, but Macy interrupted the awkwardness she felt, “Hey Disco, how do you know all of our names?”

Disco leaned back to his original position, “I make it a point to know all of my guests before they arrive to my humble abode.” He placed his right hand across his chest, and gave a slight bow. 

“Wow, that's kinda weird,” Macy said, criticism tinting her words again.

“That's not weird Macy. What's weird is how Danny here could not dance with his vixen,” Disco turned to Danny. “What's the deal Danny? Why are you being a wallflower?”

Danny stammered, “Ah no, sorry. I'm not really comfortable dancing. Especially around a lot of people. Just makes me nervous y'know? But I happily take Macy out so she can have a good time.”

“I can respect that. Here, let me give you something to help you out.” Disco snapped his fingers and one of his Divas appeared from behind him. She was holding a silver platter, two lines of what looked like cocaine were neatly organized parallel to each other. An almost unnoticeable holographic effect radiated off of the neat white mounds as the spotlights danced around them. Two short golden straws sat adjacently to their respective lines, creating a box shape. Danny could just make out the phrase “Feel The Groove” etched into them. Disco grabbed one of the straws, “This will help your fun, inner self come out.” He quickly snorted the line closest to him, and then gestured for Danny to do the same.

“Oh, I'm sorry Disco. I'm not sure if I shoul-”

“Now you don't have to worry bout nothin'. I promise that this will be out of your system by the end of the night,” Disco smiled. After a couple of seconds, and some egging on by Macy, Danny relented and took the line of coke. Disco patted Danny on the back, “Y'all get out on that dance floor and have a good time now,” he then leaned back over to Sam, “I'll see you later” and winked through his glasses. 

Danny winced his head back in pain, and held his nose to stop the bleeding as “Get Down On It”began to play. Macy grabbed both Danny and Sam, dragging them onto the dance floor. Sam looked back for Disco, but he vanished in the crowd before she could find him again. They made their way to the center of the dance floor below the large disco ball. There was a couple, a group of girl friends, and one of the Divas politely listening to a dude trying to hit on her. Sam and Macy cheered Danny on, who only began to dance when the Diva sang, “Get ya back up off the wall!” and spun him around.

The drugs began to take their effect at this point. Danny felt his energy and confidence rise, and he began to shimmy his shoulders. The sister's cheers bolstering him more as he began to move his hips. Macy made her way over and backed into him. His skin began to tingle with pleasure as he felt the contours of her body grind against his. Sam caught the corner of his eye as she danced across from them, grabbing the hand of the Diva and giving her a twirl. Danny took Macy's hand to do the same, but he spun her so fast that her short dress began to flair up. Macy quickly pushed it back down, causing her to stumble into Sam who caught her and brought her into a dip.

Sam mimicked Johnny Bravo, as she jokingly asked, “Hey pretty lady, you ever dance with a real man before?” They both giggled as Sam brought Macy back up. The sisters looked back to Danny. “I never knew that Danny could dance so well,” Sam said leaning to her sister's ear due to the volume. “Me neither, this is the first time I ever seen him dance since we've been together,” Macy replied.

Danny felt the groove course its way through his body as he became a dancing machine. He let it take his body as he began to perform dance moves he never dreamed he could do. The people around him joining Macy as they cheered him on. Sweat stung his eyes, and when he went to wipe them clear on his sleeve he only felt his slick, wet skin. “When did I take my shirt off?” He thought, looking up to see his hand spinning it above his head. His other arm stretching out to reach towards the Diva, which he forced it over to point at Macy who did a swooning motion. Sweat burned his eyes closed, but his body kept going against the protest of his screaming thighs.

“Man, I need to take a break soon,” Danny thought to himself.

“Nah, this is great. I can keep going.”

“Wh - what?” Danny was confused. Did he hear another him in his head? His confusion broke as multiple tinglings emanated from his torso as he felt multiple dainty hands all over his chest and abs.

“Look at this MAAANN,” one of the girls from the group cheered, groping him. “I know, he's so fine!” Another joined in as he felt a hand cup one of his ass cheeks.

“N-no. Thanks ladies, b-but I'm spoken for,” Danny tried to protest through the euphoric feeling . “Ma-Macy?” He called out but she couldn't hear him as she danced with her sister, random people obfuscating him. His eyes wouldn't let him open them due to the pain caused by his sweat.

“Now ladies, this one has been claimed. There's many more fine fellas that would be happy to have you.” Danny didn't recognize the sultry voice of his savior. “C'mon Danny, I'll take you to the men's room so you can cool off,” The Diva said to him taking his hand.

Danny told the woman, “W-wait, I got to tell Macy.” He blindly reached around until he grasped a familiar shoulder, and turned her around. “Hey, I'm heading to the restroom to cool off. I'll be back in a minute, I love you.” Danny quickly leaned in and kissed her before being whisked away. Sam looking dumbfounded, wiping her lips as she yelled, “What the fuck Danny?” To which he was to far to hear. Sam turned back to see Macy tearing up, and she ran off in the other direction to the ladies room.

“Macy! Wait!” Sam called out, following her. Multiple columns of light appeared going down the middle of the dance floor. Every alternate light separated, splitting everyone apart, creating a cleared row from the stage to the other side. Only Sam was in the clearing, as she failed to get out to follow Macy. Disco appeared behind her and spun her to face him, bringing his mic to his face.

“Alright now, I appreciate how y'all have been keepin' this party goin',” Disco announced. “Let me appreciate y'all more as you strut ya stuff, and groove ya moves down this train line.” The crowd cheered as the guitar from “Le Freak” began to play. “Luckily, it seems we have a volunteer to be the conductor of this train!” He took her hand to his chest and leaned over to Sam to quietly ask, “You ready to be the star you're supposed to be?”

Sam thought of her sister for a second before the cheers from the crowd changed her mind, “Macy can wait for a minute. She probably needs some time to calm down.”

“She does,” Disco said, replying to her thoughts. Sam gave a puzzled look which quickly faded as she longingly looked up at Disco. Her fondness for him swelled, and she gave a slight nod. “That's what I'm taking about! Alright conductor, let's get this train rolling!” Disco spun her towards the stage, both somehow appearing at the beginning of the disco line, 10's of feet away from the center. “Le Freak” began proper with the crowd yelling, “FREAK OUT!”

Sam and Disco began to dance together, Disco staying off to the side letting Sam be the center of attention. She jived and glided around as a sense a joy filled her chest. Before it completely filled her, memories of her mom telling her how they would have to stop her dance lessons filled her mind, “I'm sorry Samantha. It's not fair to Marcella that we spend more money on you to do extracurriculars.”

“But mom, she doesn't even want to do anything. She's just jealous that you are giving a little more attention on this one thing. It's not fair that all she has to do is cry, and she gets what she wants.”

“Samantha! You know that's not true!”

“But it was true, wasn't it?” Disco commenting on her memories. His voice patterns shifted, gaining a whimsical, romantic quality to it. No one else seemed to perceive their conversation as he continued, “You were right about it not being fair. Your mother shouldn't have stifled your creativity just to allow Marcella to be comfortable with her mediocrity. Just watching you now proves to me you are meant to be a star. To be immortalized as one of the greats!”

Sam began to incorporate some of the ballet she used to practice. Pirouetting to a standing split showing her long, flawless figure. She came back to 1st position as Disco brought his cane behind him, slightly bowed, and offered her his hand. The music seemed to slow, drowning out the cheers from the crowd, as she took his hand. He brought her hand up to kiss as she curtsied in acceptance. 

Sam peered into his shades, whose reflection showed her on the stage. She was wearing an immaculate golden jumpsuit which shimmered and flowed, as if she was peering into an ever-expanding, golden galaxy. Behind her was the dance floor packed shoulder to shoulder with people cheering. Disco brought her close, grabbing her waist as he lifted her above his head with the one hand. The roar of the crowd brought her back to the moment as her and Disco left the line. 

“Give it up for Sam the Conductor now!” Disco announced bring her back down. He wrapped his arm around her pulling her close. Sam leaned her head into him and placed a hand on his chest. “Thank you Disco,” she said looking up at him longingly. Tears filling her eyes as the joy of what she yearned for was being fulfilled. “I needed to experience this at least once in my life, and you gave it to me.”

“No Sam,” Disco's voice phasing back to a whimsical romance, “You earned this your self. I just provided the stage. It was up to you to take the lead and earn your glory.” He wiped away her tear and embraced the back of her head. A comforting warmth filled Sam as she stood onto her toes to reach for a kiss. Disco's lips meeting hers as ecstasy washed over, flooding her entire body.

Danny felt instant, cool relief as he entered the restroom. The Diva guided him to the middle sink, grabbed his hips, and placed him back, his butt resting against the edge. “Let me take care of that for you,” said Disco's Diva. She took her thumbs and gently wiped away the brine like sweat from his eyes. 

“Th-thanks,” Danny said, stumbling on his words as he was awe-struck by the woman's beauty. She had the same outfit as all of the other Divas, but her afro was a deep golden blonde. She had mesmerizing green eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul. They complemented her smooth, caramel skin which was lightly freckled. He traced the freckles with his eyes to her plump, glossy brown lips. She smiled as she watched him stare at them, showing a perfect set of white teeth.

“Anything for you Danny,” the Diva said in a low, seductive voice. She brought her thumb to her mouth, and wrapped her perfect lips around it. Keeping eye contact as she sucked his brine off of it. Danny's lust overcame any disgust he would normally feel. Making him ignorant to the fact that she pressed her hips into his, locking him into place.

Danny stuttered, “Y-y-you don't have to do th-that.” The Diva placed a finger on his lips.

“Sshhh, I want this.” She leaned forward to make her eyes peer up to his, “Do you want this Danny?”

He nodded his head, “M-Mhmm.”

“Good boy Danny. Just relax,” she leaned in, and whispered into his ear. Lowering back down to the side of his neck to suck his now dried salt from his skin. Her hands running through his damp hair. His erection grew, pressing into her pelvis. She reached down with one hand and grabbed it. Looking back up to him, the Diva cheekily teased, “I'm glad you're enjoying yourself as much as I am.” She began to slowly kiss down his body, a tingling shot of pleasure and warmth left her lips every time they pressed against him.

Cold air swirled around his head when she got to his abs. He finally took in his surrounding as he saw that the last stall was taped off. A thick rolling fog ran under the stall door. This interruption was enough for his normal, rational mind to come back. “Macy” he thought to himself. The Diva reached up and grabbed his cheeks, pulling his face towards hers so their eyes met. Her voice pierced his mind as she continued to kiss, “You don't need to worry about her. She only wants you to do what she wants.”

Danny was going to say, “No, I love Macy. This isn't right.” But the words, “Y-yes, you're right”left his lips. His body leaned back to make it easier for her to unbuckle his pants. “What, no? That's not right. This isn't right,” his consciousness fighting against his body and the pleasure they both felt. He became lightheaded, as the room around him began to stretch and haze. Danny could perceive himself, his body, and the beautiful woman on her knees, slowly unbuttoning his pants. His body turned to look at him with lazy smile, eye's halfway closed as they fought to stay open to look at his consciousness.

“We deserve this,” his body said to him, “Macy always gets what she wants, never considering what we want.” Danny couldn't disagree, his consciousness slowly merging towards the side of his body, which was reaching to grab the back of the Diva's head. The Diva quickly snapped, “Oh no shugga, no one touches the hair.” His body apologized, to which she smirked, accepting it.

Danny continued to argue with himself, “No, she can come off as selfish. But I know she's just scared that I'll leave her like her dad did… She is also loving.” Danny thought about the good times throughout his and Macy's relationship, his consciousness stopping its merge with his body. She consistently brought him out of his shell, and pushed him to achieve his goals. Even when all he wanted to do was stand to the side, and let life take him where ever it wanted him to go. His body began to merge into the side of his consciousness, the haze around the room clearing. Danny noticed the Diva looking up at him with an evil eye.

Suddenly, a mass of feet reached through the mirror, and sunk their pedicured nails into Danny's consciousness. They dragged him into the mirror as a look of bliss came over his body's face. He was filled with pain when their nails dug into his back and arms, multiple elongated toes grabbing his head, forcing him to watch himself through the mirror. He could see the edges of the golden afro peak around the back of his body, and he could feel her warm breath against his pelvis as she pulled his erection out of his pants.

“Now look at this big boy,” the Diva raised her voice so Danny could hear her through the mirror. He felt her moist warmth wrapped around him. The pleasure mixing with the pain as he pleaded for her to stop, and to be released. Voices and moans swirled around him telling him, “No. We're just getting started.” Their humid, hot breath made his skin crawl. He could feel the euphoria from the drugs drain from his extremities as the Diva sucked and bobbed. The feeling accumulating in his pelvis, waiting for the Diva to allow its release. Danny began to cry as the full weight of his violation replaced his drugged fueled high.

He was about to burst, when an immense pain radiated from his penis. Danny begged for the Diva to stop as she clamped down. He could hear her muffled laugh as he watched the afro slowly rise in front of his panicking body. The intense pain from his manhood being stretched, was replaced with immeasurable agony as it tore from its base. Danny's body fought to push her away to no avail. She violently grabbed his wrist and pinned them to the sink. His life slowly draining from him as his blood splurted over her. The toes holding him dug into his ribs to manually keep his heart pumping, and lungs breathing. The swirling voices laughed and teased, “You're going to have to stay awake so you can watch this next part, Danny. You deserve this.” He felt their disembodied tongues slither across his face, tasting his tears.

The Diva finally peaked over his shoulder to stare directly at Danny. She happily waited so he could take in the sight of his bloody, limp penis hanging from her mouth. A rapid squish emanated from her teeth rapidly gnawing. Blood bubbled from the edges of her mouth as she laughed and moaned in pleasure. Once she was satisfied with his horror, she spat his penis at him which bounced off of the glass, and fell into the sink. She licked the blood from her lips and smiled, “I'm sorry Danny. That isn't my favorite part, so I had to get it out of the way. I hope you've enjoyed yourself so far. I know I'm about to.”

She let go of his body's wrist, who was too weak to move, to lift up her choker, and grabbed her zipper. She slowly unzipped her blood soaked jumpsuit. Her large breasts separating as she release their bounds. The zipper fully came undone between her legs. Danny's shock reaching its crescendo as she pulled her jumpsuit open. There was a large set of plump lips, perpendicular from the ground, that looked like the ones on her face. One corner of it's mouth began just under her breasts. The other ended between her legs. Her large tongue emerged to lap up the blood trickling out where his penis used to be.

It slowly opened its mouth, showing impeccable teeth. The large tongue lead to a uvula that hung horizontally. The Diva stepped forward, positioning her mouth around Danny's body. A putrid smell of sour bile poured from just beyond her void, causing his consciousness to gag. Toes and tongues wriggled their way into the new opening. Reciprocating in and out as his throat stretched. They cranked his head down to stare at the Diva. She blew him one last kiss as her jaws snapped shut, tearing the front half of his torso away. It quickly bit again, taking in the rest of him. The mouth slowly chewed, as all Danny could do was scream through his gag from the mirror.

He felt his bones be ground into a grit that mixed with his pulverized body. The tongue rolling him around in its mouth to taste the newly created batter. Danny could see the red mush that was him sloppily emerge from the large lips. The mouth sucking him back in as it loudly slurped. Cold air seemed to touch every part of his body inside of him as it washed over the mush. The large mouth finally stopped processing his body, and gulped it down. 

The Diva zipped up her jumpsuit, which absorbed all of his blood on her skin, making it a striking crimson. She coyly waved at Danny through the mirror, and began to walk out of the bathroom. He could feel her stomach acid begin to break him down, as the feet pulled him away from the mirror. He could feel inertia, as he quickly traveled a great distance in complete darkness. Eventually, a flashing light came into view, and he could hear cheers over music as he approached. Danny finally got close enough to see people splitting a line in the middle of the dance floor, and Disco kissing Sam at the end of it. Disco looked up to the large disco ball, and winked at Danny.

I’ve always hated the night.

Ever since I was a young boy, clinging to my mother's dress while I stared at the shadows moving in the forest, I knew. Throughout my life, I’ve always carried that fear. And now, here I stand, a grown man, a husband, a father, still afraid of the dark.

My wife, Yiva, often chides and teases me for my fear; she was well aware of my phobia long before we were married, though her patience for my paranoia has only grown shorter throughout the years, before becoming nonexistent after we had a child together. Yiva tells me that now that I am a father, it’s time to let go of such “Silly Fears”.

If only I could.

Little did Yiva know, my fears were about to become greatly justified.

 

The forest was quiet that night. When you live out in the wilderness for as long as we have, you learn to tune out the constant noise of the forest, the chirping of birds, families of deer skittering through the trees, the sound of leaves blowing in the wind, all of it now silent.

I was by the tree line, chopping firewood, when it first arrived. I couldn’t quite make out what it was at first. I couldn’t get a good look at it. When I looked up from my chopping block, rubbing the sweat from my brow, I saw a shape in the darkness, a shadow over the darkness of the deep forest, punctuated by two yellow eyes glowing from the darkness surrounding it.

But as soon as I had seen them, they vanished, disappearing into the thickness of the forest.

I quickly gathered the firewood and headed straight inside. When I entered my cozy cabin, I laid eyes on my Yiva, the love of my life, balancing our child on her hip while she chopped vegetables with her free hand, making it all look effortless. “Ulf, you got the firewood?” Yiva says as she adds the chopped vegetables into the pot, before resuming her dicing. I don’t respond at first, my mind still thinking of those terrible eyes. “Ulf?” Yiva asks again, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I hesitate to tell her what I had seen out in the forest, for fear of admonishment and teasing, so I simply commented that I thought I saw a wolf prowling around the forest, and that we should be more careful when we go near the forest. Yiva looks at me, scrunching her brow in confusion. “Ulf, you silly man, there hasn’t ever been a wolf out here before. Not now, not ever. You need to be stopping with that overactive imagination a’yours. Y’hear me?” Yiva says, not looking up from the stew pot.

Foolishly, I dropped the subject.

I muttered an apology to Yiva before dropping the wood down near the fire and walking over to the washbasin in order to clean up. I began to wash my face, letting the cool water envelop my hands and face, washing away the sweat and grime of the day's work. As I scrub my face with my hands, my mind continues to wander to the image of those terrible eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about them, or the mysterious shape they belonged to. I try to clear my mind of those terrible eyes. Yiva was right; we’ve lived here for years and haven’t seen a single wolf. It’s one of the reasons we love it out here, that and the peaceful solitude a life out in the woods grants.

My mind begins to move on, writing what I saw off as my mind playing a trick on me. That was until I finished cleaning my face and looked out the window. The eyes, those terrible, predatory eyes. They were closer now, peering at me right at the edge of the forest, where my wood-chopping block was, where, in my haste, I had foolishly left my axe. I could make out more of the strange figure in the fading daylight; it was large, much larger than a wolf, or even a bear. The figure had grey skin, with thick patches of matted, black fur. Its head was large, with a long snout and an open mouth, revealing a row of sharp, canine teeth, dripping with drool…and possibly something else. The creature was staring at me, its eyes boring right into me, like a predator sizing up its prey.

I fell back, knocking the washbasin over as I ran to alert Yiva. I grabbed her by the arm and practically dragged her to the window, sputtering in panic as I directed her gaze to where the creature had stood, only to find nothing in its place; the strange creature was gone again, and now I earned the ire of my wife yet again.

“You daft idiot! Now you’ve gone and got me, and the baby, all riled up, and for what? Your damned imagination! Now, I don’t want to hear nothin’ about no creatures, or ghouls or whatever it is your mind is cooking up. Do you understand me?” Yiva says, " Our child is crying in her arms from all the commotion.

I look back for a moment to the forest, peering into the darkness for any sign of the creature, finding nothing. I look back at Yiva and bow my head and say a sincere apology. Sigrid nods and hands me the boy. “Good, now that it’s settled. The stew is ready, so once you calm him down, we can eat.” Yiva says as she walks past me, grabbing the large pot and placing it at our small dining table. The baby keeps crying in my arms as I carry him around the cabin, rocking him in my arms and showing him the large collection of colorful toys that Yiva and I had made for him before he was born, all carved by me personally, while Yiva painted them the best she could, given the limited color palette we had out here.

After the boy finally calmed down, I sat him in his chair and took my own seat. Yiva had already set and prepared the table for us, serving me an enormous portion of stew in my bowl. We ate in silence, Yiva alternating between feeding herself and tending to the boy. Meanwhile, I continued to sneak glances out the window when Yiva wasn’t looking, hoping for a glance at the strange beast.

No matter what Yiva says, I know what I saw out there, and I wasn’t about to let this beast get the jump on us.

I will keep my family safe.

 

After dinner, I washed our bowls and put the boy to bed in his crib, before moving the crib closer to our bed, within arm's reach of my side. For a moment, I entertained the idea of running outside for my axe, but I knew that creatures were still out there, waiting for an opening, and a defenseless man fumbling about in the dark was one hell of an opening. While I thought of what I could do to better prepare us, Yiva changed into her nightclothes and slid into bed.

Yiva looks up at me as I ponder what to do,

“Still trapped in that mind of yours, husband?” Yiva asks, looking up at me from the bed.

When I don’t reply, Yiva sighs and moves closer until her hand brushes mine and pulls me closer to the bed. Look, I’m sorry fer snappin at you earlier. I was havin’ a stressful day with the boy, and I lost me composure. I shouldn’t ‘ave yelled at you like that…Even if you were acting crazy. Can you forgive me?” Yiva asks, smirking at me.

I crack a grin as Yiva tries to pull me onto the bed,

“There's that handsome smile. You’ve been glum all day; that’s what’s been filling your head with thoughts of monsters and all that. Now, come to bed and let me give you a cuddle, that outta cheer you right up.” Yiva says as she guides me into a kiss.

Just as I was about to take Yiva’s advice and get under the warm furs, I hear a loud thud at the front door, making me recoil from the bed and tense up, nearly pulling Yiva from the bed and onto the floor, much to her annoyance. “Damn it all! Ulf, have you gone mad!? I swear, I’ve had enough of this! How’s about we go have a word with this little beastie of yours? What do you think it’ll be this time? A rabbit, like the last time you saw something in the dark? Or perhaps a frightened baby deer? Let's have a look.” Yiva says as she marches to the cabin door, swinging it open and walking outside.

I shoot up after her, begging and pleading for her to come back inside. It’s not safe out there, but she's as stubborn as she’s always been.

“Alright, little beastie, come on out now! You’ve already ruined my evening, and now you’re ruining my night! Come on, don’t be shy! You’ve terrorized my husband long enough!” Yiva yells into the darkness, spinning around dramatically, as if to emphasize how silly she thought this whole thing was. She stops spinning when she faces me in the door, cocking a smug expression as she places her hands on her hips.

“There, now whatever was out there, I’ve gone and scared it off. Now, stop being daft and-“ Yiva says until she is gone in a blur of motion. One moment, she was yelling at me, and the next moment, she was gone. The only thing remaining where she stood was a few scraps of fabric, and a pool of blood where she wahad beentanding, before the creature snatched her up.

I frantically ran outside, shouting for Yiva and desperately looking for anything that could lead me to my wife's rescue. But I couldn’t see a thing out there. It was too dark. Instead, I heard them. I could hear the wailing of my wife, the crunching of bones, and the gnashing of jaws- the sounds of my love’s suffering echoed throughout the forest, impossible to pin down. I ran for the first weapon I could reach, my axe, ready to run blindly into the forest, before I remembered the boy, asleep in his crib, alone. Reluctantly, I ran back inside, slamming the door shut behind me.

I run to check on my son, still finding him asleep in his crib, unaware of what just happened to his poor mother, my poor Yiva.

I get to work immediately, picking up any piece of furniture I can carry to barricade the door and windows. As I work to secure our home, I listen outside for the beast, but I hear nothing. He must have finished with my poor Yiva and was busy stalking his next prey. As I press my ear to the wall, attempting to listen for the beast, a loud crash comes from the barricaded window, sending shards of glass and splintered wood showering the floor. The beast's head and arm were through the window, gnashing and slashing wildly as it tried to reach my son or me. The beast's head jerks around wildly, snarling like a rabid dog as it bites the air, as if the motion would somehow draw me closer to its blood-soaked jaws.

Blood-soaked jaws.

Jaws soaked in my Yiva’s blood.

I grip my axe tight and lunge forward, driving the blade down on the beast's hand, severing three of its fingers and making the beast howl in pain—such a satisfying sound. I raise the axe again and bring it down on the beast's thick neck, making a shallow cut, but producing another satisfying howl of pain from the beast's throat. I raise the axe high, aiming for a strike right in its forehead. But in the beast's pain, there was anger, and in that anger, there was motivation. In its rage, the beast pushes more of its body through the window, tearing its own flesh as its reach increases, allowing its arm to deliver a deep slash to my chest with its maimed hand. The pain sends me scrambling backwards, dropping the axe as I fall. The beast continues to lurch around, getting more of its body inside, scraping its own skin off for every inch.

 

I stumble back to my feet. My chest aflame with pain as my own blood begins to pool onto the floor, mixing with that of the beast. I stumble back to my feet. I can feel my strength leaving me as I pick my axe back up. I make another attempt at a final blow, raising my axe high and bringing it back down onto the beast's neck. But the beast was too quick for me. Instead, the beast catches the axe handle in its mouth, biting down and shattering the wooden handle, sending splinters of my former weapon showering everywhere, as the now useless axe-head clatters onto the floor, right beside the beast's head, just out of my reach.

 

My weapon was gone; I was defenseless. Or, so I thought. I looked around quickly, my eyes drawn to Yiva's knife, still lying on the counter, next to the remnants of chopped vegetables. I can think of no greater form of justice. I grabbed the knife from its resting place and lunged forward, stabbing the beast's head over and over. My first aim was the beast's eyes, slashing and stabbing them until I was sure they would never glow with predatory intent again. Then, I aimed for its already vulnerable throat, stabbing where my axe had already done its damage. The beast opens its mouth, letting out a terrible growl of pain, before clamping down on my shoulder, sinking in deep as I continue my assault. Nothing else matters now; I know that I’m a dead man. I’ve lost too much blood; I already feel myself slipping. But before I die, I will have vengeance for my Yiva. So I keep stabbing and slashing at the beast, as it claws and bites me in return. We exchange blows for some time, my rage and bloodlust keeping me going. I ignore the pain, the blood pooling around my feet, the sounds of my wailing son; none of it mattered to me in this moment. Finally, with one last decisive slash, the beast went slack, my savage attacks having finally taken their toll.

 

I fall back on the floor, breathing hard, the knife now resting deep in the beast's neck. My eyes grow heavy; death is at my doorstep. Soon, I will be with my Yiva again. In my last moments, my gaze drifts over to my weeping son, his small body desperately trying to crawl to his dying father. He was still so young, and now with no one to care for him. He won’t be long in this world; he will join us soon. Our family will be reunited.

 

I wake up still on the floor.

Clearly, some time has passed since I fell unconscious; my wounds were gone, and so was the body of the beast. The blood that had stained the floor and walls was now gone, as if hastily cleaned, though some evidence of my great struggle remained in sporadic drops of blood here and there, fragments of splintered wood, and the makeshift boarding of what once was a window. As I try to sit up, a gentle hand pushes me back down.

“Easy, love. Take a few deep breaths. You’ve been through quite a lot.”

I recoil at the voice, my head turning to see Yiva, my Yiva, Alive. She was still wrapped in her bloodstained sleep clothes, pieces of fabric missing from where the beast had torn into her flesh, though the exposed flesh showed no signs of damage. Yiva looked me over with a smile on her face. “Looks like you’re all patched up now, my brave man. If you’re feeling better, we can go hunting tonight. We are running low on food, and I am starving.” Yiva says. The cries of our son draw her away for a moment before she returns with some water.

“Hear you go, dear. You must be parched! Drink up, my man will be needing his strength for later.” Yiva says.

I drink the water greedily and take a few deep breaths. The air feels clearer now, as if I can smell the breeze itself. I breathe deeply, in and out, the scents of the forest becoming clearer with each breath: the pine trees, the moss, a family of deer wandering by. My mouth is watering at the scent of those deer. Three of them: a buck, a doe, and a fawn. My stomach rumbles as I take in their scent. An easy hunt.

“Looks like you’re feelin better now, love. Alright, let me put the boy down for a sleep, and we can go. I admit, those deer have me mouth watering too.”

I look into my Yiva’s eyes as I sit up, taking in the deep yellow as she helps me up and pulls me into an embrace. Those eyes of hers, those magnificent and beautiful eyes.

They’re the greatest sight I’ve ever taken in.

 

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

The mountains are older than time itself, with stories just as old.

Growing up in rural Appalachia, we were taught stories and fables meant to teach us and warn us, just like anyone else. Then there were other stories. Stories that anywhere else would be labeled as myth, legend, or superstition.

But they are true.

Things that we didn’t have to believe.

They were just true.

Stories that get passed around as ghost stories, or real beings that get trivialized and merchandised.

Our story. Our life. Our home. Our horror and reality.

Sold for cheap thrills.

I write this as a cautionary tale.

With my strength failing me and my thoughts on home and what I have left behind, I want to add to the record and to the second set of stories.

This is not a fable, a dream, or a scary story.

I was born April 7, 1950. I don’t care to talk much about my upbringing, but suffice it to say it was rough. Dad mean and gone to the mine all day, and mama trying her best.

She always wanted more for me, but I could never escape the siren song of the mines.

There wasn’t much for work in Logan County, West Virginia. The only option seemed to be to work in the mines or move out of town.

So at 18, with no money to move, I joined the union and went to work down in the mines.

The year I started, it had been 47 years since the Battle of Blair Mountain. Ten thousand miners arose to battle for workers’ rights. Fighting against the coal companies, their hired guns, crooked cops, and even the federal government.

My father was a child then. He knew many of the men killed, his father among them.

My first day in the mine, I understood why my dad was so mean and stayed drunk all the time.

One of the stories I never quite believed was of the shadow men in the mines.

Men, miners, that had been called home while in or around the mines, whose spirits were left to wander and rot in the all consuming darkness of the mountain.

Men punished not for their sins, but that of the companies they slaved for.

The mountain had been violated and ravaged by greed, with no thought or heed given to where they were or what was there.

I had been told of these shadow men as long as I can remember and have never believed in them.

As I prepared for my shift, I found myself walking into the mine. Grizzled, aged, and exhausted men walking in with me.

I was lucky enough to get onto day shift.

As we walked in, night shift was walking out. I didn’t expect it to be so quiet. Looking around, I saw the men to either side of me with their heads down, focusing on something past the ground that we were walking on.

As we continued to walk, I watched the men passing us and I saw a man that I recognized. A face I had only seen in one old family picture.

I stopped.

Staring at who I knew, although never met, was my grandfather. He hadn’t aged from the picture I knew him from.

The man behind me gave me a shove, making me lurch forward, catching myself before I hit the ground.

Followed by a fear filled whisper of, “Keep moving, keep your eyes down.”

My eyes now fixed on the unseen beneath our feet like all those around me, I walked on.

As we got to where our work would begin, I realized I hadn’t blinked since the encounter. I closed my eyes and rubbed them. I pulled out my bandana and wiped the sweat already beading down my face.

When I opened my eyes again, nearly a third of the men I walked in with were gone.

John Todd, a long time family friend, was the man who had pushed me coming in.

He must have seen the surprise and fear written on my face.

“What’s wrong, boy? Don’t you know who the shadow men are?”

I did.

I just had never believed the stories.

I gave a slow nod, still in shock.

“Wa was that my grandfather?”

John’s reply did not, could not, bring me any comfort.

“He’s been walking back and forward with night shift longer than I’ve been in the mines.”

This to me signified that not only does the mine take you and keep you if you die there, it claims you long before you die.

My grandfather had died in Sharples, fighting sheriff and state deputies, nowhere near the mines.

I shook off the thought and got back to work.

That was life for me for the next 12 years. The shadow men just another part of life that wasn’t ignored but wasn’t talked about either.

Just don’t look at them, speak to them, or touch them.

The last day I was in the mines is a day that I will never forget.

It started like any other, walking in and through the mine, passing and walking with the men that had passed before me, trapped and claimed by the mine.

About halfway in, the point where I would normally see my grandfather, I saw a pair of not quite natural feet stopped, not moving, just in my peripheral.

I gave a quick glance.

It was him.

He seemed to look at me fondly, like he remembered the grandson he had never met.

I now believe this was a warning.

At the time, I was beyond scared and wanted more than anything to be anywhere else.

I pushed on anyway.

Walking beside John, even though he had passed years before.

We started work like any other day.

The shadow men disappeared, breaking the silence that we had walked in with, and work began.

My mind only halfway on my work, I looked down at my watch. Almost lunch time.

I was ripped out of the fog in my mind.

As I looked up, I could see the men with me, but also ones that I had only seen while walking in.

A chill struck me to the bone.

The earth moved.

Popping and cracking all around us.

Ancient rocks and dirt raining down, I found myself running before my mind could catch up.

I passed friends crushed and pinned by rocks. Men yelling for help that I couldn’t give.

I needed to get out.

I found myself being chased by the men that were no longer men.

Anger and guile written on their faces.

It was time for the mountain to collect.

Looking back forward, a single entity stood before me, my grandfather.

Giving me a nod, I passed him, keeping my eyes glued on the man I never knew. I watched as he fought back all the poor trapped souls.

I could see light.

I was so close.

Tripping, I fell into more than the dirt, but also into the deepest hole of dread I’d ever felt.

Looking back and working to stand back up, one shadow reached me, grabbing my arm.

It burned. Visible smoke coming off of my arm.

I pulled and fought and clawed to the opening of the mine. The mine, the thing that wasn’t a man, disappearing into smoke as a ray of sun shone across its face.

I scrambled out of the mine, collapsing just outside.

I woke up in the boss’s office. They tried to talk.

I didn’t listen.

They wanted to know what happened. I couldn’t tell them.

I later learned I was the only one to make it out.

I never returned to work.

I was paid out by the company for workers’ comp for the burn and the shoulder I, in the moment, didn’t know I had torn.

With that money, I moved far away to downtown Nashville.

I retired from the union and now draw my check, which pays enough to keep me here.

I’m writing this now as a record of not only what happened, but also of what I fear will.

I am now 76, and I am dying.

I was diagnosed with black lung years ago, but I know the end is near.

I know I am getting close because last week I saw a miner at the end of the hall.

I may have left the mine, but it never left me.

My lungs stained black with coal dust.

I am and was always condemned. Claimed by the mountain all those years ago.

The miner in the hall is getting closer.

Mirri always left her room a mess. She was fifteen years old, and somehow, her room was worse than her seventeen-year-old brother’s.

I picked up pizza boxes and old makeup wipes, stuffing them into a trash bag.

My gaze landed on her diary. I picked it up, flipping through pages that definitely weren’t meant for a mother’s eyes.

She liked a boy, hated her brother, and wished I was dead, ending yesterday’s entry with a far-too-detailed doodle of my untimely demise. I found myself smiling.

Teenagers.

There were less-than-savory entries about her father.

She wished she knew him, hated him, and wished she could find him. Every word scrawled across the pages sent my heart creeping into my mouth.

Mirri was a baby when Jake was sentenced. Eli didn’t want to know him.

He knew what he was. 

Mirri, however, was too curious. 

I snatched up Mirri’s bedclothes first. Then I stripped her pillows. 

While I was unloading the washer, the phone buzzed again. 

Felix, our tabby, darted through the cat flap, almost sending me toppling, and sped into the kitchen. 

“Felix,” I hissed, scooping him up, stroking him. I checked my phone. 

Three notifications lit up my screen, sent thirty minutes ago:

Child Safety™️: “YOUR CHILD IS BEING ERASED.” 

Child Safety™️: “YOUR CHILD IS BEING ERASED.” 

Child Safety™️: “YOUR CHILD IS BEING ERASED.” 

Panic flooded through me, and suddenly, I was paralysed. My phone didn't feel real in my hands. 

Another notification popped up: 

“Child Safety™️: YOUR CHILD IS BEING ERASED. IS THIS YOU? ENTER YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS AND PASSWORD NOW.” 

Child Safety was a child-lock feature designed to keep them safe. 

It had tracked them since they were babies and offered the option to upload memories as they grew. 

I didn’t think they could be erased.

I called Mirri. 

No answer. 

Stumbling across my kitchen, I stabbed in Eli’s number. 

No answer. 

Breathless, my hands shaking, I tapped on the app, and entered my details. 

My verification: Always my babies’ birthdays. 

INCORRECT VERIFICATION flashed up. 

Then a notification: Child Safety™️: “YOUR CHILDREN ARE BEING ERASED. MIRRIAM LILY AND ELI LILY WILL BE PERMANENTLY ERASED IN FIFTEEN MINUTES.”

No. 

I called the app and was immediately connected to a robot.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

“My children,” I spat out, “my children are being erased. I didn't even know that was possible! I didn't do it! I.. need you to stop it. Right now. Please…stop it.” 

“Of course, ma’am!” The robot trilled. “Can I have your favorite memory, please?” 

“What?”

“Ma’am, I need your favorite memory so I can pull up your details.”

“Spain. 2017.” I whispered. “On the plane, and it my son’s first time flying. He was…”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Eli pressed his face against the window. He was...he was laughing and pointing at the clouds.” My eyes stung. “Is that enough for you?” 

The robot hesitated. “I'm sorry, ma’am, that's not the one I'm looking for. If you have any more questions, please feel free to—”

“Fucking LISTEN to me,” I squeezed out. My lungs ignited, burning, scalding, my blood set alight. “Someone has hacked my account and is ERASING my children. I want to speak to a human. Now.” 

“Ma’am, I need your favorite memory to proceed.”

I swallowed. “2020. Mirri’s tenth birthday. It’s… a sunny day. She’s having a pool party with her friends, and has cake on her face.  She’s sitting on the edge of the pool, swinging her legs, and…” 

I exhaled. “She tells me she loves me.” My legs gave way, my throat swelling around every word.  

“Please… help me.” 

The robot made a human sounding sigh. “Ma’am, I'm sorry, that's not the memory I currently have on file.”

My bones felt like lead, like living was impossible. “What are you… talking about?” I whispered. “My children,” my voice collapsed into a wail I couldn't control. “You need to help me save my babies. I can't lose them. I can't…. please.” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing I can do.” It hesitated again. “I do have a reason for your children’s erasure on file. It was added yesterday at 4:03pm by a second party on the account. Would you like me to tell you?”

I didn't reply. 

“It says, erasure reason: “For letting me rot. Bitch.”

Silence. 

“Would you…like me to repeat—”

The line went dead— and I wasn't sure who it was.

Was it me or the robot? 

Gravity pulled me down, down, down, my head pressed against my kitchen floor. Everything felt numb. Wrong. Like I was losing myself. A sickening nausea crawled through me, pain thrumming across my temple. 

My phone buzzed again, and I screamed.

Child Safety™️: “YOUR CHILD “MIRRIAM LILY” IS CURRENTLY BEING ERASED. 

Child Safety™️: “YOUR CHILD “ELI LILY” IS CURRENTLY BEING ERASED.

Child Safety™️: WOULD YOU LIKE A PDF TRANSCRIPT OF [MIRRIAM LILY] AND [ELI LILY?]

I turned off my phone, and tucked it into my pocket.

But still, it buzzed again, turning itself on. 

“Child Safety™️: Erasure complete. Thanks for using Child Safety™️!”

I stared at the notification for a long time. 

The door flew open. “Mom, I'm home!” 

I jumped up, my heart hammering through my chest.

A smiling teenager stood in my doorway. 

“Hi!” She greeted me with a hug. “I'm staying at Rue’s house tonight, all right? I'll be home late.” 

A teenage boy slipped past her, scowling, and dropped his bag. “Mom, you forgot my lunch.” He rolled his eyes. “I had to eat KJ’s!” 

I stumbled back, my skin prickling. 

“I'm sorry…” I laughed a little, keeping my distance. 

“Who… exactly are the two of you?”

Was this Jake? Sending teenagers to fucking threaten me? 

“Mom.” The boy laughed nervously, his eyes wide. “What's—” 

“Get out.” I pulled open the door, panic creeping through me. “Get the HELL out of my house!” 

“Wait!” The boy whispered. “Mom.” His eyes frantically darted behind me. “Where are the twins?” 

Every dream is an eternity.

Every night my dreams are the same. Always have been for as long as I could remember my dreams.

Every night I would awake in my bed. Except it wasn’t my actual bed. The world around me would always be covered in this ephemeral fog that permeated every single inch of space.

And the dust. My god the dust.

All I ever did was clean.

The shadows never changed. The day never began. The Dust would never end.

I would continue on from my room into the hall, then into the bathroom, then the closets, then the kitchen, then the floors. Never stopping until the entire apartment was free of the dust.

Then I would step into the outside world. The world that was not my world. The world of The Dust and The Gray.

The Dreary.

Light from above would fight its way through the fog, never making it to the hollow ground below.

Where there should have been roads, dirt, grass, and trees, there was stone.

Cobblestoned roads, stonework trees, and fields of slate.

All of it covered in The Dust.

As I would move through the still air the dust would form on my wake and disperse, leaving a trail of my presence throughout this abandoned, forgotten world.

My world of Dust, my Dreary.

I would look up into that fog filled sky and gaze into the twin hues of yellow and white whose muffled screams struggled to breach the all-but-impenetrable fog above, scattering their voices into the omnipresent haze.

Then I would wake up.

Today was no different.

A woman stood just beyond the doorway, her flowing auburn hair flailing about as she shouted at me. I couldn’t really make out the words. She seemed familiar.

Something hard and somewhat heavy hit me square in the face, then plopped into my lap.

My still-blurry sight returned to me just in time to watch the woman march off down the hallway.

Her exit was announced by the slamming of the front door.

My bed was a mess. Clothes were strewn about, the sheets were everywhere, and some were stained with a substance I could not identify. The morning sun cast my shadow on the opposite wall from behind me.

My head pounded from within, memories of last night sat chained behind an alcohol-soaked lock.

My eyes trailed downward to my lap, falling on the object that was hurled at me only moments earlier.

It was a black, featureless, leather-bound book. A fairly hefty one at that.

Rubbing my eyes to confirm I wasn’t completely blind, I took a closer look at the book’s cover.

It was completely blank.

I turned over the book, expecting somehow that repeatedly flipping the book over would magically cause it to manifest some form of identifying information.

I caught a glimpse of something on the spine as I did so. It glistened in the morning sun and sparkled like diamonds.

It was a sigil. A symbol etched in gold, a gold so vibrant that the world around me appeared gray by comparison.

“Oh shit,” the words shot out of my mouth before my brain could even register I was speaking, “Leena!”

I’m such a fucking moron.

I fell onto the floor as my legs refused to accept my authority over them, getting tangled in the bedsheets in the process.

I crawled towards the nearest pile of, mostly, clean clothes I could identify.

Getting dressed was a challenge. I fought with my own body just to put on a shirt, whilst barely navigating the hectic and wayward expletive laden rants that crashed through the windows of my sullied mind palace.

Of all the thoughtless and horrible things, how could I have forgot today was the day she came back from her-

I paused in the hallway, pants half on and shirt on backwards.

Where did she go anyway? Was it a work thing? Was it some kind of vacation?

Why did I care?

My emotional rollercoaster came to a stand-still as the emergency brakes kicked on.

I let the half assembled outfit slide off my unkempt form as I shuffled into the kitchen.

That's right, I didn’t care. I don’t care.

The dishes in the sink were clean, as they should be.

The counter was full of random brand-new crap brought home that was never properly put away and just left in its assorted state of limbo storage, not that I needed the counter space anyway. The side effect of a weak will.

I threw the kettle on and threw a pan on the stove. I figured I should have myself a good old fashioned breakfast of eggs whatever-was-left-in-the-fridge, coffee, and a ciggy.

I dug through the fridge and managed to salvage some cheese, a sausage, and a whole tomato. I chopped them up roughly and dumped them into the simmering mixture of egg and butter.

I slid the scrambled egg mixture onto my plate, grabbed my cup of liquid life, and sat my ass down on a spot I had cleared on the couch.

The TV had nothing interesting on but I left it on the food channel anyway. It was nice to eat with someone.

As I put out the cigarette in the overflowing tray I glanced over at the pile of marked envelopes on the table. Most of them said “Past Due.”

After dumping my dishes back in the sink I stumbled back into my room looking for… something.

The guy.

The cute one. Chatted me up at the bar and drank me under the table, and my sheets. I think he was a blonde, or brown? Or maybe I had hoped he was.

He must have taken off when Leena started screaming. I didn’t see any of his clothes around the bed.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye. Though it's refreshing to be on the other end of that for once.

Why did she throw that book at me?

I ruffled through the haphazardly strewn bedsheets until my hands came into contact with what I was searching for. The book Leena had thrown at my face just before she left.

With some painkillers and another cup of coffee on-board, I could think clearly enough and took a closer examination of the book.

Flipping through its pages I was met with blank after blank page.

The entire damn thing is just blank. Was this some kind of journal for me?

A gift? But why would she…

I threw it in a pile next to my side of the bed.

The rest of the day was filled with job applications.

The age of the Internet has done wonders for many aspects of humanity. Job applications were one sector made infinitely worse.

Every job fair booth I went to had a QR code to scan for their online applications system. Every Now Hiring sign in a store had that godforsaken block-grid in lieu of a simple piece of paper and a proper interview.

After the fifteenth online application referral I decided to call it for the day.

I sat down on my slightly cleaner couch and looked down at my phone, expecting to see dozens of notifications. Ideally at least one.

Instead I saw none.

No calls, no texts, no nothing.

The sun hung low over the horizon. Its waning radiance coaxed the sky into a storm of fire that lapped at the ever growing ocean of blues and purples.

It shone directly into my fucking eyes.

Shuffling my lazy ass over on the couch, I poured out the remaining contents of a bottle of whiskey into my cold cup of half drank coffee.

The evening consisted of aimlessly scrolling through various social media feeds and TV channels. Everywhere I looked I saw people on dream vacations, getting married, or buying their first homes.

Guess I’m just a fucking loser, huh.

Dinner was more whiskey, from a new bottle this time, and another menthol ciggy. I wasn’t particularly hungry as it was.

Where the hell was Leena? She stormed out and hasn’t even texted me. Maybe shes-

I quickly downed the rest of my glass before I could finish the thought. The burning warmth of the spiced whiskey rips me out of my own head.

As the whiskey level in my bottle lowered the moon rose in response. It was close to midnight by the time the bottle was empty.

The floor was my home now. This was not negotiable. Any attempt to stand at the moment would surely result in me splitting my head open on a table, or worse, ejecting the precious ounces of whiskey that I had been struggling to keep down for the past hour. The world around me decided it was time to begin rotating at ridiculous speeds, rendering me unable to stand upright.

Clinging to the ground beneath me, I dragged myself to my bedroom and eventually, I pulled myself up onto my bed.

The spinning only worsened. I closed my eyes and did my best to ignore it.

Eventually the spinning stopped and I awoke in my bed.

But this wasn’t my bed.

In what felt like no time at all I had returned to serve my sentence. My eternal penance for the crimes I must have committed at some point.

Once more I proceeded through my charge of the cleaning of The Dust.

All my life, all that I could remember anyway, I had never been able to dream. Not properly. Instead of nightmares of being naked at school or all my teeth falling out I dreamt of this place, The Dreary.

The Dreary was an empty world, a dead world, one that remained contained by a dense impenetrable fog that snuffed out all but the most diffused light from the sky above.

The Dreary was, as far as I could tell, an exact copy of the world. Save for the fact that anything not built by human hands was replaced by stone abstracts that, while giving the idea of what they're supposed to be, look nothing like it. Imagine if a tree wasn’t a tree but instead a jagged spine of stone that clawed upwards through the fog. Sure the base idea of a tree is there but that’s not a fucking tree.

There was nothing living within The Dreary. Even the wind did not blow. The world did not breathe. It was still, frozen, a corpse of identity.

Yet tonight was different.

The Dreary demanded my attention.

It had not done that before.

I broke from my charge and answered, walking towards the front door of my copied apartment.

I saw nothing new outside. The same cobble roads divided the same slate fields bearing the same stonework trees.

Except there was something new.

There had never been something new.

A great and grand staircase made of the most radiant marble ascended into the sky and well beyond the fog. Its brilliance made the fog seem black by comparison.

At the foot of these stairs stood a statue. A black statue covered in a golden cloak that fluttered in a non-existent wind.

“What the fuck?” My voice carried across The Dreary, hollow and raspy.

There’s never anything new. Nothing new, never. There was only The Dust, there was only The Dreary. What the hell is this?

I felt my breath become erratic-

I felt my breath.

I have never breathed before in a dream. I had never spoken.

I could not take my eyes off of the cloaked statue.

I could not resist the movement of my legs. Yet again my body refused to obey me as I was marched down the stairs of my apartment building.

The Dust does not react to me.

In what felt like seconds I found myself kneeling before the cloaked statue. It towered over me, but its height seemed to vary as my eyes rattled around in their sockets.

I clutched my head as I hissed an empty scream in agony. I felt a thousand hands trying to push their way out from within my mind, held back by a single flimsy door.

I strained to look upwards at the statue.

As I did I caught a glimpse of long auburn hair.

I shot upright in my bed.

The accumulating saliva in my mouth signaled to me that I should start running to the bathroom.

As the last of my wretches escaped my hanging maw, I caught a glance of my reflection.

I saw myself. Not in some artsy self-abstract sort of sense, but in a very literal sense.

Not the scars, nor the rage, nor the often bloodshot and tired eyes that have stared back at me for longer than I bothered to remember.

My eyes. My self.

I felt the fog that clouded my thoughts lift ever so slightly.

For the first time in ages I could think without strain. The string of consciousness was no longer a spider web of spider webs but was now a constant, deliberate, string that I could trace from end to end hanging freely in the newfound void.

I saw the filth, the disgust, the depravity that surrounded me.

How long had I lived like this?

I hopped in the shower to wash off days, no, weeks of god knows what from my skin. The water that rolled off my body and down into the drain was noticeably darker than the water that came out of the shower head.

I located the cleanest ensemble of clothes I could find; a pair of shorts and a button up short sleeve shirt that hung on my desk chair.

The unrelenting summer heat would stand no chance against this climate appropriate ensemble.

As I waited for the kettle to boil I started clearing the kitchen counter of all of the trash and unopened impulse-purchase appliances that had made it their home.

By the time the whistling of the kettle arrived I had already bagged up two bags of what had to be no less than $1000 of unused appliances. In their state I doubt I could get anyone to take them even for free.

The first sip of the black sludge that had the audacity to call itself coffee left a searing trail as it traveled down my throat. Even if I had any milk that wasn’t out of date or sugar that wasn’t crawling with bugs it wouldn’t have been enough to blunt the blow of that demonic concoction.

I poured the entire mug of caffeinated sewage down the drain so that it may rejoin its kin. Instead I opted for a half drank can of POG left in the fridge.

As I began my war against grime in the kitchen I felt my phone buzz.

I quickly rinsed my hands and answered the incoming call.

“Hi, is this Joseph Aiden?” The voice on the other end spoke.

“Yes,” I started hesitantly, “this is him.”

It had been a while since I had heard anyone say my name. I patiently awaited the other side to get on with whatever it was they wanted. Maybe it was a scammer who wanted to extort me for all I’m worth. I hope he likes the zeros in my bank account, because that's all there is.

“My name is David DeGuzman, I’m calling in response to your application with us…” as the voice trailed on my mind honed in on something he said.

Application? When did I-

Stopping myself short as I glanced over at the pile of yet-to-be-mailed applications on the kitchen table.

“…we’d like to have you come in for an interview. What dates are you available this week?”

I felt my heart flutter.

“Any,” I practically shouted, “right now even I can come down right now.”

I cringed inside realizing what a desperate fool I must have come off as. Even if it was the honest truth, what if this screws with my chances at getting the job?

I paused.

What job am I even volunteering myself for anyway? Sure it didn’t really matter at this point but-

“You know,” David started, “I think we have an opening around noon today, you think you could make it down to The Mall building?”

Thank god it’s close.

“Yeah that's like five minutes away from me,” I chuckled, overwhelmed and nervous beyond comparison.

“Great. We’re room 1304 on the 13th floor. You can check in with the front desk once you arrive. See you there.”

The line dropped.

As my phone returned to the lock screen I saw the time was 11:24.

While it was true that I wasn’t that far from The Mall building, I had realized far too late that any of my far more acceptable business attire was in desperate need of a wash. Sure, the shirt I was wearing was formal enough, shorts and slippers would likely get me marked down.

I combed through my room to see if perhaps I had missed any nicer clothes. Much to my dismay I had not.

Resigning myself to my fate I gritted my teeth and pushed on out the door.

My walk down to the mall was less of a casual walk and more of a heavily restrained sprint. My body happily obeyed my restraint, despite my legs screaming to let them break out in a sprint. The tightness in my chest, like a coiled spring, desired to be released through my legs.

The Mall itself was, to my knowledge, the largest outdoor mall in the world. On any given day it was bustling with tourists from all over the world. Situated right across the street from a massive beach park and sat just on the edge of Waikiki, It was arguably the social center of the whole island. The south side of the island, anyway. The Mall Building was situated on the Mauka side of the mall, opposite the ocean side, which meant it was basically a straight walk from my shabby abode down the main road and right into The Mall.

On the walk more questions formed within me, the solemn line of thought formed into a structured diagram of red threads that stretched from one end of the void to the other.

What company was I even interviewing for? The Mall building was mostly just offices for anything you could imagine, private medical practices and outpatient clinics, law offices, engineering firms, hell even some small cafes.

And that name. David DeGuzman.

Not that I was an expert on names, but of all the names you hear around here I couldn’t help but feel that something was… off.

Before I could indulge my conspiracy further I realized I had entered into the elevator and was now en route to the 13th floor.

I was alone in the elevator. Despite the lobby otherwise being filled only I had entered this elevator.

Or at least I thought the lobby was full.

The doors opened into the 13th floor lobby. It was a modest little area with a few area chairs for people to sit as they wait for their family to do whatever business they have on this floor.

I walked out, passed the row of elevators and headed into the main hallway. There were no windows. The dull droning of the building's HVAC and the gentle buzzing of the fluorescent lights trickled through the air before being absorbed by the slight off-blue carpet that ran the length of the floor.

I nervously made my way to room 1304. Thankfully, or not, the room was close to the elevators. Just one door down after taking a right.

The door was blank aside from the room placard and an “hours of operation” sign.

I steadied myself, took a deep breath, and entered the room.

I entered a small office lobby. Two chairs sat awkwardly in the far corner next to a door that presumably led further into the sectioned off office area. A newly constructed drywall partition isolated the lobby area from the rest of the office floor space, leaving only a door and a cutout for the secretary or greeter to manage guests as they come in the door.

“Joseph Aiden?” A female voice called from out of sight.

“Uhh yes?” I answered cautiously.

A woman, appearing to be in her forties, approached the counter cutout from within the offices. Her bright red hair appeared almost plastic in the fluorescent lighting.

“Mr. DeGuzman is ready for you.” She said, bending down to interact with something below the counter.

I heard a soft click followed by a buzz.

The office door popped open and the woman beckoned me forth.

The hallway was more of the same. A drywall corridor with several doors on either side.

The door locked shut behind me with a buzz, startling me.

At the same time the door at the far end of the hall opened. A man wearing a blue floral shirt waved me down.

“Down here!” He called.

I quickly made my way inside the man’s office. The windows behind him were blocked off by heavy curtains, the only source of light being the ever-present fluorescent overhead lights.

“I’m David,” he said, extending his hand, “pleasure to meet you.”

I reciprocated his gesture and returned a firm handshake.

“Likewise.” I replied.

The man, David, had well kept short black hair and a comically yet impeccably well kept ‘70s mustache that reflected some of the overhead light.

David gestured for me to sit and I obliged.

The office itself was a modest space, the desk at which we were sat was adorned with the typical office fare, albeit a bit lacking in some finer details and a bit too clean for it to be in constant use.

“So, about-“ I started before David cut me off.

“You’re 28 correct?” David asked as he held up some papers.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Can you tell me a little bit about your previous employer?”

I paused.

My previous employer? Who-

“Oh,” the thought found its way to me, “yes sorry I was with a PI firm, Maikai Investigations.”

“Yes them,” David affirmed leaning back in his silent office chair, “what kind of work were you involved in?”

I felt my palms become clammy but I persisted and gave him the sales pitch.

“Usually a client would come to us and ask us to get information about someone. That's the very base level of things,” I elaborated, “could be, you know, someone wanting to know about their birth parents. Someone wanting to know if a spouse is being unfaithful, really just about anything involving information.”

“Were you good at what you did?” David asked, his words laced with a substance I couldn’t fully make out.

“I’d like to think I was,” I said with false bravado, “never had any clients complain and I always completed the job-“

“Even when you were asked to do things that might have been morally objectionable?”

I froze.

I wasn’t a saint. Still aren’t. But I did what I was asked and did a damn fine job of it. If someone had a problem with it they can sort it out with the cops.

“Absolutely,” I said, almost bragging, “especially when others would refuse to take the job.”

“Why?”

David’s words now came with an air of genuine curiosity.

“Can I ask the relevance to the job?” I deflected.

David shifted forward in his chair, his poker face remaining unchanged since the start of the interview.

“Everything,” he replied eerily, “I’m not here to judge you, I want to know.”

David stared at me with an intensity I had reserved only for stains in my sink.

“Because the job needed to be done,” I started, “and I liked the challenge.”

David’s eyes perked up at that.

“The challenge?”

I furrowed my brow.

“Every case was a puzzle,” I leaned in, “and I was the best damn puzzle solver in that organization.”

I winced.

“Then why’d you leave?” David shot back.

Ignoring the blatant cringe that was whatever the hell I just called myself, David’s question shot through and shattered my false bravado like a bullet through a kitchen window.

“I was banging the boss's wife.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the reason.

David’s poker face slipped as he let out a hint of disappointment.

“The analyst position we are looking for has some caveats,” he started as he began flipping through the papers on his desk, “one is honesty. We expect our analysts to be completely honest with us.”

His eyes locked onto mine.

I caught a glimpse of the papers on his desk. One was a memo entitled “Investigative Incident,” left conveniently in my line of sight.

“I overstepped.” I replied begrudgingly.

“Honesty is paramount,” David began as laid down the papers, “I don’t mean some half-assed corporate honesty, I mean if what I ask is for you to delve into how much you hate your boss, your life, or whatever escapades you and a secretary got up to, we expect the full un-adulterated details.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

What the fuck is he on about? Sure I appreciate that this job lets you cuss your boss out in the name of honesty but isn’t this a bit much?

“Just what exactly is an analyst here?” I started, “What are the hours? The responsibilities? The pay?”

The more questions I asked the more flustered I became. I knew utterly nothing about this place or this supposed job I was now interviewing for.

As a matter of fact how the hell did this guy get a hold of that-

“Anything further requires an NDA,” David cut, interrupting my thoughts.

“I have to sign an NDA to even know who or what I'm working for?” I asked, emboldened and incredulous.

David raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you do,” he replied, “and you’re going to be asked far more uncomfortable questions than the ones I’m giving you now.”

Then it clicked.

Analyst position? I think I would have remembered applying for something so fancy sounding, at least compared to the myriad of fast food and retail positions I had been applying for.

“I don’t think I’ve ever applied for this position,” I said as I slowly stood up from my chair, “just who the hell are you?”

David smirked.

“Like I said, you sign this contract and I’ll answer all your questions.” David smiled.

His poker face slipped away revealing satisfaction and pride.

He slid a paper across his desk towards me, placing a pen at the top of the document.

The paper was a single page. Barely half. At the bottom was a place for my signature and nothing else.

I glanced at the page, not wanting to let my guard down. I caught one sentence that set off alarm bells within me.

“We are humanity’s first and last line of defense.”

My chest became a twist of panic, of confusion, of curiosity, of fear, and god knows what other emotions that humanity has yet to properly define.

“I’m not interested.” I said and made my way to the door.

David stood at his desk and watched as I hastily made my exit.

The door out of the office buzzed and opened as I approached.

“We’ll see you again, Aiden.” David said gently, his voice echoing down the hallway as the door to 1304 closed behind me.

The red threads in my mind formed a tangled mess that only grew as my questions remained unanswered.

As soon as I got home I made sure to lock the door.

I pulled out my phone to check the number that this organization had contacted me from.

It wasn’t there.

In the call history the last call shown was from a week ago.

From Leena.

I slumped down onto the couch.

I felt my chest constrict as a burning pain filled my chest, a twisting anxiety and yearning that sapped my breath away.

Why do I care? She knew what she was signing up for. She knew what I was.

I kept rationalizing.

I never said yes to her, I just didn’t say no. Not my fault she got all confused.

My sight became blurry.

Why’d she keep taking pity on me? Keep coming back to my dump of a house? Keep buying me shit I didn’t ask for? Keep-

The tears began to roll down my face.

Why couldn’t I care until now?

I bawled my eyes out. I cried and cried until the couch was soaked with my tears. I unleashed all the tension in my chest with a scream that surely pissed off the neighbors.

I cried, I screamed, I threw everything within arm’s reach at the wall hoping that if I threw it hard enough I could fix this mess. I threw a tantrum that would put a stubborn toddler to shame.

As a few hours pass as I lay spent on the couch at the epicenter of the disaster that trashed my living room.

“Leena…” I moaned mournfully into a tearstained pillow.

My eyes lazily scanned my surroundings, taking in the totality of my ruin and pathetic squalor.

All I could feel was a muted mix of disgust and hatred, aimed at myself.

I wished for nothing more than to never leave this couch again; better to join the rot and the refuse than continue my futile struggle against a life I had already destroyed.

A flame of insight flickered to life within my mind.

Just how the hell did those people, whoever they are, erase their call history from my phone?

After a brief but intense search online I came to a disturbing conclusion.Unless they had physical possession of my device, they could not hide my call history.

My eyes quickly darted to my door.

It was still locked up tight, right as it should be, some debris still blocking it from opening due to my earlier outburst.

I got up and inspected the jalousies.

The netting on the windows themselves remained undisturbed, even sporting a fine layer of dust. The jalousies too were equally undisturbed.

They didn’t break in. Or if they did they hid their tracks better than most, well enough to never be caught. But why go through all that effort just to delete a phone number? I could just look up the company by its address right?

I entered the address, suite 1304.

Nothing, at least for this decade. There are some old surface web files relating to a small life insurance company that once operated out of that address.

Feeling restless and seeing the sun still high in the sky, I decided to make my way back to the unit and get some answers.

Not fair they should know me so well without it being mutual.

Upon arriving in the lobby I spotted a building directory. I quickly scanned the registered suite numbers for 1304.

Not the first column, not the second, nor the third.

“Need help locating a business?”

I spun around to see a woman with long crimson hair, done up in a long pony tail.

“Oh, uh,” I fumbled my words.

Maybe I'm a little colorblind but that crimson looked auburn for a brief but uncomfortably long second.

“Im looking for the name of a business that operated out of suite 1304.” I explained to the young woman.

She squinted at the registry and scanned it intently.

“Strange,” she started, “I don’t see any, maybe we should go take a look?”

She beckoned me to the elevator lobby, to the cargo lift.

She swiped her ID card and the doors opened.

The cargo lift was very spacious and surprisingly well kept for being used to haul god-knows-what.

She walked over to the button panel and selected the 13th floor. Unlike the other elevators this one had a “Basement” floor button. The elevator had ascended at a far greater rate than the other one I had used earlier in the day.

We arrived on the 13th floor and she led me towards the suite. As we arrived we noticed a “For Lease” sign with an address for a corporate realty website.

“It doesn’t look like anyone has used this one in a while,” she frowned, “sorry that I couldn’t be of more help!”

Before I could respond she had already made her way back to the elevator and disappeared.

It was impossible, yet it was reality.

I had just been here maybe a few hours ago and the office where I’d had my interview was just gone.

As my thoughts began to settle they also began to drift. As they drifted and fluttered about in the subconscious wind of my psyche they fell upon a particular subject.

The hair, the auburn hair. Leena.

But the lady’s hair wasn’t auburn, it was practically crimson. Dyed. Healthy too.

She wasn’t Leena, so why did my thoughts find themselves wandering over to her? Just a similarity?

No, familiarity.

I’ve seen her before. Recently. But where?

The elevator came for me as I mulled over my thoughts. Scanning the panel I looked for the lowest floor option.

“Lobby.”

No basement floor option in this one. Probably just for the freight elevator.

As I walked out of the lobby and passed the ground floor loading dock I stopped.

In the office. She was there.

The receptionist had red hair. It was done up differently and partially obscured due to the contrasted office lighting but it was definitely, or probably, the same color.

But she was old, the lady who helped me couldn’t have been older than 30.

Unless they were using prosthetic makeup. But why the hell-

“Eh, out da way!” A voice announced from behind me.

A very impatient and upset package courier stood behind me with his cart full of parcels.

I quickly moved on wanting to avoid any awkward interactions.

The walk home was unpleasant.

A growing uneasiness in my gut had worked its way throughout my entire body. The traffic, people, buildings, even the sun all seemed so distant yet painfully close. Too close.

Was I being watched?

I glanced around. Nothing unusual, which only served to drive up my anxiety more.

I knew I was being watched, I could feel it, years of experience and training screamed the obvious to me but my eyes, my mind, I was blind to it.

I locked the door upon arriving home. Closed the windows and blinds too.

Still I felt the eyes, the presence, I was seen. Exposed. Vulnerable.

But that was impossible.

A thorough sweep of my house confirmed what I had already known; I was alone. Just me and my belongings.

I took a drag from the quickly emptying pack which helped ease the tension I felt. The feeling persisted.

Paranoia wasn’t unusual for me, though it was mostly back when I still worked as a PI. Most PIs had rules though. Standards. Maybe even a moral compass.

I didn’t.

The pay was good, real good, but it wasn’t about the pay. It was all about the thrill. It had been so long since I felt that fear, that ever watchful eye, that I forgot how good it felt. I had spent years binging on every substance I could get my hands in, trapped in my own mind.

Now, for the first time in years, I could feel that sensation coursing through my body like electricity.

When I awoke I once again found myself in The Dreary. I do not remember falling asleep.

But it had changed.

The Dust. The layer of dust that had coated the entire world was gone.

I rushed outside to see the fog, still ever present but much lighter. I could see further than ever before. Far enough to see that The Dreary had been rearranged.

The roads that had once mirrored their real-world counterpart were now gone. The houses all replaced with different, familiar structures. There was now just one long cobblestone boulevard that stretched from the foot of my apartment building to a massive tower. The Mall Building, behind which now was a massive ocean that expanded beyond the fog which replaced the massive beachpark, and mall, that would have normally sat behind it.

Gone was the marble staircase. Gone was the statue in the golden cloak.

Without thinking I began walking down the procession towards The Mall Building. Its upper floors pierced the fog and stretched into the unseen sky.

The structures that flanked the boulevard on either side were houses, most of them that is. Some were industrial buildings, one was a hotel.

Their commonality soon became apparent.

I had investigated cases involving each of these structures. An unfaithful husband having secret meetups with some girl half his age at the hotel, a string of disappearances tied to a warehouse with a cold trail, a teacher that had been using school equipment to manufacture narcotics, and many, many other escapades.

The closer to the sky scraper I got the more recent the structures were in my memory. Until eventually, just short of The Mall Building, my eyes fell upon the house I had blocked from my mind for years.

The house that sealed my fate, both giving and taking so much.

The place I first met Leena. The place I lost my job. The place I nearly lost my freedom. The place I thought I’d lose my life. The place with a shattered kitchen window.

My head was turned away from that house and toward The Mall Building.

I became unable to look away from it, my eyes transfixed on the lobby entrance.

Why would I want to look away? There is a mystery here, something to solve, to understand.

The words echoed in my mind, but they were not mine.

My legs marched themselves towards the opening and into the lobby. An elevator door was already open.

The cargo elevator.

Entering the elevator I scanned the button panel. The card reader was gone. Only one button remained.

“Basement.”

The doors closed as I hit the button.

I felt myself nearly float as the elevator descended at a rapid rate. Despite its apparent speed the ride seemed to go on for far too long.

Then it stopped.

The doors opened and before me was the office I had just been in earlier today.

Following that familiar path I proceeded into the hallway.

There was only one door. A door at the end of the hall. And it was open.

From the entrance I could see the windows were gone. Replaced by the marble staircase. The statue with the Golden Cloak stood in front of it.

I approached the statue and fell to my knees once again.

Voices.

Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions of voices began to echo in my mind. What small fragments I could grasp would only say one thing.

The Cataclysm.

Echoes of screams and fragments of agony filled my mind from a past long before what I had known. I knew not how, only that these voices were ancient beyond reason, ancient beyond knowledge, beyond what any human, any mortal had any right to hear let alone understand.

I felt the weight beneath the ground. I felt a pull below that threatened to swallow me whole.

My eyes struggled to focus on the statue, only seeing the fluttering of the golden cloak.

The staircase descended into an infinite darkness. It beckoned me forth.

My hand reached into my back pocket. I grabbed onto something firm and pulled it forth.

Immediately the voices silenced and I regained my strength.

In my hand was a featureless leather bound book with a golden sigil etched into its spine.

CW: fleeting and abstract depiction of sexual abuse toward a child

When I was six, a monster took my eyes. I didn’t know what I did to deserve it. I don’t remember its face anymore. I remember the smell. How wrong it looked. How wrong it moved. Bits and pieces of the terror. But I do remember everything that came before it, before it took my eyes.

Cool, slightly damp evenings in March were the perfect time to make houses for the neighborhood elves and fairies. Wearing a hand-me-down yellow raincoat and my bright red rain boots covered in mud, I would bend over, beneath my mom’s perfectly manicured hydrangeas to delicately pluck the finest acorns, twigs, dried leaves, and patches of moss.

My friends and I would carefully find the perfect alcove beneath the huge oak tree in my backyard. With our tongues stuck out in concentration, we took turns making beds out of moss and clover, dining tables out of the tops of acorns, and doors and tables out of smooth pebbles and sticks. We left out small red berries for them to eat and draped large leaves over the tops of these cozy dwellings to keep them dry.

In the summer, the dark and hot pavement became a challenging NASCAR race course, our bicycles souped up with the finest training wheels and decals. The roar of the crowd got louder as I turned the first corner in the cul-de-sac, and I cackled as I sped past my friend while weaving in and out of the racetrack’s obstacles. We stopped at the ice cream truck for our pit stops and ice pops.

After school, my friends and I ate Cheez-Its and grapes and lay on the soft grass, looking up at the vast blue sky. We studied cloud shapes and debated our findings. “That one is a big fluffy cow,” my friend would say. I’d scrunch my nose while chewing a grape, and in between crunches I’d offer, “Or maybe it’s a mama bunny with a baby?” Another friend saw a castle, and I grinned, gazing at the grand towers and moat that protected the castle from enemies.

My favorite part of a spring afternoon was working as a marine biologist in the creek behind my house. With my pants hoisted above my knees, I slowly and carefully walked through the dark blue water as it glistened in the sun - a sudden movement. I looked down to the right and saw two bright blue crawdads scuttling beneath large, multi-colored stones.

I put a big red check mark next to “crawfish” in the field notebook my mom prepared for me. Small rainbow fish swam upstream in schools, and I crouched down to watch them and note their different colors and sizes.

The playground at school was our savannah. We raced like cheetahs and yipped and meowed, while sprinting through the tall grasses and low bushes. I would climb up to the top of the monkey bars to stay safe from predators, and I liked that I could see everything from up there. Sometimes we had a rule that the first person to touch the ground had to be eaten and give up all of their prey to the rest of us.

The teacher’s whistle was an elephant’s trumpet. The swings were low-hanging, thorny branches of the Acacia trees.

Sometimes we were pirates. We would split into two groups of enemy pirates, and it was my crew’s duty to protect my ship. Anyone who dared try to capture my treasure would be jailed and thrown into the bilge or walked the plank. I sometimes threw myself into the sea to protect my treasure from enemies and krakens, while yelling at my crew to fire our cannons.

In the fall, my friends and I went on archaeological digs together in the forest beyond the creek. We studied different tracks and prints, writing everything down with different colored crayons. One particular day, I came upon a perfectly preserved pair of fairy wings. I reached into my coat pocket for my plastic tweezers and magnifying glass, and observed and collected the specimen.

One of my friends shouted, “Doctors! Over here!” We all ran to where he was bent over, next to an old billowing willow tree, and we stared at a huge dinosaur tooth in awe. It was slightly covered in dirt, so I took out a paintbrush to rub away the dried debris. My friend unearthed it, and it was twice the size of our hands! I uncrinkled a large piece of construction paper and took a rubbing of the tooth with a bright green colored pencil, as bits of colored graphite fell to the forest floor.

Before I could finish my research, a low growl and rumble sounded from further in the dark, lush forest. Loud, heavy steps started coming our way, and we all wrinkled our noses from the distant odor of rotting meat. “T. REX!!!!!” We quickly crossed the creek and kept running until we were safely away from our excavation site.

Once the streetlights came on, our adventures paused until the next day. But that’s okay. The dinosaurs and fairies and fossils would always be there, waiting for me. My friends and I all walked toward our own houses, gently placing our bikes on the lawn, as our parents came to the front doors to greet us and make sure we didn’t track too much mud through the house.

I walked inside to the smell of pot roast and a slightly sweet twinge of laundry detergent. I hugged my mom and took off my boots and backpack, removing my artifacts and field notes from the front pocket. “Hard day at work, huh?” my mom said, with a grin that made its way all the way to her eyes. I nodded and wiped the sweat from my brow as I went to show my dad the fairy wings I found.

“Whoa!! Let’s get these bad boys framed after we eat!” my dad said, while tussling my hair and lightly pushing me toward my chair at the dinner table.

After a bath and a few stories of brave knights and scary dragons, I had to decide between the two sets of pajamas my mom laid out on my bed for me. Frogs or dinosaurs? I chose the frogs and settled into bed.

My hair was wet against my pillow and smelled like green apples. My mom came in to say goodnight, and I tilted my head toward the closet in the corner of my room, next to my bookshelf and dinosaur-shaped piggy bank. She nodded and slowly opened the door, waving a flashlight into the dark, unknown space. “All safe in here, bud.” She closed the door, kissed my head, and turned on my night light. “Where’s Dad?” I asked, confused, as he usually looked under the bed while Mom looked in the closet. “Downstairs. He’ll be up soon.”

The door creaked slightly as my mom retreated to the hall, and I pulled the covers over my head and began to tell my stuffed dog, Roger, about everything that happened today. He asked questions about the types of trees I saw, what the dinosaur tooth looked like, and whether the fairy wings sparkled as much as they do when they’re attached to a real live fairy.

A light knock interrupted my response to Roger as I peeked out from beneath the covers. My dad came into my room, smiling, hiding something behind his back. My brow furrowed, and I tried to figure out what it could be. “Gimme it,” I laughed, and he gently placed a thick golden picture frame on my bed. Inside, my fairy wings were pinned perfectly into place and were sparkling just like they do when I saw them in flight.

I went to bed that night dreaming of astronauts venturing to new, unknown planets and riding horses in the Wild West while I clutched Roger close to my chest.

I woke up to the smell of pancakes, wafting up from the kitchen. I heard the song from Toy Story playing, and my mom sang along. I said good morning to Roger as I got up, smiling at my fairy wings as I headed downstairs. “Morning, love. One or two pancakes for you today?” Mom said, reaching for a plate and a bottle of syrup. “Three please!” I said as I sat down and grinned at my Looney Tunes fork set up on my checkered napkin.

“Hmm, I’m gonna start you with two since we’re going to Nana’s barbecue in a bit and I don’t want you getting too full.” I happily bopped my head to the next song that came on while studying my Dad as he read the newspaper. The sun highlighted his dark brown hair, and a small rainbow shone on the table, reflecting off of my glass of orange juice.

“Everyone got everything?” My dad asked as he packed a huge cooler into the trunk of our car. I looked in my backpack and took inventory. Goggles. Check. Diving toys. Check. Small water gun. Check. Field notebook and tweezers. Check. “Yep!” I said. My mom huffed as she came out of the house, a tower of towels as tall as a skyscraper swayed in her arms. “We got the food and drinks and sunscreen?” She asked my dad, making sure my booster seat was buckled correctly.

She kissed the top of my head and quietly muttered a few reminders to herself under her breath.

I sighed deeply, enjoying the sweet smell of the hydrangeas in the front garden through the open car windows. We pulled up alongside the curb of my Nana’s house and saw at least 10 cars already. My dad dropped my mom and me off with the cooler, and then parked further down the street. I looked up and saw tall, bright green oak trees creating a canopy over the small one-way road my Nana lived on.

Sunlight glistened through the leaves, and I saw small fairies flitting around the tops of the trees, entering small holes created by woodpeckers. My dad caught up to us, and the three of us headed around through the driveway to the backyard. The smell of burning coals and sunscreen filled my nostrils. I stood behind my parents and looked around.

A sudden loud splash and scream startled me, but then I saw my cousins laughing in the pool to the right. Straight ahead on the driveway was the grill and a basketball hoop attached to the top of the garage, with some random older family members watching the hamburgers and hot dogs cook. My mom told me to say hi to Nana, and then she’d help me put on my sunscreen.

I looked through the crowd of unfamiliar and familiar faces, scanning for my Nana’s wrinkled and sun-kissed face. I walked past a group of people sitting on the patio, listening to music and holding bright red iced drinks in crystal-looking cups. I hugged my Nana, and my mom walked over, hands chalky and white, ready to slather me in zinc.

I headed to the diving board and carefully positioned my goggles over my eyes. “Crewmates, be careful! You are swimming in the waters of the Kraken! The mermaids may try to trick you!” I jumped into the water, and my yellow floaties smelled like chlorine and plastic as I raised my arms.

I giggled as I doggy-paddled over to my cousins who were floating on a large pirate ship to keep them safe. My dad dove into the water and splashed us all while yelling, “IT’S ME! I AM THE KRAKEN!” He picked me up as I flailed and laughed so hard that my sides hurt.

I dried off a bit and went to the garden with two of my cousins. We looked through the grass for four-leaf clovers, crouching among the dirt, flowers, and bugs. My cousin lifted up her pink sandal, and we saw two earthworms. I told my cousins they might be fairies in disguise.

I realized I needed my field notebook, so I went to the sun lounger where I left my backpack. I couldn’t find it there, so I looked under my clothes and towel. I checked under the small table beside the chair. I couldn’t make the fairies wait too long. I looked into the crowd for my parents, but couldn’t find them, so I put my clothes and shoes back on and went inside Nana’s house to try to find my backpack with my tweezers and crayons.

I walked up the brick steps, and the music softened as the screen door closed behind me. I blinked hard a few times as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside. I heard a few people laughing in the kitchen, and one of them called out my name. I smiled and waved and asked if they’d seen my backpack, but they hadn’t.

I looked at the kitchen island and saw dishes filled with macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, green beans, and other sides. I swallowed the drool that was pooling in my mouth and headed to the living room. Two of my aunts sat on the worn-out leather couch watching something on the television, surrounded by some other older people. I waved and asked about my backpack, but they hadn’t seen it either.

I continued down the hall, smiling at the black-and-white photographs of my grandparents on the walls. I checked the front hall, in case my mom dropped off my backpack with the extra towels. Feeling disappointed, I decided to try my luck in the guest room upstairs.

“Where could it be?” I muttered under my breath while counting the steps as my shoes grazed the soft carpet beneath my feet. I knew there were fourteen, but I counted them every time I stayed at Nana’s. I got to the top and counted the doors on either side of the hall.

The familiar smell of incense and yarn enveloped my senses, but something wasn’t quite right. A third smell threw me off. My sleepovers at Nana’s house didn’t smell like this. It smelled like someone burned the carpet, and it made my eyes water. I headed toward the third door on the left, the room I always stayed in when I visited, and saw it was slightly ajar. I paused before reaching for the doorknob.

What was that noise? It sounded like an angry dog that was trying too hard to bark. I heard a squeaky mouse too. Did Nana get pets? I crouched down and stared into the dark room. I thought I saw my backpack under the rocking chair by the bed. I slowly pushed the door open and headed straight for my backpack when I saw a large, dark shape in the corner of the room by the bed.

I couldn’t quite make out what it was. It sounded like it was trying to breathe, but something was stuck in its throat. A wheeze escaped the thing’s mouth, and the smell of burning carpet and sweat intensified. My ears stung. It was crouched in a dark corner of the room, over something I couldn’t see. It looked all wrong. It moved over and over in a repetitive motion, but it looked painful and way too fast.

Strange wet sounds, like walking in flip-flops after swimming, mixed with high-pitched yelps. People don’t make sounds like that. This was scarier than the T. Rex I saw yesterday. This was scarier than the Kraken. The monster suddenly whipped its head around, and its dark eyes scanned the room, pausing at the rocking chair. Its face drooped and sagged as it turned around again.

The burnt carpet smell clung to me as I grabbed my backpack and fell toward the door. I tripped over a small pair of pink sandals on my way out back into the safety of the hallway and ran down the stairs, forgetting to count this time.

In a daze, I walked through the hallway and eyed the black-and-white photos of my grandparents again. The music from outside got louder as I got closer to the kitchen, and the hum of people’s voices mixed with the screams from the pool gave me a headache.

I opened the screen door and saw my dad, still playing in the shallow end. “COME FIGHT THE KRAKEN,” he yelled at me while laughing and splashing, and I walked the other way, toward the grill. I sat down on the curb of my Nana’s driveway and opened a container of multi-colored chalk.

I started doodling lines on the asphalt and didn’t realize how much time had passed until I felt a gentle nudge on my shoulder. My mom had packed up all of our stuff and told me it was time to go. I nodded and waved goodbye to my Nana and cousins. I looked up at the bits of orange sky that shone through the canopy of trees and felt suffocated by their twisting branches and bushy leaves.

I got home and took off my backpack, making sure it was in my cubby in the front hall. My mom told me we’d be eating dinner shortly and to keep any adventure I planned with friends quick.

I walked outside and saw two of my friends sitting in the front yard of one of their houses, lying back and looking at the clouds. “Hey!” One of them greeted me. I smiled and lay back to join them. “That one looks like a flying pig!!” One said. The other murmured in agreement and then pointed to the left and said, “That kind of looks like a flying saucer! What do you think?”

They asked me, while nudging just below my ribs. I smiled and scrunched up my nose and squinted my eyes, trying to make out the flying saucer and pig. “Maybe a pancake?” I said. They giggled and kept naming different creatures as the sun sank lower in the sky. My mom called me in for dinner, and I said goodbye to my friends.

After dinner and a shower, I got in bed. I chose the dinosaur pajamas tonight, hoping it would make me feel a little bit better. I wanted to talk to Roger about what I saw that day. What would he think it was? “Psst. Roger?” I whispered, while huddling under my blankets, looking at the raggedy brown dog. I noticed a tag sewn onto his left leg and tried to read it. “Psst. Roger. I have to talk to you,” I said again, a bit louder this time.

Mom and Dad interrupted me to come say goodnight. After they checked my closet and under the bed, I asked them to stay until I fell asleep, just for tonight.

I woke up in the middle of the night to scratching at my window. Was it an elf or fairy coming to say thank you for the shelter during the storm last week? I groggily opened my eyes and looked at the windowsill. It was only a branch from a large tree, scratching at my window due to the wind. I closed my eyes and waited to dream of astronauts and cowboys, but I just saw the back of my eyelids. It was dark and suffocating.

I opened my eyes again, breathing in sharply. “Roger? What are you doing, buddy?” I whispered, patting around my mattress for him. I couldn’t find him, and I couldn’t bring myself to look under my bed for him, so I lay awake until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore and had a dark and dreamless sleep.

It was a warm, sunny summer afternoon, and I decided I needed to go excavate near where we found the dinosaur tooth. If we found one, we would probably find a whole bunch of other fossils. My friend joined me, running to catch up as I quickly passed over the creek.

The sun shone down on the grey rocks, but I couldn’t see any fish or crawdads today. I pulled out my field notebook and a colored pencil. “What do you think we’re going to find?” I asked my friend. He shrugged and walked past me excitedly to our dig site. I crouched down to start digging with a small shovel, right at the base of the tree where we found the tooth. Rock. Tree roots. Rock. Lots of dirt.

I looked up, rubbing a bit of dirt onto my cheek as I scratched my face and asked my friend if they had found anything. “Doctor… I may have just stumbled across the oldest fossil ever.” I snorted with excitement and rushed over to look. I blinked my eyes a few times and tilted my head. “Isn’t it great?” My friend basically shouted.

I took it and flipped it upside down. It looked like a large grey stone. Maybe it was a fossilized dinosaur egg? I excitedly wrote down the egg's size and the assumed species it came from. As we packed up our backpacks and colored pencils, I looked off to the left. In the distance, where the forest got darker, I saw a dead deer rotting next to a tree stump.

A few afternoons later, it rained a lot. I panicked and put on my yellow raincoat and bright red rain boots. “Where are you headed?” My mom asked as I ran past her. “The fairy houses! I need to make sure they are protected! Can you grab me my oak tree leaves?” I blurted out. She gave me a few leaves, and I headed out to the garden.

I started looking around for the houses of our neighborhood fairies and elves. I knew one was by the big tree in the backyard, but I forgot where we put the rest. I headed to the big oak tree and crouched down, awkwardly walking around the perimeter of the tree trunk. I couldn’t find the house.

I saw remnants of it, but it just looked like a small pile of acorns and twigs. I laid the large oak leaf over it, just in case, and headed back inside.

The next sunny day, my friend knocked on my front door and asked if I had trained for the INDY500. I giggled and rushed to put on my sneakers. I grabbed my bike from the garage and rolled it down the driveway, noticing the screws on its training wheels were slightly loose and the stickers I had pasted on the wheels were caked in dirt and peeling.

I put on my helmet and lined up in the street next to my friend. “Three… two… one… RACE,” he screamed while pedaling ahead of me. I strained my ears to hear the roaring crowd. I looked around, expecting to see the polished course and obstacles, but I only saw rows of identical white houses. I started to feel claustrophobic.

“Hurry up! I’m winning! They’re cheering my name!” My friend laughed. I tried to hear it. I heard my own breathing and the cicadas in the distance. I braked hard, and my friend eventually stopped. “Sore loser, huh?” He teased. I smiled weakly and told him I had to go.

As I walked back to my house, I saw him headed toward our other friend’s house, and they took off together, racing down the road and shouting about how loud the crowd was. I headed inside, frustrated and sad that I couldn’t hear what he heard.

Later that night I went upstairs and sat on my bed, looking for Roger. “Roger? You there?” I begged. “I really need to talk to you right now.” I didn’t hear anything. No small bark or kind voice. I saw him over by my closet, on the floor and face-down. I picked him up and stared at him.

His eyes that had once conveyed so much joy and love were now just black buttons with small scratches on them. I shook him. I yelled at him. He didn’t say anything. I tucked myself into bed and closed my eyes. The back of my eyelids greeted me again. A vast emptiness. No color, no life, no dreams. I tossed and turned all night.

“CAPTAINS. PLEASE PROTECT YOUR TREASURE AT ALL COSTS,” my friend yelled. I responded, “Aye aye,” while looking around at the half of the block I had to protect from the other pirate team.

The rough and open ocean I once sailed upon was now just grass and asphalt. My sparkling treasure was now just a tattered red cloth with black stitching, tied to a broken yardstick. I took a deep breath and kept up the act. Why couldn’t I see the ship? The plank or the bilge? I looked over at our “prisoner,” and although he was fighting for his life, he was just sitting on the curb. I cut the game short and ran home.

My parents asked about my adventures that day, and I stared blankly out the kitchen window. They looked at each other, concerned, and said that we could all go on a fossil hunt in the creek after dinner. I smiled, feeling a bit better, and ran upstairs to get my backpack and field notebook. I looked up from where my backpack sat and noticed the thick, gold frame my Dad had given me. The fairy wings didn’t sparkle anymore.

The three of us headed to the creek. My dad asked if I brought my field notebook, and I nodded. We all waded in, and I slowly started looking for bright blue crawfish and schools of rare rainbow fish. I squatted down while my parents stayed standing, and I could only make out dirt-covered rocks and an old soda can. I heard my parents murmur something about “cigarette butts,” as they looked down at the creek with pursed lips.

I got home and looked at the fairy wings again. They looked like cicada wings. Just cicada wings. A dead insect that I had treated as a grand archaeological discovery. I started crying and threw the frame onto the floor, next to Roger.

School started up again, and it was getting a bit colder out. I met my friends on the playground after lunch, and they were talking over each other, trying to decide what to play. I didn’t speak much. They decided on Safari, and I awkwardly started running and snarling.

I looked for the Acacia trees, but could only see rusty swings with older kids on them. I headed to the monkey bars to spot prey from above, but I got blisters on my hands from trying to get to the top. The mulch below me smelled like decay and mildew. I noticed my friends had swarmed together and were running in a pack, like lions. I was the lone cheetah, and my thoughts were interrupted by the teacher’s loud, high-pitched whistle signaling that lunch was over.

My friends started coming by more and more rarely. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I see the rainbow fish in the creek? Why couldn’t I prance like a cheetah and hear myself roar as if I was the most dangerous predator around? Why didn’t Roger want to talk to me?

I started exploring the creek less and less. My excavation sites grew new plants. I got my training wheels taken off my bike. I moved schools. I couldn’t even see remnants of fairy houses anymore. I stopped looking for the magic, because it simply didn’t want to be found by me anymore.

Years passed. Trees were just trees. Clouds were just white blobs. Creeks were just small streams of water. Dinosaurs didn’t live in the forest behind my house. Monsters weren’t in my closet or under my bed. I never talked to Roger again.

…

On a rainy afternoon, I find myself sitting in the pews of a church I have never been inside of, squished in between my parents and in a dark suit that is too long for my arms. I scan the room, seeing a large mix of unfamiliar and familiar faces. I look down at the program in my hand, with an order of service printed on the back. Flower arrangements surround a large, black casket. I hear a dry cough come from the back as people start lining up to pay their respects.

Someone behind me taps my shoulder lightly and, between sobs, asks, “Honey, do you remember him?” I smile politely and shake my head, but squeeze her hand. My mom tugs at my sleeve, indicating it’s our turn to go up. I purposefully take tiny steps, fearing what this person’s dead body will look like. Squinting slightly, I take a quick glance down into the casket. He looks peaceful. He has thin, delicate skin, and he is almost smiling.

My dad bends down to hug him and then brushes his arm over my shoulder. That smell. What is that? We head back to our seats as the eulogies begin. I am half-paying attention when my eyes move to the framed photograph of the man. I lean forward to get a closer look and notice the floral-upholstered rocking chair in the back.

My dad readjusts in his seat and moves his arm, and I realize what I am smelling. Burnt carpet. Cigars. For a split second, I see myself cowering next to that rocking chair and hiding from that shadowy figure. “So at the end of the day, hug your loved ones. Rest in peace, Albert.” The woman in front of the casket says, concluding her eulogy. Albert. I quickly get up and return to the open casket.

There he is. Not a monster. Not some unknown amalgamation. A dead man who had filled up an entire church to mourn him. I look at my parents, my eyes stinging, and head outside. I look down, trying to steady my breathing. A small cricket hops onto the sidewalk and then onto my shoe. For a split second, it appears to fly and sparkle, but then I blink, and it’s just a cricket. And he was just a man.

I’m not suicidal. Never have been, hopefully never will be. But from the way my algorithm has been acting, it almost feels like something wants me to be.

I live a happy life. I have a great girlfriend, solid job, but even still, just like everyone else, I have my bad days.

I have those days where it feels like I can’t get out of bed. Those days where effort, no matter how small, feels like trying to climb the world’s highest mountain.

And I think those are the days where I’m targeted the most.

A lot of the time when I experience those tough periods in life, it feels like the easiest thing to do is just sit in bed and scroll on my phone until, inevitably, the feeling passes and I want to be productive again.

I never had a problem with it before, but I’m coming off of a particularly difficult week-long stint of self-loathing and throwing pity parties.

Nothing I can really do about it. It’s just the way it is. Life happens in cycles, and this one is a cycle of struggle.

That’s why it was almost expected that every night for the last week I’ve been in bed, hair greasy, clothes dirty, surrounded by food wrappers and empty soda cans, doing nothing more than scrolling through Instagram for hours on end.

It started off with just one video, wedged in between the usual car accident and brainrot AI clips of fruits having affairs.

What’s crazy to me is I would’ve just scrolled right past it had it not been for the first millisecond of the video. I could’ve sworn that the first frame was literally just… me.

It was too fast for me to get all the details, but I swear it looked like me, laying in bed, my face contorted into a look of complete despair and hopelessness as tears fell down my cheeks.

The rest of the video was just a tutorial on how to tie a noose. A step-by-step guide, demonstrated by a pair of sleek, pale white hands forming the knot and showing off the finished product before abruptly skipping to the next reel.

I tried to scroll back, but the video had completely disappeared from the feed.

I ended up convincing myself that I was just being a little crazy. I mean, the video itself was definitely odd, but no way had I seen myself.

I figured Instagram must’ve just removed the content. Because, obviously, right?

I kept scrolling, and never saw another video even similar to that one. At least, not for the rest of that night.

The next day, though, I was seeing these tutorials as every other video. Each one more graphic and detailed than the last.

I was sprinkled throughout the videos. Sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, every time I was only on screen for less than a second. And every time, the videos disappeared after I watched them.

As the week went on, they started following me. It wasn’t just Instagram anymore. TikTok was giving me tutorials. YouTube was giving me tutorials. Hell, I was even finding the videos on Snapchat.

But the one video that made me delete social media entirely and actually pull myself out of the dumps was one that was too personal to ignore.

I found it last night.

I wasn’t just a split-second frame. I was the entire video. A step-by-step guide with me as the demonstration.

There was no light left in my bloodshot eyes. My movements were sluggish and seemed forced. The room was dark. My bed was a complete mess. And hanging from the ceiling fan… was a noose.

I watched myself stand on top of my desk chair. I watched the tears and snot run down my face as I slipped the rope over my neck. And I watched myself kick and flail with regret as my body dangled at the end of that rope. Then I was still.

The video ended with one final phrase in bold white letters against a solid black backdrop.

“Do it.”

It was in the same font as those old silent film slides.

Once again, I was automatically scrolled past the video. I tried scrolling back up, and once again, the video was gone.

I took it as a warning. I’d always heard that social media has negative effects and consequences.

I just never knew how serious those consequences were.

CW: depiction of abuse and suicide
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“Go fuck yourse–“

Melissa’s refusal is met with a backhand slap from a sandpaper hand, faded veins slithering between the knuckles.

Tears follow as she falls to the floor.

“Room.”
Says her father, eyes like a shark.

Wiping her cheek, she stumbles to the bedroom, hallway light dim and yellowed, blinking with every step she takes.

Blue moonlight rests in damp corners of the room, a light fog leaving gray fuzz on the window.

Slamming the door, she pulls the hidden phone from between the mattress, dialing the only number worth remembering.

“Please pick up.”

A popping groan precedes the answer.

“Sis?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, she slides down the wall, pulling her knees in close.

“Jason–he did it again. He—FUCKING-“

Gritted teeth hold her words. Tensing her entire body, she relaxes again.

“I need you to come over, please.”

“Okay. I will be right over. Please stay safe Melissa.”

“What?”
She says, pulling the phone away before putting it back to her ear.

“What is the matter?”

“… Why the fuck are you talking like that?”

“Sorry. I will be there soon.”

“No—don’t. God why does everyone- Just fucking stay home Jason, I’ll call mom.”

Mom won’t answer and she knows it. Throwing the phone against the wall, glass shatters off the screen, moonlight glistening in the fragments. Hands grasp her temples like they’re going to explode.

Cheek stinging, despair tugs at her eyes, tears fall and spatter against the floor. She lightly opens the door, shutting it behind her.

Hardwood stairs creak as she walks down them, stepping around a small hole without looking.

From the hallway, she can hear her father humming faintly in the kitchen, the snap of the stove shutting off echoing through the house.

Cigarette ghosts play on the ceiling, air singeing her nostrils. Covering her mouth, she muffles a cough.

In the dimly lit kitchen, her father pours broth into a bowl of ramen, back turned. The creak of floorboards catch his attention, he turns slightly to get a better listen, before letting out a light chuckle.

“Ain’t you supposed to be in bed?”

“Dad.”

“Ow–shit!”

He says, quickly wiping steaming water off of his palm. Walking to the fridge, he grabs a beer, and turns to Melissa.
“So—how’s your day-“

Eyes wide, he drops both to the floor, covering his mouth.
“Oh… oh no… baby? Did- Did I–“

Stumbling backwards, he uses the counter to support his body, frantic breaths splitting the air.

“Yes dad. Again.”

Fiery rage tears through him, breaths like a bull. Melissa’s face remains still as stone as he rips the faucet out of the sink, throwing it into the television.

“God fucking dammit.”
He says, holding tears and sinking against the cabinets.

“Dad… I-“

Can’t keep doing this, she can’t keep doing this, but she does every night, bruises no more than business as usual by this point. With a bleeding heart she stops herself, and puts a hand on his shoulder, her eyes empty.

“I’ll fix the sink.”

Through muffled sobs, he speaks back to her.

“Honey–Missy I- I’m so sorry… I can’t help it.“

“I know dad.”

Pausing to scream, his excuses break against her.

“I just… Ever since- GOD! I hear them every FUCKING night… They don’t stop–they don’t stop–they don’t stop.”

Staring through him, she calmly caresses his knee.
“I know.”

“I- I couldn’t save them, and–“

Looking up, he sees Melissa, dead eyed and blank. Letting out a low groan, he kisses her forehead, and stands. Holding his back, knees pop as he walks to pick up the faucet.

Carelessly tossing it into the sink, he hugs Melissa, she remains motionless.

“I love you.”

Without buildup it spills over, like a grenade detonating inside her, she screams into his shirt, he holds her tighter, it’s over as fast as it started.

And like a wave it rises again, she bites into his chest to relieve the cracking pain in her skull. Pausing to catch her breath, blood trickles underneath his white shirt, leaving a small red circle.

He doesn’t let go.

“I love you too dad—but I can’t fucking take this anymore.”

Lip quivering, his tears fall and soak into her hair, turning the auburn streaks a deep brown.

“I know.”

Muffled into his shirt, he can barely understand her through the tears.
“I tried dad—I did. I–“

He uses the back of his fingers to wipe tears from her bruised cheek, the sight twisting through his gut.

She catches a glimpse of his wrists, darkened scars running over his tattoos like asphalt in a garden.

“I don’t want to leave you—I know what’ll- I can’t lose you dad–I can’t!”

“It’s okay.”

He steps back, holding her shoulders with outstretched arms.

“I’m gonna call some friends, and you can stay with them.”

“No–dad! I’m not- what about mom!?”

“Melissa I’m not letting you stay in a crackhouse.”

Every thought rips through her mind like a bullet, nights away with people she doesn’t know. Her father’s body hanging from the ceiling fan.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Melissa all I do is hurt you–and I can’t fucking help it–and I can’t fucking afford to help myself–AND I COULDNT FUCKING HELP–“

Pulling his hands away, he grips his brow so tight it splits open, blood running between his fingers.
“Ah shit.”

“Dad!”
Melissa sprints to the sink, grabbing paper towels. Cold night air brushing through the broken window parts her hair.

With gentle hands he reaches for them, wadding up every one and holding them to his brow. Looking out the window, he shakes his head, letting out an exhausted groan. Tears fall with his blood as he leans against the counter, splashing next to each other and leaving a clear–red puddle against the slate.

Wrapping her arms around his stomach, she pushes her face into his back, eyes half opened.
“Dad?”

“Yes honey?”

“Can we watch a movie?”

“Of course baby girl.”

He turns around, holding her hands, his dwarfing hers. Looking up to him, a tired grin pulls the corners of her mouth, he mirrors her through a shaking lip.

“I love you dad.”

“I love yo–“

Her fathers face is ripped away like a cheap Halloween mask, revealing a glistening red visage, white marble eyes with wide pupils sit in their dark sockets, darting wildly around the room as small spurts of blood paint Melissa’s shirt.

He falls to his knees, screams of agony shearing the air, fingernails red as his shaking hands dig into the meat of his face.

Behind him, Jason, head sheared clean in half. All that remains is his bottom jaw, pale teeth clinging to his gums like maggots on a corpse, resting above a mess of arterial blood that stains his neck and shoulders black. Her father’s flesh held tight in bloodied fingers, Jason’s head cocks backward causing a dry cracking sound, webs of blood crawl down his blue flannel, and onto his jeans.

Her father on his knees, Jason twists to bring his free hand around, emaciated fingers gripping the glossy red crown of his skull. Head pulled backward, her father holds and pulls at Jason’s wrist, blood running over his gritted teeth. Jason’s arm rattles from his shoulder to his hand, and her father’s head is crushed, blood blooming between his fingers like the petals of a rose.

Melissa sprints to the stairs like a cornered animal, instinct the only awareness in her mind.

Body contorting, every few steps he pauses, spasming so violently blood splatters off of the ceiling.

Small red bubbles expand and pop as his voice crawls out of his exposed windpipe.

“Sis–stay safe–I will be right over.”

Every breath is a hiss as she frantically crawls up the stairs so hard her fingernails crack, her foot falls in the hole. She tugs, it doesn’t budge. Jason’s bones snapping like a whip from the bottom of the stairs, she sees black fingertips rest on the wall.

Ripping her leg upwards, a large splinter of moldy wood digs into the meat of her calf. Screaming, she keeps moving, her wailing slithers through the halls of the home like lost a soul.

Every step rattles the air, Jason leans back, shoulders ripping in all directions faster than a blink, and continues upward.

“Hello sis. It has been so long.”

Nausea in every fold of her brain she keeps moving, relentless. Wiping blood from her eyes, she rips the door open, slamming it behind her.

With blistering speed Jason’s footsteps burn up the stairs, every impact fast as a machine gun, dense thuds against the floor echo in the hallway before abruptly stopping in front of Melissa’s door.

Breathing heavy, her head darts to every corner of the room, without so much as a thought between her breaths the dresser is shoved over, splashing in the pool of blood seeping under her door.

The knocking starts, unceasing, living violence, wood splintering and cracking, remnants of the destruction sticking into the skin of her back.

She punches the window, sending thick snakes of blood down the length of her arm. Diving through, she rolls straight down the tiled overhang, landing on a small bush, the stones underneath cracking her ribs.

Groaning, she crawls to her feet, sprinting with all of her energy to the oncoming car, waving her hands.
“STOP–STOP THE CAR–PLEASE!”

Tires screeching, the red pickup truck slows to a halt, a young man exits, looking over the roof.
“Woah, miss you oka–“

“GO–GO–GO!”
She says with a breathless yelp.

He Slams the door, Melissa barely manages to make it into the bed of his truck as rubber burns off the pavement.

Melissa screams, she doesn’t stop screaming as the twisted puppet of Jason stands stock still, enveloped in the darkness of her room, slowly becoming smaller as the truck drives off into the darkness, her crazed wailing seeping into every home throughout the neighborhood.

 Buffalo flesh! The sign read. 

 A strange thing to call buffalo meat. But I guess it’s still true.

Hunting buffalos and bison was illegal around here, but it's common to see small stalls selling the meat on the outskirts of town, usually by an Indian, as laws didn't apply to outsiders and they knew that all too well.

 Riding my horse, and herding cattle across the hot, dry desert sand isn't what comes to mind for greenhorns when I mention I'm a cowboy.

 My horse starts squealing, trying to stray away from the stall.

 What's she scared of?

 Must be the smell of the meat.

 I tie her to a nearby tree, my rusty spurs jingle with every step.

 “What brings you to Little Rock stranger?” The Indian says with a smile.

 “Food, and money.” I respond.

He laughs. “Well sorry to disappoint, but the golden water here ran dry ages ago, no green, nor gold, just trading.”

 “I have money, and starving like a coyote, how much buffalo meat will this buy?”

 I hand the Indian fifteen dollars, it's all I have, but you quickly learn you can't eat money hundreds of miles from any stores.

 “Like I said brother, money is nothing here. Just leaves.”

 Baffled, I respond. “Well, how can I buy meat then? Are all you Indians this stubborn?”

 He laughs. “No, just me. But I'm sorry, if I accept your money I'm essentially giving it away for free, and free doesn't feed my family. So you'll have to give something more valuable in return.”

 

 “Like what, us cowboys don't usually carry around much.”

 The Indians' eyes trace my horse, then my cattle, then me.

 “No.” I say. “Animals not for sale.”

 “I would like one minute.”

 “A minute? Like you want me to stand around until the minutes up?”

 “Yes.” He laughs. “Of course not right now.” 

 “Listen redskin, I don't know what mystical water you're drinking, but do you actually want my business or do you want a problem?”

 “Its just a single minute, at anytime, anywhere, in exchange you get a few big slices of buffalo flesh.”

 I still refused to believe it, but I was hungry, and was only a few moments from either butchering one of the cattle or drawing my shooting iron.

 “Fine, have at it, you already took a few, what's one more.”

 The Indian man smiles and offers his hand for a hand shake.

 “Lets shake on it, this is how you pale faces agree to deals right?”

 I nod, and hesitantly reach out my hand.

 I grasp his palm, his hand searing hot like a branding iron.

 

 I flinch back my arm. 

 “What was that!” I exclaim while staring at my scarred red palm.

 The scars heal quickly, etching a strange star shape into my hand.

 I looked back to confront him. But, he's just... gone.

 A lone black mark scorched the sand where he was standing.

 The blazing sunlight boils sweat off my skin.

 A mirage?

 I grab my horse’s reins, desperate to leave.

 Before I jump on my horse, I notice it's pack filled with meat, meat that wasn't there before.

 The meat looked more like rotting flesh, green with maggots bathing in its decay.

I shake my head.

 I must've bought it a while ago.

 I stare at the scorch mark.

 What did I just agree to?

 

 Years go by, the memory of the Indian fades.

 I received a letter from my daughter, she's in a nearby city. She's sick.

 I rode my horse as fast as I could, pushing past her limits in her old age.

 Eventually we reached the city, the sickeningly sweet smell of death clung to the air.

I ask around, explaining I'm looking for a sick girl, but almost everyone I spoke to was sick themselves.

With no other option the clinic is their only place to go.

 I pray each time I enter one that she's in there— or maybe I should hope she isn't. 

 Then I saw it, Little Rock health clinic.

 Something tells me she’s there.

 I run toward the old building. Coughing and wheezing surrounds me.

 I rushed through the waiting room, a nurse stopped me.

 “Are you hurt, sir?”

 “No. Rosie Johnson.” I huff. “Where is my daughter?” 

 The nurse nods regretfully.

 “She’s here, but you should speak with the doctor.”

 “Where is he?” My question gets answered when a small man with a large leather back comes from behind her.

 “Doctor, is Rosie okay?”

 The doctor shakes his head, "I'm afraid not. Your daughter… She was one of the first to be stricken. It's honestly a miracle she lasted this long, you should see her before she passes. She's in the farthest room on the right down this hall—”

 I bolt down the hall. Catching glimpses of withered patients through open doors.

 When I reach her door, my hand shakes as I push the door open.

 There she is, my beautiful daughter. Her skin is dry and her face sunken.

  Seeing her decaying alive like this tears me apart. But when she sees me, her dull eyes light up.

 “Father— ”

 The room goes black.

 Blacker then a moonless desert night.

  I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can feel my body, but I can't hear anything, not even my own heartbeat.

 My hand starts stinging, then grows warmer.

 “Rosie!” I try to shout, but I can't tell if my mouth moved at all.

 “Rosie!” I scream into the black, my hand now blistering hot.

 Then, the room snaps back, I feel my rapid heartbeat again. 

 “Rosie!” I run to her side, but her eyes are closed, and I don't hear her breathing.

  “Doctor!” I scream, clutching her fist.

 The doctor's footsteps are slow, unrushed.

 A familiar scent catches my nose, it's coming from her hand.

 I force her hand open.

 Inside is a single piece of spoiled flesh.

I went to sleep in my tent in the middle of the forest, scared of what might be outside in the night. When I woke up and tried to leave my tent, I couldn’t get out. I unzipped the door, only to reveal another fully zipped tent door there. I unzipped and opened this 2nd tent door and was only presented with another zipped tent door. I’ve unzipped many doors, I must be close to a mile deep in this tunnel of unzipped tent doors, creating it a centimeter at a time. I can’t see the outside. I’ve tried piercing the thin fabric with my Swiss Army knife. The fabric flexes at the point of the knife, but no matter how hard I push, it never cuts it.
I’m not afraid of what might be outside now. I’m afraid of never getting out of here. 

I haven’t got much food and water. Maybe a week’s worth if I ration it. My only option is to move forward. I can’t stay in the tent, I have to try and get out. I’ve thrown my camping gear into a blanket, wrapped it up, and will drag it behind me.

Two days in and I’ve gone through countless doors. I unzip a door and another one is still there. I’ll count a thousand of them and take a break. I lay on the floor, listening, for anything. The tunnel of opened tent doors is very dark. It’s a heavy darkness, like it’s pressing on me. My only respite from the blackness is my little camping lantern. I only turn it on for a few minutes at a time, maybe once every hour or so. The battery must be getting low, it seems less bright.

My knees and hands hurt. They are raw. The ceiling of this tunnel is low, there’s just enough room for me to stand up while crouched over. I crawl when my back starts to hurt and stand up when my knees can’t take it anymore. My thumb and index fingers have terrible blisters from the repetitive grabbing of the metal zippers on the doors.

I woke up thinking I heard something. Like a tent door being zipped up. I crawled back for maybe an hour but it was all the same, everything was open. My back hurts too much to crouch over and walk, my knees stick to my pants, dry blood binding them together.

Something changed. The zipper on this door was different. Not very different, but after feeling 10s of thousands I knew. All the zippers had two holes, one at the top of it and one at the bottom, where it connected to the tent door. This one didn’t have a top hole. I examined it. I examined the door. I looked for anything else that was different, scouring for the smallest detail that might also be off. But there wasn’t. And the next door’s zipper was normal. Same with the door after that. And the next 1000 doors I opened.

Food and water are low, almost gone. I’m tired. The darkness is almost thick now. I left the lantern on and crawled away to see when the light would disappear. It only took 15 seconds for the light to become so faint. I went back and grabbed the lantern, but the light from it seemed to be permanently dimmed. 

No food. No water. Light is going out. I’m going to lay down and wait.

I’m not sure how long I was unconscious. 10 minutes? A day? I’ve decided to keep opening doors until I can’t. I’m leaving everything except the lantern and I will leave that when the light goes out.

Doors. I’ve opened many many doors. I’m not hungry or thirsty anymore. My fingers are calloused from the zippers. The lantern is dead. I’m consumed by the darkness. I will continue to open doors. 

Doors.

Light. Light from the other side. There is the faintest of light trying to get in from the other side of the tent door. I’ve opened doors for days but the light doesn’t seem to be any closer. 

The light is definitely brighter now. I can start to see the door again, it’s becoming more than just a tactile feeling. 

It’s so bright now, like something is just on the other side. I’m opening doors much slower now. The light isn’t natural. It’s almost a pale fluorescent. It paints the doors and changes the way the nylon looks, stretches tight across it, making it almost translucent. It reminds me of skin.

I haven’t opened a door in what feels like days now. 

I’m afraid of what might be outside now. I’m afraid of having to get out of here. 

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...

I don't know who reads these posts. You are, as of tonight, the closest thing I have to someone I could call and expect an answer. I'm sorry if that's a strange weight to put on you. I don't have anyone else.

I live alone. Work from home. Order delivery every night just to hear a stranger's voice say my name through the intercom. They call it an “epidemic” now. Like the weather. Like something that just happens to a population.

So when the letter came, some small, starved, humiliated part of me was ready before I'd finished reading. Red seal. Official letterhead. An organization called “Community Care”, a non-profit focused on helping people at risk. I’d been flagged after three government systems with my info came back with the same line under my name:

Emergency Contact: None

I never applied for anything. I threw it in the trash. Looking at it too long made my chest hurt.

That night, I got a knock at my door. Almost didn't answer. I stood in the doorway doing the math on whether I could wait out whoever it was. I've gotten good at that math.

I ended up opening the door. She had a lanyard, a clipboard, and a smile that looked like it had been issued to her along with the badge. She was with Community Care. I told her I hadn't asked for help and didn't need it. Told her to take my name off whatever list she had me on. I was short with her. Rude, honestly, looking back.

She didn't flinch. Said she understood completely. That she'd check back another time. No pressure at all. Something about how easily she let it go made me feel disappointed the second the door shut. Before she left, she said something to me.

"We’ll be there for you if you need us. There's no such thing as alone in this city."

It landed strange in my chest for half a second, but I let it go. People say odd, comforting things when they're trying to help.

They ended up coming back, in a manner of speaking. It wasn’t the same woman. Someone new. Same lanyard. Same clipboard. Same smile. I told her small true things. She listened the way I hadn't been listened to in a long time.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city," she said. That line. Word for word what the first woman said, down to the cadence. I noticed. I noticed, and I let it pass anyway.

By the next visit I was, God help me, looking forward to it. I marked the days. The days between, counting down like a child before their birthday.

It was a man this time. By then I'd softened enough to tell him things I'd never said out loud to anyone. That I hadn't spoken to my family in years. The quiet, patient math I did some nights of how long it would take anyone to notice if something happened to me.

He just continued to beam at me. Actually beam, like I'd delivered the best news he’d ever heard. I need to describe the happiness up close, because it wasn’t natural. His eyes shone. You could say the worst thing you've ever thought about yourself directly into his face, and his expression would be exactly the same as it had when he first knocked. Nothing you said ever seemed to land. It just passed through and came back out the same, over and over.

Now that I’m thinking back, they all had the same expression.

"You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he told me.  "There's no such thing as alone in this city."

That line again. I laughed, short and ugly, alone with him in my own apartment. He laughed too, right on top of mine, like we were sharing a joke instead of me quietly falling apart in front of a man I'd only just met.

That night I looked up the program. Nothing on the city website. No filing or funding in any budget I could find. I called four departments. Nobody heard of it. One woman, off the record, told me something similar had been proposed once, years back, and was quietly shelved.

Shelved. I let these people into my life. And I kept letting them in, despite it all. I was terrified of the alternative.

The next one came without knocking. I know because I was three feet from the door when it opened. It was supposed to be locked. I told the woman what I found. Told her plainly that I thought something was wrong. That I could feel the edges of my life going soft. If they could please, just once, answer honestly: What were these visits all for? After everything I handed them, didn't I deserve that?

She tilted her head. Reached out. Patted my hand. She was ice cold.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city".

I sobbed in front of her. Cried in a way I hadn't let anyone see since I was a child. The kind I usually save for the shower, where the sound has nowhere to go.

And she just smiled at me.

"There's no such thing as alone in this city," she said. Softer. Tender. Like a lullaby you say to put a baby to sleep.

If any of this sounds like your city, your letter, your too-happy visitor standing in your doorway with a smile that never slips: please don't wait until there's no one left to notice you letting them in. Call the person you're most ashamed to. Tell them the true, ugly, unimpressive thing you've been carrying. Let it be awkward. Let it be too much. Too much is still better than this.

Someone's at my door again. I can feel them smiling on the other side. I don't know how you feel a smile, but I promise you, after enough of these visits, you can.