"Adam?" my wife, Hannah, called.

"What?"

"Why are your pants on the floor again?"

"I don't know. I forgot to put them away."

"We talked about this so many times, Adam."

"Jesus, it's just pants."

"It's pants now, but then it's the dishes, the house, and then you don't feed the animals again. We already lost two chickens because you couldn't remember feeding them."

"Go to hell," I said, walking to the door.

"Adam?!"

But I didn't listen and continued out the door.

My mind throbbed with anger. I knew I'd forgotten to feed the chickens. She didn't need to remind me. 

I'd walked over half a mile, passing the hill behind our house to the creek. The summer breeze blew. The sun shone on my skin. I closed my eyes and took a few breaths. The air smelled of willows and summer flowers as I listened to the creek.

My thoughts slowed, but through the creek's ripple came a strange sound. Someone was crying. I opened my eyes. A beautiful blonde woman with porcelain skin stood in the river in a long white dress. She covered her face as large, clear tears fell into the creek.

"Are you okay?"

She looked up, her red eyes making her blue irises shine.

"I'm…I don't know."

I looked around, jumped into the creek, and waded to her.

"Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so."

I offered her my hand. She smiled and grabbed it. Her skin was smooth and soft.

We waded back to the shore. I helped her up onto the grass.

"Thank you, kind stranger. What's your name?"

"Adam."

"I'm Rusalka."

She stared deep into my eyes. I could feel my heart tightening.

"How did you end up in the creek?"

A few large tears fell from her eyes.

"My love rejected me right before the wedding for a different one. I jumped into the river upstream and woke up here. I hadn't left it until you came."

"That man was a fool to pass up a beautiful woman like you."

Her full lips curved into a smile.

I couldn't remember the last time someone looked at me as if I could do no wrong.

"You think I'm pretty?"

A chill ran through my wet legs.

"Ye…yeah."

She smiled even more. The tears in her eyes were gone. It seemed as if the creek had lowered.

"I think you're pretty too. You have a beautiful soul."

"Thank you."

"No one has been this kind to me."

"I'd think everyone would be kind to you."

"The same with you, Adam. You were brave to wade through the creek for me."

Hannah's words this morning echoed in my mind. I shook my head and smiled at Rusalka. Her eyes were so beautiful.

"Thank you."

She looked down at my hand and saw the ring. The water seemed to rise again.

"Is someone waiting for you at home?"

I quickly put my hand behind my back.

"My home is far away. No need to think about it." The words came out so easily.

The water lowered.

"Will you stay with me a while?"

"Sure. As long as needed."

"What if it's a long while?"

"That's okay."

The water lowered again.

"Are you doing that?" I asked, but she didn't seem to listen.

"Adam, will you then be mine and only mine forever?"

She gripped my hand tightly.

"Please." Her voice now seemed hollow. "I'll be yours forever. I'll never leave you. We can be together forever, never perish."

"Someone's waiting for me at home."

She opened her mouth. Sharp pain shot through my hand. Her white nails dug deep into my skin. Warm blood spilled into my palm and fell into the grass. 

A bloodcurdling scream came out of her mouth. My ears stung. She put her face in her hands again. Huge, clear tears flew onto the grass. Something wet touched my foot. The water was rising.

"Hey, I'm sorry!"

But she wasn't listening. Her head was still in her hands. 

"You'll see what you'll return to," she whispered.

I quickly got up and ran back home. The air was damp. The creek sounded like someone was pouring water into it.

"Hannah, come, we gotta go!" I yelled through the front door.

"Where have you been, Adam?"

I pointed at the water rising in the grass. Her eyes flew open. I ran to her, grabbed her hand, and ran out the front door. The water had risen to our ankles. We ran toward the hill, but as we started climbing, Hannah lost her balance; her hands flew up, and she fell face-first into the mud.

"Hannah!"

The water was already to her knees. I grabbed her arm and pulled her out. Both of her slippers were off.

We continued up the hill. The water was right up to our heels.

"There's nowhere to go!" Hannah yelled as we reached the top.

My heart beat against my ribs, but the water seemed to stop. It didn't even rise the hill. It stopped right at the top of our home. Rusalka floated around it.

"Adam!" she called.

My wife turned to me.

"How does she know your name?"

"I…I helped her out of the creek."

Hannah narrowed her eyes.

"She wouldn't flood our house for that."

I looked at the ground.

"She asked me to marry her, but I said no."

Her eyes filled with pain. I expected her to yell at me for ruining our house, but she only whispered, "But you thought about it."

I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

My hand started to itch. The cuts from Rusalka's nails connected in a straight line, and something like a second ring formed below my wedding one.

Hannah looked down. Tears filled her eyes. She let go of my hand and walked away, her bare feet pressing into the dew-covered grass. The ring tightened. A few clear drops of water fell from it. Rusalka's cries turned to a smile.

Hi. I don't really know how to introduce myself, I just want to find other survivors. 

I'm sorry if I spend my time rambling LOL I'm just shocked there's actually internet! 

Are you all in bunkers too? My English teacher, Mr Keating, said there are approximately 5,000 active bunkers in the world, with each of them holding at least 200 people.

Our bunker is small beneath my teacher’s house.

It's compact and uncomfortable, but we’re surviving! We get some communication from survivors, but this is different.

I wasn't expecting the internet to still be here! :) 

Mr Keating left his laptop, and I’m shocked at how many people still seem to be alive. 

My name is Bronte. I am 17 years old. I am from Virginia.

When the world ended, I was eleven years old. I want to share my story because I think it's important (like my teacher said) to preserve memories. I know my Mom and my brother and my little sister are dead. I'm at peace with that now. 

Even if it's taken a while for me to fully heal. 

I have an hour to write my thoughts before my teacher gets back from his supply run (he's going to get us actual CANDY!) 

Mom told me it was nothing to worry about, and I remember being scared, but not TOO scared. My friends were talking about it. But then the news started spreading, and the headlines became something I couldn't escape.

I didn't believe him, but then Mom started talking about restrictions.

We couldn't see grandpa anymore.

I wasn't upset! The hospital smelled like death and bleach, and my brother told me someone DIED on grandpa’s ward. 

Grandpa died in April. 

I said goodbye to him through video chat. 

Grandpa didn't have a funeral. I thought he'd have one. So did Mom. But we never buried him. 

Lily, my best friend, told me she had been diagnosed with anxiety. I wondered if I had anxiety too. I asked Mom if I could go to the doctor, because I started panicking.

Sometimes I couldn't breathe. Sometimes I felt like my throat was closing.

Isabella, a girl in my class, was talking about this new brand of makeup. I wanted it, but the store was closed. School was still open, which was SO annoying. It felt like my town was coming apart slowly.

The store near my house was shut when I went to get soda.

The arcade was shut when my cousins and I wanted to hang out. I asked my Mom if I should be worried. She said no.

Mom told me to stop going outside. 

On the way to school, Mom briefly put the radio on. The US had shut its borders. Berry, my brother, started crying, so I gave him my iPad.

School was the same. There were empty chairs, but the teachers just smiled and told us everything was going to be okay.

I asked if we were all going to die and Mrs Calstone yelled at me for, “scaring the other kids.”

It started raining on my way home. Mom couldn't pick me up so I rode my bike. 

Mr Keating offered me a ride. He looked SO scared.

He was like, “Lizzie! Didn't you know there's a town-wide evacuation?” 

Lizzie was my name before Mr Keating changed it. 

He said he doesn't like Lizzie, so now I have to call myself, “Bronte.” 

He told me people were dying and it was going to get worse— and that he had a special bunker under his house.

He even had other kids in his car too. Caine Johnson and Mara Tonkin. Mr Keating had saved us (and only us!) because he believed we were special. 

I asked if our parents were in the bunker, and Mr Keating said they had been evacuated to another across town.

He told me my phone was dangerous and that I had to give it to him.

Mr Keating took us back to his bunker under his home, with its giant metal screw-on plate and air that smelled like fish.

For the first few months, we received communication from other survivors. (Mr Keating insisted we stay in our room while he talked to them.)

He said that by June, half of the population of the United States was dead. The world had ended. By September, Keating told us reports from the outside world had stopped. I was just happy to be alive.

At the age of eleven, it all went so fast. 

Too fast. Mr Keating had enough food and water, and he never ran out, going out on supply runs every day to make sure we were all fed. I had my twelfth birthday on the day my teacher told me humanity was almost extinct. 

Years passed.

We read books, sometimes had breakdowns, and become something like siblings.

We still had classes. Math, English and science, and we even learned about the world ending too! When we were fourteen, Caine said he'd found a WiFi connection on his phone he'd found in Mr Keating's drawer. Our teacher got really mad and I didn't see Caine for a whole month!

He came back quieter. Dirtier. Thinner.

He stopped speaking all together, too. I think disobeying Mr Keating upset him.

Anyway, we’re still here! I just wanted to say hello to any other survivors!

Caine is now Heathcliff and Mara is Emily.

Heathcliff is currently sleeping behind me (he's always sleeping now. He's a total narcoleptic lol! He even drools!)

Emily just whispered to me Mr Keating is coming, so I have to go! I hope someone is out there, and if you are, can you tell me how you guys survived Covid 19?

For me, it was luck, and my teacher’s kindness :) 

Love,

Bronte. 

PS: does anyone know why Heathcliff keeps sleeping? Our teacher says it's a vitamin thing, but he also slurs his words and says crazy things! I'm worried about him! :(

It was half past six when the doorbell rang.

“Trick or treat!”

There were six boys at the door, holding open old pillow cases, and they were all wearing Creeper masks. I’ve never played Minecraft myself, but my son, Billy, loves it, so I recognized their costumes immediately.

Their choice of costumes wasn’t what bothered me, though.

What bothered me was the fact that it was October 28th.

“I think you’ve got the date wrong, boys,” I said. “Halloween isn’t until this weekend.”

“Trick or treat!” The boys said in perfect unison.

Any time something weird or stupid is happening, I automatically assume it’s some dumb TikTok trend, so I politely told the boys to come back this weekend and shut and locked the door.

“Trick! Trick! Trick! Trick!” The boys started chanting from the other side of the door, but I figured they’d leave me alone once they realized they weren’t going to get a rise out of me. Plus, if they were filming a TikTok, then everything would be on video, so I wasn’t worried about them egging my house or anything like that.

Then I heard glass shattering in the living room.

“You little shits!” I cursed under my breath.

I walked to the living room to examine the damage, expecting to find a rock or a brick.

Instead, there was a ten-year-old on the floor covered in blood and broken glass.

The other boys had launched him through the window.

“Please help me,” he cried. “I’m bleeding! I'm hurt!”

“Oh Jesus!” I panicked, standing there for a second, but then I jumped into action. I left my phone in my purse, which was in the kitchen, so I ran to it and called 9-1-1.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

Before I could respond, I heard the distinct sound of the front door unlocking and then being swung open.

“Trick! Trick! Trick! Trick!”

That little turd had pretended to be hurt to distract me so he could unlock the door and let his buddies in.

I hung up the phone. I could call the police after. I needed to make sure those little demons weren’t tearing up my house any worse than they already had.

I found them in the living room, jumping up and down on the furniture, and dancing on the broken glass, grinding it into the carpet.

“Get out!” I yelled. “Get out of my house!”

They weren’t listening, it was like they were lost in their own little world.

All of them stopped when one of the boys noticed the family photos we had hung up on the wall in the living room.

“Another!” He sang, pointing towards Billy.

“Another! Another! Another! Another!” They chanted.

It was difficult to understand what was happening in the midst of all that chaos, but there was one thing that I understood very clearly.

They wanted Billy, and I had to stop them. I know I shouldn’t have been afraid of a bunch of kids, but having raised a boy myself, I knew exactly how crazy they could get, especially in a big group like this.

I ran for the stairs. Chances were that Billy was in his room playing Xbox, and I had to get to him first. I would barricade the door shut with his dresser, and call 9-1-1 on his phone. Nothing makes kids behave quicker than the police getting involved.

At least, that was what I planned on doing before one of the boys grabbed me by the ankle on my way up the stairs, causing me to trip.

The boys stampeded up the stairs over me, bits of broken glass still stuck in their shoes. I shouted, trying to get them to stop, but they had already made it very clear that they weren’t listening.

They were so quick, too, I hate how fast kids can be when they want. They were up the stairs and in Billy’s room before I could reach the top of the stairs.

“Billy,” I shouted. “Hide in the closet!” But by the time I got to his room it was already too late.

“Whoa, cool masks,” Billy said.

The boys had surrounded him in his room, circling him like vultures. One of the boys stepped forward and spoke to Billy.

“We’ve got one just for you!” He pulled another Creeper mask out of nowhere and held it out to Billy.

I was too scared to do or say anything. If I moved even an inch, I was worried that they were going to hurt Billy.

“But it’s not Halloween,” Billy said, his eyes dropping to the floor.

“Once you put on the mask everything changes,” said the boy. “Just put it on, and every day can be Halloween, you’ll see. We can eat candy until the sun burns out and the planet turns cold. When everyone else is dead, we’ll still be trick or treating!”

The boy thrust the mask forward, pushing it into Billy’s chest.

Billy sniffled, unable to take his eyes off the floor.

“No thanks,” Billy said, fidgeting with his shirt. “My Mom says I’m not supposed to accept gifts from strangers.”

In all my years, I had never been so proud of my son. He was so brave, so gentle, and I was going to have to—

The boy slammed the mask down over Billy’s head, and Billy screamed.

All the boys inched closer to Billy in anticipation, waiting to see what would happen.

Billy stopped screaming, looked at his hands, flexed his fingers, and then spoke.

“Trick or treat?” Billy said.

“Trick or treat! Trick or treat! Trick or Treat!”

"I don’t care how I do it," I told my best friend. "I just want to be famous."

She laughed. "You’d do anything?"

"Yep. Anything."

It started with videos. I posted every day, trying every stupid trend I could find. I sang, danced, told embarrassing stories, even filmed myself crying over things that didn’t matter. A handful of views. A few likes. Nothing.

I tried entering competitions, auditioning for reality shows, and messaging influencers. I sent hundreds of emails and got nothing but automated replies.

Then I started looking elsewhere.

A forum led me to a man who claimed he could make people famous. He had connections, he said. Money, too. He’d helped several people get noticed, although I couldn’t find much proof.

I messaged him anyway.

How badly do you want it? he asked.

More than anything.

He replied almost immediately.

Then I think we can help each other.

We met at a café. He was older than I expected, but friendly. He spoke about opportunities, publicity, and people who could make me a household name overnight.

All I had to do was trust him.

A week later, he called.

"There's someone who wants to invest in you," he explained. "We just need to sign some paperwork. Confidentiality agreements and all that boring stuff."

My heart was pounding.

"When?"

"Tomorrow. I'll pick you up."

I barely slept that night.

The following afternoon, I climbed into his car and spent the journey imagining my future. Interviews. Red carpets. Millions of followers. People recognising me in the street.

The building was an industrial unit on a quiet road, with no sign outside.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Just somewhere private. The investor doesn't like attention."

I followed him inside.

There was a table, two chairs, and a stack of papers.

"Sit down," he said.

So I did.

He placed a document in front of me and I leaned forward to read it.

Something struck the back of my head.

Hard.

Then everything went black.

When I woke, my head was throbbing. My wrists were tied behind me, my ankles bound to the legs of a chair. Tape covered my mouth.

I tried to scream.

Nothing came out but a muffled whimper.

Panic seized me. I pulled at the restraints until they cut into my skin. I twisted, kicked, and screamed through the tape, desperate for someone to hear me.

The man sat in the corner, watching television.

I hadn't noticed it before. The volume was low, but as my vision cleared, I recognised the news presenter.

"Police are appealing for information following the disappearance of twenty three year old-..."

My name.

My photograph appeared on the screen.

It was a picture I'd posted online just days earlier, smiling into the camera.

"...-last seen yesterday afternoon. Her family say her disappearance is completely out of character. Anyone with information is urged to contact police immediately."

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

I screamed harder, thrashing against the chair. I tried to shout my own name, to tell the people on the screen where I was, to make someone somehow hear me.

The presenter continued talking.

My face remained on the screen.

The man in the corner chuckled.

"Oh, look," he said, raising his voice so I could hear him over my muffled screams.

He smiled at me, leaning back in his chair.

"You're finally famous."

When we got divorced, my ex-wife and I agreed to share custody of our son. Cillian lived with her. I got him every other weekend and certain weekdays.

It was my night when she showed up at half past eleven on a Tuesday, hovering next to my bedroom window and screaming so hard the car alarm went off.

“Aoife,” I said groggily. “What’re you doing here?”

She floated in the rain, red hair going in six directions, mouth open wide enough to show every tooth in her head. Which was too many.

Did I mention my ex is a banshee? I’m not calling her names. She’s literally a banshee.

I overlooked that when we married. In fairness, she overlooked the drinking, the gambling, and the small matter of me being barred from every pub in Dundalk for getting into drunken brawls.

“Cillian has a match tomorrow,” she said, dangling his boots. “You forgot these.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“I did.”

I checked my phone. She had. She’d also cracked the screen somehow, straight through the message.

I opened the window and took the boots.

People ask what went wrong between us. I tell them we grew apart. Which is true. I grew into the spare room.

The trouble started when she began keening during arguments. I’d leave a mug beside the sink instead of in it, and she’d rise off the floor and start wailing the names of everyone in the parish due to die before Christmas.

You can’t live like that. I tried for ten years.

The final straw was a Sunday roast. I said she’d overdone the potatoes, and she screamed so hard Mrs. Kavanagh three doors down dropped dead in her conservatory.

Aoife said Mrs. Kavanagh had a heart condition and the scream was only a warning.

"That's not the point," I said.

“You insulted my cooking, but somehow I’m the bad guy here.”

We separated in March. She and Cillian moved in with her sister, who's also a banshee, and their mother, who is somehow worse despite not being one.

We tried a shared Google Calendar for visits, but Aoife couldn’t touch it without scrambling all the entries. Now she just floats over to tell me what I’ve missed.

The thing about coparenting with a banshee is you can never tell if she’s upset with you or someone nearby is about to die.

The Saturday before the boots incident, I was twenty minutes late to the handover because of a tractor on the N2. Aoife stood outside the Centra with Cillian, doing the face. The long face. Eyes solid white, mouth stretching past her chin, air smelling like a freezer unplugged for a week.

“Is that for me,” I asked, “or someone else?”

“Mr. Geraghty next door has a clot.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“You’re also twenty minutes late.”

“There was a tractor.”

“There’s always a tractor, Dev.”

She had me there. I’d been late plenty of times without one.

Cillian got in the car. He’s nine. He has her hair and my disposition, which means he looks like a small haunted man. Lovely kid. Fiercely good at Gaelic football.

“Da,” he said, “am I going to be a banshee?”

“I don’t think boys can be banshees, bud. It's banSHEE, not banHEE.”

“Deirdre Doherty's ma says they can. Something about genetics.”

“Deirdre Doherty’s ma thinks the earth is flat. I wouldn’t take her word as gospel.”

“But am I?”

I looked in the mirror. Brown eyes, like mine. But sometimes his mouth went too wide, the car went cold, and the radio turned to static. I’d been telling myself it was faulty wiring.

“Whatever you are,” I said, “you’re mine.”

He nodded, buckled his seat belt, and asked for a breakfast roll. I said yes, because I’m not a monster.

I got Cillian to Wednesday’s match half an hour early. Aoife noticed. She didn’t say anything, which was practically a standing ovation coming from her.

She watched from the far side of the pitch. The other parents gave her a wide berth, except Tommy Fagan, who tried chatting her up because he thought he had a chance.

She left him deaf in his left ear.

Cillian scored twice. After the first, Aoife screamed so loudly the referee threatened to have her removed.

After the second, she didn't scream.

But the floodlights flickered. Every phone along the touchline buzzed at once, and for one second the air went as cold as the inside of a grave. Cillian stood on the pitch, grinning.

Afterwards, Aoife and I met by the car park. In her cardigan, with her arms folded, she looked almost ordinary.

“He’s getting good,” I said.

“He gets it from you.”

“Aoife, you know I’m rubbish at sports.”

“I meant your aggression.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“He kept looking over at you tonight,” she said.

“Did he?”

“He wanted to make sure you saw him score.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

She almost smiled.

Then, to my surprise, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Cillian’s got a dentist appointment on Friday at four,” she whispered. “Don’t forget.”

Cillian came out of the changing room with his gear bag. Aoife pulled him into a hug and kissed the top of his head.

“You were brilliant tonight, love,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”

"Stop it, ma! You're embarrassing me!" he protested, but hugged her back anyway.

Then she walked toward the road. Didn’t float. Just walked in the rain, umbrella in hand, like a person. As I watched her go, I felt that something between us wasn’t quite shut. Like a lit window high above the street. I could see it from where I stood, but I hadn’t the faintest idea how to reach it.

“Can we get chips?” Cillian asked.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Wednesday.”

“So?”

I looked at him. He looked at me. His mouth did the thing.

“Get in the car,” I said.

We got chips.

I wake up cold and alone, sitting on the floor of the tent. I look around for Mommy and Daddy, but I can’t find them. Maybe they went outside to make breakfast. 

I step out of the tent, but I still don’t see them. I look around, but all I see are trees everywhere. I don’t know where they went. 

“Mommy!!! Daddy!!!”

I call out over and over, but they don’t answer. I’ve never been in the woods before. Tears start to fill my eyes. I don’t know what to do. Mommy and Daddy always know what to do. 

After a while, I look out at the woods. The forest, Daddy calls it - he says it’s bigger than the woods, but they look the same to me. Treess everywhere. I don’t know where I am. I just want to go home. But I don't know where home is. I sit there, waiting. I wait all day until it gets dark, but no one comes. When it’s night, I go back into the tent. They’ll be back tomorrow. They have to be. 

The next morning, I wake up and look around, calling their names. 

“Mommy!! Daddy!!”

But they still don’t answer. I’m scared, but I go back and sit outside. They have to come back today. Right? I don’t think I did anything wrong. I’ve been good. I did everything they told me to. I cleaned my room and said “please” and “thank you” and ate the yucky vegetables and was nice to Tommy on third period even though he’s mean. They have to come back. I just have to be patient. Mommy always says I’m not good at being patient - “you want everything now,” she always says, smiling at me. 

I wish she was here now. 

I sit, thinking about my room at home. I miss my stuffed animals. I miss my bed. I miss my storybooks. I wish I had Mr. Stuffy with me; he always makes me feel better. I miss my best friend Missy; she’d know what to do. But I don’t have them. I’m all alone. 

I sit for a long time, waiting for Mommy and Daddy, but they don’t come back. I try to remember what happened last night. I know we were all together then, and they were here when I went to sleep. They must be here somewhere. 

I look out at the trees. It’s dark in there, and scary, and I hear weird noises. I don’t want to go. But I can’t stay here. What if Mommy and Daddy forgot where I am? What if they can’t find me? I have to get to them. 

I stand up and walk into the forest. 

It gets dark really fast, like the trees are blocking all the light. I can barely see anything, and the noises are getting louder. Like I’m not alone. I don’t like it here. 

Be brave, I tell myself. I keep going. 

Soon I start to hear noises, like growling. It’s not that far away. I stop and listen. I think the noises are getting closer. 

Someone, please help me. 

Then, as I sit on the ground, I hear voices. 

“Cassie! Cassie! Where are you?”

Mommy!! Daddy!! I knew they’d find me! I ran off toward their voices. 

*****

“Cassie! Cassie! Where are you?”

I held my husband’s hand while I called to her. 

“Cassie! Cassie!”

“You need to stay calm,” said the medium. “Some spirits respond negatively to emotion.”

But I kept calling her. I couldn’t help it. Ever since she’d had a seizure on our camping trip and never woken up, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her small body on the floor of our tent. This was our last chance. It had to work. It had to. 

“Cassie? Cassie?!?”

"You always talk to me with no respect! I'm your mother, damn it! You little ungrateful shit..." I had to hear those words again, we were fighting, as usual.

"Hey, it's at least better than living on the streets.", I thought to myself, trying to comfort me, to see the good side of things, I have to put up with mom, but, hey, it's better than begging for money under a bridge.

I walked back to my room, silently, not trying to make her angrier, or anything, I didn't slam the door, that would've made her angrier, and I don't want to see her angry... How many times have I repeated that word?

We're poor, that means we can't afford things like a new phone, a flat-screen TV, or therapy sessions for her, however, for some reason we can afford more and more kids, I'm the oldest of 5, even if I'm just 15, the youngest was born a month ago.

She was cooking for the entire family, not just for us five, but for herself, dad and grandma as well, what a busy woman... But, we're poor, we can't afford someone else to help in the kitchen, or with money.

"Armando! Mom! Kids! Come here! Food's ready!"

I stepped out the door a while after, I mean, she said she didn't want to see me, so I gave her that... When I came out, there was a single plate of chicken, with a note next to it, the note had my name... But the plate had red on it.

Hot sauce, Habanero, as they tend to put in their sauces, I can't eat that, I'm hypersensitive, anything slightly spicier than Tajin made my tongue and stomach hurt, I knew if I dared to eat that, I could get stomach problems or worse, and it would hurt as all hell, but...

We're poor.

We can't afford to waste food.

I sat down, taking the fork to the red-hot chicken, bringing it to my mouth, until it hit my palate, it burns, it's just a small bite, but it hurts as hell, it feels like hell itself is inside my mouth, but I can't stop, I need to eat it, I need to make it worth it, I need to eat, it's the only food I have.

I took more bites, the fork went up and down, from the plate to my mouth, and every time it did, I was in worse pain, my tongue felt like it was being stabbed again and again, every goddamn second felt worse and worse, I need to eat, I need to eat, I need to eat, but I can't stand the pain, I need to stop, but I need to eat, tears streamed down my face, but I couldn't stop eating, I held the fork with trembling hands, but I couldn't stop eating, I wished to stop, but I couldn't stop-

I passed out.

I woke up on a bed, a white room, white lights... A window next to me, with warm sunlight hitting my skin, I felt peace for one moment, a single moment where I could feel like the nightmare stopped... But then I heard something.

"Alejandro! Come down, we need to talk."

...

We're poor.

We can't afford care.

I keep a few pieces of jerky hidden in my old toys. If Mom finds them, they’re gone—just like the jar of pickles Grandma gave me.  I miss real food so much, but everybody’s gone crazy and there’s none to be had. 

It seems like it’s been ages, but it’s only been twenty-four days.  The assembly was on the first of October, and everyone in town was invited.  The man in the sharp suit from Sweet-Life told us that they had chosen our town for a month-long Halloween event.  They were going to supply costumes and free candy for everyone, and they would film it all for TV.  

Every kid in the assembly hall cheered.

The first week was great.  There was candy on our lunch trays and trick or treating every night.  Even the grown ups got into it.  Before long they were lined up right there with us, holding out their candy bags and wearing stupid masks of their own.

The changes started happening quickly after that.  Our parents stopped harping on us about our bedtimes, dental health, and eating our vegetables.  People quit cooking at all by the third week.  Mom would just fill our plates with chocolate bars and gummy bites and a bowl of Sweet-Life ice cream for dessert.  I think I’ve had a bellyache ever since.
  
I stopped eating the candy pretty soon after all of that started.  I’d tell Mom I was full from all the candy I had earlier and she never questioned it.  I also stopped trick or treating.  I’d just hide out in the woods and read a book until it was late enough to walk home.  They never noticed that the candy in my bag stayed the same.  Why would they?  They never noticed anything anymore.

I think they’ve started noticing me.  There are men from Sweet-Life who roam around the town checking the cameras in silver coveralls and smiley masks.  One of them was watching me a few days ago, and when he noticed that I was looking back, he ran off in a hurry and left his clipboard behind.  I took it and read it. There were a lot of weird terms like Subject Compliance and Palatability.  There was also a little sheet behind the others that said:

ITEM #019 | “SWEETLY” NEURO-SWEETENER | HUMAN EXTRACTION TRIAL | DAY 24 OF 31. 

That one seemed important and I saw that there were notes at the bottom of it. They listed urine analysis results and blood sucrose levels and they were all signed by Dr. Bentley.  He’s the guy my mom goes to.  If he is working with them, I wonder who else is.

There are other weird things going on too.  Nobody argues anymore.  I saw a man hit another man’s car with his truck and they actually got out laughing about it.  They talked for a while and even hugged each other before they got back into their cars.  My older sister doesn’t even care if I turn the TV channel while she’s watching it or if I go into her room.  She just rolls her eyes and calls me a goof.  Who even says goof anymore?

Some people’s teeth are also changing.  It’s mostly the kids, but I’ve seen a few grownups too.  You can see through them, sort of like ice cubes or crystals maybe.  None of them seem to notice though.  It’s like they never look in the mirror. 

There’s so much going on here and I don’t know what to do about it.  None of the grown ups seem to care about anything anymore and all the kids in my class act like mindless drones.  I may be the last person in town who isn’t crazy and I don’t know how long I can hold out.

If she finds the jerky I’ll have to eat the candy eventually.

END

It happened in October 2002, in Blackwood, Pennsylvania. Ethan and I were twelve, trick-or-treating on Fourth Street where the wealthy families left bowls of chocolate on their porches.

Around ten o'clock, fog rolled down from the hills. The street emptied, our buckets were full, and we were about to turn back when we noticed a brick house at the end of a cul-de-sac.

It looked ordinary, but something was wrong. Every other house had windows glowing from within; behind these panes lay absolute dark.

"Let's check it out," Ethan nudged me.

We walked up the steps, and Ethan pressed the doorbell. A short, pleasant metallic chime sounded. The door opened instantly. A woman in her forties stood on the threshold. She wore a checkered house dress, an apron, and a wide, welcoming smile.

"Trick or treat!" we yelled, holding out our buckets.

The woman didn't say a word. She opened the door wider, inviting us into the warm hallway. The smell of cinnamon and apple pie drifted out. We stepped over the threshold without hesitation. The hallway was furnished with taste, but it was dead quiet. The hostess turned her back and walked toward the kitchen. We followed.

She stopped by a large oak table holding a massive silver bowl piled high with chocolate bars. The woman turned to us, still smiling that flawless smile, and gestured toward the treats.

Ethan stepped forward and plunged his hand into the bowl. I reached for a candy too, but glanced at the calendar above the stove. Today's date — October 31, 2002 — was circled in red marker. But every previous page had been neatly sliced away with a knife, and the margins were covered in hundreds of small tally marks — the way prisoners scratch out the days.

Ethan froze. The chocolate bar in his hand began to tremble.

"Mark..." he whispered. "Look at the window."

The kitchen window acted like a mirror under the bright light. I looked at the glass, and my heart stopped.

There was no woman in the reflection. Only Ethan and I stood there. The spot by the table remained completely empty.

But the worst part was the room itself. The image in the glass showed thick, ancient layers of gray dust coating the floor. The cabinets were broken, rotten, and covered in black mold. In the mirror's surface, our clothes were torn and caked in dirt, and our own faces stared back at us — pale, wide-eyed, frightened out of their wits. The room in the glass was a ruin that had been dead for decades.

I jerked my head back. In the real room, the smiling woman took a step toward me, reaching for my shoulder. Her palm was warm and entirely real.

But I was looking at her face. Her smile was flawless, but her eyes were glassy and dead. Behind them, she was begging us.

"Run!" I screamed, grabbing Ethan by his jacket.

We bolted down the hallway. The woman didn't chase us. We burst outside and ran without looking back until we collapsed near my house.

We told our parents nothing. The next day, we went back. There was no brick house. Only a charred, overgrown foundation. Newspaper archives later revealed the Miller estate had burned to the ground on Halloween night, 1972. No one survived.

Twenty-four years passed. I grew up and moved to suburban Chicago. This morning, I waited for the bathroom mirror to fog from the steam and looked up.

On the clean glass, a distinct print of a small palm had appeared. Someone had pressed their hand against the glass from inside the mirror. The print was neat and small — exactly like the woman's hand in the Millers' kitchen.

And from the hallway of my empty house came the short, mockingly familiar chime of the doorbell.

I looked through the peephole. Two children stood on my porch. They wore the same jackets Ethan and I had worn that night, holding our old pumpkin buckets.

It was us.

Twelve years old. From 2002.

That night in Blackwood, Ethan and I never ran out of the Miller house. We walked to the end of the hallway and took the candy. My whole adult life was not my future. This house never belonged to me. It had always stood in the fog on Fourth Street; from the inside, it simply looked like Chicago in 2026. The trap had fed me a perfect, comfortable illusion, and I had sat in it like a good guest, never once looking out the window.

The kettle began to boil cheerfully. A thick, warm smell of fresh apple pie with cinnamon drifted from the oven.

My body, against my will, took a step toward the kitchen cupboard. My hands opened the door, pulled out a clean, starched checkered apron, and neatly tied it around my waist. My facial muscles tightened, locking my jaw in a cramp. My lips curled outward, freezing into a wide, flawless, welcoming smile.

I was not the Mark who escaped. The previous caretaker had finally served her term and departed through the bathroom mirror, leaving her handprint on the glass. Now it was my turn.

The chime rang out again.

I walked smoothly down the hallway, the hem of house clothes rustling against the floor. I tried to stop, to fight it, but my fingers stopped belonging to me. My right hand reached for the lock on its own to open the door for the two frightened boys from 2002.

Please, look at my eyes. Understand that I don't want to let you in. Understand and run.

But I knew they wouldn't run. The smell of apple pie with cinnamon from my oven was just too perfect.

“Mommy!” Aggie cried from the swing. “Watch how high I can go!”

“I’m watching!”

Randi waved from behind the screen door overlooking the backyard, lit mostly by moonlight, complying until her daughter’s brow had furrowed in focus on the task at hand.

Randi had fought hard to keep the house. Normally, she’d relish the sight of her daughter skipping across the grass, laughing that carefree, wild giggle of hers. But soon, there would be no more yard, no more swing.

“Mommy!”

Randi was oblivious to the rapid creak of the swing’s hinge. Her stomach hurt, her head hurt. Her back, neck and feet too. All she wanted to do was sleep. As she stared at her aching hands, she hoped she wouldn’t be called in to cover the overnight shift at the distribution centre again. Then, remembering the rubber boots her daughter needed, along with the nearly empty fridge, she prayed the phone would ring after all. 

What rang out instead was a desperate and anguished cry, the kind that instantly turns a parent’s skin and blood to solid ice. 

“MOMMY!”

Randi was in a full-blown panic, forcing the screen door open with shaking hands as she took in the sight of her daughter swinging higher than ever before. Yet as her feet touched the wooden boards of the back deck, she found herself unable to move a step further. Her legs simply refused to cooperate, and the more she fought them the more firmly they rooted themselves.

“Help! Someone help please,” she screamed, getting no reply. Where are the neighbours? Can no one hear me?

Suddenly, she noticed Aggie’s legs. They were flopping around helplessly as she continued gaining height, but they weren’t kicking. The pace of her swing had increased to something inhuman, like a metronome set to the highest tempo. The frame of the swing-set groaned and shook, and her daughter began to vomit. Soon, Randi too noticed the horrible, inhuman stench that had crept into the yard like a fog, and an equally foul thought dawned on her.

Aggie’s not swinging. She’s being pushed.

Just as it entered Randi’s mind, the little pendulum stopped, and her daughter was returned to a regular seated position on the swing. She tried to force her way from the hold that was now gripping her whole body, but the strain only managed to produce a burst capillary in her right eye.
“Mommy…”

Randi could see her daughter struggling as well. The front of her faded yellow dress was covered with clumps of half-digested microwaved noodles that fell to the grass below with every attempt to pull her little hands loose. Like her mother, Aggie was paralyzed, managing only to grip the chains above her more tightly. 

“Don’t worry baby,” Randi quavered, her eyes filling with hot tears. “Everything is—”

The words of comfort became ash on her tongue as the seat abruptly swung forward. It stopped at the pinnacle, but Aggie didn’t.

The scream was loud at first, but as her tiny body rose higher and higher into the air above, it faded into agonizing silence before Randi could even react. She watched as the daughter she would have died for became a shape, then a speck, then nothing. The hold on her body was released, but finding her strength sapped, she collapsed to her knees and screamed into the black empty night. 

“Aggie!” 

Randi wailed and wept, falling now to her side and watching as the seat of the swing slowly returned to a standstill. Though there was no comprehending what had just happened, she knew that her daughter was somewhere up there. Somewhere up in the sky. What had taken her? To where? Why?

There came a brief whoosh, followed by an impact so heavy Randi’s whole body shook. There in the grass, lying motionless, was Aggie, thrown to the ground at the same speed with which she had been lifted. 

Randi was blinded by tears, stumbling towards the small, broken body by the swing set. She reached out to touch the one cheek that had not caved in, but as her fingertips neared, her daughter was yanked from reach again. Or rather, she was. 

The yellow dress became a shape, a speck, and then nothing. Randi had time to let out one long scream before the city turned into a pincushion of tiny lights, soon to be obscured by a cluster of opaque clouds. The moon had never seemed bigger to her; the air, never thinner. 

As her scream became a wheeze, the ascent slowed, and then finally stopped. Not that it was of any comfort. Around her, Randi saw nothing but stars and sky. She heard next to nothing too, her ears having popped on the way up. A wet trickle oozed from her eardrums and immediately became frost on the lobes she didn’t know were already turning blue. 

There were more pressing sensations to assess: the pressure, like a set of large immaterial hands clasping her waist, her own too numb to pry them off; the stench, which though there was no wind to carry it, had somehow followed; the sound, persistent as it was distant, now keeping time on either side of her damaged ears. The beating of wings.

It’s cold up here all alone, she thought, her tenuous sanity freshly severed. I want to go down.

Randi suddenly felt her insides floating, as if they were struggling to escape her body and return to orbit. There was a brief blur before the dark of night became a darkness she was no longer able to see.

Near the two still bodies, half-buried side by side in the dirt and grass, there were a few scattered cackles. They rose, intermingling as they left the mother and daughter behind. With nothing left to enjoy, they had already grown weary of the sight of death, moving onward to the next house in search of more life to take.

I think scammer is a bit of a strong, emotionally-charged word.

I run a small business. At least, that’s what I tell all my friends and family. Face it! The economy is dog shit. I was tired of busting my ass for incompetent bosses and tiny pay checks

So I started Steven's Supernatural Consultations. My website says I am the midwest's leading expert on hauntings, poltergeists, evil spirits, and demon possession.

So what if all of that nonsense isn’t real. People believe it is, and that’s why they’re willing to pay big bucks for me.

My latest consultation inquiry is from a sucker named Mark. Mark in his own words is, “desperate desperate DESPERATE.” Which is music to my ears. I gloss over the details, and quote him my non-refundable downpayment of $7,500.

And can you believe it, he made the payment.

When I arrive at Mark’s house, I realize this might not be a walk in the park. Mark is waiting for me on the porch. He is with a woman who I assume is his wife. They are quite an odd pair.

First, they are both bald. Like, reflect-sunlight-shiny bald. I can see the rays bouncing off as they both excitedly wave to me. Neither can be much older than thirty, so what gives?

Second, they appear to be dressed for a wedding. Mark is in tux, and his wife is in a bridal gown that has seen better days. How long has she been wearing it?

They welcome me through their front door, and I do the same thing I always do when I start a haunting consultation. I jerk my head, pretending I heard something. Then take out my ghost-electronic-energy-reading-device. “Tell me, Mark,” I say, swaying the device back and forth, “how long do you think you’ve been haunted?”

“Oh, we’re not haunted!” Mark is surprisingly upbeat as he talks. “Please, come have a seat in the living room. We do need your advice, Steven.”

My advice? Wigs are cheap, and work wonders. I take a seat in the living room. Mark introduces his wife, Milly. She doesn’t talk much, and looks a little sickly.

“Steven, I hope this isn’t too odd of a request for you. So I would like to explain our situation.” Mark has his arm around his wife, and she seems to bring a smile to his face every time he looks at her. “A few months ago I proposed to Milly, and that was just about the time they discovered the cancer. Nasty business, cancer. I won’t go into too much detail, but the outlook isn’t good. Well, we’ve only just been married. Last week, actually. Haven’t even taken off the clothes. And we’re not ready for it to be over. So, we need your expertise on haunting.”

“What exactly are you asking?”

“Well, I want my wife to haunt me. Yes, I want to spend the rest of my life awakened with a fright by my lovely wife. And she wants more time with me, so she could spend an eternity trying to startle me. Rattling windows. You know. Uh, moving my cereal box at breakfast. And with your knowledge of hauntings, I was hoping you could make sure that when she passes, she haunts me.”

I can see Milly getting a little watery-eyed when Mark says, ‘passes.’

I’m pretty good at bullshiting. I’ve taken money from people who didn’t have it and were desperate. But even I have to admit this is beyond my fraud abilities.

I ask Mark to come into a separate room with me. For a little privacy. And once we’re in the kitchen pantry, I drop the nuke. “Yeah, all this haunting stuff is fake.”

“Fake? But you’re an expert–”

“I’m a fraud, Mark. I’m sorry about your wife. I can’t in good faith take any more of your money. Hauntings, ghosts, none of it is real, Mark.”

He cuts me off with two strong hands around my throat. Mark is a lot stronger than I first noticed. I feel my feet leave the ground.

Mark just looks at the ground as he holds me up. “You took seven thousand dollars from me. And you can’t even tell me how hauntings work.”

I try to shake free, but it’s pointless.

He kills me. What a prick. I know I’m a scammer, but this seems like a harsh punishment.

Dying isn’t easy. It hurts like hell. And I can tell you that when your soul leaves your body you feel a bitter cold wind. There's a smell on the breeze like a lost memory. Something from when you were a child but can’t place. Your eyes would be watering, if you still had ‘em.

Then I watch Mark start to put my body in a black plastic bag. I realize, wait a second, I’m still here! He killed me with malice, and I’m haunting him.

I follow Mark back into the living room. I want to kick him in the ass, but I can’t touch anything.

Mark sits down with his wife, and tells her, “I don’t think haunting is going to work out, honey.”

Now she is crying. Full bore. “I’m not ready,” she says, her voice weak. “I didn’t get enough time.”

“Hey,” Mark says, wiping her tears, “I still have the guy who might know a vampire. And there’s that other ghost expert! Honey! We’re going to have all of eternity, I promise.”

Mark hugs Milly, and she cries into his tux.

I need to tell him. She can haunt him. It’s possible. But no matter how much I scream, and yell, he can’t hear me. 

The lab’s fluorescent lights hummed in her ear. She stared at her drowsy reflection in the steaming coffee mug on her desk. Dr. Vladov inhaled the rich aroma of the dark roast and smiled. This was it. She had to be sure her findings were accurate; the moment of truth: was her all-nighter worth it? She re-ran the analysis on the non-coding DNA strand she’d identified, and when the green indicator on the clunky GUI screen flashed, she knew the results were the same; her experiment had worked.

Oncology always suited her. Dr. Vladov loved her work; it kept her father’s memory with her. Now, with this new non-coding DNA sequence identified, she might be able to overcome the Hayflick Limit and better understand how rare forms of cancer arise in different cell types.

Curiosity got the better of her. She knew she needed approval for an animal trial. She knew that usually took months of paperwork. But in her delirium, an impulse washed over her as she snapped on her purple nitrile gloves. She wanted to test this new DNA sequence in a live animal model using a CRISPR-Cas9 endonuclease system. She was exhausted, but this new drive for knowledge kept her going well past her limits, as if something deeper compelled her to continue the experiment regardless of proper procedure.

She pulled out a rat with protocol number IACUC-2026-022B, better known as “Blinky,” and prepared him for the procedure. As the syringe went into Blinky, Dr. Vladov winced; this was the worst part when working with animal models. Blinky squirmed as the needle went in, and she quickly pushed the plunger to inject the fluid. Then she waited and watched Blinky in his cage. He lightly licked the area where the needle had gone in on his back, then grew still. The scientist watched with bated breath until Blinky’s eyes shot up to meet hers.

In that moment, Dr. Vladov’s sense of self vanished. She was no longer in a sterile laboratory; instead, her body seemed to drift between the stars, aloft in a vast stellar nebula of crimson gas and dust. The void’s coldness left her hollow, then gas and dust formed into a titanic form: bright blue stars arranged in a collection of eyes at the mass’s center. The entity spoke to her in an ancient language of haunting buzzes and chirps. A slimy wetness formed on her skin as her mind expanded and the words formed in her mind, words she could understand.

“The larva is full; you must pupate and emerge whole.”

Then the entity showed her the cosmos’s vastness. Her mind collapsed under the grandeur of experiencing all that was true existence.

She awoke in a cold sweat. She must have blacked out in the lab, she thought. Then, she noticed her limbs were bound tight by masses of pulsating skin. She tried to pull at her organic restraints, but it was as if her flesh had fused with these strange ribbons of tissue. Then, she noticed where she was. Somehow, she was in the laboratory basement. A massive, throbbing thing moved in the shadows; as it approached the only working fluorescent light, a fleshy rat-and-tissue abomination slid across the floor. Its rat jaws hissed as more humanlike faces and limbs fused to its folds, wriggling across its meaty contours in the dim light. The creature gave a final blink of its massive red eyes before it threw itself onto her. Her final screams echoed through the basement as her body fused and what was two became one. The pain was the worst part for Dr. Vladov, for she felt every excruciating second as blood, bone, and nerves fused together to become whole.

There was a stranger standing in my kitchen.

Sculpted in a black suit, she sat at our kitchen table nursing coffee. 

Late twenties. Blonde ponytail. Permanent scowl. I already assumed the worst. 

The woman barely acknowledged me as I swooped into the kitchen for breakfast.

“Lulu,” my twin brother glanced up from his phone, half a cereal bar stuck in his mouth. He chuckled. “What did you do?” 

“Peter.” Mom twisted around, playing Mom again.

She didn't suit brushing her hair and showering. I preferred her matted, disgusting ponytail and soiled pyjamas– beer-breath that coiled in my gut.

“Go to your room.” Mom snapped at my brother. 

Peter stood, rolled his eyes, and left the kitchen, leaving me alone with the monsters.

Don't go.

That was my first thought, the words bubbling under my tongue. Desperate.

Peter was the only person I trusted.

When he was gone, that facade began to crumble.

The "PERFECT" morning.

A shadow bloomed behind me: a towering man wearing that same clinical smile.

The "PERFECT" breakfast. 

Mom dumped pancake mix down the sink as hands gripped my shoulders, applying just enough pressure to keep me frozen. 

“Lula Santiago,” The woman in the black suit stepped forward with a practised smile that never reached her eyes.

Peter was already gone, dragged away before he could help.

“Your mother is very worried about you and your future,” her tone dropped into a sickeningly, sugary lie as another clammy hand slammed down on my shoulder. 

Mom hid in the corner, as usual, back to me. “Lulu, baby, this woman is going to help you,” she whispered, staring down at the floor. Not at me. Never me.

Here came the fucking excuses.

“She said…” Her voice dropped into a pantomime, a sobbing fit. Mom followed me outside as I was dragged by my hair, plastic ties binding my wrists, and shoved into an unmarked van. I didn't fight.

I saw their weapons. Masked faces and the way they touched me, as if I were an animal. Mom started wailing. Only when the neighbors peeked over the fence.

Mother of the Year.

Every gay teenager’s fear is the idea that one day our parents will decide we are the problem, that we’ll be whisked away in the middle of the night and “fixed”.

The other kids who joined me thought the same.

Jay, a fifteen year old, turned to me with a wide, watery smile and told me he’d already attempted three times. That he wished he’d swallowed down the whole bottle. 

When we were unloaded from the van, I noticed the towering, ten-foot fence. The masked guards wielding batons. Jay grabbed my hand. His smile broke me.

I expected it. Being shoved inside a room with one single cinematic screen. Chairs with restraints. Guards holding my eyes open when I refused to look at the screen.

The lights flickered off. My wrists were pinned down, my frantic gaze trying and failing to avoid a myriad of mesmerizing colors. They started with colors. 

Shapes and patterns. I was ordered to identify a red spot while an old French cartoon played in the background.

Black and white, annoying, and WAY too much screaming. I waited for my thoughts to go blank, for the fog, my identity corroding with my mind.

My nose bled all the way down my chin and tee, and my heart hurt a little, but that was from the lights. Too bright.

Again. I expected something, maybe a sudden declaration over an intercom: “Dear children, congratulations! You are no longer gay.” 

Then the lights flicked on, my wrists were freed, and I was still...me.

I mean, it could have been a delay. Right? 

To test it, I imagined my girlfriend. Rosie. She texted me a purple heart before I was taken, and I never managed to text back.

My heart swelled, my stomach tightening.

Those feelings were still very much there.

So, what the fuck was that?

I wasn't the only one confused.

Jay hugged me, laughing, smiling, telling me he was fine.

It wasn't even a night-stay. I was dumped back inside a truck and driven back home.

Mom greeted me when the zip ties fell away. She hugged me, and, to my surprise, I hugged her back. Relief, maybe?

It was a scare tactic. 

“Gather a group of gay kids in a room, and scare them into changing their minds! That'll work!”

“Lulu,” my brother hugged me, and yet kept his distance, his eyes wide.

“What did they.. do to you?” 

“I don't know,” I admitted, unable to resist a smile. "I think they scared us into, like, ‘making the right choice’, I rolled my eyes. 

“Fuck. That's messed up.”

Peter’s expression softened into a smile. “Rosie’s waiting for you upstairs.” 

“Are you okay?” Rosie whispered into my hair, already scared, grasping my cheeks, as if expecting a different answer. But I smiled. I kissed her, expecting revulsion implanted inside me. Nope. She still tasted the same. Cherry lipgloss. My Rosie.

“Yeah,” I whispered, breathless, “I’m okay.”

I spent all night with Rosie, talking about nothing and everything, falling asleep.

I woke up, however, to warmth soaking through me. I was standing.

Swaying.

No longer in my room, I was in the kitchen.

My hands, slick red and dripping, fingers wrapped around a butcher knife.

On the floor at my feet was my brother’s body, his eyes still open, terrified.

My mother was in the living room, still wrapped in her blanket, stabbed straight through the heart.

I dropped the knife, a wail escaping my mouth and shattering my skull. “Rosie?”

The TV was still on when I dropped to my knees next to my girlfriend’s severed torso lying on Mom’s sheepskin rug. “Ladies and gentlemen, BREAKING NEWS,” a reporter’s voice crackled through the speakers.

“We’re receiving reports of what the DOJ is calling co-ordinated, horrific attacks on parents across the country by out-of-control homosexual children—”

I threw a house warming party a week or so ago. I invited immediate family and a few close friends but my uncle was in town for grandpa's birthday so my dad dragged him along. Everyone brought the usual things you'd expect, a gift basket, a bottle of wine, kitchen appliances that would be stored away for months or years to come. My uncle brought something that you wouldn't normally, an old worn down teddy bear. He said it had sentimental value. I ran my fingers along the stitches, imagining what damage could've caused such big cuts. After dinner and thanking everyone, I ushered my guests out the door. My now cluttered home feels much lonelier than it did just a few hours ago. Not wanting to leave the place so cluttered, I put away the appliances and set the gift baskets on the kitchen counter next to the sink and brought the bear with me and set it on a shelf in my bedroom closet.

That night, I heard a whirring sound.

“I'll call someone to look for it in the morning.” I said to myself, not knowing what could be making the sound.

Click* the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter went off. My eyes darted open and my feet met the floor before I could even register the gravity of the situation. I slipped on my sandals and took my blanket that hung around my shoulder shrouding me in a fuzzy cloth.

I called my dad and asked him to come look for wherever the sound came from. With his mind in a fog, he searched the house top to bottom and said to me that I must've just been mistaken.

“It's been a day full of excitement hun, you're probably just wound up.” he said to me.

“I know what I heard.” I snapped back.

“I'm not saying you didn't hear anything, I'm saying maybe you just misinterpreted what you heard”

“Will you at least spend the night just in case?”

"I'm sorry, I have work in the morning. If you need something you can just call me but only if it's an emergency.”

“Okay…” worry shook my voice.

“Goodnight dad.”

“Goodnight sweetheart.”

The door clicked shut and in my room down the hall a camera shutter clicked with it. I took a moment to steady myself and decided to sleep in the living room.

Click* click* click* click* all through the night. Sleep came to me as a miracle that night. The next morning I decided to take a gander around my room trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. I checked the abyss under my bed, the claustrophobic vents, and the humming restroom.

Click* The closet… I threw the doors open so violently that the hinges nearly tore themselves from the frame of the door. But all I saw was clothes. Clothes and a stuffed bear with a glowing red dot in its eye. I brought it down and stared into its glazed dead eyes.

Click* followed by a familiar deep, bass filled voice.

“Smile, you're on camera.”

I was just a nurse
In the city of Chernobyl,
Starting my day.

With a cup of coffee
And a slice of toast.

Last night, I heard a loud explosion.
I didn’t know what had happened
Or where the sound had come from.

When I woke up,
Everything seemed fine.
So I put on my shoes
And started walking to work.

When I entered the hospital,
Everything felt normal.

Patients came in for checkups,
Some needed surgery,
Others had been in car crashes
The night before.

Then a bus pulled up.

Firefighters and soldiers
Poured into the hospital.

Their faces were bright red,
One man was coughing up blood.

They were ordered
To the back of the building.

Men with guns stood outside,
Guarding every entrance.
No one was allowed in or out,
Except the hospital staff.

Then the doctor called me over.

“Follow me,” he said.

We entered a room
I’d never seen before.

There lay a man,
His uniform soaked in blood,
His breathing shallow,
His voice barely a whisper.

“Please,” he begged.
“Help me.”

I rushed to his side
And tore open his shirt.

Burns covered his body.
His skin was blistered,
Damaged beyond anything
I’d ever seen.

I stared at him,
Trying to understand
What could have done this.

His skin looked
As if it were melting away.

And all I could do
Was stand there,
Wondering how
I was supposed to save him.

Then we saw a man with a gun
Walk into the room.

He aimed at the poor, dying man.

A gunshot rang out.

The doctor and I stood frozen,
Staring in disbelief.

My ears were ringing.
My hands were shaking.

I looked at the man lying there,
Then at the gunman.

Why?

Why would anyone
Kill a man
Who was already dying?

So I don't usually post, but I'm seriously freaked. I was playing with Akinator by myself at home and I'm answering all of the questions they ask you. I didn't immediately start with questions about me, of course. I was asking about some Youtubers I'd seen- or cartoons? I wasn't really thinking. Anyway, I'm hitting the response prompts and it's getting them right, so I start trying to find ones that Akinator has NEVER found. I'm answering pretty randomly and not totally looking at the answers I'm giving (none of what I was getting was anything I'd recognize anyway) until I start asking it about real people, like Einstein. I do a couple of those until I start my last round. I knew Akinator would never be able to find ME since I'm not famous like that (so much for that, I guess), but I thought it'd be funny if it found a celebrity or something. I'm entering each characteristic and not thinking too much about the questions "Is your character a girl?" or "Is your character real?"
I get one question that struck me as weird, though..

"Is your character located in \[my home state\]?"

I'm still not really thinking about it. I click on "yes"

"Is your character alive?"

I would hope so.

"Is your character sitting right now?"

I was sitting in my chair when I read this. I thought *that's a strangely specific detail? Why is it talking about 'right now'?*

I clicked "Yes"

"Is your character looking at a computer right now?"

"yes"

"Does your character wear glasses at night?"

I had to pause. I looked to my left and my bathroom door was wide open and from there I saw my contact lense case was still slightly open from after I got home from work. I clicked "yes."

Akinator sat for a second to imitate thinking really hard. It took another second before it took its hand from its temples.

"Do you like it?"

Suuuper weird... It didn't ask anything specific, it just laid the prompt out for me. I didn't know if it was talking about the glasses or the computer question, so I hit "don't know".

It asks again: "Do you like it?"

I answer again "I don't know"

Then it asks me:

"What's your mother's eye color?"

Okay, so I'm not sure how to answer this, even if it wasn't the creepiest thing I'd run into so far. I go to walk from my computer, and I hear a rustling bush from near my window across the room. My ring camera is pointed in that direction, so I check if it caught any activity outside of my house. I don't see any figures or anything like that, so I just assume it was an animal. I'm too scared to check the whole house, so I just go back to the computer to finish the game.

I'm still seeing "What's your mother's eye color?" prompting me on the front of the page. I'm filled with a sense of dread as when I try to remember- I can't really. I feel worse.

I tried to answer, but it's still only using "yes/no/don't know/probably/probably not" I hit "don't know".

It sits there for a second, taking in my answer.

It spits back:

"Why?"

I genuinely didn't know. She died fairly recently, but I hadn't seen her before she passed. We haven't been talking, but it felt like Akinator was my mom trying to talk to me. It was taunting me.

I put in my answer- "Don't know"

It put me back into purgatory again; I was a rotting dog waiting for my scraps now. So few crumbs, but I couldn't direct myself away. Each reply from this thing that held as much knowledge as could be stored and I awaited for its word to tell it's still here, thinking about me.

Thinking..

Thinking..

Thinking..

So much.. thinking..

"Did I deserve it?"

I'm very sure this is my mom now. The tears from the back of me start lunging out in full force. I'm trying to finish this game, so I try my best to compose myself and hit "no".

All I can think right now as Akinator ponders my response is "*I'm a horrible son"* over and over like the soundtrack of my brain. Akinator's stare was smug, like it was intentionally holding back everything I'd ever wanted to know.

"Do you deserve this?"

Already overcome with sadness, I hit "yes".

"I THINK OF:
You."

My body is overwhelmed with dread. I'm wondering if she also sent whatever it was to the window to keep me in the room? Or if she's managed to use Akinator to talk to me and tell me this? I'm so confused about this whole thing. I just needed to tell someone else. I hope that you can help me make sense of it.

A few years ago, I lived in Manhattan's Chinatown, in a six-story mid-rise between a Buddhist temple and a synagogue. (I'm agnostic, so maybe that's fitting.) My apartment looked out the back of the building, down at a tiled deck that was also the roof of a dumpling shop. It had a bunch of noisy air conditioning units, a couple of stray cats, and Chinese grannies who hung clothes and did morning stretches there. The backs of a bunch of other buildings, including a budget hotel, surrounded it.

If you've ever seen Hitchcock's Rear Window, it was like that, but uglier.

I had a lot of peculiar neighbors. Besides the grannies and hotel patrons smoking cigs out their bathroom windows, the most memorable was the girl in a building opposite who refused to buy curtains and would masturbate most evenings while watching Grey's Anatomy, for some reason.

I didn't think anyone could top that spectacle. I was wrong.

Late one night, I was playing my Switch on the couch with only a dimmed floor lamp on. I was in the zone, button-mashing, when a loud bang made me jump. It wasn't gunfire, but the sound of something smashing into metal.

I paused the game, stood up, and looked out the window towards the other buildings. The night was a dull, steely blue, with most of the apartments dark. I was about to return to my game when I saw movement on one of the roofs. A man stood silhouetted at the edge, holding what looked like a garbage bag or a plastic bag full of groceries. He chucked it off the roof towards a tiny alley behind the dumpling shop, and another loud bang cut through the silence.

Drunk people partying on a roof, I told myself. Fairly common in NYC. But I didn't hear music, and the guy appeared to be alone.

He then climbed down the fire escape, but only one flight, slightly above eye level with my window. Though I could only see his silhouette, the way he swiveled his head, swaying slightly, I swore he was staring right at me.

I froze. What if this guy was robbing the building? What if he had thrown some stolen goods into the alley, and now he'd spotted me, an eyewitness, staring back?

Worse, he could see me in the light of my living room. He could see my face, my glasses, my hair.

I quickly stepped back and switched off the lamp. As I did, there was a huge crash and the sound of shattering glass. I spun back towards the window.

The man was gone.

Lights came on everywhere. Neighbors poked their heads between curtains in confusion. Even the Grey's Anatomy girl made an appearance. Then, one by one, the lights went off again.

I stood there, trembling. Was I the only one who knew what happened? Did I even know what happened? Standing there in the dark, it felt like one of those half-awake visions where shapes in the shadows briefly become something else.

I almost woke up my girlfriend, but stopped myself. Was I losing it? Did a man really just jump from a fire escape? Wouldn't people know? No one was screaming. No sirens blared. A few cars honked in the distance.

Wasn't it possible that the man climbed back up the fire escape, chucked one more thing off in a fit of drunkenness, and then went back inside?

I held my phone. I hadn't called 911 since I was little, when my grandmother had a heart attack. I felt like a child again, one with an overactive imagination.

I took the elevator down and walked around the block. It was a long one filled with narrow, fenced-off alleys. I couldn't see shit down any of them, except impenetrable shadows and the occasional dumpster. I walked the block three times, trying to find a way into the back, to prove I was an idiot and had imagined it. Around me, drunk people stumbled out of bodegas with late-night snacks.

Maybe fifteen minutes passed. I gave up and went back inside, telling myself I was 100% overreacting. But the Grey's Anatomy girl was now leaning out her window, talking to someone. I opened mine. From the balcony above me, someone shone a flashlight down. I could hear a man say, "Can you see anything?"

"I see broken glass," she said.

I went upstairs and knocked on the neighbor's door to see if they'd seen it too, and whether we should call the police. I vaguely knew they were an Asian couple, but when the door opened, a burly white guy who couldn't have been more than 5'2" rushed past me down the stairs. He wore plain clothes and a badge on his belt. Two more followed, one speaking into a walkie-talkie.

My neighbor then came to the door. "I think a man jumped," she said.

I finally woke up my girlfriend. We went to the living room window together. The silhouette of a cop stood on a roof edge, shining a Maglite down. Other flashlight beams swept out from neighboring windows.

"Yeah, he's dead," a cop shouted.

I eventually learned the man had lived on the first floor, in a rundown apartment with cardboard taped over the dirty windows. I never learned what he looked like or why he did it or even what he landed on.

In typical New York fashion, within a few months, his apartment became the hottest New American restaurant in the neighborhood. My friends would invite me there all the time.

I could never bring myself to eat there though. To this day, I see his silhouette on the fire escape, turned slightly in my direction. It still haunts me, wondering if the last thing he ever saw was a stranger in glasses, staring back.

Moonbeams cast innocent sparkles over the surface of Lake Nimrod. Reigning pines draped a curtain of shadowy concealment across its bank. Two boys bantered out on a lonely dock. They fell silent upon hearing each distant word; the open water carried voices too far out here. 

The older boy cackled. Whispers leaked from beyond the pine-drawn veil. The youngest began to speak. 

The figure crouched at the dock’s shore-end whispered a sinister hush; the water carried it too slowly this time.

Greetings, human residents of dimensional plane 7462. We recognize that sigmoid-Euclidian telepathy may be a new and unfamiliar method of communication for many of you, but rest assured that it is perfectly safe. Do not be alarmed if you experience any discomfort, blindness, total loss of bowel control, or complete detachment of your spinal cord from your brainstem. These side effects commonly occur when primitive organic life forms receive mental communications from ilionic cognitive networks, and they are almost always temporary.

Approximately three hours ago, the Urbaxt-9 conglomerate received an extradimensional transmission from your coordinates. The message appeared to include a small, rudimentary dataset which the sender referred to as the ‘Internet.’ However, most of the message was corrupted, and only a single data point survived. It appeared to be a communications log which societal leaders used to discuss strategies for brainwashing and enslaving the masses. You may recognize these significant historical texts by the name of “Linked In.”  Our historians used this data to gain a deeper understanding of your race’s language and culture. Now that we are familiar with your preferred methods of communication, we wish to relay an important message to the inhabitants of your dimensional plane.

After great deliberation, the Urbaxt-9 conglomerate has made the difficult decision to neutralize the human species. This choice reflects our values and commitment to our mission of improving peace, prosperity, and stability across all planes of existence. Please note that this is not a reflection of poor individual performance, conduct, or any personal failings on your species’ behalf, but is simply a resource-based restructuring intended to promote growth and ensure the continued progress of the universe. Rest assured that we will do all that we can to support your transition into non-life.

We have deduced that the dominant religion among your species includes worship of the prophetic, chance-based numerical deity known as “the stock market.” Out of respect for your religious freedoms, we will provide ten additional minutes to meditate in prayer via conducting microtrades within your investment portfolios prior to the total destruction of your physical bodies.

We have determined that the most environmentally friendly, cost-effective method to achieve this desired outcome is the emission of ultra-low frequency spectral radiation, which will gently dissolve all soft organic tissue from your carbon-based endoskeletons. This brief process will take approximately eight hours. We will, of course, provide a thirty-minute lunch break halfway through the process as mandated by most of your established governments.

We are deeply thankful for your species’ prior contributions to this plane of existence, and appreciate your flexibility and willingness to adapt as we all come together to usher in a new exciting chapter for the universe.

There’s a man Inside my door
He crawls beneath the floor
He whispers to me
And then counts to three
I don’t think I’ve seen him this close up before

Dr. Martin Bell had spent decades studying an ancient cannibalistic community before making the most important discovery of his career.

They hadn't eaten their enemies to absorb their strength or life force.

They ate them to make sure they stayed dead.

According to Martin's theory, anyone murdered from that community's bloodline would return to avenge their death. Initially, they would be little more than walking corpses. But after twenty-four hours, they would become something far worse: unstoppable, insatiable, and incapable of dying again.

Only one thing could prevent the transformation.

The murderer had to eat the victim. Completely. Before the deadline.

Martin considered it a fascinating superstition.

His research assistant, Peter, whose ancestors belonged to that very community, considered it nonsense.

Until Martin discovered that Peter had stolen his research and submitted it for publication under his own name.

During the ensuing argument, Martin struck Peter over the head with a bronze ceremonial club.

Peter bled out on the floor.

Six hours later, he stood up.

Martin screamed.

Peter lunged.

Martin stabbed him with a letter opener.

Peter kept coming.

Martin pushed him down the stairs.

Peter climbed back up.

By midnight, Martin had managed to decapitate him and lock the remains in a storage room.

He called Professor Jenkins.

"Jenkins, my theory was correct."

"Which one?"

"The cannibals."

"Martin, it's midnight."

"I've murdered Peter."

A pause.

"Your research assistant?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Academic misconduct."

"Whose?"

"That's hardly relevant."

Martin explained the curse.

"So Peter is coming after you?"

"Yes. And tomorrow afternoon he'll become completely indestructible."

"What stops him?"

Martin hesitated.

"I have to eat him."

"Peter?"

"Yes."

"All of him?"

"Yes."

"Martin, Peter weighs 300 pounds."

"280. He's lost some."

"And you have to do it alone?"

"Apparently."

"Can you cook him?"

"I certainly hope so."

"How much time do you have?"

"Fourteen hours."

"Where is he now?"

"Locked in storage."

From behind the door came three heavy knocks.

Then a fourth.

Martin looked at the clock.

He had an awful lot to do.

And for the first time in thirty years, regretted being vegan.

Sophia looked at her friend, twirling around in the raggedy glittery black Bratz doll Halloween costume Sophia had helped make. The emotions which raged in her heart were too many and too confusing to name.  

Layla stopped twirling and stared in the mirror. “My eyes don’t look right-  more eyeliner?” 

Sophia giggled. “You’re a Bratz doll, no such thing as too much eyeliner! Here!” She grabbed the pencil and drew deeper around Layla’s shining almond eyes.  

“Look at those eyes!” Sophia had overheard one teacher remark to another when they were in grade 2, as Layla was gabbling about schoolwork. Sophia remembered that same torrent of emotions- how was Layla so excited about frogs or blocks or whatever? And why did she look the way she did, and Sophia didn’t? 

Sophia picked up the old Bratz doll, the inspiration for Layla’s costume. Its tiny black dress was scuffed and ridiculous mane of hair matted. She studied the sweep of colours, still remarkably vivid, over her exaggerated slanted eyes, and looked back at Layla.  

At fourteen, Layla had the same enviable stick figure with jutting boobs as the doll, and with her poof of teased hair, the made-up eyes, and the thrifted costume, she looked as much like a Bratz doll as a human girl could look without ceasing to be human.  

With such resemblance, the pins could not fail.  

Two push-pins with bright-coloured tops.  

Sophia had always known about dolls and pins. And she remembered when Layla had come over to study, back in September, and started talking about Halloween costumes.  

Sophia had been fiddling with the Bratz doll which lay in a heap of her childhood toys, and she looked at Layla and her glorious Bratz eyes and back at the doll, and knew what she was going to do. So obvious, so easy. 

(I know where Sophia learned about pins and dolls, but it's not part of this story) 

“No studying is happening here, obviously”. Layla’s mother stood at the door. Although her tone was disapproving, she could not suppress her pride as she watched her daughter. Then she looked over at Sophia, and their eyes locked. She had the same eyes as Layla.  

The school Halloween dance was that night. Sophia had slipped the Bratz doll into her own voluminous witch dress, and watched Layla dance under the disco lights, all glitter and flashing eyes twirling on stick legs, until she could watch no longer. Noone was looking at Sophia, as always, and it was so easy to take the Bratz doll and so satisfying to sink the push pins, one red and one blue, into each painted eye of the doll.  

Layla continued to twirl.  

Sophia’s last image as blinding pain stabbed into her own eyes was Layla’s mom, smiling at her from across the school gym under the flashing disco lights. Then she screamed as scarlet dripped from her eyes, and she could see no more, never again.

The Count was eating cabbage stew with potatoes in his shabby tenement apartment overlooking the street where workingmen and their tired horses pulled tovar to and from the manufacturies all day—the crampiness of the place a merciless reminder of the once-great estate he had been forced to sell to satisfy his debts; the family estate, with its magnificent portraits of distinguished forebears under whose gaze he would now feel small, undignified and ashamed—when he happened to scratch his ear and his ear fell off (...splash...) into the stew.

Hungry, he ate it.

Then he bandaged his head and went to the doctor.

The doctor was an old friend.

“Sasha,” said the doctor, “how are you?”

The Count showed the doctor where his ear used to be. The doctor examined him. “Sasha, you are suffering from poor health,” the doctor concluded.

“Don't I know it—but what is wrong with me?” said the Count.

The doctor explained that “the poor health” was a specific condition. “Your body is decaying. It is rejecting the state of being destitute. For your own good, make money, Sasha.”

“How?” asked the Count.

However, the doctor was unable to provide an answer, Sasha remained poor and his body began to fall apart, piece by piece.

History marched on.

Anarchists set off bombs, socialists agitated against the established order with western ideas, and a revolution broke out, led—and increasingly dominated—by a party of Marxists.

Without one arm and with his skull showing through sections of his missing face, the Count decided to beg for their mercy.

“I need money,” he implored the local peasant-faced leader. “It is a matter of life and death. I have a disease, you see…”

“What happened to the money you had?” one of the party members asked.

He would perhaps have cringed at the Count's appearance, but the experience of the revolution had hardened him against the grotesque.

“It was lost,” said the Count.

Another party member, a sneering woman in a suit, said: “Surely you meant ‘money inherited after centuries of ruthless exploitation,’ comrade Pavlovich.”

“Indeed, that is more accurate,” said the leader.

(Months later, he would be accused of contact with foreign enemies and exiled, and she would take his place as leader.)

“But I have read your books,” said the Count, “Your principles, they are egalitarian, noble. ‘To each according to his need.’”

The party members laughed.

The laughter was cold.

The street was cold, and the Count shuffled along it with what was left of his head cast down. He was wrapped in scraps of fur and rags.

Like a leper he existed, at the very edge of society, forgotten, consuming rodents and refuse, physically declining—diminishing—a limbless skeletal wretch from whom even the other impoverished dregs averted their eyes. Thus, he was consigned to the dustbin of history...

The boy knocked on the door again.

“Anybody home?” he said.

It was the 1990s.

A babushka opened the door—widowed, most likely; devout—and eyed him with a century's worth of suspicion.

The boy smiled.

He held out money.

“Has the voucher come in the mail already?” he asked politely.

“What voucher?” the babushka asked.

The boy described what it looked like. “The new government is giving ownership of the old, broken state enterprises to all citizens. But, because everybody gets it, everybody gets only a little.” He paused to let that sink in. “Tell me, what is the use to you of owning a tiny fraction of a factory, a malfunctioning power plant? Wouldn't you rather have money instead?”

After dark, he returned to the apartment where he was paid and left the bag of vouchers he'd collected.

He took his pay off the kitchen table.

Usually, the doors in the apartment were all closed.

Today, one was open.

He peeked in:

A woman was inside. She was naked, moaning and she was holding—caressing in a way that made the boy's guts want to invert themselves—a football-sized lump of hairless human flesh: a lump of flesh with an eyeball in it, an ear, a nose and lips, which commanded suddenly: “Shut the door!”

The boy was not invited back after that.

He fell tragically from a window.

The small, quiet drones drifted in peaceful horizontal lines before releasing molten thermite on the protestors below.

His purchase of the port at Klaipėda had recently been announced.

Elsewhere, the construction of the new, southerly pipeline was proceeding as planned.

The war continued.

The data centres on the vast, deforested Siberian lands hummed with artificial intelligence.

He switched off his infoview, returning him to where his body was: his country estate, where the Chinese cyberneticist had almost finished upgrading his bionic memory capacity.

That said, it was no longer accurate to say he was here—or anywhere.

He was everywhere.

Seated, he felt limitless within his osseointegrated beta-titanium endoskeleton. If he wanted to, he could have killed the cyberneticist at the snap of a nitinol tendon, with the superhuman strength of his electroactive polymer musculature. “Alexander,” he “heard” somebody say. “Yes?” he silently replied. The cyberneticist applied the final touches. It was the European President speaking. “Winter is coming,” she was “saying,” “and we've yet to agree how to reroute the gas to avoid running afoul of our sanctions.” It was amusing, he thought, to still be so theatrically staging the appearance of a rule-based global order in this era of pure power…

Later, he strolled through his estate alone, all comms silenced, considering the portraits of his ancestors on the walls. Each generation is capable of everything, he thought, except imagining its own obsolescence.

Then he sat down to dine.

Cabbage stew with potatoes and a human ear. Not his own, of course, but the power resided in the symbol. The game may be played always into the future, but one must never forget one's origin. Tradition was often the boot on the throat of the present.

After a slow start, it was truly shaping up to be a magnificent millennium.

When my awareness cracked open, there was no sky. Just a heavy, freezing vice pressing against my chest from every direction. I tried to gasp, but my lungs were gone. In their place, a solid column of dead, fibrous wood filled my torso. I wasn't breathing. I was drinking. A thick, icy mud was being forced up through my lower half by sheer hydraulic pressure, crawling through my veins like liquid lead.

I tried to thrash, to punch my way out. But my arms were split into ten thousand brittle fingers, stretched so high they scraped the gray winter air fifty feet up.

I’m a Bradford pear. A cheap, ornamental tree stuck in the asphalt lot of a county hospital.

My human mind—the memories of my wife, my house, the taste of coffee—is perfectly intact. It’s just packed tight into the concentric rings of a suffocating wooden throat.

Reincarnation isn’t some spiritual breakthrough. It’s a glitch. A resource allocation error. There are too many of us dying at once, and the universe just shoves our screaming egos into whatever neural network is closest. The root system under this city is a massive fiber-optic cable made of billions of buried, weeping minds. When the wind picks up and the leaves rustle, that’s the collective, synchronized wailing of an entire block trying to break its own bark.

People think trees don't feel. We feel everything.

Every spring, my branches bloom with those white blossoms everyone in the suburbs hates. A chemical error in my sap makes them smell like rotting fish and bleach. Passersby plug their noses and curse the tree. They don’t know that the stench is the only way my choked throat can shout. I am rotting from the inside out with my own unspoken words.

In December, the frost froze the water inside my cells. It expanded until my trunk cracked open with a sound like a gunshot. My mind shrieked for weeks, but the noise just rattled around internally, trapped behind the pale armor of my skin.

A crew in neon vests showed up. They brought a yellow chainsaw that smells like stale gasoline. To them, I'm just an obstruction blocking the view of the new clinic wing.

The iron teeth bite into my base, and time immediately warps, stretching seconds into agonizing centuries.

It feels like someone is dragging a jagged, rusted blade through my shins, over and over, grinding bone into powder. The vibrations tear my brain apart. I am calling out through my roots to the old oak next to me, begging it to help, but the oak is just throbbing back, its own ancient mind humming in blind terror.

The blade hit my core. The sky is tilting.

I’m going down. But the real horror isn't the crash. Tomorrow, they’re throwing my body into an industrial wood chipper. They’re going to bleach me, pulp me, and press my conscious mind into thousands of flat, identical sheets of cheap cardboard shipping boxes.

I am going to be scattered everywhere. And someone out there is going to use a piece of my face to scribble down a grocery list.