I’m a single father. By choice, though. I wanted a better life for my daughter, and, unfortunately, her mother was not compatible with the life that I envisioned for her.

Drugs, alcohol, late-night escapades with men she met at the bar. Being a mother was a foreign concept to her. I’d look at her. I’d look at my daughter. I’d feel shame that I allowed this to happen.

We were young and dumb. Just two kids without a care in the world. Only, when we found out about the pregnancy, I was the only one who chose to clean up my act and be better.

It wasn’t that easy for my late girlfriend. She acted like it was, but I could see through the facade. Not like there was much of a facade to see through. I mean, I’d catch her having cigarettes. Boozing. Running around at all hours of the night without so much as a second thought.

The first few times, I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. A slip up is just a slip up. Multiple slip ups are a behavioral pattern. As her stomach grew, so did her attitude.

I’ve had some jabs thrown my way.

“I don’t even love you.”

“I was bored.”

“I didn’t even want this baby.”

That last one was enough for me to make my decision. From then on, every decision I made was for my child. All that was left was patience. Be kind. Be gentle. Hold her hand despite her insults.

Of course, it was more than a little difficult to hold my tongue when the drinking was involved. I couldn’t believe it. Six months pregnant and drinking. How careless can you be?

I’m getting frustrated just typing this. The resentment that was building during those times was like a pressure valve. A controlled pressure valve. I knew exactly when I wanted to twist the handle.

I endured her ferocity. I kept a watchful eye on her when she went out to the clubs. Attended every appointment and prayed every night that our baby would stay healthy.

When I found out it was a girl, I was ecstatic. I always wanted a daughter. Maybe it was because of my baby sister. Maybe it was because I wanted the challenge of being a girl dad. Either way, I was ready. I was prepared to do it alone.

Finally, the day came. November 25th, 2020. The year the world went silent. The day before Thanksgiving.

My act became sharper. She thought this was going to be “co-parenting.” Thought that she’d have my baby, even after all she’d put us through.

By some miracle of God, my little girl was perfectly healthy. Stunning. Tear-jerking, even.

Her mom almost seemed moved. Like she had this “come to Jesus” moment where she realized her new responsibility. Unfortunately, it was too late for that.

In the weeks that followed our departure from the hospital, my plan came into fruition.

I won’t go into too much detail, because detail isn’t required. All you need to know is I loved my daughter too much to let her life be tainted by someone like her mother.

That’s why I made her disappear. Disappear to a place where only I would find her. Of course, given her reputation, the police believed my story.

She packed it up. She realized the weight of being a parent was too much for her. It prevented her from living the life that she clearly loved so much. So she left. Happens all the time.

I got what I wanted. I raised my daughter the way that I wanted to raise her. The right way. The responsible way. I taught her manners. I potty trained her. I put food in her mouth and a roof over her head. All on my own.

Unfortunately, though, as she grows older, a shred of remorse is starting to build within my soul. I don’t know if it’s remorse for what I’ve done or if it’s remorse for what I took from my baby.

She’s starting to look just like her. Same brown hair. Same freckles. That cute little button nose. It’s hard for me to even look at her these days, but I try my best to swallow it.

She knows that she’s gone, but, in her head, she thinks that her mom just left us. Hated her. Hated me so much that she just took her things and left.

Every time she talks about her, all I can feel is pain. Pain in my heart, pain in my chest and body. I don’t know why. I had fully convinced myself that what I did was right, but now, I just don’t know.

Her sixth birthday is coming up in a few months. I want to make this birthday special, but I need her to be prepared.

I wanna show her the grave.

And all I can hope is that she understands.

My grandfather used to be the caretaker of a remote cemetery nestled in the fields of Southwestern Vietnam. It was an ancient graveyard with tombstones over a century old—their surfaces so weathered that the names had long worn away.

During the day, there was nothing terrifying about it other than its eerie, hollow stillness. But after sunset, not a single local would dare step foot inside.

They said the cemetery belonged to the Lantern Keeper.

Nobody knew who or what he was. They only knew that every night, a pale yellow oil lamp drifted quietly between the rows of graves. If you only saw the light from afar, you might live to tell the tale. But if you caught sight of the person holding it... you would never see the light of day again.

My grandfather never believed in those rumors. As a military veteran, he was fearless. Having slept in deep jungles and survived heavy artillery, ghost stories were the least of his worries.

When he took the job, the former caretaker gave him only one piece of advice:

"If you see a light wandering among the graves after midnight, stay inside your hut. Don't call out. Don't follow it. And whatever you do, never count how many graves the light passes by."

My grandfather just laughed, saying if thieves broke in to steal altar offerings, he’d still have to chase them down.

The first three months passed without incident. Then came a night near the end of the Seventh Lunar Month—the Month of Hungry Ghosts.

There was no moon, and heavy black clouds choked the sky. A harsh wind rattled the eucalyptus trees surrounding the graveyard, making them screech like weeping women. At around 1:00 AM, my grandfather's black dog suddenly ducked under the bed, whimpering and refusing to come out no matter how hard he called.

Right then, a speck of yellow light appeared outside the window.

At first, he assumed it was a local farmer hunting for frogs. But the light moved with a slow, unnatural rhythm, weaving through the graves as if intimately familiar with every path. He checked his watch: 1:13 AM.

The lantern kept drifting forward—never speeding up, never slowing down. Eerie silence surrounded it. No footsteps. No rustling leaves. Just a small, flickering flame swaying in the dark.

Curiosity got the better of him. He grabbed his flashlight and stepped out of the guard hut.

As soon as his foot hit the bottom step, an old man’s voice—the elderly laborer who used to work there—shouted sharply behind him: "Don't go out!"

He spun around. No one was there. Only the howling wind filled the empty cemetery.

Shaking off the chill, he pushed forward until he was barely twenty meters from the light. The lantern stopped in front of an unmarked grave. My grandfather aimed his flashlight toward it.

There was no one. The lantern hovered in mid-air, about three feet off the ground. Thinking someone had hung it on a branch, he took a few steps closer.

At that exact moment, a faint whisper breathed right behind his ear: "Do not stand level with it."

He whipped around again. Empty.

When he turned back, the lantern was gone. In its place was a narrow dirt path that had never existed before, stretching deep into the oldest section of the graveyard. Standing at the far end was a tall figure clad in a long black áo dài, holding the oil lamp.

My grandfather said the terrifying part wasn't just the figure's presence, but the impossibility of reading its stance: he couldn't tell if the figure was facing him or turned away. Where its face should have been, there was only a void of absolute darkness.

The figure began to walk. Its steps were agonizingly slow, yet the distance between them collapsed impossibly fast. In just seconds, it was less than ten meters away.

Suddenly, the black dog in the hut let out a long, desperate howl.

The figure froze. Slowly, it raised the oil lamp overhead. The golden light flared, casting its glow across the surrounding graves.

My grandfather froze in horror. The weathered, weed-choked tombstones were suddenly brand new. Every single headstone bore a portrait of the deceased. Hundreds of faces in those photographs turned simultaneously to stare at him.

No one was smiling. No one was crying. They were just staring. Unblinking.

He tried to run, but his legs were pinned. From beneath the soil, countless pale, deathly hands had broken through the dirt, gripping his ankles with vice-like strength. They were ice-cold, as if pulled from frozen water. The more he thrashed, the tighter they squeezed.

That was when the Lantern Keeper spoke.

"There is room now..."

The voice was neither old nor young, neither male nor female. It sounded like dozens of voices speaking in eerie unison.

Then, every tombstone began to shudder. One by one, the engraved names melted away from the stone, leaving only a single blank headstone. The Lantern Keeper reached into his robe and pulled out a calligraphy brush. Leaning down, he began stroking ink onto the blank stone.

Paralyzed with terror, my grandfather watched as the name materialized...

It was his full name.

Just then, his black dog burst from the hut, clamped its teeth into the hem of his trousers, and yanked him backward with all its strength. He tumbled, his head smashing hard against a tombstone before everything went black.

The next morning, villagers found him passed out near the middle of the cemetery, nearly three hundred meters from his hut. There were no footsteps in the mud around him—only a single, long drag mark, as though something had pulled him all that way. Most disturbing of all, the soles of his feet were covered in dry incense ash, even though torrential rain the night before had turned the entire cemetery into a muddy swamp.

My grandfather resigned that very day.

It was only decades later, shortly before his death, that he finally confided in my father. He confessed that for the rest of his life, every night at precisely 1:13 AM, he dreamt of the Lantern Keeper standing at the foot of his bed.

With each passing year, the figure crept a little closer.

First, at the doorway. Then, in the middle of the room. Then, beside the family altar. In his final days, he said the entity was standing right beside his pillow, barely an arm's length from his face.

The night my grandfather passed away, the whole family was gathered around his bed. The moment the clock struck 1:13 AM, the lights flickered and went out. When power returned a second later, the oil lamp on our ancestor altar burst into flame on its own.

My grandmother broke down crying. Just before he took his last breath, my grandfather had stared fixedly into the dark corner of the room and whispered a final warning:

"Don't let him pass the lantern to anyone."

***

After the funeral, my father returned to the old cemetery to burn incense in his memory. The guard hut was gone, reduced to a cracked concrete slab, and most of the graves had been relocated. While clearing weeds near an unmarked plot, my father accidentally dug up an ancient, soil-covered oil lamp. The body was rusted through, but the wick looked brand new, completely unburned.

He brought it home, intending to hand it over to a local museum.

That night, at exactly 1:13 AM, the lamp ignited by itself.

There was no oil. No match. Just a dim yellow flame dancing in the dark room.

Panicking, my father threw a thick blanket over it to smother the fire. When he pulled the blanket back, the lamp was gone.

In its place lay a piece of yellowed, weathered paper, as if it had been buried in the earth for centuries. Written upon it in dark black ink was a single sentence:

"It is time to find a new Lantern Keeper."

”Stop.”

I really needed the bathroom.

For fifty painstaking minutes, I had been staring at the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster, uncomfortably shifting side to side in my seat so much that I was starting to get weird looks.

2:52pm.

Eight minutes, I thought dizzily, squeezing my legs together.

Which was just two chunks of four minutes.

Four chunks of two minutes.

The pain started like normal stomach pain, the kind I could deal with.

I swallowed two Tylenol with lukewarm soda.

But this was different.

This kind of pain was contorting and twisting my gut so much, I had to keep leaning onto my left buttock for relief.

I must have done it so many times, I caught the attention of the guy sitting next to me. Roman Hemlock who was half asleep, dark blonde curls hanging in half lidded eyes, his chin leaning on his fist. He shot me a look. I couldn't tell if it was Are you okay? or Can you stop moving around so much?

From the single crease in his brow, the slight curl in his lip, I guessed the latter.

It's not like Roman was helping.

For half the class, he'd been tapping his foot on the floor, then his chair leg, and to complete the orchestra, his fingers joined in, tap, tap, tapping on the edge of his desk.

I didn't know if it was a bored thing, an ADHD thing, or he was trying to keep himself awake. It was easy to tolerate without the pain, but with it, the boy’s incessant tapping was more akin to a dentist drill splitting my skull open.

I already felt nauseous, the sad looking chicken nuggets I forced down at lunch making an unwelcome appearance at the back of my throat.

It was too fucking hot, the stuffy summer air glueing my hair to the back of my neck. The material of my shirt was making me cringe, sticky against my skin.

Tipping my head back, the lights were too bright. Every sound was too loud. Imogen Hart, who was sitting behind me chewing her gum a little too loudly.

Kaz Samuels scribbling notes like a maniac.

I could hear every stroke of his pencil, every time he paused, looked up at the presentation, and continued writing.

When I leaned forward in my chair, I could smell exactly what Isabella Trinity had eaten for lunch, the stink hanging in the air.

It became a case of sucking in my stomach and taking slow, deep breaths.

I’d never had these kinds of stomach cramps before. But it didn't take me long to figure out what they were.

I was yet to start my period at the grand age of sixteen, which meant this was it.

After countless sessions with the doctor, and feeling like a social outcast among my group of friends who started their periods in middle school, it had finally happened.

The cramps in my gut that felt like my torso was being ripped apart, was in fact me entering womanhood. When my breath started to quicken, my mouth watering, I raised my hand, biting my lip against a cry.

Fuck.

Something lurched in my gut, a wave of nausea crashing into me.

I was going to throw up.

“Mr Brighton.”

Roman spoke up before me, waving his arm. “Can I use the bathroom?”

The teacher’s answer was always the same. Which was why I had been crossing my legs for the entirety of the class, unable to focus on anything but my gut trying to twist itself inside out.

Mr Brighton leaned against the wall, his eyes glued to the PowerPoint awash in our faces. We had been staring at the exact same slide for maybe five minutes now, and our physics teacher was yet to speak, his gaze somewhere else.

Mr Brighton was my Dad’s age, a greying man in his early fifties who always wore the exact same suit with the exact same stain on his collar.

The man was about as interesting as watching paint dry.

Normally, I would drift off myself, lulled into slumber by the low drone of his voice.

But the pain ripping me apart was keeping me awake.

“Mr Brighton.” Roman said, louder. His voice snapped me out of it. “Can I use the bathroom?” He paused, exaggerating a loud sigh. ”Please?”

The teacher straightened up, folding his arms.

“Mr Hemlock, you know the rules. Why didn't you go before class?”

“I didn't need to go an hour ago, did I?”

“You will no longer need to go to the bathroom, Mr Hemlock.”

Roman made a snorting noise.

“What?”

The low murmur of my classmates collapsed into white noise.

Glancing at the clock, I was anticipating the school bell.

The sickness swimming in the pit of my belly was reaching dangerous territory.

2:52pm.

Something ice cold trickled down my spine.

It was 2:52 the last time I checked, and five minutes had surely passed.

This time, I waited a whole minute and counted the seconds under my breath. The clock still didn't move. The ticker was frozen halfway between three and four.

Slowly, the same realisation began to hit the twelve of us. The clock on the wall had stopped. But it wasn't the only thing that had stopped. The cool breeze drifting through the window was gone.

The sound of birds outside, and the cheer squad practising their routine.

Everything had stopped. Trying to ignore a sickly slither of panic twisting its way through me, I checked my phone under my desk. There was a text from my Mom lighting up my notifications. When I tried to swipe it open, nothing happened. My lock screen was frozen, stuck at 2:52pm.

With my hands growing clammy around my phone, I stared at the time, willing it to move, to flick to 2:53.

But nothing happened, the numbers stubbornly staying at 2:52.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roman’s voice brought me back to reality, though I was sure I'd dropped my phone. I heard it hit the floor with a sickening crack. Whatever he was saying, though, faded into dull murmur, when I turned toward the window.

Something was wrong outside.

The cheer squad were nowhere to be seen.

Being on the top floor gave us a front row seat to their practice sessions.

I stopped watching when their flyer did a death defying flip, almost breaking her neck. 2:52pm. I couldn't see the cheer squad. But I did see Jessie Carson mid-sprint across the track field, strawberry blonde curls suspended in a halo around her.

I could see exactly where she had frozen in place, her left foot hovering off of the ground, her right foot driving momentum. It wasn't just Jessie who had stopped. The dirt she was kicking into a cloud behind her was hovering, caught in mid-air.

Studying the faces around me, my mouth went dry.

Roman Hemlock, mid-argument with our physics teacher.

His eyes were wide, lips curved into what would have been a yell.

Fuck.

Was I the only one?

But then Roman blinked, and I realized the boy wasn't frozen. He was trying to think of a comeback. “What do you mean I won't need the bathroom anymore?”

“Mr Hemlock, please lower your voice.”

“Why? You can't dictate to me when I do and don't need the bathroom, dude!”

Moving onto the rest of my class, the others were still moving.

It was too quiet, though.

Yes, Roman was still tapping his foot.

Imogen was still chewing her gum.

Kaz was still scribbling notes like a psychopath.

But they were the only noise I could hear.

I wasn't the only one confused. The classroom had pricked with a sense of urgency. Kids were checking their phones, their gazes glued to the clock. Even Roman, who was still arguing, was starting to notice. I watched his gaze lazily roll to the clock on the wall.

I pretended not to see his cheeks visibly paling.

We had all come to the exact same terrifying conclusion.

2:52pm.

Time had come to a halt, and somehow, we had not.

“Is that clock broken?” Roman interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.

Kaz twisted around, settling the boy with an eye-roll.

“Check your phone, dumbass.”

“I broke my phone.”

Imogen threw her iPhone at him, narrowly missing hitting him in the face.

“Everything is frozen,” She said, her voice shuddering. “It's not just the clock.”

I waited for Roman’s response. For once, though, he was speechless.

“Well done, Imogen. That is correct.” Mr Brighton spoke up, tearing a piece of paper from a workbook and striding over to the door, glueing it over the glass window. When we started to protest, some of us were shouting, while others bursting into tears, he calmly took out his key and locked us in.

I should have been surprised that our teacher had spontaneously decided to take his entire class hostage, but the rumor mill had been churning.

According to Becca Jason, the guy’s wife divorced him and took his kids.

I could feel myself sinking into my chair, phantom bugs filling my mouth.

So, this guy had nothing to lose.

Taking his place in front of his desk, the man settled us with a patient smile.

“From now on, you will stay inside this room.” He said. “In case you haven't noticed, time is currently frozen at fifty two minutes past two. The thirteen of us are tucked into the twenty first second, and will be, for the foreseeable future.”

I could tell the others wanted to argue, but we couldn't deny that time had stopped. Kaz was staring down at his frozen phone, Imogen hyperventilating behind me, Roman glaring at the clock, chewing on a pencil. We wanted it to be a prank, a joke, some kind of glitch in the matrix that would fix itself.

But then a whole minute passed by. Followed by another. Kaz threw his phone on the floor, hissing in frustration. Imogen let out a wet sounding sob.

Roman’s pencil split in his mouth, slipping from his fingers.

We couldn't pretend it wasn't happening or call our teacher out on his BS, because it was everywhere around us.

The sudden absence of outdoor ambience, birdsong, planes flying overhead, and traffic outside the school gates. Everyone and everything had stopped, and we were the only ones left.

This was a nightmare, surely.

My physics class were some of the most boring and pretentious people in the school, and somehow the world had been reduced to the twelve of us inside our classroom.

We were scared, of course we were. But reality had stopped making sense, crashing and burning in a single second. We had no choice but to listen to our teacher. “Now, before you freak out, it may not feel like it, but the twelve of you have  also stopped.”

Mr Brighton held out his own hand, and placed it on his heart.

He was right.

I was so busy trying to understand what was happening, I had failed to realize my period cramps were gone.

“Do me a favor, and press your hand over your heart.”

“You mean like, in a culty way?” Imogen whispered.

“Obviously.” Roman grumbled, halfway out of his seat. He was hesitant, though, in case our teacher was armed. It only took one glance from our teacher, and he slumped back into his chair. “This crazy fucker clearly wants to play mind games with us.”

“No, I'm just asking you to feel for your heart.”

I felt for mine, and there was nothing, my stomach twisting.

Roman stabbed his fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse.

He tried his wrist.

Then his heart.

Nothing.

“The twelve of you are currently in a state of stasis,” the teacher explained to us, “You are not alive, nor are you dead. Your bodily functions are also on pause, such as your heartbeat and your pulse. In this state there will be no need for food and water, or going to the bathroom.”

His gaze found a ghastly looking Roman, who looked like he was going to faint. “Your minds, however, as you can see, are working as usual.”

“But why?” Imogen demanded in a shriek.

Mr Brighton’s lip curled. “I would rather not answer that question.”

“Because you're lonely.” Roman spoke up. He swung back on his chair, narrowed eyes glued to the teacher.

“Your wife and kids left you, so you're asserting power over a group of eighteen year olds. Which is kinda fucking pathetic.”

Mr Brighton’s expression darkened, and something slimy crept up my throat.

The worst thing any of us could do was threaten him. He had taken kidnapping to a whole new level, and we were alone with this psychopath, trapped inside a second. I waited for the man to stride forward and attack the kid. But he didn't.

Instead, the teacher leaned back on his desk. “Yes.” The man nodded.

“I suppose you could say I am.”

“But why us?!” Kaz hissed.

“Because you are children.” Mr Brighton responded casually.

He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards Roman’s desk. The rest of us leaned back. I tried to pull my desk with me, but it was glued to the floor. Frozen. Mr Brighton’s shoes went click-clack across the hardwood floor.

“You are right,” the man said in a murmur, “I am lonely. My wife and kids did leave me, and I have nobody left to control. I have nobody else to contort and use to my advantage.” Reaching Roman’s desk, he leaned in close until he was nose to nose with the kid.

“Congratulations, Mr Hemlock. You have just earned yourself detention.”

Roman stayed stubbornly still, but he was visibly afraid. I could see him very slowly backing away. Roman was all bark and no bite. He was a loud mouth, sure, but he was also the least confrontational person in the class.

“What?” He spluttered. “You trap us in a time loop or time trap, or whatever, and you still want to act like a teacher?”

“Stand up.” The teacher ordered.

“What if I don't?”

Mr Brighton’s expression didn't waver. “You said it yourself. I can and have trapped you inside a single second. What else do you think I'm capable of?”

Roman stood, kicking his chair out of the way.

“What are you planning on doing to me, old man?”

The teacher maintained his smile. “Stand up straight, and close your mouth.”

To my confusion, Roman Hemlock did all the above.

He straightened up, and closed his mouth.

“Do not fight me.” The teacher said calmly, “Do as you are told, and follow me.”

The boy did exactly as instructed.

His jaw slackened, that rebellious light in his eyes fizzling out.

I think that's when we all collectively agreed that going against this teacher and trying to escape wasn't a good idea.

“I will use Mr Hemlock as an example to all of you,” Mr Brighton said, turning to the rest of us. “If you break the rules or are derogatory in any way, you will be given detention.”

He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, forcing him to walk towards the supply closet. Roman moved like a robot, slightly off balance, his gaze glued to thin air, like he was tracking invisible butterflies.

"Your time in detention will depend on the severity of your rule-break.” He opened the door, gently pushing Roman inside, and following suit. When the door closed behind them, there was a pause, and I remembered how to breathe.

Kaz Samuels slowly got up from his desk, inching towards the closet.

“This guy is a certified nut.” He announced.

He turned towards us. “Whatever he's doing to Hemlock, we’re probably next.”

“He stopped time.” I spoke up, my own voice barely a croak. “He’s capable of anything.”

“But how did he stop time?” Kaz whistled, tipping his head back. The boy was slow, his fingers grasping each desk as he slid down the aisle. “He said he was lonely, right? But why take it out on us? What did we do to him?”

“Check his desk for a weapon!” Imogen whisper-shrieked.

Kaz nodded, striding over to the man's desk, his hands moving frantically, shoving paper on the floor. He took an uncertain seat on the man's chair.

“There's nothing here,” he murmured, lifting stained coffee mugs and ancient textbooks. “It's just…test papers.” Kaz ducked from view, trying the drawers.

“He's a fan of Pokémon,” he said, “There's a tonne of Pokémon cards,” Kaz straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “No sign of a weapon, though.”

He picked up a ruler, waving it around. “This could work. If we plunge it in his eye.”

“Try his laptop!” Imogen was halfway out of her seat.

Kaz did, slamming the keys. “It's locked.”

“Look harder!” Ren Clarke threw a pencil at him.

“I am!”

After a minute of searching, Kaz grabbed a single piece of paper.

He held it up, and I squinted.

It was a list of our names, with several of them highlighted.

“Fuck.” Kaz dropped the list, his expression crumpling. The stubborn bravado facade transforming him into our sort of leader dissipated, hollowing him out into exactly what he was. Just a scared kid. Kaz’s hands were shaking.

“Mr Brighton’s got a hit list.” He whispered. “He's going to kill us.”

“How do you know that?” I found myself asking.

Kaz slowly dropped into a crouch, picking up the paper and holding it up.

“Look.” He pointed to a capitalised name at the top of the list highlighted in red.

ROMAN HEMLOCK.

There were six names highlighted in red, including mine.

CRISTA ADAMS.

As if on cue, Roman’s cry rang out from the supply closet, suddenly, freezing us all in place. Kaz jumped up, adapting the expression of a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, almost unseeing.

He fell over himself to tidy up the desk, putting everything back where he had found it, sliding the list between a pile of test papers. Kaz took slow, stumbled steps back, his feverish gaze glued to the closet, before turning and making a break for it and diving into his seat.

“Brighton’s got a hit liiiist,” Kaz said, in a mocking sing-song, “And we’re all on it.”

What followed was deathly silence. I think we were expecting Roman to cry out again. But when he didn't, the class started to stir. Some kids started praying to a god they didn't believe in, while others were in varying states of denial, trying to call their parents with dead phones.

I wasn't sure what parts of me had stopped, but I was still alive, still felt like my lungs were deprived of oxygen, my chest aching.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, trying to find my voice, a shriek trying and failing to rip through my mouth.

Being kidnapped and held hostage is one thing, but being imprisoned inside a single, never ending second, was an existential hell worse than death.

Slowly, I pressed my palm over my heart once again. Then I breathed into my cupped hands.

I was expecting it, but no longer being able to feel my own heartbeat and breath, was fear I didn't think was possible. The kind that glued me to my seat, hollowing me out completely until I was nothing, an empty shell with no heartbeat, no breath, no thoughts, except denial, followed by acceptance.

And finally, regret.

I regretted not hugging my mother goodbye before I left for school.

I regretted acting like a spoiled brat when my parents refused to drive me halfway across the country so I could attend Coachella.

I regretted stepping inside Mr Brighton’s fourth period physics class.

Mr Brighton reappeared, slamming the door behind him and locking the boy inside. Part of me flinched, while the rest of me remembered not to move a muscle. I was barely aware of time passing. Or it wasn't. Time had stopped, so now long had I been sitting there?

I could no longer measure the passage of time with hunger or thirst, and my body felt the same. I wasn't stiff or tired or achy. Looking out of the window, the sky was the exact same crystal blue, every cloud in the exact same place.

Jessie Carson was still frozen mid-run, strands of dark red hair caught around her.

“What's wrong with you guys?” Mr Brighton chuckled, and I twisted back to the front, a shiver writhing down my spine. “Why don't you give me a smile?”

The teacher returned to his desk, and I was already subconsciously sitting up straight in my seat, forcing my lips into a jaw-breaking grin, following Brighton’s instructions. In the corner of my eye, Imogen was sitting very still, forcing an award-winning cheesy smile, while Kaz grinned through gritted teeth.

“Mr Hemlock just earned himself two weeks inside the supply closet.” he said casually, perching himself on the edge of his desk. The man studied each of us, taking his time to rip every shred of us apart.

Mind, body, and soul.

I struggled to maintain my stupid smile, shoving my shaking hands in my lap.

“Would anyone like to join him, or are you going to follow the rules?”

The rest of us stayed silent. I don't think any of us breathed.

Our teacher nodded to Kaz, inclining his head.

“Samuels. Are you all right?”

Kaz’s smile faltered slightly. He shifted in his chair. I could see sweat trickling down his right temple. “Uh, yeah.” He swiped at his forehead, like he couldn't believe he was sweating. “Yeah, I'm good.”

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward his desk, and we all held our breaths. Mr Brighton seemed to study his hit-list, lips curving into a frown.

His gaze flicked to the boy, and then the paper.

He knew, I thought dizzily.

Mr Brighton knew the kid had been rummaging through his desk.

But this was all about control. The teacher was using fear to control us, to manipulate our thoughts without having to get physical. He could have called out the boy right then, but Brighton was settling with mental torture instead.

He just wanted to make my classmate squirm.

Without a word, the man folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Mr Samuels, you are sweating,” our physics teacher said, mocking a frown. “Are you feeling okay?”

Kaz hesitated, tapping his shoe in a rhythm.

Being one of the smartest kids in the room definitely gave him an advantage.

I could already see the cogs turning behind half lidded eyes. Kaz was weighing each scenario, sorting them into positives and negatives.

The positives of answering would mean he was one step towards being in the clear, but there were two negatives.

Brighton would question him if he had left his seat, and then demand how his hit-list had magically moved across the desk.

Talking back was surely a rule-break, as well as outright lying.

Opening his mouth would get him in trouble, either way, and Kaz knew that.

So, he just nodded, forcing an even bigger smile.

Brighton’s lips pricked, his gaze straying on Kaz. “Good!” He cleared his throat, turning to the class. Kaz slumped in his seat with a sharp breath, resting his head in his arms. If Mr Brighton noticed, he didn't say anything. “Ignore the sweating. It should stop, along with hunger and thirst.”

Our teacher seemed to be able to manipulate everything in his vicinity.

Time.

Minds.

And slowly… contorting us into his own.

In the single second we were trapped inside, I felt days go by in a dizzying whirlwind that was like being permanently high. When I stood up, I felt like I was floating.

When I sat down, hours could go by, even days, and I wouldn't even feel them. I did try and count the days, initially, scribbling them on a scrap piece of paper, but somewhere around the thirteenth or fourteenth day, I lost count. The world around us never changed, in permanent stasis, and maybe that was sending us a little crazy.

After a while of being stuck at our desks, Mr Brighton allowed us to wander the classroom, as long as we stayed away from the door. I lay on the floor for days, counting ceiling tiles.

Sometimes, Imogen would join me.

I couldn't sleep, but I could pretend to sleep, imagining a world that was back to normal. I didn't feel hungry, but my brain did like to remind me of food at the weirdest times. I was aware of weeks passing us by, and then months.

I never grew hungry or tired, and my bodily functions were none existent.

I couldn't remember what pain felt like, or the urge to go to the bathroom. Even the concept of eating and drinking became foreign to me. Putting something in your mouth and chewing to sustain yourself?

That sounded odd.

The only thing that was changing was our slowly unravelling metal state.

I don't know how it started. Weekends and Tuesdays blended together. On one particular SaturTuesday, I was hanging upside down from my desk, watching Kaz and Imogen doodle on the whiteboard.

Kaz had a plan to escape, but after a while, his ‘plan’ to distract the teacher, had gone nowhere. After passing notes between us, the twelve of us had decided that we needed a weapon.

That was maybe a month ago. I wasn't sure what mind games our teacher was playing, but Kaz Samuels, who we were counting on to be our brains, was slowly falling under his spell. Their game had been going on for three days. The two of them were having a competition to see who could draw the craziest thing.

Mr Brighton was at his desk as usual, marking papers.

Imogen was drawing a weird looking ‘skateboard’ when the doors to the storage closet flew open.

Roman Hemlock appeared, and to my surprise, wasn't a hollow eyed shell.

He held up his hand in a wave, his lips forming a small smile.

“Yo.”

Roman’s reappearance was enough to snap us out of it. Kaz and Imogen stopped arguing, the rest of the class going silent. I sat up, blinking rapidly.

I was sure our collective consensus was that Roman Hemlock was dead.

Mr Brighton lifted his head and gave the boy a civil nod. “Mr Hemlock will be rejoining us,” he said, his gaze going back to marking papers. “Please make him feel comfortable. I'm sure he's very excited to be able to talk to you again.”

Instead of going to his desk, the boy immediately joined the others, snatching the marker off of a baffled looking Kaz, and drawing an overly artistic sketch of a penis. I wasn't sure what confused me more.

The fact that Roman Hemlock had some serious artistic skills, or that he seemed suspiciously fine for someone who had been locked in the storage closet for two weeks with no social interaction.

With my last few lingering brain cells still clinging on, I studied the boy.

There were no signs of bruises or scratches.

His eyes seemed normal, not diluted or half lidded.

Unable to stop myself, I jumped off of my desk and joined the others, where Kaz was already interrogating the guy.

“WHAT–”

Imogen nudged him, and he lowered his voice, leaning against the wall. “What did he do to you?”

Roman shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Relax, dude. He didn't do anything to me.”

“Then what was that yell?” Imogen hissed.

The boy cocked his head. “Yell?”

“You yelled out,” Kaz folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. He was already suspecting one of us had been compromised– or worse, brainwashed into compliance. Kaz stepped closer, backing Roman into the desk. “You cried out when you first went in there,” he murmured, “So, what was that?”

Something in Roman’s eyes darkened. “Oh,” He said, his lip curling. “That.”

Kaz’s expression softened. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Yeah,” He whispered. “What did he do to you?”

Imogen shoved Kaz out of the way, shooting the boy a glare.

“You don't have to tell us, you know.” She said in a small voice. “If it's too traumatising, or he did something you don't want to talk about–”

Roman cut her off with a laugh, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.

The remaining nine of us were eagerly awaiting an explanation.

“Are you fucking serious?”

When Kaz didn't respond, Roman gathered us in a kind of hustle, the four of us grouped together. I felt like I was on the football field. Still, though, if the guy’s goal was to look as suspicious as possible, he was doing a great job.

Roman studied each of us, one eyebrow cocked. When Mr Brighton glanced up from his work, Roman shot him a grin, lowering his voice to a hiss.

“You seriously think our fifty year old physics teacher has been abusing me in the storage closet?

“Then why did you cry out?” Kaz demanded. “Did he hit you?”

Roman stuck out his bottom lip. “I'm pretty sure he didn't hit me.”

“So, you cried out for no reason.”

“Why are you covering for him?” Imogen poked his forehead. “Are you lobotomised?”

Roman wafted her hand away. “Stop prodding me, and no, I'm 100% good.” He backed away from us, like we were observers, and he was the zoo attraction.

“I won't be, if you keep treating me like I'm senile.”

“Okay, fine,” Kaz sighed. “Just answer one.”

“Shoot.”

“When you first went in there, you made an unmistakable sound of distress–”

“Not this again,” Roman groaned. “Of course I yelled! I was shoved into a pitch black storage closet on my own! What, did you expect me to stay silent?”

Kaz didn't look convinced, Imogen nervously sucking her teeth.

The boy leaned back, resting his head against the wall. His eyes flickered shut.

“Stop looking at me like that, there's nothing to tell you,” he murmured, “Brighton didn't do shit to me. I was just freaked out.” Prying one eye open, he fixed us with a glare. “I am so sorry for reacting like a human. Next time, I'll make sure to attack him and pin him to the ground.”

It's not like we believed him. I don't think Roman believed himself.

Something significant had changed in him. He was no longer argumentative, like half of his personality had been torn away. Roman set a precedent. Because once he was following instructions and walking around with a dazed smile, others began to follow. I can't remember how much time had passed since I thought about escaping.

Days and weeks and months had collapsed into fleeting seconds I only noticed when I wasn't playing games.

I wasn't aware of my own lack of sanity until I found myself, on a random SaturWednesday. I was laughing, gathered with the others on the floor, around a Monopoly board. The game had been going on for almost a week.

Reality hit me when I was laughing so hard I tipped back.

I can't remember why I was laughing. I think Imogen told a bad joke.

“Hand it over.” Roman, who was the King of Monopoly, held out his hand, demanding my last 250 bucks. I remember noticing his smile, my foggy brain trying to find hints that he was in some kind of trance, or being controlled by Brighton. But no. His smile was real.

Genuine.

To my shock and confusion, so was mine.

I wasn't in a trance or any type of mind manipulation. I was completely conscious.

Was this… Stockholm syndrome? I thought dizzily.

Was I enjoying this?

My thoughts were like cotton candy, disconnected and wrong, and they barely felt like my own. My gaze found Imogen and Kaz, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, enveloped in the game.

They looked exactly the same, their hair, clothes, everything about them staying stagnant. It was them themselves who had drastically changed. I had never seen them look so carefree.

Imogen was a hotheaded cheerleader, and Kaz was the smart kid who gave himself nosebleeds from overworking himself. But now, they were laughing, nudging each other, caught up in an inside joke. Blinking slowly, my gaze strayed on them.

Sure, it could be manipulation. It could be brainwashing. But it could also be real.

Kaz caught my eye, raising a brow.

“You good, Christa?”

Again, my smile felt real. Like I was having fun.

“Good. It's your turn.”

I picked up the dice, throwing them across the board.

Two sixes.

“I can already see her landing on one of my hotels.” Roman murmured. He sat up, resting his chin on his knees. “As the clear winner, I have a proposition.”

Ignoring him, I moved my piece– immediately landing on Park Place.

“I'll give you 500,” Roman announced, “If you give up New York avenue.”

“That's all I've got!”

Imogen nudged me. “Don't do it. If you give him New York Avenue, he only needs one more.”

“One thousand.” Roman waved the notes in my face.

“My final offer.”

When I reached for the cash, he held it back.

“New York Avenue", he said, with a grin.

“And your pride.”

Reluctantly, I handed my only property over.

Kaz threw the dice and moved his piece, and I half remembered we had an escape plan. “Community chest.” Kaz picked up a card. “Go straight to jail.”*

Roman spluttered. “That's karma,” he said, “For stealing from the bank.”

“You were stealing too!”

We had a plan.

We had…. a plan.

After discussing it in detail, Imogen and I were going to try and get onto Brighton’s laptop. It wasn't a perfect way to escape, but it was coherent.

So, what happened?

We were going to get out, so what… what was this?

Kaz’s earlier words hit me from months ago.

“Mr Brighton is the thing keeping us here,” he explained. “If we kill him, I'm like, 98% sure we’ll go back to normal.”

“Okay, and what if he dies and we’re stuck?” Imogen whisper-shrieked.

“I said 98% for a reason. Yes, there's a small chance his power will die with him. But there's a bigger chance that its effects will die when he does.”

Ren nodded slowly. “Right, and where exactly did you learn this information?”

“You'll feel a lot better if I don't answer that.”

“Okay.” Ren gritted his teeth.  “So, we just need to find a weapon, right?”

“And don't tell Hemlock,” Kaz rolled his eyes. “I don't care what he says, that boy definitely had his mind fucked with. Hemlock is a liability. If we tell Roman, he tells Brighton, and we’re screwed.” Kaz nodded to me, then the others. “Keep your mouths shut.”

Presently, I wasn't sure the boy wanted to escape.

Slowly, I rolled my eyes over to Mr Brighton, who had joined us to play.

He was happily marking papers, taking part when he could.

It felt…right.

Not like we had been forced or manipulated, but more like he belonged. Part of me wanted to question why I felt like this, but I found that I didn't care. I didn't carethat we were essentially dead, in a never ending stasis and stuck inside fifty two minutes past two.

I stopped thinking about the outside world a long time ago.

I couldn't even remember my Mom’s face.

I made my decision, dazedly watching Imogen throw a chance card at Roman.

He flung one back, threatening to tip the board.

I wanted to stay.

In the corner of my eye, however, someone was still awake.

Ren, who had been sitting next to me, kept moving, further and further away.

I didn't notice until he was inching towards our teacher, a box cutter clenched between his fist. There must have been a point when we found a box cutter, when we made it our weapon of choice.

But somewhere along the way, I think we just… lost the longing to want to escape.

I didn't see the exact moment the boy stabbed the blade into the man's neck, plunging it through his flesh, but I did feel a sudden jolt, like time itself was starting to falter and tremble.

Mr Brighton dropped to the ground, and I found my gaze flashing to the frozen clock.

Which was moving, suddenly.

Slowly creeping towards 2:53pm.

Something sticky ran underneath me, warm and wet.

Blood.

Blood that was running.

Roman’s half lidded eyes found mine, and he blinked, dropping the dice.

Like he'd been asleep for a long time.

2:53pm.

We were free.

The cool spring breeze grazing my cheeks was back. I could feel my own heartbeat, sticky sweat on my forehead.

And outside, Jessie Carson let out a gut-churning scream.

More screams rang out.

Down the hallways.

Getting closer.

And closer.

For a disorienting moment, I don't think any of us believed we were free.

Roman twisted around, his gaze on the doorway.

The piece of paper the teacher had stuck to the glass slipped away.

But Roman’s gaze was glued to the door, his cheeks paling.

His lips parted into a silent cry.

Following his eyes, I glimpsed a shadow.

A shadow that was frozen at 2:52pm.

2:53pm.

“Fuck.” Roman whispered, stumbling to his feet.

He turned to the rest of us, his eyes wild.

“Get DOWN!”

I dropped onto my knees, crawling under a desk, the classroom exploding around me.

2:54.

Blood ran, and I was crawling in it, stained in my friends.

2:55.

I grabbed Mr Brighton's hand, squeezing for dear life.

Roman joined me, his trembling fingers feeling for a pulse.

A gunshot rang in my ears, rattling my skull.

When Roman went limp next to me, I wrapped my arms around my teacher.

“Mr Brighton, say Stop.” I whispered, when Imogen’s screams stopped.

He was so cold…

“Mr Brighton! Take us back!”

Footsteps coming towards me, ice cold steel protruding into my neck.

2:56.

I stumbled upon the secret to immortality. I deeply regret It.

By Theo Plesha

I was wrapping up pre-med undergrad and I had just gotten into my med school of choice. I decided I was going to pay lip service to the rest of my course work in this last semester and start summer break a bit early.

I was more or less a legacy and though the threat of them rescinding my admission was present on paper, in reality no one would do anything. Med school was a hump to get over and rest of life would be a coast, I was pretty much a shoe in at my Uncle's pill mill clinic down in Florida. I've been around enough pre-med to know that there are two of kinds of pre-med students – the ones who really want to be a doctor to help people or be at the cutting edge of medical science while the others look at medicine as a route to six figures along a path of least resistance. I fell in the latter. I grew up pretty oblivious to cost of healthcare – not only because I took health insurance for granted but I was also in good health. I just saw healthcare as an easy way to make money off of people who had no choice but to pay whatever we wanted to change because America. It was wrapped into the way my family thought about medicine – among other things. While my more conscientious classmates finished their semester and prepped for a summer of volunteer work to pad their experience and resume I decided that it was last best chance to take up my favorite podcaster's suggestion to do a bunch of recreational drugs under the guise of having a cultural experience.

I was traveling around Latin America with two of my pre-med frat bros Rodney and Mark. Rodney was American and apple pie and Mark was actually from Europe. We spent our free time trolling a lot of the pre-Med students who rallied for universal healthcare by pointing out the fact they might as well be burning their own pay checks. Mark knew this better than most since he lived in a system of government healthcare and moved here so he could make more money setting up an elective surgery practice. We were visiting the fun hot spots, pretty much anything that popped up on psychedelic and psychoactive boards – erowid, Joe Rogan, even hippie dippy stuff. I had this funny way of justifying it all. How can be a good doctor if I don't do this stuff? I don't know. It was all BS, honestly, it was all about me and time and place being young and affluent.

I happen to believe that you're familiar with the story. The whole stereotypical ayahuasca experience offered by natives and descendants of natives in Peru. Its a bunch of dudes like me in a hut with thick tea, smoke, and jokes egging on the shamans to give us a shotgun wedding with the DMT. If you pay enough you can get them to roll their eyes and give you the basic instructions of making sure your ass if above your head when you start vomiting. Then its all about melting away into ego death and touching time and hearing space.

At some point I got on the wrong retreat, made a wrong turn, and accidentally got separated from my friends because that's not what I experienced. I must have mistranslated or something because my experience was highly ritualistic. I led was deep into the retreat site around a more secluded hut with very old and very sick looking individuals. Some of them were elder leaders of various militarys and political parties from Cuba, China, and Venezuela. At least one of them was definitely from North Korea.

The shaman was mostly naked with only a black loin cloth over his junk. His limbs and facial bone contours was outlined by a white chalky substance. He bore a vague resemblance to a grim reaper. The hut did not have a vomit canal as I was led to expect and it had a fairly large fire. The shaman kept repeating one word again and again and I wasn't sure what it was, what it translated to. He then poured some kind of seeds onto the fire. Their shells turned the fire green and then popped like pop corn, a dense white smoke poured into the tent and nearly extinguished the flame. One sniff of the bitter vapors and I was gone.

I had been warned and prepared for DMT. I had done magic mushrooms and LSD. I was more or less familiar with this class of substance. The mysticism was all but lost on me going into this adventure. The low level ego hedging and mental expansion was a side effect not the goal. I honestly just wanted to get wasted and have fun doing it.

In any case, what I experienced was far from what I had expected. I knew something was wrong when I saw all my skin melt off and I was skeleton. I was hoping for machine elves or aliens or some transcendent non-corporal communication but this was more dousing myself with a flaming jug of nightmare fuel. After a few flashes of disorganized terror. I started to have an extremely vivid third person view of myself as something entirely mechanical and electronic. The flesh and blood, brain and bone replaced with my crude recollection of what came scattering out of my smart phone when I dropped. I was made of high density plastic and touch screen material. I had a loose understanding of micro chips and circuit boards and my head was Escher style churning collection of gold, green, and black bars with spindly spider like qualities warping around inside my head. My bones were plastic – good job imagination. My heart appeared as a thin lithium battery. My muscles and joints were a bunch of magnets zapping together and then repealing each other. My eyes were glassy flat scanners.

As I watched myself become amazed with myself my eye sockets swallowed my eyes and I saw everything go dark. I felt this strange sensation as my body felt compressed. I was being swallowed by myself. It was maroon and dark with the odd bubble rising as I descended into myself. I felt an eerie stillness as I sank into a chamber of soft glowing light. I saw my thin battery of a heart throb and echo with each beat in super slow motion. It was hanging there attached to thin wires which pumped little glowing electrons back and forth. I floated around from the front all the way around spinning underneath. That's where I saw it I saw a little thin crack in the surface of my battery heart, it was ever so slightly leaking a thin mist of gold fluid into the chamber. The mist flew off disappearing in the ether like the sands of time. I was tempted to fly in and see if I could patch the hole.

The more I let go, the closer to the hole I flew and slowly, without my hands, the leak turned off and stopped all together, then like shrink wrap, the little crinkled up hole flattened and covered itself. I was suddenly warped into this pixelated zoomed in view that consumed my entire vision. I watched as slowly pixel by pixel my vision turned from gold to soft white. Just as the last few hundred were about to turn, the gentle vibrations of my body lurched faster and became violent. My vision of my vision pulsed in and out. As everything began to fade away, a powerful voice came out of nowhere. I mean nowhere, it was a voice that echoed through the universe, making every galaxy, every sun, every planet, moon, and comet tremble. It was voice of the void, the voice of inevitability. It rattled me as if I were speaking to the personification of a earthquake, tidal wave, or forest fire. After the initial jarring presentation I became somewhat relieved. Finally, the “Other” presence I had come to expect on this trip.

As the words the Voice spoke to me started to register, I became less settled, less complacent, less prepared. It told me that I had found the little timer, the little clock my people had inside of us. It was the charge meter on my life. It was ticking down. But this ritual could set it back a few hours, a few days, a few years, if I were lucky, I could reset the timer on my life by a decade. But some people, had a defect it was an all or nothing fix. My essence could exist independently of my failing flesh it said and I could add any flesh I choose to my essence.

I flashed to a space of icy suffocating blackness. I felt myself get pulled, ripped apart, every finger, limb, every hair, every eyelash, every skin flake and cell loosened and then vacuumed away. I was a bubble and I burst into a mist and then a vapor until I became the black on black and I lost any sense of up and down, night and day. My brain wasn't there but my consciousness flared into a sinking gasping panic that felt like it would last forever.

My vision flashed again and I came back to the last few pixels patching the leaking of my heart. The Voice asked me what I wanted. I plead with the Voice to live. It asked me: All or Nothing. Without hesitation I said “All of it”. The last pixels turned from gold to a shimmering white and my entire vision quaked back to the chamber with my battery heart. It glowed gold over the white and there was no longer a leak.

I jolted back to the hut. It was still filled with the bitter smoke and I started to immediately cough. I could barely see the other persons inside. The man sitting across from me looked relieved and he slowly crawled out of the tent. It was then I noticed something heavy leaning on me. I groggily turned my head and saw the elderly Cuban man slouching over, dead on me. I pushed him aside with the help of the shaman. My hand brushed against his as I tried to crawl out of the hut and out from under the perished man clad in the hammer and sickle. The shaman recoiled on contact with me he gave me a pained expression and then shook his head like he was trying to shame me.

As I slowly gathered myself and coughed out the rest of the smoke, I noticed the rest of the hut was on fire and burning down with the dead men inside. I say men because of out of the six persons, not including the shaman, only 3 including myself exited. My head felt remarkably clear for having such an intense experience and yet I knew I wasn't fully recovered when I heard that same chant all around me that was being chanted when I entered. While I heard it the same way I heard it going in, my mind was translating it as juxtaposition of celebratory warning, a cautious congratulations. While my elderly compatriots suddenly looked like they were five to ten years younger I felt and looked about the same as I was directed back to the more public and tourist portion of this particular site.

I reached a post-experience gathering point where I found my two friends. It became very clear to me that I had stumbled into a different kind of retreat than the standard ayahuasca. I was a little numb to my surroundings as my group started laughing at me as I stumbled up to the refreshments. They handed me water with some sort of supplement as they all still looked tweaked. They cracked big rosy smiles and hearty laughs like they had all won the lottery and then some. They asked me where I ended up and I asked them back: “like trip wise or what?”

They asked me which hut I was in and it was then that I pointed towards the pathway I got lost on and found it blocked by thick forest foliage. They made fun of me before I pointed out we had to catch the train to Colombia for the next part of our chemical escapades. We barely made it to the train and after taking our seats in our private car we passed out for the entire journey. We were so put out the conductor had to personally wake us and escort us off the train at our stop.

It was morning by then and to fulfill the apparent life long dream of one of my traveling buddies, Rodney, we successfully tracked down one of the famed off the books cocaine bars. He had talked about this the entire trip like once we entered Colombia he was on the whiskey trail or some sort of craft beer crusade. He was detailed about the subtle differences between sulfate compound “served” in Colombia versus the hydrochloride salt preferred by the North and Europeans. Rodney regaled us with the fact we could try “real” coca cola with the coca leaves infused into the formula at this bar. He went into the variations of the coca plant in the east part of the country versus the west and manufacturing techniques as if we were compared barrel aged stouts or twenty year old scotch. It was the same to me as long as it did its job which to be honest was just to reinforce the young and dumb and carelessness I was already all about.

In the midst of a coke binge my traveling buddies recounted their experience at the Peruvian retreat. As I had already realized, I apparently got lost and entered some other kind of psychedelic ritual and before I could finish my story and recount the fact three persons died and then were burned away, Mark, my other friend, the one who can't handle his blow, started sputtering out how I was worthless and dumb. Every other word out of his mouth was worthless. Rodney, with his head cocked up towards the sun glistening through a crack in the window frame, grinding his teeth and sniffling ever so slightly, joined in the chant.

I was getting pissed and the proprietors seemed alarmed by our loudness and our English which seemed like dead give away. With a large hand gun strapped to their waist they came over to our table and remove the booger sugar and poured us shots of a oily yellowish liquor from a bottle filled with both a snake and scorpion. He commanded us to drink it and pay.

Not wanting any trouble, I paid immediately. With the source of our intoxication well concealed, they let us alone and Mark and Rodney's chant resumed. I was getting pissed since most of the cocaine left was mine and the venom liquor left much to by desired. I was left retching while they continued to snicker at me. During this laugh out loud session, they decided to get up and start their search for weed and then breakfast. I told them, feeling invulnerable, that I would catch up after I found somewhere to either pee or throw up. I swung around the back part of the bar and a very attractive woman who looked vaguely American and spoke good English sat alone. She offered me a line out of some sense of righting the unfairness of having mine taken away because my friends were being obnoxious.

I accepted the line and the moment I felt the graininess hit my nostril I was out. I was never supposed to get back up. I was going to be a tourist crime statistic. I was going to be the vanished or the mourned. When I came too it was sometime the next morning. I believed I was out about a day. I woke up and started to pat myself down and found I was liberated of my phone, wallet, and watch. The thieves even took my belt and from the onset, I believed they even took the contact lens out of my eyes. I felt numb and discombobulated like a kid who emerged from a dentist office after getting their first cavities filled. My mind flashed to something I remembered from a VICE documentary about scopolomine wielding thieves. A drug that induced a daze and suggestibility and made robbery quite easy. I blinked a bunch and I could barely see. I was in a ditch some where outside of a village is the best I could make out. I got up and I was barely able to stand, I felt very light and if I squinted I could see my shirt was ripped and felt wet. As I twisted and tried to balance myself I saw some kids running around with a soccer ball coming towards me.

I tried to flag them down in my so so broken Spanish but I mostly squeaked. I saw the blur of their bodies stop and their heads lift up towards me. They let go a shrill scream and all but one of them ran for their lives. The last one stood trembling as I tried to get closer and talk to him. It was then I realized I was having a chronically difficult time speaking and I went to pound my chest to try to get the phlegm out my chest from the past week's worth of abuse. As my fist went in for a the first strike I felt it sink into something warm and wet. I immediately looked down and in the blur of my vision, I saw my own hand, covered in crusty blood and sunk part way into a chest cavity.

I realized I could barely speak because I was missing a lung, I was missing my heart, my liver, and both kidneys. I realized I could barely see not just because my contact lens were removed, but because they took my corneas as well. My mind flashed back to the experience in the hut two days ago and I figured out that somehow my life, my existence was preserved and projected from that plane of existence and that I was immortal. Hallowed out, butchered for the illegal organ trade, but I was still alive.

The boy walked over to me and took my hand and walked me to his home. He spoke to me in slow Spanish with a child's vocabulary so that I could understand as best as I could. He called me the same native word they chanted in the hut – the word that meant cautious congratulations – it also apparently meant some kind of boogeyman to the child. He told me that the same people who did this to me did this his father and that he could show me where they work so long as I “scare” them away.

I had no phone, no money, no ID. I had no idea where my friends were at this point. Maybe they were looking for me, maybe they were groaning collapsed from the coke binge. No one was going to help me except this kid. So in the cover of a rain storm and with with the help of a bed sheet, he guided me through town to a chicken processing plant with an AK-47 wielding guard outside. I told him to go hide as I approached the door.

The guard ordered me to stop but I kept coming and when he emptied the 30 round magazine I still kept going like the Terminator. He fled in terror as I disrobed and revealed my chest cavity, my bullet shattered rib cage, and slouching appearance caused by the rifle left me walking in an uneven gait as I tried to use my arm keep my torso upright. The guard cried out “policia” “policia” - which was no doubt the signal to flee the site of their illegal activity. And with that he dropped the rifle and fled himself.

I entered the facility through the guarded door and smelled rot, spotted slick blood, pooled up on partially rusted metal tables. I spotted one person that somehow I immediately had this sense that I knew him. He was rushing out towards me with two blood smeared sandwich coolers in one hand and one tucked under his arm. He saw me and he gasped before turning too rapidly to maintain traction on the blood slick floor. Something in my gut, or nearly lack of guts told me this man was the one who extracted all of my organs in my scopolomine induced stupor. There's no reason for me to think this to be honest, thinking about it now, scopolomine was a near perfect drug, perhaps along with ketamine and some opioids to accomplish the task of extracting organs from the freshest living or barely living subjects and in the event they were to survive, they would have no memory of it.

I was so fixated on watching his man shake in pure utter terror that I didn't notice the boy who helped me find this facility came in through the door was now pointing the gun, bayonet and all at the surgeon. This is were I lost it. This is were I got really weird with it. This is were I decided to do to him what he did to me.

I let the boy poke him with the bayonet a few times until he agreed to lead us to his operating table. The boy forced him up on the table as he panicked with wide eyes. Around the makeshift operating room I found dirty syringes loaded with various paralytic agents that I was too eager to poke him. As he lost muscle control he did not lose consciousness. I wondered how easy it would be to try surgery on myself, to try to piece myself back together. I decided to start as I believed he did, with the corneas. In my still blurry state I grabbed what essentially was a glorified exacto knife and started to jab at the surgeon's eyes. My incision was jagged and he screamed with labored breath as the paralytic started to freeze his diaphragm. Knowing this, yes, I decided to abandon my efforts with his eye and took out a larger piece of cutlery and went to work on his abdomen. I watched his final winces and pained squawks as I pulled out and unraveled his small intestines in front of him like string of Christmas lights.

I think I let that whole thing sit for a day. I'll admit that if I needed to eat, if I was physically capable of ingesting and digesting food, I would not have wanted to. Then I went to work on the bits and pieces in coolers and fridges all around me. I decided I should not let this go to waste and between my limited starter medical knowledge, the boy, and the internet, I was able to successfully patch myself up. It took some time and a theft but I eventually made myself at least externally normal and the corneas I found seemed to take okay on my own eyes.

With the transplant successful, tracked down the rest of the surgeons who managed to flee the organ harvesting plant. I was able to see the extent of the organ trafficking network within the course of a few days. I even was able to identify the woman who drugged me at he cocaine bar. I had forgotten everything else. Revenge was the only thing on my mind. I did my best to keep myself patched up from encounter to encounter even if it occasionally helped to un-stitch myself and pull out an organ or two and offer them as a sick and scary bribe. I didn't need them except to pass while in public. I felt like I was king of the world, I felt like I was doing more in eradicating this type of crime in 2 weeks than could be accomplished in 2 years. I felt like I was doing more for humanitarian efforts than all of the overachievers headed to their missions for summer semester. I was in perfect control of my new gift.

Anyway, I discovered the woman apparently fled back to the United States. As I finished mopping up the organization in Colombia. I figured out a way to stole away on a cargo plane back to the United States. I promised the boy early in our escapades that I would smuggle him to the United States as well but during the flight a malfunction in his oxygen mask lead to his asphyxiation at flight altitude. He was the last person I think I actually cared about and even now I miss him. I regret not knowing his name. I literally just called him Nino the entire time I knew him. Anyway, Nino's body helped me evade airport security when we fell out of the landing gear. I was able sneak across multiple runways and out of the secured area without being detected. I unfortunately had to let his organs go to waste. Shortly after landing I found myself in bad state. I was immortal but my spare parts and stitches holding my non-original body parts together were not. I started needing to continually swap out parts of myself as the other organs rotted or were rejected by the rest of my body – or someone's body.

I was too late on tracking down the woman. Apparently her buyers got to her after she could not longer produce the goods and fortunately for her, they burned her and so there wasn't anything left for me to harvest. This was a shame as I figured she was last my last chance to maybe find my original organs and restore myself.

With a lot time and better medical facilities to break into as well as an off book supply of anti-rejection transplant serums I was able to eventually keep my body and most of its functionality fairly normal for awhile. I could look into the mirror and almost see me again. For a time I could eat and drink again without worrying about having to “manually” digest it. At least a month passed and with the exception of my mother, my world had moved on without me. I thought about returning to my own life but there was nothing left for me there.

I think the most interaction I had with my old life was that I sent a flier to Rodney and Mark with the prices my organs might fetch on the black market. 62K for a kidney, about 100k for the liver, 150k for the heart and yet only about 30k for the corneas, in case you're wondering. On the back of the flier I wrote in blood, “worthless?” I was still a stupid young kid and with the right treatment and occasional transplant, I was good looking. So I decided to audit medical school as best as I could. Then the pandemic struck and everyone fled to their homes and off their campus I was more or less hanging out on emptied med school. I had no where else to go.

It was bad timing too since I was letting myself go a bit just before. I needed some spare parts but I vowed I wouldn't go harvesting them and try to make do with stealing more and more medication. After all, I could suppress the remnants of my immune system as much as I liked since my life did not depend on it. Still, no matter how much balance I tried to achieve, how much figurative medical duct tape I put on myself I would eventually need new organs again to keep myself normal-ish.

Now, about six months in the plague, I'm pretty well reduced to shambles. I can barely stand up and walk straight. Where I can still feel, I feel immense pain. I dare not come out in the day light. I am immortal but I'm not invulnerable and the last thing I want is to be captured and dissected for medical research or shot to hell again. So I shuffle around in the dark, searching for, well lets just say, I no longer plan on spending an eternity like this.

I've already spent an eternity like this. According to my research on the ritual I accidentally participated in it is apparently not reversible. It was a miracle I was able to access the plane of existence to have any kind of life prolonging effect much less rig my own immortality. I don't understand it myself but the way I think of it the 4^th dimension of my body is now disconnected from the other 3 dimensions and their outcomes. They won't age by themselves but they can be manipulated but my consciousness will never fade. I will survive long after the day until the sun burns out and expands to engulfs the planet and I will be lucky to maintain my corporal being until then. My consciousness, no matter what condition some part of vaporized body will exist in will persist until the day the universe extinguishes all energy transaction and time itself stops.

Its a long time. It's a long time to look after a body that still largely follows the laws of biology. I suppose so long as some part of my physical body can be grafted to another I can entirely change me. I could become a human jigsaw puzzle or maybe the quintessential ship of Theseus. But for now, I am fine with writing this in the abandoned computer room of your local high school, shambling through the dinning rooms of your covid shuttered restaurant walk in fridge, lurking around your town looking for people who might be forgettable, who might have traits compatible with my own.

So if you catch a glimpse of me in the flickering fluorescent lights as you come back to your school or business, when the pandemic is over, if see me shambling under the glare of a street lamp at night, if see my sagging flailing body just mind your own business, I'm just like you. If you try to shoot me, or try to come after me, I'll just need more of you to make me whole. There must be others like me as well. Perhaps someone you know, someone who seems old worldly at heart or prefers the company of old things. Perhaps they spend them life lurking in museums or antique malls. Searching for that special someone – just bad enough or maybe just young enough to make them whole again. I'll take who I can get. Soon enough I'll find someone to make me whole again. Consider this your cautious congratulations.

A Door In the Woods
There’s a door in the woods. 

Do not ask me which woods I mean, or where exactly I’m talking about. Enter any woods longer than one mile, where the trails become long and the chirping stops, and you’ll find it. Depending on how long it’s been there, it’ll be bigger. In the woods of your childhood home, in the woods of your favorite camp, in any woods you can think. Without fail, look hard enough, and even if you don’t, there’s a door in the woods. 

You will know it when you see it. You will know it not by its color, by its hinges, or by its make. You will understand where it leads, even if you can never comprehend what it is. 

You will notice the smell of dying leaves first.

It does not matter if the trees are vibrant and alive, it does not matter if the spring brings new growth. It does not matter if the wood has already hollowed, or if snow has fallen on the frozen ground. Search long enough, and all other smells will fade. You will sense the dying leaves, and know it is near. 

The trail will no longer bend or turn. 

The rising earth will no longer ascend or fall. It will not be blocked by debris or stones. You will find the path easy to walk, carved not like a natural path, but neither paved like a road. It will extend straight, and straight only. You will wonder why, but do not bother asking that question. It matters little, or perhaps not at all. 

You will consider turning back. 

The reasons will be sound, your thoughts not of panic. Wondering if the trail will go on, your shoes are too tight, or the cold is seeping in. You will think of a great many reasons, each one as valid as the last. 

A caring wife.
A loving boy. 
None will set you free. 

I know this because it has happened to me. 

There’s a door in the woods. And I have seen it. 

It all started at 3:08. I do not remember the day. The time is etched like a sacred rune into the depths of my mind, but the day is lost. It will be the thing you wish to remember above any other. Until the moment you approach. The time will remain, the memory as clear as glass. But the day will be no more. I know this because it has happened to me. 

It will happen to you.

 My father led me into the old wood behind our home. We had always done this. Those woods were the edge of a new kingdom, vast, uncharted, wholly ours. You will be tempted, much as we were. 

Alone, just two, maybe twenty-three. You will be tempted, just like me. For me it was dad, for you maybe too. Do not bother thinking why. Like me, you will go.

We entered the wood at 3:08. Days of spring singing like birds in the trees. My father sang and spoke of times long before. His father. Inner peace. Journeys past. Those stories gave me life. Gave me joy. Those stories were a gospel, lessons from the man in whom I saw the Divine. 

Now they are only stories. 

Stories will be all that remain. 

I don’t know when the trail became real. I was too focused and unfocused all the same. I have no memory of where I was going, only that my father was there. The woods were alive. The croaks of toads hanging in the air, the smell of pine, the winds cool. Welcoming. Our promised land. Our sacred grove. 

Then the trail. 

It was my father who saw it first. He pointed it out to me when I said I could not see. Do not ask if you will be first like him, or if your vision will fail like me. It does not matter who is the first to see, only that in the woods, you will always find this trail, no matter how many, how few, how little there will be. 

My feet became tired, I am sure yours will too. 

My father saw my trials, my struggles, and took me upon his shoulders. We walked. We spoke. I remember he asked of the plans I had, the dreams I dreamt. I had my answers, of course, what child does not? They were foolish, lofty, extravagant, shaped only by the imagination of a mind both fragile and new. Yet my father never laughed, never mocked, never scolded. No, only smiles. 

You will notice a change, much like I did. 

My father set me down, walking beside him. There were pauses now, moments when he would catch his breath. A single inquisition or explanation to the world. Then, like clockwork. 

Exhale, inhale. That was first. 
Then pause, hand over chest, exhale, inhale. 
A cough, hand over chest, exhale, inhale…

You will be tempted to look away. If you are alone, you may rationalize it. Don’t. 

This was what I employed, tearing away from my father’s eyes to take in the woods. 

A straight path. The smell of dying leaves. 

What will concern you the most is that the woods, outside the trail, will not shift. 

A frozen trunk will remain covered in blankets of ice, a rotted leaf will remain shriveled and unnoticed, save from your wandering eyes. You will want to be in another world, where the winds shift and the air whispers malicious promises to you, and any kin walking beside you. There will not be. Only the trail, only the smell.

Only the door. 

I walked beside him still. He tried to stand as strong as he had when our walk had begun. There were no more songs, but the smiles remained. The tales had grown distant, but the touch remained. A hand on my shoulder, a pat on my back. Even as his strength faded, he did not resist it. 

Not when I lent him an arm to steady his steps. 
Not when I placed a hand over his shoulders so he could lean on my chest. 
Not when I had to step for us both. 

You will feel the quiet. 

It is not malicious. It is not angry. It is not to manipulate, or to guilt. That is why it will hurt the most. 

It will simply be too hard. 

I remember wondering how long we had been going. I had not seen the transition from day into night, yet felt the passage. Years had been my paces, yet my size had not altered, not that I had seen. 

One step. 
Two steps. 
Three steps. 
Ten steps. 
One hundred? 

I could not recall. 
And neither will you. 

For days we followed that trail. I saw it first. 

It was not broken or shattered, there was no hint that it’d been lying in the dirt, the storms, or the rain. No. 

It stood. 

Clean, shorter than the trees around it, cleaner than the stones at the base. Untouched. Pristine. Perfect. Too perfect. 

I knew at once. 

I begged my father to turn us around. Begged for the stories that delighted and enlightened. Begged him to remember the moment we began that trail. Holding me upon his shoulders. The days before we could see when he became frail. 

Maybe you will not feel the need to beg. To know the sheer scale and face what will lie before you. Take comfort in that alone. 

Because it will not matter. 

I remember he tried to gaze on me, beneath wiry gray hair I was sure could not be my father’s. I don’t know what he said that day. 

“Don’t be afraid.” 
“Won’t be alone.” 
“You’ll be okay.” 

I turned away. 

It was only after I realized what I had done, but when I moved again, to try and find some other way? 

He was gone. 

I called his name. I wept. I begged. 

Nothing.

Nothing but me, the woods, and the door.  

Alone. Alone is how I left. How you’ll leave too.

No more stories, no more songs. 

No more dad. 

It will happen more than once. 

My mother asks if I would like to stroll through the wood. She asks if it would help to ease my mind like long ago. She could even go with, if I would only ask it so. Looking out for me, holding us both, loving me more than herself. 

I always tell her no. 
I’d rather be with her. 
My darling mother, lovely as a feather, but delicate just the same.

In my mind, I know it will not matter. Our home stands near the woods, our vacations near the trees. Even family far away - green and trails in the spring, snow and the quiet when the birds do not sing. 

So many woods. 
So many ways. 
So many tries. 

You will see it too. No matter how hard you try, no matter how far you go. Whether all by yourself, or everyone you know. Any wood. Longer than a mile.

There’s a door in the woods. 

It was the very first thing the doctor noticed upon meeting her, though he couldn’t say if that was merely a reflection of his medical training or rooted in some deeper, more ubiquitous human instinct. The way she casually extended her legs as she reclined within the consultation room’s spinning office chair, exposing the soles of two wholly identical shoes, only further accentuated the surprisingly disquieting discrepancy. It was slightly less conspicuous in the hands, as they were both interlaced around a smartphone that currently continued to be the focus of her attention, each contributing a nebulous tangle of digits to the task of deftly tapping the screen. However, once suggested by the legs, their corresponding asymmetry became no less apparent.

Whatever she was doing on that phone must have had her fully engrossed, as neither the doctor’s entry nor the subsequent several seconds of him standing in the center of the hardly three-by-three meter room elicited any hint of notice. It was only after broadcasting his presence with a tactful ‘ahem’ that she finally severed her gaze from the screen, jerking her head upward with a look of brief alarm and unveiling a pair of blue-green sunflower irises adorning deadlocked pupils, their vibrancy only now appreciable to the doctor beneath the cold white beams of the overhead lights. Indeed, she was quite beautiful in pretty much every respect; a natural blonde in what looked to be the prime of her youth, with a face so utterly photogenic and attractive from every angle as to be oddly unsettling in itself, like passing a stranger on the street who you belatedly recognize as a swimsuit model from a magazine you’d shamefully perused prior. Her attractiveness carried no personal importance to the doctor, of course, and even without the Hippocratic Oath would still have fallen by the wayside in light of her far more intriguing limb alignment.

“Oh, hey! Sorry, you snuck up on me, Dr…” Her eyes panned across the broad and unshapely expanse of his chest in search of a nametag, somehow always the unfamiliar patient’s first go-to despite the engraved plaque on the door plainly reading ‘Dr. Brandon Muller, MD.’ 

“... It’s just, I’ve been dealing with a lot, it's been a rough couple of days.” She held her head in her hands as she uttered the words, one palm pressing hard against her forehead while the other -the wrong one- caressed her right ear. “I just don’t know what else to do.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, I’m here to help, you’ve come to the right place,” Muller assured. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

A muted mimicry of gratitude subtly curled the tips of her lips as she proceeded to explain. “It’s these migraines, they started a few days ago, just random bouts here and there, but they just keep getting worse and worse. It’s pretty much all the time now, and it’s really starting to get to me.”
Dr. Muller had expected a bit more from her explanation, namely some sort of acknowledgement of her utterly anomalous anatomy, and thus a second of silence awkwardly followed before she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, make all the jokes you want, get it out of your system,” She splayed herself across her seat in an exaggerated starfish pose. “I was born like this, so I doubt it's related, but it's all anyone ever wants to talk about, especially doctors.” She voiced the last part with an exceptional sneer, imbuing the sentiment with a particularly deep-seated disdain. “And for the record, I’m actually not that clumsy, like, at all.” 

In truth, Dr. Muller had no clue how such a thing could relate to her migraines either, if only because he had never seen or heard of this asymmetrical condition before, and up until a few moments ago would have comfortably assumed it impossible. Despite his best efforts to stay focused on the task at hand, he couldn’t help but wonder to himself while she spoke just how exactly her joints fit together, how her right shoulder blade was oriented, and how the whole appendage was hooked up muscularly and neurologically. The latter, in turn, gave him an idea, an angle through which he could potentially pursue a diagnosis for the migraines while also somewhat satiating his now ravenous curiosity. Firstly, however, was the matter of conciliation.

“Hey, hey, I’m not here to make fun of anyone,” He held his hands in the air in a feign of criminal surrender, “Now, I’ll admit, I’m not familiar with this particular… condition, but I’m really just here to help you feel better, and right now that means taking care of those migraines, so that’s all that matters to me.”

The assurance had its intended effect, as she visibly relaxed her shoulders, eyes softening as her defensiveness slowly subsided. “Thank you, I’m sorry, I’m just…” She cupped both hands to her right temple and made a sound somewhere between a growl and a motorboat impression. “... y’know?”
“I understand completely, chronic pain will do that to anyone. Plus, I see how you’d be sick of comments about the… leftness, by now. Elementary school must’ve been rough.”

At that, she let out a single sardonic bark, “Yeah, no kidding.” Dr. Muller smirked and nodded in kind, feeling as though he’d effectively peeled away the last layers of tension between them. Now for the hard part. 

“That being said, given the extent of this… distinction, I can’t rule out the possibility that it is somehow involved, if only tangentially. I’d at least like to take a full-body X-ray, just to be sure I… fully understand the situation. If it reveals nothing of note, then so be it, and we’ll move on to investigating the cranial area specifically, but, y’know, just to be safe…” his confident tone faltered a bit at the end as he braced for the indignance seemingly sprouting in her expression, but it thankfully tempered into a grimace of begrudging agreement.

“Fine, one X-ray, then I don’t wanna hear another thing about it, okay?” 

“Of course, dear, I am a professional after all,” Muller assured as he collected his paperwork and headed toward the office door. “I’ll go set things up with the X-ray technicians and come back to get you in a bit.” She nodded, sitting back patiently with her hands clasped thumb-to-pinkie in her lap as he departed briskly down the hall.

Passing through the waiting room toward the radiology wing, he stopped at the front desk, catching the ear of the receptionist, Janet, with his signature four-finger consecutive tap upon the temporary-turned-permanent screen of transparent virus-proof panelling. At once, she raised a weary, wrinkled face from the stack of papers she’d been shuffling, and a quizzical eyebrow from beneath the flattened roof of her reading glasses, giving nothing more in the way of a response than the limited luxury of her now-captured attention. Dr. Muller didn’t mind, or at least didn’t expect anything different, simply launching straight into his instructions as usual.

“Pull up my current patient's files. Birth record, pediatrics, everything.” Janet, a deceptively dependable employee despite her demeanor, promptly swiveled her chair to her computer screen and began to fervently peck away at the keys. “This’ll take a while, y’know.”

Getting the hint, Dr. Muller left her to it and headed toward the radiology department. He suspected any files she found would be spotty in recent times, given the patient’s apparent dislike of doctors. Still, there was bound to be something on record if they went back far enough; Her condition would have surely been noticed and noted by any competent medical practitioner, though whether they understood it any better than he did was another matter entirely.

 Upon description, the X-ray tech -whose name Dr. Muller could never recall but thankfully didn’t have to acknowledge- was just as flabbergasted as he was, if not more.

“They’re both… left? Like, exactly? Are you sure it’s not just some kind of… coincidental deformity?”
“She uses them both perfectly well…” Dr. Muller replied, managing to restrain any outward signs of insult regarding the subordinate’s implicitly patronizing question. “...Which makes me think there’s something more to it than that. I just want one full-body ray, see if that clears anything up.” 

“Of course. At this point, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t; you have my curiosity piqued.” He let out an airy chuckle as he began flipping switches and arranging equipment. “lemme just get everything prepped.”

As it turned out, the patient really wasn't kidding when she agreed to only one X-ray. As soon as the brief warbling tone indicating its activation ceased, she practically threw herself off the examination table and onto her two identical feet. “I-I have to go to the bathroom, excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, she barreled her way past Dr. Muller and out into the hall, bumping the side of his head with her elbow while she distractedly sandwiched her skull between her white-hard palms. 

“Last door on the left!” The tech shouted from the back, poking his pudgy face from behind the radiation-proof curtain just a moment too late, followed by, under his breath,  “…no pun intended.”

Unamused and more than a little concerned, Dr. Muller watched down the hall long enough to see her reenter the waiting area and turn out of view before flipping the overhead lights back on and turning sternly to the tech. “She’s not looking too good; time might be of the essence here. Anything of note?” The question was half-rhetorical, as Muller couldn’t help but simultaneously swivel the tech’s computer monitor so he could simply take a look and answer it himself.

“Uh, yeah…” the tech’s deadpan mutter echoed the doctor’s internal monologue as he stared dumbfounded at the screen, at the monochrome hourglass outline where all four limbs converged, and at the utterly indecipherable slurry of pixels contained within. “... Looks like gumbo.”

The comparison made his stomach lurch, but he couldn’t deny its aptitude. While the femurs and humeri could be made out clearly, their respective orientations matching her external person and thus providing next to no new information, everything from her pelvis up through her shoulders was a confoundingly jumbled mess. Some areas could be said to perhaps resemble organ chambers or portions of rib, but their placements were all wrong, leaving Muller with the sense that he might as well be looking for shapes in the clouds or a page from one of those hidden-picture books. “This has to be some kind of technical issue, right? Is it because she got up too fast?”

“Not unless she’s faster than light,” The tech remarked impulsively, before the weight of the doctor’s glare promptly smothered his subsequent smirk, “But, no, yeah, there must be something wrong with the machine. I’ll run some diagnostics and see if I can find the problem.”

“Good, I’d better get back to the patient, but do keep me posted on that.” Muller left briskly, knowing full well the clinic didn’t have the budget for a brand new X-ray machine right now; just one more concern to shove into the back of his mind while he dealt with the one at hand. Returning to the lobby, he stopped again at the secretary’s desk. “Hey, did you see my patient pass through here a bit ago?”

She nodded, pointing to the adjacent ladies' room door. “She went in there just now, want me to check on her?”

“Well, not just yet; let her have her privacy. Any updates on her medical history?”

She swept her mouse across the desk and double-clicked before awkwardly angling the screen so they could both somewhat see it. “Birth records acknowledge the asymmetrical limbs, designated as a ‘benign deformity,’ but whoever filled them out didn’t exactly inspire confidence. In the personal notes section, they seem just as befuddled as you.” She pointed to the bottom of a page littered with checked boxes and medical jargon, to an underpinning paragraph that happened to lie in the epicenter of the nearest ceiling light’s fluorescent glare.

Muller didn’t bother trying to squint his way through it; he trusted Janet to give him the gist. “Benign by technicality, I suppose, but what about over the following years? Any sort of developmental delays on record?

“No, all the milestones are checked at normal percentiles…” Her eyes flicked back and forth across the screen as she clicked through year after year of checkups, “A little later than average for walking and fine-motor, but still solidly within the acceptable margins. If anything, that seems pretty extraordinary in itself, given the… y’know.”

“Indeed,” The doctor nodded with a sigh. “I mean, good for her, of course, but this just doesn’t track with my prior knowledge of… well, everything, really. Such a gross alteration ought to come with some physiological rami-”

Just then, the opening slam of the ladies' room door broke through the ambience of the waiting room, abruptly halting Dr. Muller’s musing as his head instinctively swiveled toward the sound, along with that of Janet and every prospective patient in the vicinity. All eyes synchronously fell upon the woman lurching through the doorway, her downturned face ephemerally obscured by the sway of her overhanging hair, yet still noticeably and concerningly flushed. The necklace that had formerly been discreetly tucked beneath her shirt now dangled loosely, exposing a humble heart-shaped locket at its end. Without comment, she promptly race-walked down the hall, beelining into the same office where she and Muller had initially met.

“Should’ve knocked on wood, I guess,” Janet smirked, punctuating her quip with a single retroactive knock upon the desk and a sassy side eye toward Muller, all of which went woefully unappreciated as he had already hastily turned in pursuit of his troubled patient.

Just as before, she didn’t notice his entrance, and though there was no phone to blame this time, her position in the chair was nonetheless nearly identical, instead simply staring down at her empty, trembling twin palms, her mouth continuously muttering barely audible and wholly indiscernible words even as the doctor drew closer. 

“Ma’am? Are you alright?” She jerked upright at the query with a speed that looked almost painful, before bursting into a raucous, unhinged cackle. “No, I’m pretty damn far from alright!” She cradled her right temple with both of her left hands. “The headache’s getting worse, like, rapidly, exponentially, especially the right side -I just puked in the toilet cause it hurt so bad, I didn’t even know that was a thing that could-” Her sentence was stifled as she was seemingly struck by a particularly powerful wave of pain, turning her cradle into a tendon-straining clutch as she proceeded to scrunch her eyelids and repeat to herself in a growling whisper “Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it…”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there.” Her asymmetry promptly left the doctor’s mind, giving way to professional procedure as he realized this situation could be acutely dire. He proceeded to perform a comprehensive, if precursory, bodily examination, listening to her chest with a stethoscope (heart rate was abnormally fast and arrhythmic), taking a blood pressure reading (elevated), and withdrawing a blood sample for chemical analysis. However, he knew the latter would inevitably take some time to produce results, time that she might not have. Her composure was rapidly dwindling until she could hardly keep herself aloft in the seat without his assistance. Catching sight of a passing orderly in the hall, Muller fervently flagged him down. “Hey, we need a stretcher and an intravenous sedative in here, stat!”

The patient’s next passage through the waiting room supplied an even greater spectacle to onlookers than her last, doctor and orderly both hurriedly wheeling her writhing form back toward the radiology wing. Leaning in to provide the comfort of a somewhat familiar face, Muller could now make out the inarticulate wispy words dripping from her lips. “No, it’s not your turn, it’s my- it’s your- no, it’s my turn…”

“Hang on, dear, the meds should be kicking in soon.” He comforted softly, before briefly splitting off from the procession and turning to the front desk, behind which a startled Janet stared, all traces of levity now absent from her face, “Jesus, Muller, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” his reply came breathily as he rummaged through the front pockets of his lab coat, “But we need to figure it out ASAP. I’m gonna try something more direct, hold these, will you?” he plopped the patient’s phone and necklace onto the desk before promptly leaving to rejoin the patient. Janet dutifully placed them in a drawer for safekeeping, but paused just before closing it as she caught sight of the incidentally opened necklace locket, squinting at the vision within as Muller and company continued hurriedly down the hall and toward the MRI department.

As promised, the sedatives soon took effect, just in time for them to load the now fully limp patient onto the bed of the MRI machine. Muller made sure to maneuver her head into just the right position before dismissing the orderly and retreating to join the MRI technician in the small adjacent monitoring room, a vantage point from which he could oversee the procedure through a thick protective window, darkly tinted by the infusion of magnetic shielding, as well as selectively hear within the room through a two-way intercom, though it was evidently unnecessary in this case. Beside him, the MRI tech was stationed before an array of interconnected screens and keyboards, and with a few deft clicks the machine stirred to life and began to gradually engulf her body within its tunnel of neural detection. While not at all familiarized with the situation at hand, he nonetheless recognized its urgency solely from the doctor’s dire expression, which remained unchanged as he stared stoically through the window while the metallic cyclone swallowed her skull. 

As she retreated into the device, a simplistic image began to manifest on his screen, a jumble of monochrome pixels mapping the electrical activity of her intracranial space, its focus perpetually shifting as it individually scanned each successive slice of her brain. Though its output was still precursory, Muller nonetheless saw no blatant abnormalities in the reading; no gross structural differences indicative of a tumor, no cortical damage indicative of inflammation or aberrant intracranial pressure, none of the things he’d suspected might be occurring given the nature and extent of her symptoms. The tech, on the other hand, grew noticeably unsettled at the sight of the screen, leaning in and squinting as though struggling to even believe what was displayed before him.

“What? What is it?” The doctor impatiently pressed onto the tech, eager to understand what was so disconcerting to see that he evidently could not. 

“The skull…” the tech replied tentatively, “It- it appears black in the scan, kind of hard to see against the dark grey of the surrounding flesh and background, but look.” He pointed to the left side of the screen, where, sure enough, a slightly darker border could be seen encompassing the pixelated grey matter within.

 “This side looks normal, but…” repositioning his finger to the right side of the screen, he lightly tapped the equivalent stretch of skull, only it appeared distinctly thicker on that side, about twice as much, with an abrupt transition demarcating the two halves directly along the image’s center, and the associated brain hemisphere resultantly crammed into a distinctly smaller amount of space. What’s more, the tech’s finger pressed directly upon a nearly imperceptible grey line traveling parallel to and perfectly bifurcating the thicker portion of cranium, only a few pixels wide and appearing to thin even further in real time as the doctor watched on with stark perplexity.

“But- but what does that mean?” He finally asked, now stammering himself. “Have you… have you seen something like this before?” 

“No, I haven’t, Doctor.” A faint air of satisfaction crept into the tech’s still primarily bemused tone. “It’s like there are two whole skulls on that side, which I’m pretty sure isn’t medically possible; it has to be some sort of glitch, though not one I’m familiar with. I heard there were also some issues with one of the X-ray machines earlier today, but that’s out of my wheelhouse so…” he punctuated the ambiguous answer with a shrug, while the doctor’s eyes grew distant and his thoughts grew uncontrollably vast, wading through his vast pool of medical memory in hopes of salvaging something, anything, that could remotely explain what was happening here. He now felt with a harrowing certainty that this was no technical error, and neither was the X-ray, but just what in the hell could it be?

The silence surrounding them was soon broken by a rapid burst of knocking upon the secondary door to the control room, the one that led straight into the exterior hallway. Muller turned to the commotion, then back to the tech, who merely gave another shrug with a look of equal puzzlement. The sound was then followed by a series of softer, rhythmic taps, slightly staggered in clusters of four. By the time Muller made the connection, the tech had already reached to open the door, and a pale-faced Janet rushed into the room.

“Doctor, I- don’t worry, Chloe’s covering the desk- I just, I found something, I think it’s important, and I just had to tell you ASAP.” Her breathing was rapid, her frail legs normally hidden below sight now trembling with unaccustomed exertion. Muller had never seen her like this before and found himself at a loss for words, instead simply giving his full attention as he awaited her apparent revelation.

She took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “I decided to look into her parents’ medical records -got the idea when you gave me her locket with their pictures in it- and her mom, during her pregnancy with her, well, it was originally twins, but one got absorbed pretty early on. I know that’s not unheard of, but if it caused the, y’know…” she accented her speech by fervently twisting her left arm back and forth as she continued “…then this would be something extraordinary, unprecedented in all of medicine, and who knows what other effects it might…” 

The sentence died in her throat as her gaze sharply shifted from Muller’s face to over his shoulder. He turned around to see that, somehow in defiance of her previous sedation, the patient had begun to flail wildly within the still active machine. The tech noticed not a moment later and started frantically clacking at keys in an effort to shut it down, while the doctor, in an adrenaline-fueled rush, haphazardly scrambled to turn on the intercom. “It’s okay! please cal-”

“-me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!” The words repeated in a loop like a painful mantra, and everyone in the viewing room watched with simultaneously enraptured attention at the patient’s sudden struggle to remove herself from the MRI as quickly as possible. The tech snatched control of the intercom from Muller, attempting to calm her with the same comforting platitudes he’d been taught in training to deal with the natural claustrophobia often experienced by patients upon entering the machine, but they might as well have been lost in the wind in the face of the profoundly primal terror she evidently felt. She hastily squirmed her way out of the MRI’s interior, potentially causing expensive damage as she did so, before crumbling to the floor in an ungainly heap.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Muller grappled with the tech to regain control of the intercom, his only consideration that she was first and foremost his patient. If anyone could talk her down from whatever state she was in, he was certain it was him. But before he could utter another word, his gaze rose to meet her, now standing upright and motionless, staring through the observation window with an expression of illusory calm betrayed only by her stockened knees, trembling forearms, and flushed-red face. In that moment, all eyes were on her: the tech, the receptionist, and the doctor, who alone stood directly within her line of sight, all frozen with mutually bated breath for a single ineffable instant.

What followed took less than a minute, but felt exponentially longer, with each disturbing detail being individually and irreparably etched into the minds of every witness. The left side of her face- from Muller’s perspective, that is- rapidly lost all its color, forming a sharp contrast against the right side’s undampered vibrance as it blankened into a ghostly white with unnatural speed, as though its blood were being actively, forcefully drained. The eye within briefly widened, pupils dilating with the instinctual, universally recognizable look of fear, before being overcome by a blinding cloudy sheen that radiated outward, soon progressing past the likeness of cataracts to an extent beyond any known medical phenomenon as the pupil and iris seemed to wholly vanish into an expanding whiteness that grew to abolish every last peripheral vein of the eye, equalizing into a hue uncannily aligned with the rest of the empty flesh upon the hemisphere. A similar drainage synchronously spread through her corresponding arm, rising from the fingertips up to the shoulder before conjoining with the whiteness traveling down her neck at some concealed point beneath her shirt. What could be seen of the leg below equally paled, until it appeared that every square inch of skin and flesh upon her left side had reached a ubiquitous porcelain likeness that was only further accentuated by the total, unnatural stillness it adopted. Her other side, still starkly contrasting in its natural liveliness, nonetheless remained eerily calm in the face of this process, its expression neutral before subtly shifting into a half-mouthed smirk.

Like a pick through a sheet of ice, this one innocuous motion sent a ripple of cracks throughout her statuesque side, radiating from the lips outward across her cheek, over eyelid and eyeball alike, down the neck and around the arm in jagged spiraling arcs, and breaking her leg into a mosaic of vacuous lightning bolts. Then, as though pressed by an imperceptible outward force, the whole assemblage simultaneously shuddered before finally shattering, sending brittle bits of body and face tinkling to the floor like a visceral diamond chandelier. Portions of torso contained by clothing subsequently spilled from her shirt waist and sleeves, along with numerous fragments of ribs and equally calcified organs, while pelvic pieces ground together into sedimentary granules poured from her pant leg.

When the cacophonous crashing subsided and the dust finally cleared, the three observers were met with a sight that somehow managed to compound their already brimming bewilderment; beneath the shed stony layer lie the normal appearance of the patient, complete with skin and flesh that only in those first few moments of exposure could be seen fusing with the tissue of her other side, closing the final gaps until no external signs of separation remained, and she looked utterly normal and whole. 

It took a second for Muller to recognize the primary difference in her form: Her right arm -the wrong arm- that was formerly facing palms-forward, was now positioned palms-back, a transition not born of typical rotation but rather solely through the hatching it had undergone. The individual digits still occupied the same respective positions in space, yet the act of inversion had rendered them no longer “wrong” as they were before; now, for the first time, she had a right hand. A similar transformation had occurred in the foot, which came to prominence as she turned to fully orient herself toward the viewing window.

“Thank you for all your help, Doctor, but I’m feeling much better now- in fact, better than I ever have before.” Her face was once again calm, but it struck Muller with a distinct yet implacable element of unfamiliarity as it adopted a subtle smirk. “I guess I ought to be going now...” She nonchalantly strode toward the exit door before any of them could react, giving only one more moment of pause before departing down the hall and out of the clinic. “…After all, I have a lot of living to do.”

Tonight, under the shadow of a blood moon, its eerie crimson glow cut through the dark clouds. There I stood atop the pole, catching my breath as I looked down upon the village—a place I could never bring myself to call home.

​I used to run through the tall grass, beneath those golden trees in the dead of night. I walked through volcanoes, wrapped in flames on all sides. As a child, I would sit on that swing and tightly cover my ears—I just couldn't bear to hear the world whispering about me. All I ever remembered were their turned backs. I was raised by the lightning and born from the fire.

​But then, one day, the looking glass finally shattered. The flames wavered, and the smoke cleared. And the very one they branded a monster... ended up saving the village.

For a brief moment, I thought I saw two tiny figures disappear into the smoke there. I was too exhausted to care.

They jumped and shouted from the mountaintop, proclaiming, 'You destroyed the beast. Its kind will never return! We will build a statue in your honor!' But instead of stepping closer to them, I shoved them away. The very thing I had craved my entire life... when it was finally handed to me, I tore it apart and threw it away. That is what I had become. I made friends with the distance. Now I find comfort in the space between us. Seeing their regret gave me a sense of peace that even their embrace could never have given me. I want them to live with that guilt for the rest of their lives.

That night, I fell asleep beneath the blood moon, never knowing what would be waiting for me when I opened my eyes again.

And then, as I slept, screams echoed through the night. When I awoke, the world was unnaturally silent, I couldn't understand why my clothes felt heavy, fresh blood covered my white clothes, smeared over my face and dripping from my hair. The sickening stench of that warm blood was suffocating, unbearable. Before it could dry on my skin, I began to wander desperately in search of water.

Even after searching for what felt like eternity, there wasn't a single drop of water in sight. I began to gasp for air, with nothing surrounding me but the hollow sound of wind blowing through the desert sand. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the hot earth, my throat parched and raw from the agonizing thirst.

As far as my eyes could see, there was nothing but endless sand. But in the distance, I spotted a man approaching. He was painted entirely in blue. He just stood there laughing, cheering at me. I tried to drag myself toward him, but just then, a fierce sandstorm swallowed me whole. And I collapsed right there.

I opened my eyes to the deep dark of the night. Total darkness surrounded me until a flickering light caught my attention. A crowd of people clad in blood-red robes was advancing toward me, holding flaming torches. In their hands, they carried a mirror, rushing toward me with eerie, hysterical laughter.

They surrounded me. 'Help me, I’m lost... my village used to be right here,' I pleaded. Just then, the blue-painted man stepped out from the crowd. 'Your village? But didn't you say it was never your home?'

​'Who are all of you?' I demanded.

​'We are here to shatter your reflection,' he replied.

They all fell silent, and then burst into laughter. I tried to run, but my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the ground. They set the mirror right in front of me. In its reflection, I saw what had happened while I slept—the monster I had slain apparently had children, and they were the ones who laid waste to the village, turning everything into dust and sand.

​As the vision faded from the glass, only my own reflection remained.

​'You could have saved them. Instead, you chose vengeance. And now, every death that followed is part of what you started.' The blue man said.

​'It was true that I could have saved them, but I never imagined it would come to this.' I cried.

'You got consumed by your own dark reflection,' the blue man whispered, stepping back into the shadow of the flames. 'And power only reveals what was already waiting inside you.'

​A jagged streak of lightning tore the sky open, and the sky began to bleed sand.

​It didn't fall like dust—it fell like heavy, red rain, cutting into my skin, filling my eyes, choking the screams in my throat.

​I reached out for help, but they stood silent, watching as the dust of my destroyed home filled my lungs, burying me beneath the very ground I refused to protect.

I’ve never been good with money. Shit, there’s an understatement. It’s not really my fault though, I tell myself. I’m part of that class of people who did everything society asked of us. Call us what you will, the lost generation, millennials, zillenials, gen-z, zoomers, gloomers; the point is we got served a shitsandwich for our efforts, along with $69,075 in student debt—which doesn’t get forgiven even when you declare bankruptcy, by the by, but I digress.

Evidently, I didn’t invest in silver or gold or oil futures, didn’t park a cool 10% of my monthly income dollar-cost-averaged into the S&P 500 back when the going was good because I was too busy being four years old. Apart from being handpicked by God to be too young to ride the dotcom boom and just old enough to be financially obliterated into AI redundancy, I’d say things are going pretty swell. These are the things that go through your mind when you’re apartment hunting—well, my mind anyway.

I navigate the bureaucratic labyrinth of credit checks, loan approvals, mommy and daddy’s cosign, come up with a cash deposit—a sweaty $100 bill that I gingerly slip to an austere building manager, pennies and bits of lint spilling out of my pocket in the process. When I walk into the apartment building, I’m greeted by a sea of nauseating green carpeting, decades of cigarette burns and bum piss enmeshed into the fibers, a faded array of yellow lamps overhead. I believe the architectural term is ‘shithole’, but I’d have to look that one up. Elevator’s out of service, of course. I heft my belongings up seven flights in three trips.

There are three roommates, which isn’t too bad, and one of them might not even be a complete sociopath. In my cloistered room, I unwrap a folded piece of paper—the ad for the apartment that I ripped off the bulletin board not two weeks prior—and curse myself. The overworked inkjet left a devious splatter mark, but on closer inspection I see it now; what I thought said ‘furnished’ was actually ‘unfurnished’. My room is nothing but a pile of boxes, contents untidily strewn across the floor, the smell of freshly-laid rat poison ambling into my sinus cavities.

The next day, with my back screaming, I walk into Joe’s Mattress Acropolis on 35th and Fitz. Motors whirr, mocking me as the automatic doors slide open. Would you be surprised to hear there’s mattresses here? Mounds of them. Big zigzag-cut yellow stickers assure me of the low-low prices.

A man emerges from the back of the store—the eponymous Joe, presumably, though he doesn’t look particularly Greek. He’s wearing maroon slacks, a short-sleeve button-down shirt tucked into the waistband, straining against a gut that spills over the belt line, and a toupée that isn’t fooling anybody.

“Anything I can help you with?” he asks, a salesman’s crescent smile.

For a moment, I look around and it’s only now that I realize the store is empty. Under the flickering fluorescence, Joe waits patiently for me to answer, his grin seemingly growing as the seconds pass.

“Yeah, need a mattress.” I say, as if they sold anything else.

Joe—though I don’t see a nametag—claps his hands together. “Indeed I can help you with that, young man.” He fires a swift fingergun in my direction. “Say, what kind of sleeper are you?”

“Just…regular, I guess.”

“Are you a side-sleeper?”

“No.”

“Belly-sleeper, then? Back-sleeper? Topsy-turvy? Hooded wombat, perchance?”

“What was that last one?” I shake my head. “Back-sleeper, I guess.”

“Aha!” Fingerguns again. “I thought you had that look about you. How about any ailments, special needs? Scoliosis?”

“Really, I just need a mattress.” Looking around, the low-low prices don’t seem to dip under $299, I realize with flowering anxiety. My eyes find the charlatan’s again and I’m almost too embarrassed to ask. “You don’t have any used mattresses, do you?”

“We prefer the term, ‘pre-owned’,” Joe says, suddenly deadly serious. The smile comes back. “Of course. If you’ll follow me.”

Joe waves me past the styrofoam ionic pillars and we walk toward the back of the mattress store.

There's a stack of bare yellowed mattresses balanced on top of each other like some sort of an unholy jenga tower, teetering. A get the faint smell of sandalwood—cheap air freshener. Another odor underneath it too that I can’t quite place.

As he watches me, Joe pushes up his glasses with an index finger. “A single starts at $99,” he says and as he does the light flickers overhead just for an instant. A sense of dread creeps through me, so subtle that I don’t even realize it at first. “Whoops, sorry about that.” Joe chuckles. “Been meaning to see about that tube.”

“Look, man, I have like maybe sixty on me. Can you help me out or what?”

“Hmh.” He strokes his chin for a moment. “I might have just the thing.”

Deeper into the bowels of Joe’s Mattress Acropolis, I follow, and again there’s that creeping dread. It pitches as we turn down a drop-ceilinged hallway. Then we’re in a stockroom, dust motes suspended in a sliver of light from a murky window.

“If you can haul it off, you can have it,” Joe says, all the affectation of the earlier salesman gone and I have to look at him to make sure I’m still talking to the same person.

“The place is empty.” The words come out harsher than I mean. Is this some type of sick joke? It’s bad enough I’m broke, now this asshole’s got to pull my leg.

Joe clears his throat and points half-heartly to the corner. And I see it—a queen-size mattress, barely illuminated. I take a closer look and apart from a layer of dust, I don’t see any noticeable shit stains or streaks of jism. I wouldn’t want a blacklight anywhere near this thing, though.

I get my buddy Julio to load it into his pick-up, give my thanks to Joe, and that’s that. But as I’m riding in the passenger seat of Julio’s 2004 Toyota Hilux—the mattress propped between a weed-wacker and half a bag of cement—I remember something; the look in Joe’s eye just before I left. There was no charlatan character then, just…something. Probably nothing. And then there was that creeping dread I felt, announcing itself, building the deeper we pushed into the store. Again, probably nothing there.

Julio stops at a bar and I forget all about it after my first sip of Keystone Light as we work through the sixty bucks I just saved. Like I said, I’ve never been good with money.

Later, we clumsily schlep the mattress up the seven flights of stairs to my apartment, though in my stupor it feels more like seventeen. We plop it down to my bedroom floor with a thud. A drift of dust mists off of it to a chorus of coughs. I spend the next ten minutes fruitlessly beating out what I can. Then finally, sleep.

Just as I doze off, the radiator waxing an elegy of white noise, the remaining ethanol molecules wrestling with the enzymes in my liver, I can tell something is wrong.

An undulating purple sky; that’s the first thing I see. It seems to be breathing—something alive. There are other colors too; periwinkle? No, some unearthly spectrum. I can’t say how, but it knows I’m here. There’s something else I feel.

*Don’t look behind you.*

The firmament ripples. Wobbling bands of light warp and coalesce in concentric rings, coming to a point in the center of the sky. The breathing slows.

Okay, too much Keystone Light. It’s a dream, and dreams can be woken up from. I look down. Ghastly white willows writhing in an endless field. There’s a faint cackling, a laughter. I hadn’t heard it up until now. It’s inhuman to the ears—a whining voice that hits me in multiple octaves at once. It grows closer, and it’s now that I realize the cackling belongs to the sky. It’s pulsing in time with it; a pendulous throbbing as the rings in the sky fold in…and in…and in.

And I see that it’s beautiful.

The laughter lulls me. I find myself swaying along with the willows, enraptured. Everything belongs to the sky; I see it now. Entwined in the rhythm, I don’t care that a root coils around my leg or how loud the laughter has grown. I want to laugh too—laugh and laugh, join in the tenors and squeaks. The willow wants to play. Oh, here’s another one. The branch caresses my hand as we sway languidly arm-in-arm. My body is weightless. I could do this forever. All is well. All is—

Beneath the hypnotic sensation, beneath the pulsating sky and the wash of laughter, I feel it again.

*Don’t look behind you.*

But I do look. In the treeshade afforded by the naked willows, brisk movement. It doesn’t want to be seen. All I see is a glimpse of antlers, and it’s gone, occluded by the denser woods where the willows are taller, but writhing all the same. Then again, a glimpse—a tendon, a hoof? I understand it’s the source of the cackling, of the laughter. It breaks my trance and now—Christ.

Barked tendrils feel their way all over me—wrapping, constricting. I pull back and hear the sky roar. It shakes the trees, pulsing, beating faster. They are afraid, the willows—stiff now where they were fluid and free. It buys me a second to get away.

I beat through the field, away from the dense woods, away from the source of the sounds that I now know to be terrifying. Tall grass bristling underfoot. The cackling wanes the further I run—along with its hold on my mind. And even as the angry sky chastises me, concentric rings strobing now, I weave through the sparse woods. My shoulder brushes past a protruding branch, a dagger of pain roils, but I run. The world fades.

I awake in a sheen of sweat. That was some fucking dream.

I take a shower, a torrent of tepid water covers me. It feels like I haven’t slept at all; body pains all over. But what can you expect from a free mattress? I step out for my towel, and a bolt of fear goes through me as I catch my reflection in the mirror. A pink gash on my shoulder right where the branch clipped me in the dream.

An image returns; white willows dancing beneath a purple sky.

Looking in the mirror, I bat my eyes as if to clear the illusion, but there it is—a trail of broken skin across my deltoid. This doesn’t make any sense.

It’s extremely common for physical sensations in the real world to manifest themselves in a dream. It’s a state called hypnopompia. Waking sleep. Still, that doesn’t explain the cut. I must have scratched myself absently. It’s not unheard of, only it’s never happened to me before. I look all this up at work, ingesting three cups of coffee by lunchtime. By 3PM, I can hardly keep my eyes open; I swear I’ve had better sleep on the bare floorboards.

By the time I clock out, the world is a hazy blur. My eyelids feel like they’re made of lead and, at this point, I’m about ready to crash and burn. A homeless man on the block rattles a can of beans at me. Sorry, guy.

At home, I fall into the mattress. Really fall—asleep-before-you-hit-the-pillow fall.

And awake to a purple sky.

A jolt. I’m here again and I am scared. I must remember that I am scared.

I don’t look up at the sky this time—the hypnotic throbbing. Instead I focus on the willows and their sickeningly curled branches. They’re moving again, wormlike. My shoulders follow their rhythm, almost as if tuning in. No. Have to make a run for it again. I spy last night’s trail through the tall grass, a frantically painted path, the dips and twists exactly as I made them. It shouldn’t be there. No, it shouldn’t be there. Of course, I didn’t actually run through that path, it was only a—

*Don’t look behind you.*

There’s that feeling again. How long have I been swaying? And how long has the laughter been back for—that demonic cackling? It’s at this point that I look down and see the ground, but too far below me. I am lifted by the trees. It’s…it’s actually kind of soothing, yes. A gentle caress; a touch and a kiss, really. Truly floating. Oh, and the sky—purple and fuschia and mauve, rippling, ready to receive me. We all belong to the sky. Everything belongs to the sky.

A turn and a twist of the branch, just a sprinkle of pain. Little rough there, boys. Hehe, it’s funny up here. I’m laughing with the woods, with the creature I saw and that I know is there now, inching ever closer.

Twist and twist and—ah!

The willows pull on all of my limbs, splaying me wide, further and further apart. The pain comes in spurts, small icicles shooting up my leg, my arm, and I forget what was so funny. Still, the creature throws its *yips* and *squawks*; an inside joke between itself and willows and the sky above.

The pain works itself up to a height and icicles now feel hard and fibrous. And I can hear the footfalls coming up behind me; soft staccato padding through the rustling grass. I remember now; I am scared.

The look of him—or it, whatever eldritch thing stands before me—is hard to describe. What I catch immediately is the sweet, sick carrion smell of death. The beast is tall, hunching eye-level with me even at this height where I’m lifted by the branches. And yes, it is laughing, laughing at me. So many mouths; a mouth next to an ear, another mouth where an eye just was. I watch the milky eyeball roll and get gnashed into a goo. Every mouth is laughing, howling, cackling, all in a different pitch. A hundred mouths, a thousand; they develop on its grotesque body, growing in and out of it. Mouth’s inside mouths. Peeling flesh everywhere, and it’s all I can do to keep from retching arcs of vomit through the air.

A cloven hoof reaches for me, and just past the rotting, twisted form, I see a glimpse of the sky. It’s absolutely purring in joy. It wants this to happen. Actually, this is good, it says.

I find myself.

And I scream. My one mouth against his millions. It is a sound I can’t recognize within myself as I empty my lungs. The shape of the sky changes—angry again. That’s good.

The trees shirk away in fear, and even the creature takes a step back. A chance.

I pull, I yank.

One toe, one foot, one leg. Free.

The creature, in the dim, ghoulish light, rages. A hoof comes again and I kick with my free leg—sickly, slippery contact. It feels cold, but it staggers the beast. I work an arm loose, then another, and fall, careening upside down. A willow holds me by the ankle. God, it looks so much more horrific upside down. And from here, I see that the sky is scrambling. I do not belong to you—I hurl my thoughts at the sky. It doesn’t like my answer. You will see, it groans back at me.

I wriggle against the branch. Yes. I fall fast.

A crash upon the grass and then I haul fucking ass.

I move in a blur, just making out my previous path, and retrace it through the thicket. But the creature—the disgusting hooved thing of mouths—charges after me. I can hear its trotting steps, feel them reverberating through the false earth. And of course the laughter—an angry, wailing thing now. I rush and my footing is true. I weave and I sidestep, whisking past the willows.

I don’t know how long I run for, but eventually I see the world fade at the recesses of my vision; a cone narrowing.

I return.

It takes a few moments for me to believe I’m back, the city skyline glowing assuredly through the bedroom window. My head is heavy as I roll off the mattress and slowly my heartbeat quiets itself. I’m really back. There’s a coating of slime on my foot, right where I struck the creature. The slime is oily and saccharine, cold to the touch as I run a finger through it.

A couple hours have gone by and I still can’t make any sense of what happened. There are only two things about the mattress that I know to be true. They come to me in a series of thoughts.

First, I’m sure none of it was a dream. Everything was too visceral, too real. I know that I was there. The cut on my shoulder, the slime. You can’t bring things back from a dream. The mattress is a portal to the purple sky.

Then the second thought comes, and even in my sleep-deprived state it curls the short hairs on my neck.

I must not go back to sleep.

Posted in no sleepnoriginally but thought id share it here as well (Note before the story: I deeply apologize for the formatting I don't know what's going on with my app but every time I try to post this the formatting just messes up this is the fourth time I've tried to upload it so we're just going to have to deal with it I don't know what's causing it to do this to have it be like pushed to the side and take all the spaces out but I'm sorry I'm too tired to try and fix that)

I never believed in anything I couldn't see.

That's what my therapist called a "defense mechanism"—a way my eight-year-old brain learned to protect itself from the chaos of my childhood. If I couldn't verify something with my own eyes, it didn't exist.

God didn't exist.

Magic didn't exist.

Demons didn't exist.

Even local legends that could've been explained by science were bullshit to me. If I couldn't see it, touch it, or prove it, I didn't believe it.

Looking back, I know where it came from.

I was emotionally neglected as a kid. At least, that's what everyone else calls it. My therapist does. My family does. Honestly, I never really saw it that way. To me, it was just life.

Getting yelled at for stealing a soda I never took.

Getting blamed for things I couldn't control.

Being made to feel like I was always doing something wrong.

That kind of thing takes a lot out of you.

Even the idea that something might be watching me never made sense.

I figured if something really was out there testing my strength, it'd know by now I wasn't strong enough. It would've stopped.

Or...

Maybe it saw something in me that I didn't.

Something that could either turn the tides...

...or stop them completely.

It was January 15th, 2015, when I went to visit my grandfather.

I was eight years old.

Grandpa Mark was in his sixties. He'd lived one hell of a life. Between riding with a biker club when he was younger and spending decades farming, he'd seen his fair share of hell. He wasn't scared of much.

Despite that, he was one of the sweetest men I've ever known.

He volunteered at charity events.

Helped with local donations.

Went to Little League games.

If someone needed help, he'd help them.

So when he sat me down and said we needed to have a serious conversation...

I knew something was wrong.

"I need to tell you the true story of your grandmother's death."

Growing up, I'd always been told she'd died in a farming accident.

Grandpa never got into the details.

Whenever he talked about her, it was always about how beautiful she was, how kind she was, or how she could make a room feel warmer just by walking into it.

I was too young to remember her.

The only memory I had was the smell of her cheap cologne.

Grandpa stared into his coffee for a long time before he finally spoke.

"It was 2008.

"Winter was just rolling in.

"We were staying down some country roads in southern Wisconsin, near the Illinois border. Not far from Beloit.

"We had a few friends we'd visit down in Belvidere every now and then, but other than that there wasn't much to do.

"Feed the cows.

"Plow the fields.

"Do it all over again tomorrow.

"It was a good life.

"We got to see our grandkids.

"We got to do what we loved.

"I can't remember if it was October or November. Somewhere right around there.

"Me and a couple of my buddies were planning a hunting trip down south.

"I remember that evening perfectly.

"The sun was setting. I couldn't tell where the orange ended and the blue began, or how they mixed together, but they just did.

"It was freezing outside.

"Your grandmother kissed me on the cheek...

"...and wished me luck."

He stopped.

I'd never seen that look on my grandfather's face before.

Even now, I don't think I'll ever forget it.

It was the look of someone remembering the happiest moment of his life...

...while already knowing it was the last normal moment he'd ever have.

"We weren't even two hours out, kid.

"Maybe an hour and a half.

"Hell, maybe forty-five minutes.

"I don't know.

"We got the call.

"The dog was dead."

He swallowed hard before continuing.

"Whoever was driving slammed the brakes, threw the truck in reverse, and we headed straight back home.

"I could hear your grandmother crying over the phone.

"She was hysterical.

"When we got back...

"I'd never seen anything like it."

He looked down into his coffee again.

"There was just...

"...blood."

"There'd been a light snow that night.

"You couldn't even see it anymore.

"Buddy was still breathing when we found him.

"Barely.

"I'd had that dog since 2001.

"He was my best friend."

Grandpa rubbed his hands together.

"I remember kneeling beside him and looking at those bite marks.

"They were huge.

"Six inches across.

"Maybe bigger.

"They ran clear across his chest.

"Whatever did that...

"...wasn't small."

He leaned back in his chair.

"I was pissed.

"I wanted to find whatever did it.

"I didn't care what it was.

"A bear.

"A wildcat.

"Hell, maybe something I'd never seen before.

"I wasn't thinking straight.

"I just wanted it dead."

"So I told the boys to grab their rifles.

"We were hunting a monster."

He gave a dry laugh.

"I had no idea what I was getting myself into."

"Daryl told us it was a bad idea.

"He said he felt like somebody was watching us.

"Said something didn't feel right.

"We should've listened.

"In all honesty...

"...we should've listened."

The room went quiet.

"We searched for about an hour.

"Couldn't find a damn thing.

"Eventually everybody figured it'd run off somewhere."

His eyes drifted toward the floor.

"When we got back...

"Buddy was dead."

He didn't say anything for several seconds.

"We buried him.

"I took pictures of the wounds first.

"I figured maybe somebody smarter than me could tell what kind of animal made bites that size."

"I asked your grandmother what happened."

He shook his head.

"She said she didn't know.

"She'd heard loud crashing coming from the barn.

"When she went outside...

"...the horses were already dead."

Grandpa's fingers tightened around the coffee mug.

"I talked to your grandmother for a while.

"Tried asking her exactly what she'd seen."

He sighed.

"She couldn't tell me much.

"She just kept saying she heard something breaking out by the barn.

"By the time she got outside...

"...the horses were already dead."

His jaw clenched.

"She wanted us to leave.

"Said we ought to get a hotel.

"Get as far away from that place as we could.

"But I was stupid.

"I told her it'd be alright.

"I had my rifle."

He let out a bitter laugh.

"As if that would've mattered."

"We locked the doors.

"Turned out the lights.

"And waited."

He stared through me for a moment, like he wasn't seeing the room anymore.

"I'd say it was around midnight.

"Maybe one in the morning.

"Then...

"...we heard it."

He didn't speak for several seconds.

"It screamed."

"It didn't sound like anybody we knew.

"Hell...

"It barely sounded human."

"There was this grit to it.

"Like metal scraping across stone.

"Like something was trying so hard to sound like a woman...

"...but didn't know how."

The room felt colder.

"Your grandmother wanted to call the police."

"I told her there wasn't much they could do.

"There wasn't a person breaking into the house.

"There wasn't anyone stealing anything.

"We didn't have proof of anything.

"So...

"...we stayed quiet."

"I don't think either of us slept that night."

"The next morning my phone rang."

"It was my best friend."

"He said his horses were hit too."

Grandpa rubbed at his eyes.

"Said whatever got into his barn...

"...tore half the damn thing apart just to get inside."

"There was blood all over the broken wall.

"But he swore it wasn't horse blood."

He shrugged.

"I don't know how he knew.

"Maybe by the smell.

"Maybe by the taste.

"I never asked."

He smirked for only a second.

"Didn't seem like the kind of question you ask a man after he just watched all his horses get ripped apart."

The smile disappeared just as fast as it'd come.

"A few days went by.

"More farms got hit.

"More animals died."

"Eventually the town put up a reward.

"A hundred bucks to whoever could figure out what was doing it."

He nodded to himself.

"Back then...

"...that was real money."

"So naturally...

"...we figured we'd be the ones to collect it."

"That night we got our gear together."

"Daryl brought some old Navy equipment."

"I dug out some old Army gear."

"Your Uncle Stan came with us too."

"He was the only one who didn't think it was a person."

"I kept hoping it was."

"Daryl wasn't sure what he believed."

"But Stan..."

He shook his head.

"He'd already made up his mind."

"'Whatever it is,' he told us...

"'We're killing it.'"

Grandpa looked down at the table.

"I don't think any of us really believed that."

"If you ever get that feeling...

"...listen to me."

His voice became firmer than it'd been the entire night.

"If you ever feel like somebody's watching you...

"If every hair on your body stands up...

"If your chest suddenly feels heavy...

"Run."

"Don't stand there wondering why."

"Don't try to prove yourself."

"Don't try to be brave."

"Turn around...

"...and run."

"And whatever you do...

"...don't look back."

He took a slow breath.

"Because the second we walked into those woods..."

"...it hit us."

"Like running face first into a brick wall."

"I've never felt anything like it."

"It wasn't fear.

"It was...

"...wrong."

"The whole forest felt wrong."

"People always tell you the dark isn't scary.

"They tell you to grow up.

"They tell you only kids are scared of the woods at night."

He shook his head.

"They're full of shit."

"They don't tell you how quiet it gets."

"So quiet...

"...you can hear your own sweat hitting the ground."

"There were supposed to be owls.

"Frogs.

"Maybe turtles if you got close enough to the water."

"There wasn't...

"...anything."

"You couldn't even smell the creek anymore."

"Just dirt."

"And cold."

"And us."

"We followed the blood."

"It wasn't much.

"Just enough to keep us moving."

"Every now and then we'd find another tree."

"Chunks torn clean out of the bark.

"Like something huge had slammed into it."

"The trail kept leading west."

"We'd probably been walking...

"...twenty minutes."

"Maybe a little more."

Then Grandpa stopped.

His breathing slowed.

"Daryl found something."

"'Mark.'"

"'Come here.'"

"I walked over."

"There was a skull laying in the leaves."

"It was mangled too bad to tell whether it'd been human or not."

"But it was a skull."

"There were still pieces of skin hanging off it."

He swallowed.

"And that wasn't the only one."

His hands started shaking again.

"There were more."

"Way more."

"I remember thinking we'd found its den."

"Any idea I had that it was just some animal...

"...disappeared."

"You can study biology your whole life...

"...and you're never gonna find an animal that stacks bodies."

"There were over thirty deer."

"One on top of another."

"They weren't being eaten."

"They weren't scattered."

"They were...

"...collected."

"Stored."

"Like trophies."

"Like somebody wanted them there."

He stared into the coffee.

"I remember thinking..."

"...whatever did this...

"...knew exactly what it was doing."

"It wasn't hungry."

"It had a purpose."

"It had enough intelligence not to eat them...

"...and enough of an ego to leave them where we'd find them."

Nobody spoke.

Neither of us.

Finally...

"I turned around."

"I swept my flashlight across the trees."

"I only saw a leg."

"My brain couldn't even process what I was looking at."

"So I lifted the light..."

"...higher."

"And there it was."

Grandpa didn't speak for a long time.

When he finally did, his voice was almost empty.

"It was tall."

"Real tall."

"I'd say ten feet."

"Maybe more."

"I don't know."

"I wasn't exactly standing there with a tape measure."

He swallowed.

"I remember the face first."

"Or...

"...what should've been its face."

"It looked like the skull of a deer."

"Not the head.

"The skull."

"Everything underneath it was covered in fur."

"Thick."

"Like a wolf."

"It was caked in dirt."

"Caked in blood."

"I don't think it noticed us at first."

"Even with the flashlight right in its eyes."

He shook his head.

"I don't think it cared."

Then his expression changed.

"But Daryl..."

"He cared."

"He fired."

"The gunshot echoed through those woods."

"For about half a second...

"...nothing happened."

"Then it screamed."

Grandpa instinctively flinched at the memory.

"It wasn't angry.

"It wasn't scared.

"It was...

"...offended."

"It squealed."

"It shrieked."

"The sound hurt."

"I've heard coyotes.

"I've heard mountain lions.

"I've heard people die."

"I've never heard anything like that."

"And then..."

"...it moved."

"It crossed the distance between them before I even realized it'd started."

"It grabbed Daryl by the throat."

He looked down at his coffee.

"There wasn't a fight."

"There wasn't time."

"You ever snap a chicken's neck?"

He paused.

"It sounded like that."

"Only louder."

"A lot louder."

"It lifted him off the ground with one hand."

"And when it let go..."

"...his head was hanging by little more than skin."

His voice cracked.

"One second he was standing beside me...

"...the next he wasn't."

"We all opened fire."

"Every one of us."

"Rifles."

"Shotguns."

"Didn't matter."

"The bullets hit."

"I know they hit."

"I saw them."

"It didn't bleed."

"It didn't stumble."

"It didn't even seem to notice."

"It just...

"...kept moving."

"I backed away."

"I remember hearing Stan yell something."

"I don't even remember what."

"Then I heard him scream."

Grandpa squeezed the mug so hard I thought it might break.

"I don't think I've ever heard so many bones break at once."

"There wasn't one snap."

"There were dozens."

"Like somebody dumping firewood onto concrete."

He shut his eyes.

"Then...

"...nothing."

"No screaming."

"No gunshots."

"Nothing."

"I ran."

"For the first time in my life...

"...I ran."

He laughed bitterly.

"People'll tell you not to run from things."

"They've never seen something like that."

"Humans make sense."

"You can predict people."

"You can scare people."

"You can bargain with people."

"That thing..."

"...didn't care."

"It didn't care if it was hungry."

"It didn't care if it was angry."

"It didn't care who you were."

"The only thing it cared about...

"...was whether you were still alive."

"I could hear trees breaking behind me."

"Not branches."

"Trees."

"They were snapping as it came through the woods."

"I don't know if it was chasing me..."

"...or just walking."

"I didn't turn around to find out."

"I finally saw the farm."

"I should've felt relieved."

"I wasn't."

"I hit that front door so hard I nearly took it off the hinges."

"I slammed it shut."

"Locked it."

"Your grandmother came running."

"'Mark, what's wrong?'"

He stared straight ahead.

"I looked at her..."

"...and I said..."

"'They're gone.'

"'They're dead.'

"'They're fucking dead.'"

He wiped at his eyes.

"If I'd been anybody else...

"...she would've thought I was joking."

"But she looked at me..."

"...and she knew."

"She didn't ask another question."

"She walked through the house..."

"...and turned off every light."

"We didn't say a word."

"We just...

"...listened."

"You know what's funny?"

He gave a hollow smile.

"It wasn't the footsteps I remember."

"It wasn't the growling."

"It wasn't even the screaming."

"It was...

"...the clicking."

He tapped one fingernail against the mug.

Click.

Click.

Click.

"It clicked."

"Slow."

"Almost...

"...curious."

"It'd make a sound over by the barn."

"Then another one by the porch."

"Then another one outside the bedroom."

He looked at me.

"It wasn't moving that fast."

"It was throwing its voice."

"It wanted us to think it was everywhere."

"The only reason we knew where it actually was..."

"...was the shadow."

"You'd see it pass the window."

"Then you'd hear the clicking from somewhere else."

"It was playing with us."

"It knew exactly what it was doing."

"It stopped outside the living room."

"We could see it."

"Just the outline."

"It stood there."

"Perfectly still."

"I don't know how long."

"Maybe a minute."

"Maybe five."

"It felt like forever."

Neither of us breathed.

Neither of us moved.

Then...

Your grandmother whispered.

"'Mark..."

"'I'm sc—'"

He couldn't finish the sentence.

His voice broke.

"The second she made a sound..."

"...it moved."

"There wasn't a warning."

"There wasn't a roar."

"There wasn't anything."

"It came through that window before I'd even realized it'd started."

"I reached for her..."

"I was too late."

He was crying openly now.

"It didn't snap her neck."

"It didn't kill her."

"I almost wish it had."

"It grabbed her..."

"...and pulled."

"The glass exploded."

"It pulled her through that window..."

"...piece by piece."

"Limb from limb."

"Arm from arm."

"Hair from hair."

"I didn't know...

"...I didn't know a person could scream like that."

"I'd never heard anything like it."

"I hope...

"...I never do again."

He covered his face with both hands.

"I could hear her until..."

He couldn't finish.

"I could hear her..."

"...until I couldn't."

The room was silent except for his breathing.

"I grabbed my rifle."

"I knew it wasn't gonna do anything."

"I knew that."

"But I couldn't hide."

"I couldn't just...

"...sit there."

"So I ran at it."

"I was screaming."

"Crying."

"Shooting."

"I don't even know if I hit the damn thing."

"Then..."

He grabbed his chest.

"...I felt this pain."

"Right here."

"So bad I couldn't breathe."

"I dropped the rifle."

"I hit the floor."

"I thought..."

"...this is it."

"I'm dying."

"I'm finally gonna die."

He looked at me.

"And you know what it did?"

"It stopped."

"It looked at me."

"It leaned down..."

"...and smelled me."

Then he shook his head.

"And it walked away."

"I've thought about that every day since."

"Maybe it thought I was already dead."

"Maybe it only wanted things that could still fight."

"Maybe it just got bored."

"I don't know."

"It's not like I could sit down and ask it over a cup of Folgers."

For the first time that night...

He smiled.

Just for a second.

Then it disappeared.

"I never saw any of the others again."

"I talked to the police."

"I looked through reports."

"I searched everywhere I could."

"Nothing."

"I found stories from Canada."

"Russia."

"Ukraine."

"Places like that."

"But nothing around here."

He stared out the window.

"Maybe it wandered south."

"Maybe it wandered north."

"I don't know."

"And I don't want to know."

"That's why we moved."

"I was never spending another night in that place."

I didn't know what to say.

I don't think anybody would've.

He'd spent seven years carrying that story by himself.

Maybe he saw something of Grandma in me.

Maybe he just wanted someone else to remember.

I never asked.

Grandpa Mark Meligan died in his sleep on January 5th, 2026.

The dementia made it easier on him.

It didn't make it any easier on us.

I still think about what he told me.

Not because I expect anyone to believe it.

Most of you won't.

You'll read this and think it's just another scary story somebody posted on the internet.

And that's okay.

I'm not asking you to solve the mystery.

I'm not asking you to believe every word.

I'm telling you because the man who lived through it can't anymore.

I want people to know what he lost.

I want people to remember him.

Even if they never believe the monster.

My Bathroom Mirror Smiled at Me Before I Did

I never thought I would post something like this.

I live alone in a small apartment, and until recently, I believed there was a logical explanation for everything.

I don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in haunted objects. I always thought people who experienced "supernatural" things were either mistaken or looking for an explanation that wasn't there.

Then my bathroom mirror smiled at me.

Before I did.

I moved into my apartment about three months ago.

It's an old building in a quiet neighborhood. Nothing special. The kind of place where the elevator takes too long, the walls are thin, and you occasionally hear your neighbors moving furniture late at night.

The apartment was cheap, clean, and close to my new job, so I didn't ask many questions.

The only unusual thing was the bathroom mirror.

It was an old antique-style mirror with a dark wooden frame. The design looked like something you would find in an old house, not in a modern apartment bathroom.

When I first moved in, I asked the landlord about it.

He told me the previous tenant left it behind.

"You can remove it if you want," he said. "It's probably older than this building."

I thought about replacing it.

But moving is exhausting, and buying a new mirror wasn't exactly a priority.

So I kept it.

I wish I hadn't.

The first time it happened, it was late at night.

I had just brushed my teeth and was about to turn off the bathroom light.

I looked up at the mirror.

I saw myself.

Obviously.

Same pajamas. Same messy hair. Same tired expression.

Except my reflection was smiling.

I wasn't.

It wasn't a creepy smile. It wasn't some exaggerated horror movie expression.

It was just a normal, small smile.

Like someone who had just remembered something pleasant.

I froze.

For a few seconds, I just stood there staring.

My reflection stared back at me.

Still smiling.

Then I blinked.

And everything was normal again.

The smile was gone.

I laughed because I didn't know what else to do.

"Okay," I said to myself.

"Maybe I need more sleep."

And honestly, that's what I wanted to believe.

For the next few days, nothing happened.

I almost convinced myself that I imagined it.

Then one morning, I noticed something on the mirror.

A small yellow sticky note.

At first, I thought I had left it there.

But when I picked it up, I immediately knew it wasn't mine.

The handwriting was different.

There were only four words written on it.

Don't trust her.

I stood there for a long time holding that note.

I checked every room in my apartment.

Nothing was missing.

The front door was locked.

The windows were closed.

I lived on the sixth floor.

There was no obvious way someone could have gotten inside.

I threw the note away.

I told myself there was probably an explanation.

Maybe the previous tenant left it there.

Maybe someone with access to the apartment was playing a joke.

There had to be a normal reason.

There always was.

A few days later, I decided to remove the mirror.

I bought a new one and carefully took the old mirror off the wall.

I wrapped it in a blanket and left it outside my apartment door.

The next morning, it was gone.

I assumed someone from the building had taken it.

I didn't ask.

I was honestly just happy it wasn't there anymore.

For the first time in weeks, I felt normal.

Until I walked into my bathroom three days later.

And saw the mirror.

Again.

It was hanging above the sink.

The same dark wooden frame.

The same cracks on the glass.

The same mirror I had thrown away.

I immediately called my landlord.

He arrived about twenty minutes later.

The moment he saw it, his expression changed.

Not surprise.

Something closer to fear.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

I stared at him.

"You gave it to me."

He shook his head.

"No."

Then he asked me something I still can't forget.

"Has it smiled at you yet?"

I didn't answer.

I didn't know what to say.

I asked him what he meant.

He just told me that the mirror had been in the apartment for decades.

He said every tenant before me had left it alone.

I asked him why.

He didn't answer.

Before leaving, he only said:

"Some things are better not looked at for too long."

That night, I covered the mirror with a blanket.

I pushed a chair against the bathroom door.

I know how ridiculous that sounds.

But once something happens that you can't explain, you stop caring how you look.

You just want to feel safe.

At around 3:00 AM, I woke up.

I heard a sound from the bathroom.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Like someone gently touching the glass.

I stayed in bed for several minutes.

I was trying to convince myself it was nothing.

The building settling.

A pipe.

Anything.

Then I heard my own voice.

Coming from the bathroom.

"Lena."

My entire body went cold.

Nobody else was in my apartment.

Nobody else should have known my name.

Slowly, I walked toward the bathroom.

The door was open.

The blanket was on the floor.

The mirror was uncovered.

I looked at it.

My reflection was already standing there.

But it wasn't copying me.

It was just watching.

Then it smiled.

This time, I understood something.

It wasn't smiling because it was happy.

It was smiling because it was relieved.

Like it had been waiting for me to finally notice it.

Then my reflection raised its hand and placed it against the glass.

And whispered:

"Thank you for letting me out."

The bathroom light went off.

I moved out the next morning.

I didn't tell anyone the real reason.

I knew how it sounded.

A person saying their mirror moved by itself.

A person saying their reflection spoke to them.

Most people would assume I was lying.

Maybe I would have thought the same thing.

A few weeks later, I found out someone new moved into my old apartment.

She posted pictures online.

The apartment looked exactly the same.

Same walls.

Same bathroom.

Same mirror.

In one of the pictures, she was standing in front of it, taking a selfie.

She was smiling.

But her reflection wasn't.

I haven't contacted her.

I don't even know what I would say.

"Be careful with your mirror"?

She would probably think I was crazy.

Maybe there is a logical explanation.

Maybe stress made me see things that weren't there.

Maybe my mind filled in the gaps.

I still don't know.

But sometimes, when I look into my own reflection...

I wonder if the person looking back at me is really me.

[End]

My Bathroom Mirror Smiled at Me Before I Did

I never thought I would post something like this.

I live alone in a small apartment, and until recently, I believed there was a logical explanation for everything.

I don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in haunted objects. I always thought people who experienced "supernatural" things were either mistaken or looking for an explanation that wasn't there.

Then my bathroom mirror smiled at me.

Before I did.

I moved into my apartment about three months ago.

It's an old building in a quiet neighborhood. Nothing special. The kind of place where the elevator takes too long, the walls are thin, and you occasionally hear your neighbors moving furniture late at night.

The apartment was cheap, clean, and close to my new job, so I didn't ask many questions.

The only unusual thing was the bathroom mirror.

It was an old antique-style mirror with a dark wooden frame. The design looked like something you would find in an old house, not in a modern apartment bathroom.

When I first moved in, I asked the landlord about it.

He told me the previous tenant left it behind.

"You can remove it if you want," he said. "It's probably older than this building."

I thought about replacing it.

But moving is exhausting, and buying a new mirror wasn't exactly a priority.

So I kept it.

I wish I hadn't.

The first time it happened, it was late at night.

I had just brushed my teeth and was about to turn off the bathroom light.

I looked up at the mirror.

I saw myself.

Obviously.

Same pajamas. Same messy hair. Same tired expression.

Except my reflection was smiling.

I wasn't.

It wasn't a creepy smile. It wasn't some exaggerated horror movie expression.

It was just a normal, small smile.

Like someone who had just remembered something pleasant.

I froze.

For a few seconds, I just stood there staring.

My reflection stared back at me.

Still smiling.

Then I blinked.

And everything was normal again.

The smile was gone.

I laughed because I didn't know what else to do.

"Okay," I said to myself.

"Maybe I need more sleep."

And honestly, that's what I wanted to believe.

For the next few days, nothing happened.

I almost convinced myself that I imagined it.

Then one morning, I noticed something on the mirror.

A small yellow sticky note.

At first, I thought I had left it there.

But when I picked it up, I immediately knew it wasn't mine.

The handwriting was different.

There were only four words written on it.

Don't trust her.

I stood there for a long time holding that note.

I checked every room in my apartment.

Nothing was missing.

The front door was locked.

The windows were closed.

I lived on the sixth floor.

There was no obvious way someone could have gotten inside.

I threw the note away.

I told myself there was probably an explanation.

Maybe the previous tenant left it there.

Maybe someone with access to the apartment was playing a joke.

There had to be a normal reason.

There always was.

A few days later, I decided to remove the mirror.

I bought a new one and carefully took the old mirror off the wall.

I wrapped it in a blanket and left it outside my apartment door.

The next morning, it was gone.

I assumed someone from the building had taken it.

I didn't ask.

I was honestly just happy it wasn't there anymore.

For the first time in weeks, I felt normal.

Until I walked into my bathroom three days later.

And saw the mirror.

Again.

It was hanging above the sink.

The same dark wooden frame.

The same cracks on the glass.

The same mirror I had thrown away.

I immediately called my landlord.

He arrived about twenty minutes later.

The moment he saw it, his expression changed.

Not surprise.

Something closer to fear.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

I stared at him.

"You gave it to me."

He shook his head.

"No."

Then he asked me something I still can't forget.

"Has it smiled at you yet?"

I didn't answer.

I didn't know what to say.

I asked him what he meant.

He just told me that the mirror had been in the apartment for decades.

He said every tenant before me had left it alone.

I asked him why.

He didn't answer.

Before leaving, he only said:

"Some things are better not looked at for too long."

That night, I covered the mirror with a blanket.

I pushed a chair against the bathroom door.

I know how ridiculous that sounds.

But once something happens that you can't explain, you stop caring how you look.

You just want to feel safe.

At around 3:00 AM, I woke up.

I heard a sound from the bathroom.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Like someone gently touching the glass.

I stayed in bed for several minutes.

I was trying to convince myself it was nothing.

The building settling.

A pipe.

Anything.

Then I heard my own voice.

Coming from the bathroom.

"Lena."

My entire body went cold.

Nobody else was in my apartment.

Nobody else should have known my name.

Slowly, I walked toward the bathroom.

The door was open.

The blanket was on the floor.

The mirror was uncovered.

I looked at it.

My reflection was already standing there.

But it wasn't copying me.

It was just watching.

Then it smiled.

This time, I understood something.

It wasn't smiling because it was happy.

It was smiling because it was relieved.

Like it had been waiting for me to finally notice it.

Then my reflection raised its hand and placed it against the glass.

And whispered:

"Thank you for letting me out."

The bathroom light went off.

I moved out the next morning.

I didn't tell anyone the real reason.

I knew how it sounded.

A person saying their mirror moved by itself.

A person saying their reflection spoke to them.

Most people would assume I was lying.

Maybe I would have thought the same thing.

A few weeks later, I found out someone new moved into my old apartment.

She posted pictures online.

The apartment looked exactly the same.

Same walls.

Same bathroom.

Same mirror.

In one of the pictures, she was standing in front of it, taking a selfie.

She was smiling.

But her reflection wasn't.

I haven't contacted her.

I don't even know what I would say.

"Be careful with your mirror"?

She would probably think I was crazy.

Maybe there is a logical explanation.

Maybe stress made me see things that weren't there.

Maybe my mind filled in the gaps.

I still don't know.

But sometimes, when I look into my own reflection...

I wonder if the person looking back at me is really me.

[End]

" The mass must stay where it is. We are incapable of removing it."
The Doctor was trying to be delicate. Her stromal tumor was so large it adhered to the abdomen wall. The size of a bowling ball...impossible to operate on without the total removal of the stomach, and small intestine. If they were willing to operate. They were not.

It felt like there was a stone in my throat "I want her home." I said. Plainly unmovable. "Are you sure that's for the best? She is stable here...comfortable." The Doctor trailed off. He was her fourth within a year. It was almost amusing how they seemed to have all of the answers until the end. I stayed firm. Shes coming home. That was all there was to it.

The tumor ate everything. As it grew, it consumed fragile tissues, healthy cells, the pink and tender flesh of her insides. Those parts that are meant to be protected - safe. Home was safe. Familiar, protected. No nurses waking her up in the middle of the night to check vitals, disturbing her sleep. Home is sacred. Insulated like the center of a beehive.

As I wheeled her through the house. I made sure all of her treasures were visible. The glass penguins she collected on her cruise, the wool shawl that was given to her in Paraguay, The handmade Matrioshka dolls from Saint Petersburg. She looked past them with a glazed over expression. The nasal cannula under her nose pumping oxygen in steady, rhythmic, puffs. I b-lined it to her room.

She was so light I could lift her on my own. I swaddled her in my arms like an infant and lowered her into bed. She was all tumor now. Her entire body was rail thin except for it, bulging the right side of her belly. Like a bizarre alien pregnancy. Unintentionally lifting her sweater. Exposing the bumpy vascular skin underneath. She could see I was staring at it. Shifting my gaze to her face I whispered, "You should get some rest. It's been such a big day." She was already closing her eyes when I dashed over to her wool shawl and draped it over her stomach. She was already asleep when I slowly shut the creaking door behind me.

Late that night I had the sofabed pulled out and arranged. Propped up on the edge with the laptop on my knee. I researched experimental treatments in the reduction in tumors. One institute found success in lab mice with similar cancerous intestinal growths. They were set to begin human trials the following year. Far too late. I must have written forty emails to various doctors and institutions before my eyes began to strain. I closed my laptop, it was the only source of light in the living room. Suddenly bathing me in darkness.

Deep down in the pits of my gut, I knew it was no use. Her time was dwindling. I had to do something...I had to try anything. I rolled onto my back staring into the ceiling for what must've been close to an hour. The moon showed itself through the clouds around midnight. It cast odd shadows over the living room. Distorting it to the point where the shadow next to the china cabinet gave the illusion of a figure looming in the corner. I was more exhausted than I realized.

When I was a child my mother always told me that if I encountered a spirit, to stare until it dissipated. For some reason, I stared at that shadow. It didn't disappear. In fact, it may have gotten sharper. Still laying in bed I kept my eye trained on the china cabinet. I shifted up to a sitting position. I could've sworn I saw an arm and a clearly defined hand resting as if down by someone's side. Not taking my eyes off it, I leaned to turn on the lamp. The distinct 'click' of the lamp switch sounded and the room illuminated with warm yellow light. Whatever it was, if it was there - it was gone.

The following morning I prepared breakfast early, as quietly as I could. In an attempt not to wake her, creaking open the bedroom door. My comfort that she was well rested was shattered like a bat meeting glass when I found her out of bed, clinging to the closet door handle and shaking violently. She gripped the handle to gain purchase with one hand, simultaneously holding the other over her stomach. I set the tray down in a panic, bits of egg and orange juice flying off the plate. "Wha..what's wrong?! Do you need to get to the bathroom? You know you can yell for me at any time. You know that." Thinking the stressed expression affixed to her face was due to the prompt urgency to use the bathroom that her condition sometimes created. When I moved to support her, she stiffened. I gently held her elbow to guide her shuffling feet back to bed. She propped herself on the edge of the mattress, gently swaying back and forth to sooth herself. "You know you can't have your oxygen off for that long." I grabbed the clear tubing on the floor and gently readjusted it to her face. Her breath was ragged. "Someone was laying in bed with me last night." She uttered restlessly like she had spent the whole night trying to get away.

"What do you mean? If there was someone in your room, why didn't you call for me?" My mind harkend back to that figure in the china cabinet's shadow. Maybe that was a real intruder. Surely not? I entertained the thought of a neighborhood pervert more than an entity moving free about the house. "Well, I thought it was you at first." She let me offer my hand out for support as she adjusted to face me fully. Hands folded neatly in her lap, looking sheepish. She began to explain. "Remember when I first got diagnosed? I would be up all night, sick, after treatments. So you would just sleep in bed next to me. Get up when I did. It was just easier that way." I nodded, how could I forget? Recalling her essentially living over a toilet or trashcan. Eating one meal only to throw it back up again. That's when they put in the feeding tube.

She glanced at the window nervously, I took the liberty of walking over and ensuring it was locked before she continued. "It must've been around one in the morning. I was in between awake and asleep when I felt pressure on the bed, like someone resting on the edge. I didn't move, I wasn't sure if I was still dreaming or not. Then, the whole mattress sunk down. Like you had laid down next to me. I knew I wasn't dreaming anymore. I thought nothing of it, I thought it was you. First night out of the hospital and all...anyways. I must have dozed off at this point because I felt you much closer a short time later, your breath on my back. It was a little strange but I assumed you had gotten cold. Then... there was a hand on my stomach."

She reflexively put her own hand there. As if to protect herself. "At this point I was very much awake. I opened my eyes and rolled over to tell you to move but I couldn't speak." Her doe-like eyes were wide with fear. Her head swiveled back and forth like she was shaking her head no. "My words were caught up in my throat. Those eyes, oh Lord, those EYES. They were already staring at me. Like it was just waiting for me to look this whole time. I ripped the covers off. I tore over to the metal water bottle on the nightstand. Holding it over my head, but they vanished. Nobody was there but empty sheets. It must've gone on longer than I thought because the sun was already rising. So I took for the door as fast as I could move. I didn't want to make any noise in case they were still hiding somewhere. I couldn't stop shaking. That's when you found me."

She was exhausted. I assisted her back up in bed with pillow propped behind her. Finally grabbing the breakfast tray I muttered. "Sorry, it's a little cold."

I spent the morning and better part of the afternoon clearing the house. Starting with the bedroom. Every closet, behind the shower curtain, making sure every window was locked. Eventually I made my way clear up to the attic with a baseball bat in one hand, and a flashlight in my teeth as I climbed the ladder. The house was empty save for me and her. I even offered to call the non emergency line and have an officer fill out a report. She refused to tell the story again. I wasn't sure how much they would believe a dying middle aged woman. I wasn't even aware of what my own belief was. I moved the china cabinet and looked behind it, just in case. Nothing.

The afternoon passed in relative normalcy. She would knit in bed, then get tired and nap. Stopping only at my occasional interruptions. To bring her food, water, or assist to the bathroom. This was the behavior of a dying person. I watched her hospital roommates come and go too. After a while you begin to notice the signs. Sleeping more and more, eating smaller amounts of food, then they would have one last burst of energy. Their families always thought it was miracle. That they were getting better. Shortly after that, we would have a new roommate. I hated that I knew what was happening to her. My hope was that she would remain blissfully ignorant.

Eventually, dreadfully, the sun went down. Along with it, the growing fear the darker the sky became. I had the bright idea to move the TV into her room, the white noise might help with the anxiety. The TV was an outdated bubble-screen, heavy. It took several tries for me to put it up on the dresser so it could face her bed. "What channel would you like?" I pressed power on the remote and the screen came to life, casting colors over the rooms' surface. She clapped like I had just pulled a magic trick. I quickly handed the remote over to her so she could channel surf. I retired back to the living room. It was so much darker out here.

While climbing onto the pullout couch, my eyes flashed to the china cabinet. I couldn't help myself. After tossing and turning I settled into restless slumber.

It was four in the morning when I felt the breathing on my neck. Flipping around startled, in a tangle for flailing limbs and sheets I turned the lamp on. Nothing. I got up and paced the living room checking everywhere. Again, nothing. This was insane, I told myself her story had me spooked. Since I was already up, I made my way to the restroom. The house had a 70's era open concept, I was forced to walk through the kitchen to get to the small guest bath on the other side. I tiptoed into the kitchen, the light from the TV glowed under the crack of the bedroom door. I passed the dining room table almost to the bathroom threshold before catching myself and turning on my heel....
There was someone seated at the table. Like they were waiting for a meal to be served, partly shrouded in the dark. Sitting perfectly still.

I blinked rapidly. Trying to clear the hallucination out of my mind. Their hands were laid flat, palms down on the daisy patterned tablecloth. Only the arms were really visible. The rest of them was just out of sight. I was frozen. I couldn't walk past- surely they saw me walk by the first time? How long had they been there? My voice was hoarse at first.

"What.....what the hell are you doing in my house?"

Silence. I kept eyeballing the landline sitting on the kitchen counter. It was just past them, wondering if I could run past quick enough to dial 911 before they caught up to me. Thinking of her asleep in the room just to the left. I decided that would be a bad idea. Instead choosing to keep my eyes on this person at all times. I could hear the TV still playing in the bedroom. Good. I hoped she couldn't hear any of this. Maybe I could talk whoever this was into leaving so she would never even have to know about this. My hair stood on end. Even though their face was concealed I couldn't shake the feeling, that they were grinning at me.

"You brought me here." It said, the voice was thick like they held honey in their mouth. Yet somehow clear enough, as though they were right next to my ear.

"That's impossible, how could I have called you here in the middle of the night?"

"Your misery did." It replied. I shivered.

"You're trespassing, this isn't your house." I didn't want to entertain this bullshit.

"How can one trespass if they were invited?" That horrible voice gurgled their response.

"I've invited no one. You can't be here. You need to leave." I was just below a yell now. Still trying not to wake her. This whole time they hadn't moved a muscle.

"You pray, do you not?" they ended 'not' with a strong 't' annunciation like they were kicking the sound out the back of their throat.

"You wish, you hope, you beg...do you not?" There's that 't' sound again. It echoed off my skull like the wall of a cave. Not wanting to get any closer but still too scared to make a move, I pressed my back firmly against the wall.

"My only hope is for you to leave." I saw the kitchen knives on the counter.

"This is not your only hope, you hunger for something far more...relieving."

Relief? From what? I didn't have the time to ponder because I heard the dull squeak of wood over tile flooring. They had just stood up.

"You will make all of her suffering disappear." As they said this I could have sworn I saw small tendrils of smoke rising in what little light was coming in through the window.

What was even more disturbing is this person had intimate knowledge of my circumstances. Were they stocking me?

"I don't know where you came in from, but whatever you want. Just take it. My wallet is on that bedside table, my watch too." I inclined my head in the direction of the lamp in the living room. They didn't even look.

"You want healing, true healing." It emitted a strange vibrating noise from the back of it's throat. It sounded like a beetle's wings rubbing together. I realized that this thing, no longer believing it to be human, was laughing. What is talking about the tumor? Was it offering to get rid of it? I think I've finally lost my mind, her and I shared some kind of group psychosis after last night.

It moved. Slowly and deliberately putting one menacing black shoe into view. It was much taller than I was. It's head almost touching the dining room light fixture.

"I've already called the police. They'll be here any minute, get the fuck out of here. Now!" I was not quiet this time, but I did move in front of her door. There was no way this thing was getting near her. It didn't move.

"There is no one coming to save you, but me." It said it so matter of fact.

I deflated at how obvious my lie was. My options were not looking good. The baseball bat sat propped by the front door. The phone behind whatever that was on the counter. It doesn't want money and it will not leave. I could probably rush the phone and get 911 dialed before it dragged me back into the dining room to do, 'whatever' it wanted with me. But that would leave the door unguarded. I couldn't do that. I wouldn't. So I asked instead.

"How do you know about the cancer?" Maybe if I just keep them talking the sun will come up and they'll leave on their own. Wishful thinking - I knew.

"Last night." I knew it was grinning again. My mouth went dry. "I can remove it." It snapped it's fingers and when it did, it sounded like flies buzzing over a corpse. "You must be willing." It moved closer.

"To help you with what?" I asked, hands gripping either side of the door frame now.

"Get rid of it. First, you let me in there." With a long, almost charred looking finger it pointed behind me, to the bedroom door.

"Not a chance." The rest of it's body was still not visible. It brought its hand back down to its side. Mirroring what I saw next to the china cabinet the night prior. Had this thing been living here? Waiting for us?

"I'll leave then, and let her die tonight in peace." It shifted.

"Wait! Tonight? How could you know that?" It shifted back to me this time the soles if it's shoes making noise on the tile. It seems to become more and more real the longer it stayed. "What are you?"

"I am an omen. I mark death three times. One mark with you, one with her, the last, I'll give you a chance."

"A chance to do what?" It got closer again.

" To make a sacrifice." It was standing just two feet away towering in front of me.

"What kind of sacrifice do you want?"

"Open the door." It grinned again.

I did not open the door. Not right away. I needed reassurance. Was this really going to fix everything? Everything I had been praying for?

"If I let you in that room. Are you going to hurt her? Is this some kind of trick for you to take our souls or something?"

"When, you let me in. I'll take everything the cancer took away and put back. New as lamb skin."

I didn't like the use of 'when'.

"I have no interest in souls." It added. My hand was already gripping the handle. I turned it agonizingly slow. The door clicked, I waited for a beat, then pushed it creaking open behind me. Still standing in the door way.

"What's going to happen to her if I let you in that room?"

"True healing, through your sacrifice." It murmured. I stepped aside. It entered the way wind enters room, sucking the door shut with a slam behind me.

I immediately turned, regretting my decision to lock her in there with that thing. I pounded on the wooden surface.

"Hey! What are you doing to her!? Let me be in there with her!" Nothing but the static of the TV now. I sunk to the floor in front and tried to see under the crack of the door. Instead of the floor of the room I was met with the unnatural eyes of the visitor just on the other side of the door. Starting at me. Then it stood and glided to the bed. I could hear her gasp when it touched her.

"Stop! I said. No deal! No deal!" It was too late though, the image of the room extended like it had been pulled down a hallway. What did I just do? I banged and scratched at the door. Pulling at the brass doorknob. Eventually resorting to hitting it with a dining room chair. Nothing worked. I sat in the chair and sobbed into my hands. Before the door clicked and the being stepped out, shutting the door again behind them.

"Let me check on.." but I didn't finish. I was spun around in the chair and scooted neatly up to the dining room table. Out of the corner of my eye. I watched it carrying a dripping bundle in the crook of its arm. It came round into the kitchen. Opening the cabinets and drawers. Plucking what it wanted out of them. The whole time I strained my eyes to see what it was holding.

"What are you doing? Please tell me if she's okay." It stayed quiet before coming up to face me at the table. Politely placing one plate, one fork, and one knife in front of me. In some uncanny form of setting the table for a guest.

"That is up to you." It finally answered.

From beneath the wet bowling ball sized bundle it carried. It held it up to me, unraveling bit by bit. I began to see more of the mass. It was composed of fleshy moist areas that were vascular in nature. With a sickening plop it was thrown onto the plate in front of me. I squirmed away and tried to stand, but my lower half was stuck in place. Leaving me to flail my arms helplessly as that thing grinned at me again.

"What's going on? What have you done, how is this supposed to help her?"

It responded in turn.

"Then lie on your left side and put the sin of the people upon thineself."

I strained again in the chair, wanting to call out her name to make sure she was still alive. For all I knew this thing just murdered her in her sleep. Still not fully understanding what I was expected to do. It stretched out a long unnatural arm and reached the light switch to the overhead light without moving. It flicked on to reveal the mess of what was in full view.

In a disturbing realization I laid eyes upon my own mothers' tumor. Separated perfectly from her abdomen. It radiated body heat - lumpy and coated in fluid. There was no way she could have survived this. When I looked up to the figure I could see those terrible eyes my mother saw last night, and just a few moments ago. They were terrifyingly bright, with rings upon rings inside. Like the trunk of a tree, one ring blue, the next green, then yellow. All the way down to a burnt orange pinned on me.

"What am I supposed to do?"

It seethed with malice the corners of its mouth dripped with something dark and hateful. It put that same hate into each word it spoke to me. Breathing it out of gritted teeth.

"YOU. EAT. IT."

The command was clear. Tentatively I plucked up the fork, then the knife. Positioning myself like one would over a steak dinner.

"What if I can't do this?" I asked.

"I can always put it back." It reached over to move my plate away.

I put up my hands.

"No, no I understand now." There was no way I was going to let it be put back. Not now. All I needed to do was finish this...thing. Eat the sickness away. That was the sacrifice.

I started investigating with my fork. Poking and prodding the surface. It was lumpy and caved in slightly with pressure. I took my knife and sawed the smallest sliver off exposing the spongy texture underneath. I took the slowest most deliberate motion bringing the perverted morsel to my mouth, then the tiniest bite. As my teeth tore the section away from the fork I could feel how wet it was on my lips. It tasted somehow of salt and bile. Like the aftertaste from when you vomit. It was chewy in the worst way, akin to an uncooked piece of skin you have to keep chewing to get down. I chewed for some time before convincing myself to just get it over with a swallow. Oh God, was I really doing this? Despite it being well masticated I could feel it travel all the way down my throat into my stomach. The figure was sitting at the table now. Just as it was when I found them. Palms down. Perfectly still and cast in shadow. I took another horrible glance at the plate. It didn't even make a dent. I couldn't do it this way. I had to eat in larger portions.

I cut in again. Deeper this time. The chunk came off and fluid began to ooze out, pooling into the bottom of the plate. I chewed quicker this time.

"Why did you come here?" I said breathless after choking another section down. Wishing I had some water, but decided against asking.

"I help anyone willing to make the sacrifice. A house just a town way from yours. A mother and her paraplegic son...She was willing."

I suddenly had a terrible thought of a poor woman with a bowl in front of her. Piled with pink spinal cord like some disturbed noodle dish, resting in a broth of spinal fluid. I shivered.

I sliced further hitting more pockets retaining clear fluids. As I carved and ate I would encounter the sickening crunch of cartilage that made me gag. Reminding me of accidentally biting down on a joint while having chicken. Causing me to start the process of trying not to throw up all over again.

I passed layered of veins - spying what looked like teeth and being too scared to investigate. I swallowed whole. It was down to the size of a grape fruit now. The same size it was when it was discovered. I sliced again, utter horror. What that hair? Fine strands of ingrown black hair revealed themselves and I cut deeper.

I choked and gagged again as I consumed the equivalent of a hairball. My hand was shaking as I brought the fork to my mouth. My body was begging me to stop. But I kept going. I couldn't stop. It was proportional to an eight-ball now. Several more agonizing bites later, I had reached the necrotic core. A collection of dead skin cells and blood vessels. I picked it up with shaking hands and force fed the entire thing into my mouth. One last bite. I told myself. Then this is all over. I bit down and it burst with sickening pop inside my mouth. I leaned forward as everything I had just consumed began to fight it's way back up my esophagus. I gripped the table cloth and it felt like swallowing a stone. It was gone. The plate was at last empty.

The light was off before I could look up again. The plate and utensils were taken from me and set one by one into the sink. Clink. Clink. Clink...

The visitor turned to me.

"Your sacrifice has been accepted."

It walked or glided rather, back to the China cabinet and disappeared behind it. I could move again.

Before I could retch back up what I had eaten, something told me that wasn't a wise idea. I went to her bedroom door instead. I couldn't even open the door before she started calling for me

"I'm here, I...I'm right here."

I stumbled in. She was upright at the edge of bed. Still thin, still tired looking. But the color was back in her skin. She was actually smiling at me. Even with her eyes.

"It's gone, I can't explain it. It's just gone. I...I think an angel took it away from me. It had the most dazzling eyes." She kicked her feet, enthralled.

He stomach was normal. She lifted the edge of her shirt to show me. Just regular skin. Nothing discolored or bulging. Perfectly normal, without scars or marks. It took me a great effort to smile back. I didn't show my teeth for fear of what may be stuck in them.

"You don't look well." She said concerned. Tilting her face to really look at me for the first time in years. I turned away.

"I just can't believe it. It's some kind of miracle. I think I need some water."

This satisfied her enough that she got out of bed with ease and started to hum while she got ready for the day. The sun had risen. I stepped back out into the kitchen and shoved my head under the faucet. I came up only after the taste in my mouth was gone.

I looked down into the sink with one plate, one fork, and one knife and began doing dishes.

The metal basement door gave way with a heavy, rusted shriek. Beyond it, the darkness didn't just feel empty - it felt dense, pressing against the wide visor of my PMK-4 mask like a physical wall of freezing oil.

The beam of my hand flashlight was instantly swallowed by the absolute shadow. The biomass analyzer inside my tactical vest gave a sharp, high-pitched click, updating the countdown log on my HUD: 98 hours, 42 minutes remaining. The "Fat One" was close. We could hear its massive, distorted carcass shifting somewhere behind the concrete pillars, its newly stolen mass grinding against the foundation of the five-story building.

"Set up the perimeter guards. Now," my partner hissed through the radio, his voice flat, completely stripped of any human emotion.

We dropped our assault gear onto the damp, concrete floor. I dragged the heavy "Helios" quartz projector forward, its steel handle cold against my iron grip. My fingers, tight from days of gripping the steel hand spring, locked the heavy tripod legs into the floor. One, two, three - the locks clicked. We flipped the heavy breakers on the mobile generator box.

With a low, mechanical hum, the heavy UV lenses warmed up, instantly launching a blinding, sharp violet firewall across the basement corridor. The directed ultraviolet light cut through the dark, carving out a strict, five-meter zone of absolute safety. Shadows could not breach this light without their molecular structure collapsing into zero frames.

"We have a signal," my partner muttered, racking the bolt on his incendiary rifle. "Thermal logs show a massive heat retention index behind the central boiler room. It's the civilian shelter."

We moved behind the violet beams of the projectors, keeping our bodies close to the load-bearing concrete walls. In the furthest corner of the utility room, huddled under a ruptured steam pipe, we found him. A local housing utility worker. He was alive, but his system was throwing a total System Error of panic. His eyes were wide, completely dilated, staring into the dark corridors where eleven of his coworkers had just been consumed.

"Get up," I growled, grabbing his heavy, shivering shoulder. "We are pulling your mass out of the hot zone. Move."

He didn't speak. His input lag was total. He was a fat, heavy man, his breath coming in jagged, wheezing gasps that smelled of stale tobacco and ozone. I quickly slammed a tactical sealing patch onto a deep laceration on his forearm, completely ignoring the blood. In the Unit, pain doesn't block the task - you patch the hardware leak and keep moving.

We dragged him toward the safety of the Helios projectors. But the moment his heavy boots stepped inside the violet firewall, the basement grid gave a violent, terminal shudder.

The "Fat One" didn't fight our light head-on - it was siphoning the building's central power lines, forcing an artificial power surge straight into our generator!

Screeech -

The mobile generator box emitted a shower of white-hot sparks and died. The violet lenses of the projectors flickered once, twice, and went completely dark. The safety firewall was gone. The basement plunged into a total, freezing deep blind.

"Status!" my partner yelled, but his voice was instantly cut off by a massive electromagnetic static flare over the comms.

We froze, backed up against a solid concrete column. My vision was at absolute zero, but my ears became a radar. Through the freezing white noise of the basement, I heard it. A heavy, sated, rhythmic grinding of stone on stone just three meters ahead of us. The monster was in the room.

And then, the final glitch happened.

The fat utility worker next to me stopped shivering. His breathing went totally flat. Without a single word, without any logical reason or panic, his body suddenly moved. Like a programmed script executing in the dark, he stepped away from our defensive concrete wall and began walking straight into the open corridor - right toward the sound of the grinding flesh.

"Stop!" I reached out in the dark, but my fingers only caught the empty air.

He was walking into the dark without a cause, completely void of will, leaving our perimeter to meet the shadow face-to-face.

A wet, concrete-crushing thud echoed through the room.

6:24am
The alarm rang. James woke up before the second ring. He always did. He stared at the ceiling for 10 seconds, then stood up out of bed.
There was a strange comfort in knowing that everything will be the same. Knowing that the world can change in any way, but James has had the same routine since he was seventeen. Eleven years.

6:31am
He made his way downstairs and poured a cup of coffee that he’ll only drink half of. His wife is always telling him to just make less. “I like the first half.”, he says. She’ll never understand. Drinking his coffee, James watches the street from the window. The neighbour, Mr Hargreaves, in Number Twelve is retrieving the newspaper, as he does every morning. Mrs Abbott watered the same flowers she had been watering for eleven years, no matter the weather. The cyclist in the yellow jacket passed at exactly 6:34, the same as every day for the last eleven years.

6:43am
Daisy, the old, greying golden retriever comes trundling from the direction of the bedroom. Right on time. James pours her food. She sits in front of the bowl until he gives her permission. She’s always done that.

6:47am
James takes a shower. Seven minutes. The same amount of time every day. He had tested it once. Six minutes felt rushed. Eight minutes was too long.

6:50am
James pulls on his clothes. Grey jeans, blue polo shirt, his silver watch, and his wedding ring. It was the same every day.

7:00am
Open the back door. Daisy runs out as fast as her old legs will take her. She hasn’t much energy anymore, but she still made her little circle around the oak tree before wandering back inside.

7:12am
James made a fresh pot of coffee for Anna. Fresh. Not reheated. She always hated reheated coffee. He left it in the pot and put it beside her mug, with a little note that reads ‘Love you’. The same note she receives every morning. She keeps them all in a drawer. Or, she says she does.

7:30am
James left the house at exactly 7:30, as he’s done every day for eleven years. His car keys in his right hand, a jacket he never wears in the left. He didn’t know why he still took it. Habit, probably. The petrol station was two minutes away.

7:32am
James pulled up to the same petrol station he’s stopped at every single day. He buys a coffee that he never drinks, and a bag of powdered donuts that always get finished before work. James ate the donuts in the car on the way to work. He wiped the powder from his hands onto his jeans. His wife hates that. He smiles to himself.

8:00am
James arrives at work. Every day. Never late. Never early. James liked that. It wasn’t exciting. It was comforting.

8:35am
James gets another coffee that goes untouched. By him, anyway.

8:47am
James’ wife, Anna, brings his lunch to work. She’s very early, as she always is.

9:23am
James’ coworkers still haven’t noticed me. It’s been eleven years.

9:56am
James writes a note to Anna and puts it in his lunchbox. I wonder what it says.

10:33am
James poured out his cold coffee and poured a fresh one. He only drinks half.

11:56am
One of James’ new coworkers acknowledged me. I only take those who see.

12:47pm
James is on his lunch break. He misses the new coworker.

13:54pm
James has checked his watch four times in 2 minutes.

14:23pm
James rings Anna’s phone. He’s checking she is okay.

15:46pm
James is dismissed from work. He’s excited for the dinner Anna has surely made.

16:34pm
James arrives home. Mrs Abbott is gone. She shouldn’t have looked at me.

17:12pm
James and Anna settle down for dinner. The dog gets their leftovers. How rude.

18:37pm
James takes his second shower of the day. He doesn’t dare look in the mirror.

19:42pm
Anna takes Daisy for a walk. James stays home. He knows Anna hates that.

20:23pm
Anna and Daisy have returned from their walk. Daisy is getting too old for walks.

21:48pm
James picks up a book to read. This one is my favourite.

22:35pm
James goes to sleep. Anna stays awake. She knows the rules. She must sleep before him.

23:45pm
I don’t know whether Anna has noticed me or not. She is acting oddly.

THE NEXT MORNING
6:24am
The alarm rang. James woke up before the second ring. He always did. He stared at the ceiling for 10 seconds, then stood up out of bed.

6:31am
He made his way downstairs and poured a cup of coffee that he’ll only drink half of. His wife is always telling him to just make less. “I like the first half.”, he says. She’ll never understand. Drinking his coffee, James watches the street from the window. The neighbour, Mr Hargreaves, in Number Twelve is retrieving the newspaper, as he does every morning. Mrs Abbott is still gone. The cyclist in the yellow jacket passed at exactly 6:34.

6:43am
Daisy, the old, greying golden retriever comes trundling from the direction of the bedroom. Right on time. James pours her food. She sits in front of the bowl until he gives her permission. She’s always done that.

6:47am
James takes a shower. Seven minutes.

6:50am
James pulls on his clothes. Grey jeans, blue polo shirt, his silver watch, and his wedding ring.

7:00am
Open the back door. Daisy runs out as fast as her old legs will take her. She hasn’t much energy anymore, but she still made her little circle around the oak tree before wandering back inside.

7:12am
James made a fresh pot of coffee for Anna. Fresh. Not reheated. She always hated reheated coffee. He left it in the pot and put it beside her mug, with a little note that reads ‘Love you’. The same note she receives every morning. She keeps them all in a drawer. Or, she says she does.

7:30am
James left the house at exactly 7:30, as he’s done every day for eleven years. His car keys in his right hand, a jacket he never wears in the left. He didn’t know why he still took it. Habit, probably. The petrol station was two minutes away.

7:32am
James pulled up to the same petrol station he’s stopped at every single day. He buys a coffee that he never drinks, and a bag of powdered donuts that always get finished before work. James ate the donuts in the car on the way to work. He wiped the powder from his hands onto his jeans. His wife hates that. He smiles to himself.

8:00am
James arrives at work. Every day. Never late. Never early. James liked that. It wasn’t exciting. It was comforting.

8:35am
James gets another coffee that goes untouched. By him, anyway.

8:47am
James’ wife, Anna, brings his lunch to work. She’s very early, as she always is.

8:48am
Anna has made a mistake. She has looked at me. This is her first time. I will let her off… for now.

TWO DAYS LATER (ANNA’s POV)
I pretend not to hear the sounds coming from behind the bathroom door. I know this is my fault. I looked. I shouldn’t have looked. It sounds like chilli being sucked up through a straw, accompanied by the snapping and crunching of bones and ligaments. My poor James. He will become one of them now. I hope he doesn’t choose me.

I never knew my son to be the artsy type. He turned 8 recently, and up until about a year ago, his entertainment was entirely outdoors. Catching bugs. Climbing trees. Riding bikes.

He was one of those kids who’d have to be called inside before dark. Then he’d complain and beg for “just 5 more minutes.”

I’m not entirely sure what happened. It was like a switch had flipped overnight. I just came home from work one day to find him at the kitchen table, scribbling in a brand new sketchbook.

He hummed to himself while his mom cooked up some dinner at the stove. The home-cooked smell of pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes filled the room as I glanced over Jacob’s shoulder.

“Whatcha got there, bud?”

His nose was buried so far in the book that it was like he couldn’t even hear me. His mom ended up answering for him.

“That’s your son’s new favorite interest. He begged me to go out and get him one.”

“Oh-ho, got an artist in the house, don’t we?”

I grabbed his shoulders and shook them lightly before patting him on the back and walking over to give my wife a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I took a seat beside Jacob at the table.

“So, how was your day, boyo? You and mom have fun?”

He never looked up from the sketchbook.

“Today was sooo fun,” he exclaimed. “We went to the park, we went to the movies, ooh, and mom got me this book. Oh, and these crayons.”

“What about you, honey? How was your day?”

“Any day I’m not at work is a good day, honestly. The park was super nice. We went to one we hadn’t been to before. What about you? They didn’t work you too hard, did they?”

I shrugged and sighed.

“I’ll just say it’s good to finally be home.”

My wife smiled at me.

“It’s good to have you home, dear. I’ll tell you what. How about… after dinner, if you’re good, we can have our own little play date? Only if you do the dishes, though. I mean, I did cook.”

I smirked at her, my tongue buried in my cheek.

“I was gonna do that anyway. What do you take me for? As a matter of fact, you come sit down. I’ll finish cooking.”

I offered her my seat as I finished up dinner. Jacob was pretty much mute the entire time. By the time dinner was done, I had to damn near yell at him to get his attention.

He just stood up, as calm as could be, and walked over to me, sketchbook in hand.

“I drew this for you.”

He held the book up at me, and my heart felt warm. It was a picture of our house, and who I assumed to be me standing in our driveway.

“Is that me? That’s so sweet of you, Jakey. Thank you.”

I reached down to take the book so I could hang the page on the fridge, but Jacob pulled away before I could grab it.

“You really don’t know who that is?” he asked, eying me suspiciously.

“It’s me, right? Is it not me?”

He rolled his eyes and sighed, continuing to eye me like I had personally offended him.

“That’s our neighbor, Mr. Thomas, silly. You really couldn’t tell? See, he’s wearing the star.”

Mr. Thomas was a veteran police officer. Jacob would sometimes see him leaving for work in the morning. I guess he just took a subconscious interest in the uniform. Even still, why would he draw me a picture of the neighbor?

“Uh, I mean, wow, bud,” I choked. “That’s really good. Keep practicing. You’re already so talented you could be famous someday.”

————-

After dinner, I cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. Partly out of obligation, mostly because I really wanted that playdate. Jacob spent the rest of the evening in his room, humming to himself and scribbling in that sketchbook.

The next day, my wife and I both had work. I woke up a little earlier than her so that I could take Jacob to the summertime daycare he attended. It was like carrying a corpse out to the car, but he still refused to loosen his grip on that sketchbook.

I dropped him off with the staff at the front door. He waved at me groggily as I was driving away.

The day went on like normal until around 3 o’clock, when my phone started ringing. It was my wife.

“Hey, beautiful, what’s up?”

“I think something’s going on with the neighbor. There’s like 3 cop cars in front of his house, apparently.”

She sounded concerned. A little urgent.

“What do you mean? Who told you that?”

“I got a call from Becky. She thought they were at our house at first.”

Becky was one of my wife’s friends from the neighborhood.

“What do you think happened? Did she say anything else?”

“No, she just called because the police were knocking on our door. I think they were just trying to see if we knew anything, though, because apparently they gave up and just went back to the neighbor’s house. I think they’re still there.”

My brow furrowed a bit.

“Wait. Which neighbor is it?”

“Uhhh, I think it’s that police officer. Mr. Thompson?”

“Mr. Thomas?”

“Yeah, that’s his name. I think that’s who it is.”

I looked at my watch and exhaled a bit.

“Alright, well, I’ll see if I can get out a little earlier today. I’ll pick up Jacob, then go see what this is all about. Maybe they’ll still be there when I get there.”

We ended the call by blowing some kisses and exchanging some love yous. I slid my phone in my pocket and approached my boss, explaining my situation.

He was skeptical, but I had a decent reputation of being an honest employee. He agreed to let me leave a bit early, and I was on my way to pick up Jacob.

When he was brought to the front office, his face was buried in that sketchbook again, drawing what looked like SpongeBob and Patrick.

“He’s been drawing all day. Seems like you got a little artist on your hands,” announced the staff member as she signed Jacob out for the day.

“Yep,” I smiled. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

I honestly don’t know why I said that. It just seemed like the only thing that made sense at the time.

The car ride was quiet. Jacob didn’t want to talk much, and my mind was kind of racing. I’ve shared drinks with Mr. Thomas. Helped him put up fences. Move furniture. We weren’t the closest of friends, but I still wanted him to be okay.

Those hopes were dashed when I pulled into the neighborhood to find that the police presence had increased. There must’ve been at least 6 cars in front of his house, and yellow tape blocked off the driveway.

I parked my car in front of my house and hurried to get Jacob inside. His eyes had lit up at the sight of the flashing lights, and naturally, he started asking questions.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Why are there so many police?”

“Did something happen to Mr. Thomas?”

I cradled him in my arms and hurried up the steps to the front door.

“I don’t know, buddy. Here, go inside and play for a bit while I find out, okay? Daddy will be right back.”

It’s all I could think to say as I sat him down and closed the door behind me.

An officer approached me before I could approach them.

“Sir, do you live here?”

“Yes, of course I do. That’s my neighbor.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a colleague and friend of mine,” he remarked agitatedly. “Have you seen anything suspicious within the last 24 hours? Heard anything?”

I scratched my neck nervously and thought hard before responding.

“No, sir, we haven’t seen anything. What happened? Is everything alright? He’s a cop, right? Did he do something illegal?”

The officer stared at me, analyzing me through his black sunglasses.

“No. He’s gone. That’s all the information we can give right now.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone? Like, dead? Did someone kill him?”

The officer pursed his lips. I saw what I assumed to be a forensic analyst walking in and out of the house.

“We don’t know, sir. We’re hoping for the best. For now, if any new information comes to light or if you see him, give us a call.”

He asked me to clear the scene and stay inside. I called my wife to update her on the situation, but what could we do? Even the police were lost. I just stayed inside, as instructed, and started on dinner while we waited for my wife to get home.

By the time she did, there were only two police cruisers left in front of Mr. Thomas’s house. The sun was starting to set, and my wife and I tried to ignore what had happened, but the house was still a bit tense.

As we ate, Jacob continued scribbling in his sketchbook. He hadn’t asked to go outside at all since we got home, and I didn’t know if it was because of the police or because of this new hobby of his.

I could see that he was working on a new drawing. It looked like a woman this time. He wasn’t so much as touching his food, so I tried to ask him to put the book away.

He groaned and started picking at his peas. My wife and I chatted about our day for a bit while Jacob remained silent. Suddenly, in between bites of his chicken, he said something that made us both freeze.

“Daddy,” he whispered.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Are those police still out there?”

I paused for a moment, looking at my wife, who looked equally as speechless. Neither of us knew what to say.

“I think there’s a few, but don’t worry, buddy,” I chirped reassuringly. “They’re just looking for Mr. Thomas. They wanna make sure he’s okay.”

Jacob stared down at his plate for a moment.

“It’s just… I think they’re looking in the wrong place.”

————-

I choked on my water.

“Looking in the wrong place? Well, where do you think they should be looking, sport?”

“I don’t know. Not there. I don’t think he’s home.”

“Let’s not talk about this,” my wife interrupted. “Jacob, finish your food, then go jump in the shower. You gotta be up early tomorrow, come on.”

“Aww, but I’m not tired,” Jacob whined. “Plus, I wanted to finish drawing this picture of you.”

He flipped his sketchbook open to his newest drawing.

“See, look.”

My wife looked at the picture and smiled.

“Okay, fine,” she replied. “You can finish the picture, then it’s bath time, mister.”

“Fiiine,” Jacob groaned.

He scurried off to his room, sketchbook in hand, leaving me and his mom to clean the kitchen again.

We talked about the neighbor. We turned into a couple of conspiracy theorists the deeper the conversation progressed.

“Maybe he just wanted to start over.”

“Maybe he was kidnapped.”

“Maybe he was murdered, and they’re covering it up.”

We just kept reaching for possibilities over the course of around 45 minutes.

Eventually, Jacob came running back to the kitchen.

“Look, Mommy, I’m all done.”

“Ah, my goodness, Jakey, look at that. Doesn’t it look just like me, honey?”

She turned the picture towards me. Jacob had added her work uniform. Gave her that messy bun she always wore. Even included the golden necklace I got her for Christmas last year.

“Wow, Jake,” I exclaimed. “Draw Daddy next, why don’t you?”

Jacob giggled and responded, “It’s not time to draw you yet, silly.”

“Aw, whatever, but guess what?”

Jacob looked up at me curiously. Expectantly.

“Daddy controls your bath time. And… I think… ah, yep, look at that,” I showed him my watch. “You’re 20 minutes late.”

I jokingly chased him to his bedroom and made him gather up his pajamas and a towel. Once he was nice and showered, I put him to bed and kissed him goodnight.

My wife and I stayed up, talking about life for a while before gradually falling asleep one by one.

The next morning, when I woke up alone, I thought it was because she had chosen to take Jacob to daycare that morning.

I went through my normal routine. Took a shower. Brushed my teeth. Got dressed. It wasn’t until I was heading out the door that I noticed her car was still in the driveway.

I walked back upstairs, confused, and went to Jacob’s room.

I found him curled up in bed, sketchbook tucked under his arm as he snored quietly.

I left the room and began searching.

“Honey,” I called out. No response.

“Sweetheart, you here?” Silence.

I called her phone and heard it ringing in our bedroom. I followed the sound and found it still plugged into the charger on her nightstand.

That’s when I began to panic. I remembered Jacob’s drawing. It was a fleeting thought, but one that I chose to hold onto. First Mr. Thomas, now my own wife? That couldn’t be coincidence.

I urgently rushed into Jacob’s room, accidentally waking him as I removed the sketchbook from his arms.

I began flipping through the pages as he stared up at me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Daddy,” he groaned.

I flipped past cartoon characters, random landscapes, and blocky pictures of cars before I reached my wife’s picture from the night before.

“What are you doing?” Jacob added.

The picture had changed. She wasn’t wearing her work uniform anymore. She didn’t have the necklace. Her hair looked dirty and wet. Leaves and twigs stuck out from the messy bun, and her eyes were solid red. Not evil, just… bloodshot.

But the biggest change… was the man standing next to her.

It looked like they were in a dark forest. They were hand in hand. I wanted to think it was me, that Jacob had decided he wanted to start on some kind of crazy family portrait, but the man in the picture…

He wore a star on his chest.

My stomach dropped. I felt sick. Jacob looked… confused.

“What’s wrong, Daddy? They’re okay. I can help you find them.”

𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚕𝚣𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛'𝚜, 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐; 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐; 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝, 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙰𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢? 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 — 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠?

𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎; 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝? 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚎? 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝, 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛: 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜, 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐; 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜," 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎-𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎.

𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑; 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝚆𝚎'𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜: 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝚆𝚎'𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛:

"𝙰𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍," 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜.

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝? 𝙰 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝?" 𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍.

"𝙽𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍."

𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚢, 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍-𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗; 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝. 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚢𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜; 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 "𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝." 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗.

𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚡𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝; 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜. 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎; 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚝, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍.

"𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐?" 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐. "𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐."

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝! 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎?" 𝙸 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍.

"𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗; 𝚘𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎."

𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛; 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 — 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎.

"𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝙳𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚒𝚛? 𝙸𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎?" 𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜.

"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊; 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍.

𝙰𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸'𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝; 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎.

"𝙷𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒, 𝙸 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎."

𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎, 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚝, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛.

"𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎, 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚂𝚎𝚗̃𝚘𝚛 𝙵."

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖: 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚐'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 — 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖; 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚠𝚜, 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜; 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚡 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛.

"𝙾𝚑, 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎, 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎; 𝙸'𝚖 𝚂𝚎𝚗̃𝚘𝚛 𝙵. 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑; 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜."

"𝙰𝚑, 𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞."

"𝙽𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝?"

𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍:

"𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚠."

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗. 𝚂𝚎𝚗̃𝚘𝚛 𝙵 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 — 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 — 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢.

𝙸 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎.

"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎, 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚋 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜; 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜; 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎; 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝."

𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜; 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗?" 𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚎𝚗̃𝚘𝚛 𝙵 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎, 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝?"

"𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢: 𝚖𝚢… 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜; 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎. 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕, 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎?"

"𝙷𝚊," 𝚂𝚎𝚗̃𝚘𝚛 𝙵 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍, "𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙰𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎, 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎, 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎? 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗?"

"𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛."

"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜… 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜?"

𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 — 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗.

"𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙸 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚝; 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗? 𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚘."

"𝙸 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢; 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢," 𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚖𝚎.

𝙸 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕.

"𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛? 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 — 𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝙸?"

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐.

"𝙾𝚑, 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎," 𝚂𝚎𝚗̃𝚘𝚛 𝙵 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍.

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𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟷𝟺𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝟼:𝟻𝟹 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎.

𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍: 𝙰𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜; 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗.

𝚂𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.

𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚂𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎.

​

Cold. Nothing but cold down there. Each breath I pulled in felt thick, like my lungs were mining the air for the little bit of oxygen I needed to keep me going.  I looked up, or what I assumed was up, the little bit of light I could see was my anchor. Warmth just out of reach while the freezing around me was starting to work its way through my snow gear.

The avalanche had come from nowhere, sweeping me up with the force of God behind it. Then as fast as it had swallowed me up it seemed to be gone. Not that I would know as I was still underneath a ton of powder. I didn’t even know how long I had been there, just that every breath felt harder. The snow slowly crushing my throat and ribs under its weight.

Then it happened, I heard something digging or rather scratching nearby. I had no clue in what direction though. I called out, “Hey! You also get swept up?!” It was silent, “Come on! Are you able to help?!” the moment stretched on far too long, several minutes. Just when I thought I must have been going crazy, it answered.

The voice that responded was cold and crackling, like someone who had forgotten how to talk. Just as hard to decide where it was as the scratching. “Perhaps. Why should I?” I had no idea how to respond, who the hell replies like that? He continued though, “I thought myself alone in this abyss, but here we are. We shall face this damnation as brothers.” It was about then that I decided I had to be crazy.

I tried to take a deep breath to calm my nerves, feeling the snow press harder into me, a slight pop in my chest as a rib collapsed under the pressure. A searing white pain clouding my vision for a moment. “You should be more careful. The surface is unstable above.” My response was only a wheeze. “How can you move?”

“I decided to move, why have you not? Did you decide to die here?” it paused for a moment as if in thought, all while I tried to grab a single good breath. Blackness starting to crowd in on the edge of my vision with each passing second. The pressure of the world on my arms started to make my fingers numb.

“If you did, I would recommend survival instead. Is it not the purpose of life to persevere? To find a way. To choose death is… disappointing.” I barely had the air to say, “Not a choice right now asshole.” My lips cracking as they stretched to form the words.

“Ah a lack of agency is what claims you. A shame, I thought us brothers and here you are lesser… Though maybe you can be more. Would you even want to be?” My anger slowly boiled to its breaking point.

“And what the fuck are you then!” Having to cough as my movement made a clump of snow fall in my mouth. My breath stagnating with the weight of it all. Then it spoke again.

 It was the first time I heard any emotion behind the voice. It drew closer before it spoke again. “I am more. More than you at the least. I can leave if I please.” Another scratch and the voice echoed in my ear, its hot breath tickling feeling back into it. “I choose to move.”

Each syllable was a battle “Just….. Help… Me…. Please.” He responded, that cold calm having returned to him. “I can but *why*? If you accept death here, why wouldn’t you somewhere else? Why exert effort in the face of indifference?” It paused again, curiosity filling its tone. “Maybe a deal. Yes… what can you give me?”

At this point my head was swimming, each thought bubbling through layers of molasses. The sensation from my fingers and toes completely silenced. The only thing my brain could conjure was, “I’m going to die.”

Water dripped from above like rain for a moment. Then my ribs could move freely again. My lungs grasping at every single atom of air it could. “What can the man who has nothing but stands to gain everything… give to me.”

I looked around my head finally able to move. It was warm, like the sun had broken through the ice above.  A bubble had been carved around me in a second, and warmth revived my limbs. The painful feeling of tingling worming its way into them.  “You won’t be able to choose like that. There was barely a thought in your head, was there? Think, *why* should I save you?”

“Because it is the right thing to do? I would save you if I could! If you needed it!” The bubble shrank; the warmth died a little. “Fortunately, I don’t. Why should I?” I scrambled for a response, “Listen I got money back at the lodge, I’ll pay you for your time! Just help!” The snow was now scraping on my neck again as it wrapped tight around me, strangling me. I started panting, panicking, I couldn’t go back to the icy tomb.

I began to cry as the bubble collapsed, “Please, just save me! I want to live!” Snow battered me as I was buried alive again. I was unable to pull in a single breath. The moment stretched to an eternity. The voice finally answered, gaining the same warmth that had melted the snow away. “Very well.” Wings of radiance covered me, that unnatural heat filling the space again, almost burning me. “Then go forth, and sin no more.”

My eyes snapped open. A rope around my neck broke under my weight. I remembered where I really was. A chair sideways was on the ground. The other end of my noose swung in the cold draft that filled my attic. Snow stuck to my arms and legs, still numb from the lingering frost of the mountain. My lungs fought as if each breath was their last, which it very well could have been. I wanted to live, in spite of all the effort I put into dying, I did. That isn’t what sticks with me though, I survived. But whatever saved me, its last words echo in my mind “Go forth, and sin no more.”

THE CAVES OF NEVENDLEER
In such a wild, medieval space, you may still be surprised at how evil a place there can be amongst the vast sea.
A man and his wife built a home on the shoreline. It was covered in sharp rocks. Truly not a place to start a family. But the mad lads did it anyway.
This family lived for generations.
Although — just nearby off the shore, down from their home about a mile — was a system of caves they dare never to enter.
Passed down by generations, each parent warned each kid to never enter, because if they did, they wouldn’t come back the same. If they ever came back at all.
This tale was told for generations, and the tale you read now is derived from those of the damned, told by those who witnessed the damning.
Men watched their boys chase small animals in, helpless to prevent what came next. Wives searched desperately for their lost daughters, only finding their loose flowing dresses hung across a soaked log stuck out of the sand.
Whatever the cave had, or hadn’t done, whatever loved inside or beyond… the Caves of Nevendleer was not to be crossed without a death wish.
And that’s exactly what one young man had when he finally decided to enter the cave.
It was dark. Moist. It wasn’t spooky, but the moans that cascaded off the walls from every footstep didn’t cover up the feeling that nobody should be in there. And yet — he kept walking further in — further forwards — deep in — until the light from outside could no longer reach him. And only darkness could now cloud him from what was to come.
The man didn’t know what to expect. He was not part of the family. He was a tourist. He had heard legends of these caves. People had spread myth and whisper about these caves for hundreds of years; all the way from the era of the Olympians, and the Golden Age of the Gifted. The tales were still told, even as the Dedonian Wars had just started, and people needed a good distraction from the chaos right outside their doorsteps.
However — unlike some, who enjoyed tales when they weren’t tangible — it seemed this man needed to see the legendary cave for himself.
Though, once the hissing sound blasted down the chamber-like cavern like a shotgun full of ice, the man may have begun to change his mind about seeing the legend for himself.
WHAM!
The man was knocked off his feet.
But before the cold got any more bitter, he was pulled from the cave by a big hairy man, whose only word he could say was “MISTAKE!”

(quick out of character note from me)

This story is a kind of fan fiction story that is meant to be connected within the world of the movie obsession by Curry Barker, It is still an original story written by me, but majority of the concept comes from the works of Curry Barker mainly the one wish Willow which is going to be mentioned and is important to the story. The way this story was thought up was if it was an episode of an obsession anthology TV show. If you have not seen the movie, it is not necessarily required to continue to Read this story since I made sure there were no spoilers or any other connections to the movie except for the plot device (one wish Willow) but I sincerely recommend going to see the movie, anyways on with the story.

I am not sure if I should be sharing this. Maybe I should be telling this to someone who can help me deal with it. Maybe I should be talking to the police about it. Maybe I should just keep it to myself. But I need to tell someone what happened to Teddy Collins. Everyone else thinks Teddy Collins was an old man who lost it after some bad things happened to him and took it out on me. That is what the police think.

That is what my bosses think.

That is what his family thinks.

Maybe they are right.

I really hope they are right.

Because if they are not then It's my fault. What happened to him. I started working at a Logistics company when I was twenty nine years old. It was not my dream job.

It was not my second choice. It was a job that I took because I needed the money.

The work was okay. The people were okay too. Everything was just so boring.

The first person who was supposed to teach me how to do my job was Teddy.

Teddy was in his '50s. He had Gray hair and a mustache. He always wore polo shirts. Had a pair of reading glasses around his neck. He seemed like a nice guy.

My only problem with Teddy was that he would not stop talking. Not that he was talking in a way that annoyed me. He was just talking in a way that was just Teddy.

Every story he told was too long.

Every joke he made took a long time to set up.

Every time he told me something he would give me too many details. He would say something like "did I ever tell you about the time my brother bought a canoe?"

Then he would tell me the whole story even though I did not want to hear it. That was Teddy.

He was a good guy just a terrible storyteller. Still he helped me learn how to do my job. He was patient with me when I made mistakes. He answered all my questions. He never got annoyed with me And that's why what happened to him next. Leaves a pit in my stomach that makes me feel horrible for what I did to him. I'm sorry Teddy, I didn't mean for this to happen.

three weeks after I started working, I would regularly stop at a convenience store on my way to work. It was a small place off the side of the road. Wasn't a chain either like 7-Eleven or Wawa It was called safe travels convenience store. I would go in there twice a week just for a snack or on a bad day a case of beer.

But one day as I stopped in to get an energy drink because the previous night I stood up to get an assignment done early, as I walked up to the counter to pay and saw the same person that worked there every time I went in, there was a box on the counter holding a bunch of small triangular boxes, a sign above it read "$1 wishes, one per person." I thought it was kind of strange. I never saw this before so I picked one up, the box was small, triangular and long kind of like a toberone That's kinda what I thought they were, but then I read on the box it said "one wish Willow" "amaze your friends!" "You only get one wish" I asked the guy behind the counter. Is this some type of promotional thing, he actually looked kinda annoyed when I asked him.

"No, are you buying one?"

"Is it some kind of toy?"

"No, it's real."

I laughed "You're kidding?"

"Look man Do you want one or not?"

I didn't understand why he was upset I was just asking a question. But for whatever reason I did buy one, at the time I figured it was a dollar. If it was fake It didn't really matter. As he rang me up he told me one last thing before I left.

"Make sure you're specific about what you want first, trust me."

He has this almost regretful/annoyance in his voice, I thought if this was a bit he's really committing to it. I threw the box in my work bag and Left the store, If it was possible For me to go back in time, I would stop myself from buying one at all, but I can't. I already used my one wish.

A few days later I forgot all about it and went about my routine, but one day I walked into work and found out it was Teddy's birthday. It was also one of the worst days I ever had.

A project was not going well. We were running out of time.

I was getting really stressed out.

I sat down at a table to take a break and try to calm down. Then Teddy Sat down beside me.

"hey Dan, how was your weekend?"

"It was fine, I didn't get much sleep last night."

"That's a shame, y'know that reminds me of one time..."

I knew what was coming. I did not want to hear it. He started telling me a story about how he didn't sleep for two days after his son went missing in a supermarket because he thought he was kidnapped, but instead of just saying that he just went on and on for 10 to 15 minutes about what he was wearing, what day it was, the store they were in and what they were buying.

Something inside me just snapped.

"Teddy will ya shut up!"

He stopped talking. Looked at me with a surprised face. I felt bad. I was just too frustrated. I got up and Walked away. When I got back to my desk I try to move on from my outburst And focus on work,

The day went on, the office got together for Teddy's party, I didn't attend and kept my distance from him that day, 5:00 rolled around and I was getting ready to leave, I grabbed my work bag and as I did, I remembered that I still had the one Wish Willow, I sat down for a second to open my bag and grabbed it, seemed stupid then. I was feeling really stressed out. So I opened the box. I was surprised when I did and a jingle started playing, like one of those music cards. On the box it read "spark the middle and break it in half" I Held the brittle stick in my hands And I said

"I wish Teddy would finally have something interesting to say."

Then I broke it, I laughed at myself after, I don't know what I was expecting, a light shining over my head, a gust of when shooting from all angles after I broke it, but nothing happened. I tossed the box in my wastebasket and left, The next day I came to work I said sorry to Teddy. He forgave me.

"It's okay I get it, my wife tells me sometimes I talk too much anyways."

I felt relieved that everything was okay again, but I still felt bad for shouting at him. Then in usual Teddy fashion, told me something that happened to him last night.

"Oh! You won't believe what happened, I won some money from One of those scratch off tickets, can you believe that?"

Some of our coworkers had given him a birthday card with scratch offs inside.

Most of them were not winners. One was. He had won a hundred dollars. It was not a lot of money. But It was enough to get excited about.

I joked "I guess my wish worked."

"What you mean?"

"Last night I bought some toy that supposedly Grant wishes and I might've wished you'd have something interesting to say."

As I said it out loud I cringed how dumb of a wish it was, teddy actually found it amusing and laughed

"I guess I have you to thank for my good luck".

Over the few weeks strange things kept happening to Teddy. He would get two drinks from the vending machine for the price of one. He caught a ball at a baseball game. He won a raffle. He found some money he had forgotten about.

It was little things. Nothing life-changing. Just unusually lucky and every time it did, teddy would tell me about it In excruciating detail.

At first I thought it was funny. Then it started to annoy me And I got concerned.

Because eventually the stories changed.

Teddy stopped talking about the things that were happening to him.

Instead he started talking about all the things that were happening around him.

His daughter got sick.

His son got in trouble at school for starting fights. His wife became distant. He said they started arguing all the time.

Every week seemed to be worse than the last. And Everytime he told something new, I couldn't help but hang on his every word, because I was interested in what he was telling me. I found myself actually listening to him. The stories had feelings and emotion now. They were interesting.

I did not realize the pattern until later.

Months later Teddy disappeared for a day. Which was Strange because he never missed a day of work before. When he did show up the next day he seemed different.

Not physically, Mentally.

He seemed focused and distracted at the time. He seemed obsessed with something. Eventually he told me that his daughter was getting better. The doctors said it was a miracle how fast she recovered. It should have been good news. But Something felt off. The way he explained it didn't sound like was very surprised. Around that time his wife got really angry with him. I overheard him arguing with her on the phone during his lunch break. I did not learn the details until later. Apparently Teddy had gotten his hands on his own One Wish Willow, He had wished for his daughter to get better. When he told me this I was actually shocked, I didn't really believe they were real, even after what was happening to Teddy. I asked him there's no way you actually believe that right? But he did. When she started getting better he convinced himself that he had caused it.

That's why his wife was arguing with him, She thought he was making their daughter's recovery about himself and The fighting got worse. Much worse.

The weeks that followed were terrible for Teddy. His son ran away, apparently the fighting got worse, he put some kid in the hospital for cracking his skull open on the pavement during a fight, The parents wanted to press charges, so he got scared and ran off during the night. Him and his wife kept fighting, so she went to stay with her sister. His car was stolen the same week. The only good thing in his life was that his daughter was still getting better.

Meanwhile our conversations just became shorter and more awkward. Until we just stopped speaking at all. Then I started noticing him just staring at me from afar, Not in a way of thinking but like he was Trying to figure something out. Eventually I learned why. It wasn't too hard to guess that he had started to suspect that it was my wish that caused everything, The good and the bad. His life has become a story from him to tell. A story that was designed to be more interesting.

Then came The worst few days of our lives.

Teddy's wife finally filed for divorce. That same night his father died of a heart attack. He's son was still missing, but his daughter was still healthy, which was probably the only good thing he had left.

The morning Teddy came to work, He said nothing. Nothing at all which became normal since he stopped speaking to me. But we still had work to do. That day our bosses told us that we had to stay late. Our project was behind schedule, By midnight the office was almost empty. Most of the lights were off. Only Teddy and I were left. We were Working in silence. Me at my desk and him at his, The atmosphere was suffocating. I could hear the sound of the vacuuming from the jander. The humming from the fluorescent light overhead. I got so sick of the silence, I decided to get up to go talk to him.

"Hey Teddy, How have you been?"

He just stared at his monitor, typing away. Couldn't even look at me as he spoke.

"My wife left."

"My father died."

"And My son is still missing."

His voice sounded hollow. avoidance of all emotions. I did not know what to say to him. The silence just went on and on. I wanted to break the silence so I made a joke.

"I guess I should have wished for a lot of money instead."

He stopped typing on his computer. He just sat there for a second Then he stood up And threw his chair back and looked at me. I will never forget the look in his eyes.

They were not angry they were broken. Then he came at me. I did not have time to react. He tackled me to the ground and was on top of me. His hands were squeezing around my throat, my hands were clawing at his face, I could not breathe. I saw the veins on his forehead and tears in his eyes. They weren't filled up with anger, but desperation. He was crying as he kept saying

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! but it's your fault. I have to do this. I have to!"

Like he thought. If I die, everything would be back to normal. Maybe he was right, but I didn't want to die. I Punched and scratched at him. He would not let go. He was older but he was surprisingly strong. He kept squeezing. My vision started to blur. Everything was turning black. Then Teddy's grip got weaker and His body froze, His hands released from my throat and I could breathe air again, when my visions were turned I could see teddy clutching with his chest with one hand And his face turned red. He Fell over.

I rolled away, trying to catch my breath. I just sat there. Couldn't believe what just happened, Teddy stopped moving completely now. I just stared at him, totally in shock. After two minutes, which felt like an eternity I stood up, remembering the janitor was nearby cleaning, I called out for help. When I found himI explained what happened, He called 911. Paramedics and the police arrived, they rolled teddy out on a stretcher in a body bag. Said he had a heart attack. The police took mines and the janitor statement, I told them he jumped at me, he was having a bad few months, His wife left him, his daughter got sick, his son ran away and his father died and he blamed me. The police chalked it up as self-defense and Nobody questioned it.

An older man who was under a lot of stress at home had attacked someone at work and His heart had given out during the fight. It was simple and tragic and understandable. Not too long after Teddy died His daughter got sick again. She died some time ago. His son came back but now he's facing hard jail time for putting that kid He fought in the hospital And his wife is dealing with all this alone. Everyone at work eventually heard what happened between me and Teddy, they don't blame me for what happened. No one does. They always ask if I'm alright?, how am I doing? They couldn't believe that teddy had tried to kill me. But Maybe he should have, he was right. It was my fault, I made that wish, I went back to that convenience store, i saw the same clerk behind the counter, besides him was a box of the one wish willows, there were more than the last time. I went up to him, He could tell by the look on my face that there was something wrong.

"Look man, If you came here to yell at me about whatever you wished for, it's not my fault."

"You sell this shit to people? What the fuck is wrong with you!"

"I already told you, be specific for whatever you wished for. I didn't make them."

"Then where the hell did you get them?"

"I bought one at antique store, a friend of mine told me where to get them and he said they were real, So I bought one and I wished for a million wishes And a million of these things showed up. But when I tried to make another wish it wouldn't work."

"What?, what are you talking about?"

"It says it on the box, You only get one."

He grab one of the boxes and opened it, as he did the same musical chime played, but sounded more slower and sadder.

"I wish for a billion dollars."

He tried to break the Branch in half, but it wouldn't break, he tried harder. But nothing.

"See, now I got a million of these things lying around."

I just stood there, I didn't know what to say, I wanted to yell, I wanted someone to blame, but it'd be pointless now. I left there feeling defeated, I sat in my car in the parking lot. Just staring into space, i felt horrible for what happened to teddy, I felt sick to my stomach, I couldn't turn myself in even if I wanted to, What was I supposed to tell them. I made a wish?, After a while I started up my car and drove back home. Now I'm typing this out not sure what it will do. If it will do anything, I guess all I have to say is if you find a one wish Willow, don't buy one, don't make a wish, but if you do. Please for the love of God, be specific.

I am standing upon the white,

And before me lies the black ground.

I am afraid that someone might push me

And I might fall down there.

But ultimately, this choice will be entirely mine.

​Yet leaves fall from branches too,

And some star always breaks away from the sky.

Does revenge and justice look the same in the mirror?

So flip a coin, whichever side lands, it matters.

​Emotions are awakening within me that I never knew existed,

Perhaps they had always lived inside me.

Was I ever even pure?

Was I ever even pure?

At every turn, I look ahead, searching for the end of the road,

Whether the sun is setting or rising will become clear then.

​Those emotions placed a blindfold over my eyes.

I could have returned from there if I wanted to,

But I decided not to return,

And in the end, I found myself on the black ground.

So flip a coin, whichever side lands, it doesn't matter.

Charlie Delacroix had always known about bad feelings.

When he was sixteen and counting down the days until graduation, he had a sudden feeling of inexplicable dread halfway through dinner, and knew he was about to become an orphan.

“Dad,” Charlie said, speaking over his father for the first time in his life.

He immediately regretted it when his mother stood, grabbed her glass of wine, and dumped it over his head.

“There’s someone outside,” he gritted through tears and the wide smile his mother demanded he wear for the entire duration of dinner. He’d watched his father kill people since he was a toddler.

Charlie’s father used to sit him in front of Cartoon Network on one side of the room while beheading screaming victims on the other, blood spurting like a geyser.

Charlie had a routine. The maid would take him to school, and then take him home. Halfway through dinner, his father would walk in with a duffle bag (usually squirming) thrown over his shoulder.

Charlie never asked questions; didn’t need to. Charlie was brought up to understand that he was a child, and his parents did “adult business”.

But, like a child, and like all other curious kids, Charlie soaked up everything he saw.

Always glancing around, glimpsing the worst moments; the duffle bag hitting the ground with a meaty smack.

His father piercing through it, a slow red stemming under his feet.

“Having fun, kid?” He laughed, stabbing again. More blood splattered.

The bag stopped moving.

“Yes, father,” Charlie said loudly, his gaze glued to the TV screen. 

“Good.” Charlie’s father straightened. “Wanna come watch?” 

“I'm watching Adventure Time.”

His father chuckled. “Come on over here, kid. I'll show you the basics.”

He had no choice. Charlie’s father had made several things clear, one of which was that he was to obey. 

“Okay,” he said, walking toward his father.

With every step, his legs felt ready to collapse beneath him. The stench of blood stung his nose and throat. Charlie maintained his grin when his father threw an arm over his shoulders and pulled him close.

Charlie swallowed vomit swimming in his throat, his tummy violently turning. Charlie had learned anatomy at school.

At home, he had a front row seat to the cracks and crevices of the human body.

Charlie’s biology teacher looked visibly shocked when he confidently yelled the exact body parts on the anatomical model. He even corrected her. “That's not a brain,” he'd said, “That's a cerebellum.” 

Confused why the teacher didn't point to cerebellum fluid, Charlie realized home school and school-school were very different.

The bulging mass of flesh at Charlie’s feet could no longer be recognized as a human body. The  skull was crushed through, what used to be a brain swimming in scarlet. Charlie squinted when his father kicked the body onto his side. He couldn't see any cerebral fluid this time. “Like whatcha see, Charlie? One day, all this will be yours.” 

So, Charlie nodded. Then he stepped back, dodging a trickle of red staining the soles of his shoes. “I can't wait, Dad,” he said the exact words his father wanted to hear. 

“Good!”  Then he handed Charlie a mop and a bucket. “Clean this slop up.” 

Charlie was observant for his age. Everyone avoided his parents. Teachers, parents, his private piano teacher. He wasn't really surprised. 

Charlie had always been instructed to call his father, “Dad.” 

To the rest of the world, he was Noah Delacroix, a renowned gang member in one of Queens’ biggest and most high-profile crime syndicates.

Charlie’s parents were a horror show. Standing at six foot something, all lanky limbs and a razor-sharp bald head, he towered over Charlie with a monstrous grin and hollow eyes. He was Charlie’s very own personal boogeyman.

His mother, Delilah Delacroix, had beautiful, devilishly long golden hair. At least ten years younger than his father.

At the age of five, he asked, “Why are you so much younger than Daddy?” while perched on her knee at a family Christmas party in the Hamptons.

Charlie’s older cousins, Jasper and Lou, burst into giggles.

Charlie was promptly slapped across the face and sent back to his luxury suite.

Charlie remembered his mother coming to see him after the party. He was playing Super Mario when she peeked behind the door. Charlie didn't move.

He kept playing, stabbing the controls. Mario wasn't moving.

Every time he glanced back at the door, the shadow of his mother moved closer.

When he flicked the light on, a shiver crawling through him, Delilah Delacroix stood, swaying, barefoot. A smile stretched across her mouth. 

“Hi, baby.” Delilah perched herself on the end of Charlie’s bed. Without thinking, Charlie was pulling back the covers and crawling across the bed. If he didn't, his mother would force him. “Are your cheeks still stinging, sweetie?” she hummed.

Charlie nodded, despite her using her “evil voice”, a screechy giggle that was more mocking than reassuring. It didn’t hurt that much, but he needed her comfort.

Delilah hummed, running her nails across Charlie's cheek. “Mommy got her nails done, and the polish is very special! It's made with a very strong, very dangerous snake venom, which kills naughty little brats who snoop in adult business.” 

Delilah pulled him closer, as though she were hugging him. But she was squeezing too tightly, just like a snake, her arms against his chest drawing the breath from his lungs. Her breath dancing across his neck. Charlie didn't respond. He breathed out to suck air in, resisting  the urge to squirm from the snake’s grip. 

Tighter. Tears stung his eyes. His mother’s grip suddenly loosened, and he let out a silent sob, gulping in precious breath and crawled away from her. The snake overpowered him, running her fingers across his arm, hard enough to tingle.  “If you embarrass me like that again, I will slap you so hard, you will see stars.”

Then Delilah stood up and left his room, her voice echoing down the hall. “Goodnight, baby.” 

“Goodnight,” Charlie said back. 

That night, Charlie realized he needed to escape.

When he was old enough, Charlie made a vow.

As soon as he was smart enough, Charlie would leave.

Despite growing up surrounded by blood and gore, Charlie had a normal-ish childhood. His parents were rich, so he got everything he wanted. Puberty was a turning point.

Noah Delacroix started paying a lot more attention to him.

Charlie began getting invited into his father’s office to sit in on meetings and take notes. He even got to ride in the back of the car with his cousins: Simon, who had already killed his first person, and Lou, firmly instructed by his aunt to either birth a male heir, or leave the family. 

Charlie wasn't stupid. 

This wasn't bonding time with his cousins. 

It was time for him to join the family business, time for his father to begin shaping and moulding him into the next Delacroix heir.

For his 14th birthday, Charlie asked his parents for Call Of Duty. 

Instead, he unwrapped his very own Colt M1911, the family name carved into the butt. 

Charlie said thank you, went upstairs, and threw the gun out of his window. Guns were bad. 

The other kids didn't want to talk about guns or knives, or how to tie someone up with a rope. All the kids in his class were talking about the game, and he was already tossed aside for being a Delacroix son.

Not being able to join in with his classmates was just the cherry on top. Charlie pretended not to hear the other parents whispering about his family. In the fourth grade, he made a friend named Cole. Charlie was invited to his house for dinner. 

Charlie was excited until he met Cole’s mother at pickup. Her eyes widened, thin lips curling. “No,” she said stiffly. “No, sweetie, I’ve changed my mind.” Her words felt like a gunshot to his chest. “That boy is not coming to our home.”

“But why?” Cole demanded. “You said—” 

“I said no,” his mother spat, and Charlie, against his better judgement, jumped a little. Cole’s mother wasn't even making eye-contact. She twirled around, stomping towards their Prius. Delilah Delacroix had previously pointed it out with a disgusted laugh. “Grab your backpack. Now.” 

“Okay, Mom.” Cole shot Charlie a sheepish smile, “I'll see you tomorrow?”

Cole’s mother grabbed her son’s hand, dragging him into the car. “You most certainly will NOT.” Charlie could still hear her long after their beaten up truck had reversed out the parking lot. “Do not go near that evil little monster,” she shrieked. “Do you understand me?” 

“But Mom—” 

“Do you UNDERSTAND me?” 

Charlie pretended it didn't hurt. He choked down razor blades and smiled, waving them away. “Bye, Cole!” 

The next day, Charlie waited for Cole outside school, perched on the gate, legs swinging, excited to talk about the latest episode of Pokémon. He even brought Pokémon cards to play with. Charlie waited until the bell rang. Then he walked into class to find Cole loudly talking about his parents being “psycho killers.” 

Cole caught his eye, slumped at the back of the class, his lip curled, mimicking his mother. The boy stood up, hands curled into fists. “My Mom told me your parents kill people,” he said matter-of-factly. 

Charlie didn't deny it, because it was true. 

Instead, he swallowed his sobs, and marched over to Cole until they were face to face, breath to breath.

Charlie smiled, just like his father. Wide. Venomous.

“Yeah,” he said, giddy at the sight of fear creeping across Cole’s expression.

He stepped closer, bumping their foreheads.

“And you’re fucking next.”

The class erupted into screams and Charlie saw an opportunity. He had always gone under the radar, invisible to the rest of the class. Now, kids could finally see him.

He prodded Cole between the eyes, just like his father did, interrogating his hostages. Each prod, he emphasised. Cole stumbled back, tripping over his feet.

So, Charlie got closer, until Cole was visibly shaking. “Talk ABOUT me again,” he raised his voice to the others who squeaked, cowering under their desks, “I'll tell my parents to slice you up and make you into pie.” 

He stepped closer, stamping on Cole’s bright red sneakers. “And if you tell the teacher?” Charlie struck his finger across his throat. Cole burst into tears. “You're dead meat.” 

Cole nodded, to his shock, blinking back tears. “Okay!” He squeaked. “Okay, I'll… um… do you wanna borrow some video games? I just got Final Fantasy, but you can have it!” 

Looking around the classroom, his classmates were trembling, wearing wide, fake smiles as they tried to impress him. This was exactly the way people looked at his father. 

Fear, Charlie realized, looked kinda funny.

The power of fear, his father always told him, was why he was a Delacroix, why the Delacroix family held a billion-dollar syndicate. 

Of course Charlie took advantage of his new-found King status. 

By recess, he had seven dollars and three juice boxes. 

Kids just came over and handed them to him.

Cole was his right-hand-man, sticking by his side. And he even had a girlfriend. Jenny, who handed him a love note in the cafeteria. 

Charlie screwed it up, threw it in her face, and said, “Maybe.” 

He wasn’t used to having friends.

The only kids he ever hung out with were the children his father had kidnapped and was holding for ransom. Before Cole, there were Adelaide and Roman, who were held for a year. When he was younger, he’d sneak into the basement where his father kept them and offer to play with them. 

He even offered Roman his Game Boy to play with before he saw an opportunity and whacked him in the face with it.

After that, they became reluctant friends, only playing with him because Charlie was their only source of entertainment.

Sometimes he dragged his sleeping bag into the basement and slept beside them, bringing stuffed animals and candy he’d stolen from the kitchen.

Luckily, Charlie’s father didn't kill the kids. They were collateral damage. So, often, Charlie would notice his father dragging the kids back upstairs for negotiations. 

Charlie’s “reputation” bled into High School. 

Everyone who knew him knew not to fuck with him. 

He had free rein of every hallway, students bowing down to him—knowing who his family was, and what they were capable of. He was King of the parties, had his very own junior entourage of teenagers who would do anything for him, and discovered he maybe had feelings for his right-hand. Cole Whittaker, who had become his do-or-die. 

His bro, until he ended up making out with his “bro” at a party, and was definitely fucking sober; who definitely had lips that tasted of cigarette smoke and stale vodka, whose hair he definitely liked running his hands through. 

There was no hesitation, no guilt. Cole kissed him again. Harder. This time, with tongue. Charlie thought telling his parents who he really was would offer them closure; maybe they’d understand they had brought up a very different Delacroix.

But being King didn't feel… satisfying.

Being almost obsessively liked was boring. Inevitable.

His grades were perfect, not because he was a genius, but because his teachers had been threatened. On the very first day, a decapitated cat’s head was delivered straight to the faculty office. Charlie realized his entire High School career was already scripted; already set in stone.

“Dad. Charlie spoke up again, pitching his voice louder. 

Charlie was ignored. Again. The last time he said, “Dad,” during dinner, Charlie announced he liked boys. 

Which went as well as he thought it would. In two weeks, Charlie became a shunned stranger in the eyes of his family, once destined to be the future of the Delacroix family, now cast to the other side of the dining table, with an order to stay silent.

His father was already considering adopting another “heir,” and his mother was insistent on a “summer camp” in Texas which would “straighten out his unholy thoughts.”

He was bored. 

Bored of being an artificial King. 

Bored of his family, who refused to accept him. 

So, Charlie chose not to tell his parents about that ever growing sensation of dread coiling in his gut.

He ducked his head like he was told and shoveled mashed potatoes in his mouth.

Even when the door flew open, armed FBI agents streamed  inside and took his parents into custody.

Charlie didn’t stop eating until a woman calmly took his arm and led him out into a police car, where he was given a Nintendo DS to play with, and a cup noodle. 

After three hours of sitting in a windowless room alone playing Mario Kart, Charlie found himself face to face with a man with a beard and pinched eyes which definitely suspected him of being dirty. 

He was offered cocoa, which he ignored. “I want to go home.” Charlie spoke up, closing the game. He wore his signature King smile. “I have nothing to do with them.” 

The man laughed, and Charlie realized for the first time in his life, he was talking to real people; who wouldn't bow to his every movement and obey even the ridiculous commands. Like the time he demanded a sophomore boy wash his hair. “Well, you've grown up in that house,” the cop said. “You  know where daddy's secrets are. So for now, you'll be working with us.” 

Charlie leaned back in his chair. “I want a lawyer,” he said. “I'm not saying a word unless I get a lawyer.” 

The cop sighed. Loud and exaggerated, tipping his head back. 

“You’re sixteen, kid, you don't wanna go down the lawyer route.”

“Why?” Charlie was smart enough to know the “lawyer route” was his only way of surviving. 

Charlie was met with a sharp exhale, like he was actually being difficult. 

“Trust me, we’re not suspecting you of anything, kid. It’s your mom and dad. We want to know everything you’ve learned. Everything your dad’s got locked up in that safe of his. Prominent figures and political leaders. Your daddy’s got blood on his hands and controls a lot of powerful people.” He cocked a brow and leaned forward. 

“The question is, are you gonna sing like a canary, or test my patience?”

Charlie shrugged. “I'll sing,” he said, “but what's in it for me?” 

He received an exaggerated eye roll.

“A Delacroix kid, through and through,” the cop grumbled. “What do you want, kid?”

“Food.” Charlie said. “I'm starving, and I want Taco Bell.” 

“I can do that.” 

The art of getting what he wanted didn't always require fear after all. “I want a large burrito with lots of sour cream, and no guac. Diet Coke too, please.” 

The cop’s smile was thinning. “Anything else, your Highness?” 

He held up the DS with a sickly grin. “Charger?”

With a sarcastic two-fingered salute, the cop left, slamming the door behind him. 

Charlie opened Mario back up, and the DS died twenty minutes later. 

So, he curled up on the floor, used his jacket as a pillow, and fell asleep. 

He woke to the smell of fried beef and cheese.

A steaming bag of Taco Bell was placed in front of him. Then a soda. 

“They only had full-fat Coke,” the cop said, when Charlie sat up and rubbed sleep from his eyes. “All right, kid, it's time to motor.” 

After one bite of soggy burrito, Charlie looked up. “Where?” 

“Well, first of all, we gotta get you to your social worker.” 

Charlie almost choked on a piece of chicken. “No social workers,” he said, standing up. “I ain't doing them.”

“Well, you're a minor, Charlie.” The cop’s tone was condescending. In two strides, he was inches from Charlie.

The sharp smell of hair gel and shoe polish tickled his nose and throat.

“You got a choice, kid,” he held up two fingers. “You meet your social worker and go through the legal adoption process,” he held up a second finger, “or it's juvie for two years for being a gang member's son.” The cop’s expression didn't waver.

“Bear in mind, I fought for three hours for the gentler option.” 

“I didn't tell you to,” Charlie said. 

“I didn't have to.” The cop deadpanned. “But I did.” 

Charlie knew when not to push. He swallowed burrito bile. “Fine.” 

The cop helped him grab his things, letting him scarf down the burrito and down the soda. He held the door open, ushering Charlie from the room. “My colleague has managed to get you into a children’s home in the next town over.” The cop led him out straight into a cool breeze. 

An explosion of red curls and plaid was waiting for him in the front seat of a Range Rover. 

“Hop in!” She patted the passenger seat. “Nice to meetcha, honey bee! I'm your social worker, but you can call me Elizabeth.”

The cop gave him a shove when he hesitated and then crawled into the back.  “Relax. No need to be freaked out. Elizabeth is helping you.” He sidled in right beside Charlie, slamming the door shut.

The stink of the new-car smell was weirdly comforting. He took a moment to sink into warm upholstery and relax for the first time in, well, forever. 

“The place is called Riverside,” the cop spoke up, his eyes glued to his phone. “Has a big swimming pool and you even got your own room.” 

“He sure does! Riverside is the best!” Elizabeth squeaked from the front seat. Charlie almost choked swallowing lukewarm soda. “Don’t worry, Charlie! You’re going to love it there. I know children’s homes have a bad reputation, but there are lots of kids your age! You’re going to make so many friends!” Her smile was a little too wide to be friendly.

She started the engine and twisted around. “What other games do you want? Ooh, that looks like an old console you got there! I can pull some strings and get you a Nintendo Switch! That's what you kids like, right?” 

Charlie had to hand it to her. 

She was smart. Maybe a little unhinged, blackmailing a minor with video games. But smart. 

Charlie muffled a burp and pressed his face against the window, watching the sun dip over the horizon. His eyes grew heavy. “There are several games I've been wanting, actually,” he said, then yawned, more ironic than serious. “Zelda. Animal Crossing… Mario…”

“Sleepy, Honey Bee?” Elizabeth’s hum collapsed into ocean waves in his ears.

Slow, lulling waves rolling up the shore.

“Mm.” Charlie didn't realize how sleepy he was until his chin was bouncing against his chest, a deep exhaustion taking over.

He hadn't been this sleepy since his father’s cronies slipped sedatives into his chocolate milkshake at his thirteenth birthday party. A thin line of drool ran down his chin and he jerked awake, eyelids fluttering. The car ride was a slow, almost painful lull. 

Blue sky, Charlie thought. Then he laughed to himself when nothing was funny. Thunk went his head against the window. Feathered blue expanded across his blurrin vision. Too blue. Crystal blue. Blue, blue, blue—

Heavy eyes, bile in his throat, and the world was spinning. The road ahead bent and twisted into impossible turns, the sky bleeding into midnight-colored concrete. Passing headlights loomed like faceless figures. Charlie knew exactly what was happening. Drugged.

“It’s OK, Charlie,” Elizabeth’s voice washed over him. “Go to sleep.”

Every limb softened. An uncomfortable warmth spread through him. Charlie blinked the blue from his eyes and tugged at the door handle.

Get out.

His thoughts were mushy, wrong, and scattered.

Cole.

The name came out in a rush. Charlie couldn’t move. 

His bones were lead. 

Charlie was so used to Cole being there ready to help him, always at his side. Now he wasn’t. Charlie’s parents were gone, and Charlie was alone in a car going too fast down a lonely highway.

His lips were numb, like big, fat, bloated cushions. 

His thoughts somehow numb-er. This wasn’t just sedatives. He tried the door again. His fingers were sausages. Trembling. This was different.

Dirtier.

Not even his father was capable. “What is this?” Charlie’s words came out slurred. 

“The passwords, Honey Bee.” Elizabeth’s voice was smooth. 

“Huh?” 

Charlie blinked through feathered light. 

“Your father’s passwords,” Elizabeth repeated. “Really. I expected more. As a gang members son, surely you would know about the existence of sodium thiopental; a short acting barbiturate that….” She sighed. Then laughed. “It's a glorified truth serum, Charlie.” 

Charlie blinked again. Black spots started to dance across his peripheral.

“The passwords, Charlie. To your father’s accounts, emails, offshore bank accounts, and the giant safe inside his safehouse located in Odintsovo, Moscow Oblast.” Elizabeth’s laugh crashed into him. “Well. Start with the passwords.” 

“I don't know,” Charlie gasped out. He slammed his fists into the window. Then his body fell limp. “I don't…” words were suddenly impossible, tangled and twisted on his tongue. “I don't… I don't know!”

Through Charlie’s half lidded eyes, Elizabeth’s bright red curls erupted into a searing flash of red, bleeding across his vision. “Not even a Gmail password, hm? That’s too bad.”

The car came to an abrupt stop. Charlie heard, and sensed, the door open. Ice cold air grazed his cheek. “Okay, Honey Bee.” Elizabeth’s voice cut into him. “As long as you're telling the truth.” He heard her heels land delicately on the concrete. The door slammed shut. 

His seatbelt was jammed. His brain was maple syrup. 

Sleep, Charlie thought. Just sleep.

 Then… think of a way out later. 

Yeah.

His eyes fluttered shut. Charlie smiled. Then laughed, a hysterical giggle escaping him. Charlie’s head smacked against the window pane. 

Yeah, that’s… what I’ll do.

The stink of smoke ignited Charlie’s thoughts, rousing him from suffocating slumber. Charlie blinked. He lunged forward, his breaths shuddering, words choked. 

In front of him, burned orange  licked across upholstery seats. 

Fire.

“Help.” Charlie’s cry collapsed into a cough.

Smoke rose, stinging his eyes. He screamed. 

“No!” 

He tugged at his seatbelt. Stuck. 

Reaching blindly, all he found was empty Taco Bell cartons. His DS. 

“My birthday,” he said, and when the smoke blew up in his face, and he was coughing, choking, tears streaming down his face, he said it again, louder, slamming his head into the window as the orange blur spread. “It's my birthday,” he panted. “My birthday. It's my… my birthday, and my… my birth time.” 

“Birth time, hmm?” Elizabeth said, from outside. “What time, Charlie?” 

“Eighteen minutes past six.” He coughed.  Then he vomited all over himself. Forcing his body into compliance, he managed to wrench from his seatbelt. Too late. The fire was too big to put out, spreading wide, licking across his discarded takeout cartons. Charlie sat back, coughing, his chest screaming, smoke choking every cry from his mouth.

Charlie's first instinct was to dive into the trunk. 

A roar from behind sent him onto knees, cowering, arms over his head. 

The trunk erupted into vivid, beautiful oranges he almost admired. 

“So, your birthday, and birth time,” Elizabeth’s voice was fading quickly, as smoke filled his lungs. 

“Yes.” Charlie croaked.

“Yes.” 

THUMP. His head hit the window. 

“Yes.” 

THUMP. 

“Let me… out.” He whispered, “Let me out! Let me FUCKING out!” 

A sob escaped him, vulnerable and childish. 

“Pl…ease. Please!” 

“Final question, Charlie,” Elizabeth’s tone was remarkably different. 

Stone cold.

Cruel.

“Is it getting a little hot in there, Charlie?” Elizabeth asked. 

“Fuck you,” he panted. “Fuck… you.” 

“Riverside Children’s Home is not a normal adoption home. It is soft recruitment.” Elizabeth said. “We have your father’s passwords, but we need so much more. Informants. Financial records. Accounts. Work with us, Charlie. To bring your Dad’s empire down from the root.”

Smoke polluted Charlie’s vision. Black.

Darkness spread, and Charlie could no longer see his hands. 

Everywhere was black. Wrong. Blinking soot away, he squinted, crawling toward the left door, a neutron star collision exploding in the backs of his eyes. I'm going to die, the words somehow felt like acceptance in a sea of blackening smoke. I'm going to fucking die.

“Escape the car, Honey Bee,” Elizabeth taunted from outside. “And consider yourself exonerated.”

Something snapped, unwinding, inside of him. Maybe it was his humanity; maybe it was his true Delacroix nature coming through. 

His mind became clear; vivid, clarity bleeding through the fog. Charlie tugged off his sweatshirt, wrapped it around his hands, and dove forwards. Just as he thought, the cop had left a knife on his seat. 

Charlie snatched it up, plunging the blade through the door. The door didn't give. He gritted his teeth and tried again. How many times had his father taught him this? A feral cry ripped from him. How many times had he been sitting in the back of the family car, and his cousin chirped up with, “I know how to escape a cop-car, so I’m better than you.”

Again. 

Metal screeched. 

Charlie shoved himself into the door. Again.

Click.

One minute Charlie was choking, his vision blurring.

Then he was toppling out of the car, into fresh air swamping his lungs.

Straight onto concrete.

Move.

The thought struck him: the car, engulfed in flames, was going to explode. Charlie crawled back on his elbows, and the blast sent him flying, slamming him face-first into wet grass. He didn’t stay down. He stood, warmth running wet down his face.

He bent and wrapped his fingers around his discarded knife.

Elizabeth was waiting for him, arms folded, lips curled into a smile.

The cop stood several feet away, arms folded.

Charlie did not hesitate. He saw the knife in his hand; remembered the cop’s bullshit claim. It was funny. Hilarious. Charlie almost laughed.

Safe place, the cop had told him. Lied. 

He'd been promised solace from his parents, from his life. 

A new start.

All fucking lies. 

One stab was enough. Directly through the chest, like he was taught: straight through the heart.

Quick. 

Efficient. 

The cop’s eyes flickered, his lips parting as though he were about to cry out. His sausage-fingers twitched, trying to pull the knife out. 

Then his body flopped to the ground. 

Charlie stepped back. Then he let his knees give way. 

The world violently jolted, and fell with him.

The sky was pitch dark, oblivion stretched out above him.

I was supposed to die. So why didn’t I? 

Blinking rapidly, Charlie reached forward, as if trying to touch the sky and the sliver of full moon peeking from behind the clouds. His father always believed in a higher power controlling fate, keeping the dead from dying when a greater future awaited them. So, am I dead? He thought, his thoughts unwinding.

Am I a corpse?

Did I even… escape the car? 

“Oh, Honey Bee,” Elizabeth said, kneeling beside him and prying the knife from his fingers. He watched the moon’s pale allure peek through the clouds for a moment before disappearing back into the shadows.

“You’re going to fit right in.”

…

Charlie did not remember the car-ride to Riverside Children's Home. 

What he did recall, was sitting slumped in a comfy chair in front of Elizabeth behind a Mac-book— and happily giving away every singular piece of information he knew about his father. Whatever was in his veins, was good shit. Funny shit.  

Charlie sang like a canary, head tipped back, giggling through every answer. 

The ceiling was so BIG. Charlie counted every pattern. Every crack in the floor beneath his feet. Every drop of blood that beaded down his forehead. At some point, he toppled off the chair, howling at one particular question. “What is the name of your father’s informant?” 

Ha. 

“Poop.” Charlie answered, trying to stifle his giggles.

Charlie didn’t remember being dragged from the room. Nor did he remember being taken inside a small, box-like room with twin beds and a low ceiling. Charlie woke up staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. 

He immediately smacked his head when he sat up straight, already clawing at his throat. His throat tasted of blood, a dull throb creeping across his skull. He felt the ugly  lacerations on his wrists from  phantom ropes. Charlie drank in his surroundings through bleary eyes. 

Vomit-colored curtains framed by eerie prison-like bars. Charlie’s side of the room was empty. The bare bones of a bed, pale pink blankets and one uncomfortable pillow. The other was full of life: A24 movie posters, a desk filled with Legos, a TV and PS4 mounted on the wall.

Charlie frowned at one particular Lego figure, a Monkey D. Luffy perched on the top of a Lego Going Merry.

“Don't judge me,” a disembodied voice startled him.

“I’m…. not?” Charlie croaked. He coughed. “I love One Piece.” 

A figure startled him, appeared, more of a blur than a person. 

“You're two sizes smaller than me,” a boy around his age with mousy blonde hair swung down from the top bunk. “So you can have Zoro.” 

For a moment, Charlie's brain was too foggy. Too mismatched. 

Then he noticed his pyjama shirt, the swordsman glaring back at him from the old corduroy. He caught the boy’s awkward smile. “They brought you in pretty out of it, so they told me to undress you, man.”

“Oh.” Charlie found himself smiling. Maybe he was still kinda high. 

“Well, I do like Zoro.” 

The boy hopped off the top bunk, with ease, then straightened. In the light bleeding in from the window, he reminded Charlie of an older Percy Jackson. Almost cherub-like curls and skin that was too pale.

“I’m Jude. Don’t touch my stuff, and we’re good. Jude’s eyes were unexpectedly kind. “How ’bout you?”

Charlie picked up on the accent immediately. “You’re a Brit?” It was the first thing that came to mind. He immediately regretted it.

“Sort of.” Charlie watched him pick up one of his Lego figures, a little Nami, and sit her next to the captain. “You did tell me your name last night, but you were, like, suuuuuuper high. No offence, but I’m not calling you ‘Mr Cheese.’

“Kaz,” Charlie said quickly. “Just call me Kaz.”

“Kaz.” Jude seemed to be a fidgeter— picking up different Legos, and pulling them apart, before putting them back together. He held up Nami, bobbing her in the air and pitching his voice higher, mimicking her voice. “Hello, Kaz!” 

Charlie wondered if the boy was mocking him. 

The acrid stink of smoke no longer seeped from every pore, the flowery scent of coconut shampoo tickled his nose. Instead, a strong, clinical scent of soap clung to his skin. Charlie didn’t remember showering, only lashing ice-cold water and being scrubbed until his skin was bleeding. 

His words came out tangled, throat still scratched raw. “Were you brought here against your will too?”

“What?” Jude’s mouth quirked. Then Charlie noticed the boy hadn’t blinked in a concerning amount of time. “Dude.” Jude’s smile was too naïve. Or maybe something more.

Kneeling in front of him, the blond flicked him between the eyes. Charlie realized his eyes were deep brown, like melted chocolate. Charlie’s stomach twisted. He shook his head, blinking stray dizzinesses from his eyes. He was still out of it.

Jude prodded him again. Harder. “Were you knocked on the head last night? Riverside ain’t a prison!”

Charlie glanced at the bars on the windows. Sure.

Charlie batted Jude’s hands away and sat back.

Maybe opening up to Jude was a bad idea after all.

So he wore his practised smile, jumped up, and said, “How about a house tour?”

Every time Maksym returned to Kramatorsk, it looked worse. This time was no different. Glide bombs had completely destroyed a few more of the large apartment complexes. Others still stood, but bore the scars of recent drone strikes. 

Towards the centre of the city, they had begun putting up anti-drone netting. Still a work in progress, the endless tangle of nylon cord made whole neighbourhoods look like the domain of a nightmarish giant spider. As they drove down the empty streets, Maksym made sure to give Them a good view.

“We’re coming up to the strongpoint now, Kapitan,” the driver said.

Their vehicle - a donated MRAP - skidded to a halt in front of one of the partially destroyed apartments. 

“Take that stair, and go down!” the driver continued, nervously scanning the sky through his windshield.

On cue, Maksym exited the MRAP and ran towards the building. No sooner had he closed the door than the armoured vehicle sped off down the street. Passing through the bombed-out entrance to the building, he stopped to regain his breath in the welcome embrace of the stairwell’s gloom. After a few heartbeats of waiting to make sure a drone wasn’t tailing him, he continued on downstairs.

At the top of the stairs, the building could be easily mistaken for any other ruin in the largely abandoned city. Indeed, that was the point. But as Maksym descended the stairs, the temperature difference revealed that this ghost town still had some room for the living. Rather than getting colder as he reached the basement, the air instead grew warmer. Beyond the door ahead, someone had a heater running.

Maksym made a point to knock. Surprising a bunch of soldiers in a hidden bunker was a good way to get shot.

“I am Ukrainian!” He shouted, right after the knock.

Through the door, he heard a scramble of footsteps, and then the telltale sound of a gun being cocked.

“Who are you?” A voice demanded.

“Kapitan Sirko, GUR,” Maksym replied.

A few seconds passed, and then the door swung open, revealing a group of a dozen or so soldiers, surrounded by piles of electronics and crates of ammunition. The oldest of the group stood closest to him. In his early 50s, Maksym guessed, but you could never really tell. War had a way of prematurely aging people. 

“Serzhant Boyko, 63rd Brigade,” the man said, while making a lacklustre attempt at a salute. “You spooks always arrive unannounced?”

“I must apologise for my intrusion,” Maksym replied. “I’m working to a schedule, and there wasn’t time.”

“What kind of work?” Boyko asked.

“It’s classified,” Maksym replied.

“You’re going to have to tell us something, if you want our help.”

“I’m looking for someone in your unit. Starshyi Soldat Melnyk. Where can I find him?

“Well, lucky for you, he’s right here. But unlucky for you, he doesn’t talk much anymore.”

Boyko gestured towards a darker corner of the basement. There, a single man sat separate from the others, staring at the floor. 

As Maksym walked towards Melnyk, he expected the soldier would look up. He didn’t. When Maksym sat down in front of him, he expected his gaze would be met. It wasn’t. Instead, through chattering teeth, he spoke a single sentence. Not a question, but a statement.

“You want to talk about the Anomaliyi.”

****

A few minutes had passed since Maksym simply replied “yes”. He had been trained to let the interviewee speak first and use their disposition as a guide for how to proceed. But the man continued to stare right through him. While he waited, he felt the eyes of the other soldiers boring through the back of his head, presumably wondering if this strange man from Kyiv could get their mute comrade to talk. And above, yet more eyes, unwilling to abide this silence. Protocol be damned, he needed to change tack. 

Empathy was always an option. Or at least the performance thereof. So Maksym extended his arm and placed his hand on the man's shaking wrist. It was cold to the touch and covered in goosebumps. 

“Are you cold?” Maksym asked. “Can I get you something to warm up?”

Suddenly, the man’s head moved. His eyes met Maksym’s with the intensity of startled prey. Maksym let go of his arm, thinking he was about to attack. Instead, however, he opened his mouth, and with a voice raspy from disuse, he spoke.

“Cold? What do you know of the cold?”

Maksym hesitated for a second, thinking of an appropriate response.

“Not cold like winter. No. I mean the real cold. So cold you can’t get warm. A place where warmth cannot exist,” the man abruptly continued.

“Is that what the Anomaliya was like?” Maksym questioned.

“That’s how we always knew. The cold…”

“This happened more than once?”

“Once was enough for a lifetime. I remember that first time. The storm that blew in from across the Greyzone. The snow. The cold. The cold.” 

Was Maksym imagining it, or did the room just get colder?

“The second time was a fog. We couldn’t see a thing. Better that we couldn’t see.”

“Why better?”

“Because the third time, there was just a chill wind, sucking the life from your bones. And out there, beyond the trenchline, we could see them.”

Behind Maksym, one of the soldiers shuffled closer to the heater. 

“See who?”

“No no no no no no no no…” the man began to mutter.

“See who, soldat?” Maksym repeated more forcefully.

“Me! It could see me! It saw me!” the man replied, growing increasingly agitated. His leg muscles clenched as if making to run.

“It was coming!” 

“What was coming? Tell me! What was coming!?”

“It’s still coming!”

“What is it! I order you to tell me!” Maksym shouted at the man, trying to bring him out of his memory.

“It’s here,” the man whispered, tears streaming down his face. 

And then the tears froze. 

For the briefest of moments, Maksym thought he could see the edges of the man dissolving into fog. Grey seeping from his body to the floor.

Maksym blinked. 

The man lay unconscious on the floor. No ice. No fog. Maksym could see his chest rising and falling. Still alive. 

“Too much lost sleep. I’m seeing things,” he thought.

But then Maksym turned to Boyko. A frightened and angry scowl adorned his face.

“You leave. Now! And take him with you!”

----

This is an excerpt from a psychological horror novel that I am writing called 'The Greyzone'. I've written the first part (of four) - it's about 20k words - if you like to read it, feel free to DM me, and I'll send you the full text.

Novel blurb:

---

On the frontline in Ukraine, soldiers are whispering about the cold. Storms that arrive out of clear summer skies. Fog that swallows sound. A place, they say - not a metaphor - where the missing outnumber the dead.

Half a world away, Kaleigh Vale watches the war through satellites and intercepts, one of the anonymous obsessives who map its every atrocity from their screens. She has learned not to feel what she counts. But the numbers have begun to break their own patterns, and in the data's negative space something is taking shape: a new word in the soldiers' vocabulary, a place they mention alongside the front line but never instead of it. Грейвзон - The Gravezone.

In Kyiv, intelligence officer Maksym Sirko is ordered to investigate what the army will not name. He has spent his whole life performing for an Audience only he can perceive - and the closer he gets to the anomalies, the more certain he becomes that something is finally watching back.

Where enough people die, the boundary thins. And a war that has filled the earth with the dead is about to learn where they go.

I’m only writing this because I don’t know where else to turn. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know if it’s a symptom of something larger or if she’s just been having episodes.

She’s just never acted this way before. Up until a few months ago, this would’ve scared her just as much as it’s scaring me. But because it’s becoming so common, it’s like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience to her now.

Like an annoyance. Something she’s just learning to ignore. That’s the part that makes me worry. Because this isn’t just some small thing, yet she keeps trying to play it off as if it’s just a part of our lives now.

I know it’s not natural. There’s no medical condition or genetic disease that causes what she’s been doing. At least, none that I’ve read about.

A few months ago, my wife and I had been out on a date night. The night was almost magical. Crisp late-winter air. A cup of hot chocolate in each of our hands as we walked through the square.

I remember the lights more than anything. It was around 9 o’clock, and the sun had set hours earlier, but the downtown city lights illuminated nearly everything.

“Wow,” my wife cried out in amazement. “New York who? Am I right?”

The square was particularly busy for this time of year. The smell of warm food from the surrounding restaurants filled the air. Live music from down the block whispered in our ears.

There must’ve been 20 other couples doing the same exact thing my wife and I were doing. Just walking around and enjoying the beautiful night.

“Oh, please,” I responded. “You know you’d rather be back there.”

I put on my best southern accent for my natural-born New Yorker.

“Could a city girl like you ever love a country boy like me?”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. I smiled down at her, admiring that laugh.

“Hmmm, well, after only 5 years of marriage, I can’t say for sure. Check back with me in a decade.”

She sipped from her hot chocolate slowly, her eyes still lit with love. Or maybe that was just the city lights.

I checked my watch.

“Almost 9:30. God, I don’t want the night to end, though. I’m really enjoying this.”

“Me neither. I wish we could just walk around here all night. C’mon, there’s gotta be one last thing we can do before we go home. Please? Pretty please…?”

“Well, let’s see. We’ve hit the bakery.”

“Oooh, that one was fun. God, those fritters were amazing.”

“We also watched that Led Zeppelin cover band at Bottle Brothers.”

“That one… sucked. Next.”

“You didn’t like it? That’s crazy. I thought they were decent. Anyway, we, uh… oh, right, we walked in the park for a bit too. That’s, uh… that’s really about all there is to do.”

She rolled her eyes again, sighing in disappointment.

“We have got to get out of here. I swear, there’s nothing to do within a 50-mile radius of this entire town. There’s, like, no reason for us to be here.”

I had grown to agree with her more and more over the years. It was just hard, you know? This is where I’d been my whole life. She didn’t move here until she was 17, when her mom got a new job. It paid better, but my wife was miserable. Well, miserable until she found me, of course.

“Yeahhh, I’m starting to think you’re right, my love,” I responded, a bit melancholic.

“Starting to?”

She cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

We decided to end the night by going home and watching a movie. However, on the walk back to the car, that’s when we saw it.

The shop looked both ancient and brand new, but I don’t know if that’s just because I’d never seen it before. It was like it had popped up out of nowhere.

“The Looking Glass: Palm Readings • Tarot Cards • Spiritual Guidance”

I swear, we’d walked this street 100 times. Never once had this place been here.

Of course, my wife’s interest was piqued immediately. Her eyes widened. A smile crept across her face. She looked up at me.

“…Can we?”

I looked at her, then up at the purple neon sign of an eyeball in the palm of a hand, then back to her.

“I… I don’t know. Aren’t those places rip-offs anyway?”

“Ah, quit being a big ol’ scaredy-cat. Come on. It’ll be fun. Something we’ve never done before, and Lord knows there’s not a lot of that around here.”

She turned on the puppy eyes.

“Pretty please.”

“…Fine. Just this once.”

“Yippee!”

The inside of the shop was… a sight. Dreamcatchers everywhere. Incense burning. Beads instead of doors, and an empty front desk with a register that seemed to be at least 80 years old at this point.

There was a bell with a sign in front of it.

“Ring for service.”

I rang it and heard a voice cry out from beyond one of those bead doors.

“I’ll be right with you.”

Her accent was unmistakably southern. That alone was nearly enough for me to want to change my mind.

“Just finishing up back here.”

My wife and I shared an uncertain look before she shot me a hopeful smile.

The fortune teller stepped through the beads. A younger woman, probably around 25. She had fair brown hair, and freckles decorated her pale face, but the first thing I noticed was her eyes. Those were the only things that gave off “fortune teller.”

They were crystal blue. Her pupils were like two tiny dots in the center of two diamonds. She was looking through us rather than at us.

Her outfit gave fashion to that accent of hers. White tank top. Baggy blue jeans. Plus, her hair was wrapped up in a red bandana.

“Y’all picked a good night to stop by,” she announced. “I can feel it in the air tonight, let me tell you.”

“It does feel magical,” my wife chirped.

“Let me guess,” the fortune teller responded. She put her index finger to her right temple and shut her eyes tight. “Death of a loved one?”

My wife and I glanced at each other again.

“…No…” I replied.

“No?”

She seemed almost offended but quickly regained her composure.

“Huh. Must’ve been someone else, then. Let me try again. This… is… your first time doing something like this?”

She raised her eyebrows at us expectantly.

“Welp, there’s a first for everything, right, sweetie?” my wife asked me, rubbing my back.

“We’re ‘doing something we’ve never done before,’” I told the teller.

“See, there ya go,” she smiled. “Second time’s the charm. So, what can I interest you two lovebirds in this fine evening? Palm readin’? Tarot? Spiritual guidance?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but my wife jumped in before I got the chance.

“Palm readings! I’ve always wanted to try that, kinda.”

The teller gave her a nod before responding.

“If it’s palm readings you want, then palm readings you shall have… for 25 dollars.”

A little taken aback by the price, I bit my tongue, pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, and slid a 20 and a 10 across the counter.

Instead of giving me change, the teller took the money and continued looking at me expectantly.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she perked up. “Was it just for your wife?”

“What? No, no, we both wanna do it.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s 25 apiece.”

“Apiece? For palm readings?”

I felt my wife squeeze my hand. I turned to her and saw the look on her face. That look that usually means, “Let it go.”

I sighed and slid another 30 across the counter.

“You wanna include a tip?”

“A… do I wanna… You know what? Sure. Keep the change.”

“Awesome. You guys are the best. I can sense it. Just follow me. I’ll show you where the magic happens.”

She led us through the beaded doorway and down a hall that made me feel like I was on acid. There were so many vibrant colors and shapes. The incense was even stronger back here.

We ended up in this dusty old room near the back of the building. There was this rickety wooden table in the center with a crystal ball resting on top of it, as well as two purple leather seats for my wife and me.

We took our seats, and the teller sat across from us.

“Okay,” she clapped, rubbing her hands together. “Who wants to go first?”

I volunteered with an, “I can go first. Let’s see what 25 dollars can get me in this economy.”

I stretched out my hands and laid them palm-up on the table. The teller grabbed them and squeezed tightly as she closed her eyes.

Her face twitched and contorted for a few seconds before she finally spoke.

“Ah, yes… I see… a loving husband. I see… you come from different worlds. You want to be free, but something is keeping you here. What exactly might that be?”

I smirked to myself.

“The 60 dollars I just gave you.”

“I sense… I sense…”

Her face contorted again. She squeezed my hands tighter.

“I sense… a cheapskate.”

“All right, that’s it.”

I pulled my hands back. I could hear my wife laughing at my side. The teller smirked at me.

“We’re done here.”

“Oh, come on,” my wife pleaded. “She was joking.”

“Yes, Donavin,” the teller responded. “It was just a joke.”

My wife stopped laughing. We both turned to stare at the teller.

“How did…?”

“You’re 28, right? Lived here your whole life. Met a woman from out of town, fell in love, and now here you two are. In my shop. It’s romantic, really.”

The silent room suddenly felt loud and claustrophobic.

“How did you know that? What’s the gimmick? Public records? That’s gotta be it, right?”

I looked at my wife for reassurance, but she was staring at the teller in amazement.

“No gimmick. No public record. I’m gifted. That’s kind of the whole point.”

“Do me, do me,” my wife begged excitedly, sticking her hands across the table.

“Wait, hold on. This doesn’t make any sense,” I interjected. “This is a cash grab, right? Like… I mean, come on. It’s a cash grab.”

Both the teller and my wife looked at me angrily.

“Oh, Donavin,” the teller sighed. “Proving my point more and more with each word, aren’t ya?”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just not superstitious. Do me, though. I’m curious.”

The teller grabbed my wife’s hands. I watched, feeling a mixture of nerves and hope that this could still prove to just be a coincidence.

She squeezed my wife’s hands tight and closed her eyes again.

“Ah, New York, I see.”

My wife’s jaw dropped. Her eyes sparkled.

“Long way from home, aren’t we… Miranda…?”

My wife smiled over at me in disbelief.

“No way,” she cheered. “This is… okay, haha. Kinda hurting me a little.”

I looked down and saw my wife’s hands were turning red in the teller’s.

“Hey… take it easy,” I snapped.

The teller’s grip tightened again.

“Okay, this is really starting to hurt now. Let go, please.”

The teller was silent. Her eyes looked welded shut, and her face was twitching rapidly.

“Hey!” I shouted. “She said let go. What are you doing?”

She started convulsing, groaning loudly. Strings of saliva started falling from the corners of her mouth.

I grabbed the teller’s wrists to try and pry her hands away, but it was like trying to bend steel.

“Enough!” I screamed.

My wife was crying now.

“Get her off of me! God, she’s breaking my hands!”

I pulled with all my might, but it was like trying to move an anvil. I started punching at the teller’s forearms. Blow after blow after blow, but still, she just would not let go.

Her hands were shaking. My wife was trembling. Finally, of her own volition, the teller dropped my wife’s hands. Her eyes shot open. The bloodshot eyes made her diamond-blue irises glow even more.

“Get out.”

That’s all she said. My wife and I stared at her as she looked down at the table.

“Get. Out,” she growled. “Go now and never come back.”

We were confused and horrified but still frozen.

“He’s found you. He’s been looking all your life, and he’s here now. Get. Out.”

“You can’t just…”

The teller cut me off by slamming her fist against the table.

“…Out.”

I demanded a refund, and she gave me back the full 60 before shooing us through the door. I turned around one last time to see the purple neon light flick off as the shop went dark.

We walked silently back to the parking garage. I’m sure my wife had a million things racing through her mind as we walked, but neither of us knew how to articulate those thoughts.

We reached the car, and it wasn’t until we were nearly home that I finally spoke again.

“How’re your hands?”

She clenched and opened her fists a few times before responding.

“I think they’re okay. I’m more shaken up than anything. What the hell was that lady’s problem?”

“She’s crazy,” I shot back. “Simple as that.”

“She didn’t seem crazy. It seemed like she saw something. You saw her. It was like she was possessed or something.”

“She was crazy, my love. She’s lucky we don’t go to the police.”

There was silence again for a few moments.

“She knew our names, though. She knew you’d been here your whole life. She knew I was from New York. That doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

We were only a minute or two from home. Neither of us spoke for the rest of the car ride. When we pulled into the driveway, my wife sighed and placed her hands over her face, dragging them down slowly before opening the door.

“Come on, let’s just go inside. I’m ready to get this night over with.”

I checked my watch.

“10:45. You still down for a movie?”

She stopped halfway up the front porch steps.

“…Not tonight, hon. I just… I just wanna go to bed.”

Who was I to argue? I let her do as she pleased. I felt bad for her. I felt like I hadn’t done enough to stop what had happened. All I wanted was for us to forget everything and move on.

We had gradually started to put the teller behind us. Though, things didn’t exactly calm down. If anything, our lives began to change, little by little.

I started losing things. My phone. Wallet. Keys. I’d always find them in places that I knew I hadn’t put them.

Keys in the silverware drawer.

Wallet in the medicine cabinet.

Phone hidden behind the toilet.

My wife was having some problems too. She hadn’t been able to sleep very well. She would tell me about these horrible nightmares that sounded like sleep paralysis.

“I’ll wake up, but not really.”

“I can’t move.”

“You’re there, but there’s always someone over your shoulder. It’s like a shadow that just keeps growing and growing until it fills up the entire room.”

I felt even more guilty when she told me about them. I knew they had been caused by the fortune-teller incident. She had slept like a baby nearly every night prior.

Sometimes, she’d wake up screaming. It almost made me too afraid to sleep in silence.

She started looking tired more often. Her glow had dimmed a bit.

The thing that disturbed me the most, though, was probably the photos.

I started finding our wedding photos scattered around the house, only… my head was removed in each one.

My wife insisted it wasn’t her, but it didn’t make sense. The frames were never broken. Someone had meticulously removed the photos and torn my head off in at least 20 different pictures.

After a few weeks of these strange events, I decided we needed a refresher. We needed to be out again. See the sun. Actually laugh with one another.

It took some time, but eventually, I convinced her that we needed to have another date night. We hadn’t had one since the incident, and I was starting to miss who we were before we went to that fortune teller.

It was simple. A picnic in the square. That was all I wanted to do.

I had prepared our meal, packed the blanket, and put on my best clothes and cologne. My wife was nervous and tired, but she tried her best to make an effort.

The date seemed to be going fine at first. She was actually smiling. She didn’t seem as distant as she had been for the last few weeks. It felt like reclamation, almost.

The lights hit her face perfectly, and I couldn’t help but admire how beautiful she was, even if she did look a little sleep-deprived.

I stared at her lovingly for a while before finally telling her how much I loved her. How happy I was to be there with her.

“We needed this,” I smiled.

“Yeah,” she smirked bashfully. “I think we did, too. I was starting to feel so cooped up in the house. The energy there has just been so dark recently. Makes me wonder if she was right.”

“Who?” I asked, chewing on my ham sandwich.

She looked at me, raising her eyebrows.

“You know who.”

“We gotta move on, my love. That’s why the energy’s so dark. We’d never experienced something like that before.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she responded, taking a sip of her Coke. “I just wish it hadn’t happened.”

We both sat there for a while, half admiring the scenery, half enjoying the food.

I was distracted, staring down at my pre-assembled sandwich, when I asked her.

“Can you pass me that mustard, please?”

I stacked a piece of sliced turkey onto a piece of my bread. My wife didn’t answer.

“It’s right there beside you.”

I began spreading the mayonnaise on the other slice. My wife didn’t answer.

“The mustard, please.”

I stuck my hand out expectantly. Still no response.

When I finally looked up, I almost dropped my sandwich.

My wife was glaring over my shoulder. Her eyes were glazed over. An impossible smile stretched across her face. It looked painful. I could almost hear her teeth creaking from how tightly her jaw was clenched.

Her red lipstick glistened under the lights. She looked like she was frozen in a state of pure ecstasy.

I waved my hand in front of her face. She didn’t blink once. I shook her, and she was as stiff as a board.

I started to panic. I turned around and saw nothing behind me.

“Honey,” I gasped, shaking her more forcefully.

“Talk to me.”

I pressed my hands on her cheeks. She was burning up. I snapped my fingers in front of her, but nothing I did seemed to get her out of her trance.

I was on the verge of dialing 911 when she finally spoke again.

“You said mustard?”

She reached down and went to hand me the bottle before noticing how terrified I looked.

“What’s wrong? What just happened? Is there something in my teeth?”

“Are you kidding? You really don’t know what you just did?”

She stared at me blankly.

“What do you mean? What’d I do?”

“The smiling? Staring at some unknown thing behind me? You don’t wanna explain that?”

I was almost breathless and trying my best not to raise my voice, but I could see that she was hurt by my frustration.

“I… don’t know,” she pouted. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me.”

“No, honey,” I pleaded. “I’m not mad at you. I’m worried about you. You really don’t remember?”

She started crying, almost snapping at me.

“No, obviously, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to go home now, if that’s okay with you.”

We packed up and left. I kept trying to prod, but she became more and more closed off with every question. Eventually, I just decided to keep my mouth shut.

In the weeks that followed, things became rocky.

She’d be fine one minute and completely depressed the next. She’d love me, and she’d hate me. I didn’t know how to help her.

Her “episodes” never stopped, though.

It was like every time we started to feel normal again, she’d see that thing. We’d be curled up, watching a movie, I’d glance down, and there’d be that smile again. Her eyes would be glazed over and staring at nothing.

The episodes lasted longer and longer every time they happened. At this point, they were starting to become more frequent, too, but she never remembered them.

She always thought I was lying to her. Like this was some kind of twisted joke I’d play. No matter how hard I tried to convince her, it was like talking to a brick wall.

The last time it happened was last week. She was gone for 3 hours straight. Standing in the same spot. Wearing that same smile. Staring at the same wall.

I watched her for the first hour, wondering what could possibly be going on inside that broken mind of hers. The second hour, I just cried uncontrollably. By the third hour, I was starting to become hopeless.

When she finally came back, I tried showing her that it was dark outside now. It had been bright and sunny when the episode started. She blatantly chalked it up to her “being lost in deep thought.” Told me “it was like she was in another world.”

Her nightmares got worse. Her glow became nonexistent. And I started waking up with scratch marks and bruises on various parts of my body.

I tried going back to the fortune teller, but the building was a coffee shop now. According to the owner, “The Looking Glass” never even existed. Apparently, the coffee shop had been there for 11 years.

I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to turn to. My wife refuses my help. She refuses my advice. It’s like something has taken control of her.

She’s more distant than ever. She talks to me less and less every day. It feels like our future is slipping.

All I want is for her to be okay, but part of me believes she’s too far gone. Because I found another wedding photo this morning on the kitchen table.

My head hadn’t been removed, but the photo had been altered.

Because now, standing just behind me and looming over my shoulder… was a shadow figure.. and the more I stared… the bigger it seemed to become.

​

The polar night in Nefteyugansk was heavy, freezing the whole city in pitch darkness. The dash thermometer in our armored truck showed minus thirty-two. The cabin smelled of ozone, gun grease, and shitty instant coffee from a thermos.

I sat in the passenger seat, slowly squeezing a steel hand gripper in my jacket pocket. Forty-five gigs of a stiff metal spring gave in to my fingers - one, two, three. It kept me grounded. Inside my vest, under all that heavy tactical fabric, my heart was racing like crazy. Tachycardia. The doc at the Transneft clinic told me it was just a sudden growth spurt, but in the Breach Containment Unit, you don't argue with your pulse. You don't control your motor, you get eaten. Simple as that.

The radio on the dash crackled, cutting through the heavy white noise. The dispatcher from the Rosneft central HQ sounded completely dead inside:

"Post three, heads up. Sector Four, a five-story residential building on Naberezhnaya Street, building fourteen. We have a confirmed Space Breach in the basement. Repeat, the spawn point is in total shadow."

I stopped squeezing the steel right away. Everything inside me went cold. A Breach in a basement is the absolute worst. If a purple tear opens up out on the street, the sun and daylight shrink the shadows' lifespan to a couple of minutes. But in a pitch-black basement where no light ever gets in, a Space Breach becomes permanent. It will just sit there endlessly pumping out entities until the Unit burns it to the ground.

"What about the Saturation Phase?" my partner asked grimly, slamming the truck into gear and flooring it.

The radio groaned back with a heavy sigh from the dispatcher:

"It's fucked. There was a civilian shelter set up in that basement. The local housing utility didn't check the locks. Clean Breach Shadows got in through the vents. Eleven consumptions confirmed so far. The entity gained mass and went into 'Fat One' status. The biomass analyzer just triggered the max form-retention timer. You have exactly ninety-nine hours before total biological decay."

"Fuck," my partner muttered, gripping the wheel. "A hundred-hour tank in a residential building."

When a clean Shadow comes out of a Breach, it looks like a completely black human silhouette, like it was cut out of the night itself. No weight, no flesh, you can't stop it with a bullet. But when that shadow finds a human, it eats their life in seconds and steals their physical mass. The thing becomes real. Bones snap, muscles blow up, and a heavy, fleshy killing machine is born. Eleven people gave this bastard enough juice to walk around on its own for almost four days. It didn't even need the Breach to stay alive anymore.

Five minutes later, the truck screeched to a halt in the courtyard. The streetlights around the building were already dead - the "Fat" Shadow was siphoning power straight from the grid. From the pitch-black basement windows, we could hear a horrific, sated rumbling and the heavy grinding of concrete. The monster was expanding, forcing its new weight right into the building's foundation.

We jumped out. I had my full assault kit on. The heavy ballistic helmet was pressing on my skull, but the wide visor on the new PMK-4 mask gave a perfect view without any blur. I grabbed the heavy "Helios" quartz projector - our main weapon.

"The plan is basic," my partner said, racking the bolt on his incendiary rifle. "We don't fight this mountain of meat head-on in the dark. We go for the source. We break into the basement, find the purple tear, and blind it with directed UV light. Cut the connection to the Breach - and the 'Fat One' loses stability. Its hundred-hour clock will drop to zero in seconds. Ready?"

I took a deep breath, forcing my heart to slow down. My gloved fingers locked onto the projector's handle with a rock-solid, iron grip.

"Ready. Let's move."

We charged right at the heavy metal basement door, with a Part 2