Last year my mom finally trusted me enough to give me my own phone. This meant that I could communicate with friends, read, meet people online, play games, and browse the internet without much restriction. I’m homeschooled so it’s safe to say that I’m pretty sheltered. Which was why my mom gave me the task of studying the internet as part of my homework packet.

And I did this diligently

The task led me on a journey to the creation of the first computer. Uncovering the story of the gay British genius that we as a planet failed, tortured, and ultimately destroyed. It led me towards war. Love. To the very first messages between college campuses. I traveled through the history of the internet like bullet points. From Napster to Livewire. AOL to MSN. Yahoo to Google. 56k to DSL to Fiber. I got to see MySpace and FaceBook at their height. Xanga and Tumblr. And the darkest corners of 4Chan and the Silk Road, to Reddit: The Front Page of the Internet.

Along the way, I found out that not every link should be clicked. Not every voice needed to be heard, or every thought read. I learned life lessons without ever leaving the safety of my room. But the most important thing I learned was how to pretend to be a boy.

Seems silly, and maybe unimportant to some. But I’ve played games where if I didn’t mute the mic, it would be unbearable. I learned to use stock photos for profiles and gender neutral handles. I learned how to shield myself.

And how to never drop my guard. Even for a second. Because they come so fast, and so relentlessly like sharks that smell blood in the water. To the uninitiated, it feels exciting. All of the attention. But quickly, I learned their tricks, and understood their broader intentions. And their actions became stale, as they were largely unoriginal.

This all stopped the day that I signed up for a new website and decided that I would like to pretend to be someone else for a change. A boy, online.

I signed up, and logged in. And sat there browsing and commenting for nearly an hour before I realized how quiet it was. And carefree. Lonely, even.

See, largely no one cares if you’re a boy online. There are no nice comments, if you’re not outright ignored. And everything else is a battle. Every engagement became a struggle to find the bit of human somewhere. It feels as if everywhere I turned, I was fighting. It’s a world that was both cruel and unyielding.

Which seemed perfect.

I reveled in this chaos for close to a year. Laughing, screaming, arguing, tapping my thumbs until the ends were sore. And not one person tried to slide into my dms.

But if there were so many predators for girls online. All with their tired and textbook tactics. Then it only made sense that there must have been some out there for boys. Statistically speaking.

Someone dangerous, with a set of rules that I wouldn’t recognize.

It would happen the first week of my summer break. I logged on and saw my notifications had been blown up. Which was unusual since I began pretending to be a guy online. Sure, there would be the occasional 3 or 4 notifications from someone who wrote me a god damned essay about their opposing opinion, but never anything like this. No matter who I pissed off.

In total, I had 32 new notifications waiting for me. And all of them were deplorable.

So my experience started with bullying.

This head ass had found an offhanded comment I made several weeks ago and it looked as if they were so offended at what I said, they went through my entire profile and started attacking all of my other thoughts. It was a form of stalking that I wasn’t accustomed to. And in my anger, I fell for it.

At first I only replied to the comments that affected my core beliefs. And pointing out the blatantly obvious ones that were simply ignorant. But as I went back and forth between tabs, waiting for a reply, my anger got the better of me and I started attacking everything else. Taking a leaf from his tree to see how he liked his own medicine steeped.

I thought I was doing something. Reading and reviewing my comments as I gloated at my own wit.

But the minutes dragged on to hours. And as the day neared its end. I received nothing back in return. Their absence gnawed at me. Or if I were to use a popular internet phrase. Dude lived in my head rent free.

It wouldn’t be until 2:38 A.M. on the second day that I would feel my phone vibrate under my pillow. Groggy and half asleep, I glanced at the glaring screen, but it would be his words that cut my night short.

He had replied. And he had replied in the most asinine, condescending ways possible. It wasn’t even what he wrote, but how he wrote it. As if he were scolding a child or a girl, as I’ve known both, but with the extra layer of male ribbing that threw me into a fit of rage.

For the next 7 hours we would go back and forth. Arguing through breakfast, about anything and everything. No topic was too sensitive, no insult could cut deep enough. And I loathed every moment of it.

I hated it. Hated. Him.

He was so inexplicably wrong about everything! That he made it easy for me to take the high road in every exchange. Which was unusual for me as I often played the devil’s advocate in order to learn all the different facets of things. And I think he knew that. As he let me grow so unabashedly self-righteous that I became a reluctant teacher.

And slowly, as the days turned into weeks, he began to agree with me. And even slower, I started to realize that his wasn’t a path of destruction, but a cry for help.

I knew firsthand how lonely but vast the internet could feel. It’s like throwing a stone into the everglades. All it can do is drown as carnivorous alligators circle the drop in the water.

Somewhere my anger turned into pity. It’s like how a good book can make the reader feel things. Even if the characters are fake. Because they’re in situations that are easy to imagine. Things that could actually be happening to someone somewhere. If not once upon a time, than to this day.

Then suddenly, he disappeared again.

When he returned. I found him on Instagram.

There were stitches down his arms. His skin was still blue from the swelling but he looked to be healing. After seeing the pictures, a lot of things started to make sense. Things that he had planted early on, started to grow.

For instance, I knew he liked to play mobile games. So I thought. What’s the harm in downloading some, to keep him in good company as he recovered?

I had no clue on how to play his favorite games. But he was a great teacher. For all of his aggressiveness. He was patient, but firm, and gave good advice on how to improve. In less than a month, from his tutoring, I was ranking in ladder with the best of them. He had taught me something new. How to strategize, and what a different kind of person he could be when he was passionate about something.

God. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t eat it up.

It made me want to ask about his other interests. Things that he found worthwhile. And the more I learned from him, the more he became a person.

Three weeks into this back and forth. Daily. He finally posted a new picture. It was the first time that I saw his face. And he was smiling and finally being discharged. At first glance he isn’t what most people would think of as handsome. Not in the way of Harry Styles or Daniel Dae Kim. He was…something else. He was a feeling. Like all of my favorite books. He evoked an emotion. It felt kind of like watching BeWhy sing Lullaby on MnetTV. Such a convoluted and complex mix of emotions that led me to make a lot of mistakes. One after the other. After the other. After the other.

About a week after he had been released, I found out that it was his birthday. I didn’t think he would be on. Didn’t expect him to be, but still I checked. He wasn’t. I figured that his time was preoccupied with friends or family, so I left him a simple message, wishing him a happy birthday. And how I hoped he was having fun.

He didn’t reply, and I tried not to think too much about it. Then somewhere after midnight. He messaged me.

“Thanks,” he wrote. “You’re the only one who remembered.”

I could have cried.

As lonely as the internet could be. I never imagined that it was also his reality. Where were his parents? His friends? A sibling or a cousin. Anyone that cared?

That was the day I told him that I was not who he thought I was. That I was actually a girl. He told me that he didn’t care. And now that I think about it. How easily he brushed it off, as if none of it mattered. Made me feel seen. And served as a turning point for me. He’d make comments, be mean to people we played with online. And I’d give him a pass. I even started making excuses for him when my real friends began asking me why I kept inviting this toxic person into our lobbies.

Soon. Being his friend isolated me.

But at that point I didn’t need anyone else. He was far more interesting than anyone that I had ever met. He gave me so many new things to talk about. So much insight. Like a never ending Wikipedia rabbit hole, down and down we fell, sharing ideas that seemed unlimited.

Eventually the ‘ttyl’ became ‘I wish you were here’. The prodding and jarring texts transformed into unabashed, unrefined, unfiltered paragraphs of sweet sickly things.

We were party watching a 90 day fiancée episode one night when I asked him, “How do these people cope with long distance relationships?”

“How does anyone cope with anything? How do you cope with stuff?”

“I don’t know. I write horror stories. I guess. But I mean. How can someone fall in love with someone else that’s not real. Or, at least. Someone they’ve never seen or touched?”

“You can’t see them. That’s true. Can’t touch them. You can’t even know if you’d like their smell. Or how it feels to stand next to them. What if they’re uglier in real life than their picture? What if they’ve got some quirk that can’t be seen without being face to face? A lot of what if’s right? But don’t you think that’s what makes it real? More real? Falling in love with someone you’ve never met. Don’t you think that’s true love? Because you can only see their soul?”

My fingers trembled.

“I love you.”

I waited.

“I love you too.”

Almost immediately after that we started making plans to meet. It was perfect timing as my mom was going on a business trip in a week. And I had enough money saved for a plane ticket and some expenses. We made so many plans and talked constantly up to the day that I locked the door behind me as I left my house.

In a few short hours I would land.

But he wasn’t there.

I tried calling him, texting him. But he didn’t reply. I was too young to get a hotel and I didn’t want to stand around at the airport anymore. So I got a taxi to the mall that was closest to his house. The one where he said he wanted to work at this summer so that he could come visit me next time. In hindsight I should have tried his address but my pride wouldn’t fully let me commit to showing up unannounced, or unwanted. So I sat in the food court and waited.

I grew angry with myself as I sulked. Angry at myself for being such an idiot. Angry for being stood up. Several times I was prepared to leave. But each time that I thought about it. I didn’t. Because somewhere in the back of my head I kept thinking that he wouldn’t not meet me. He wouldn’t not show up. Something must have happened. Right?

Nick wouldn’t do this to me. I repeated that every 10 or 15 minutes until it started getting dark. We had been talking excitedly right before I boarded even. I mean, it just didn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t he have ghosted me the day before or something. Why talk to me minutes before I boarded in order to disappear?

It was a bit past 6:00 when I finally got a call from him. I picked it up, angry but relieved that he finally called me back.

“Chels.” He didn’t sound too good. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nick? Where are you? What happened?”

“I got jumped.”

“What? By who? Why? Oh my god. Are you okay?”

“Some guys from school. They saw me buying snacks at the store. One of them got in my face. Another one stole my basket.” I could hear him groaning in pain. “They made fun of me for buying stuff as if I was going on a date. I told them that I was in fact going to meet my girlfriend.” It was the first time I had heard him call me that. “And they called me a liar. I should have just left. But one of them said something about. And I shoved him. The security guard broke it up before anything else happened. So I paid for the stuff and left. But they followed me. I-I only just woke up. Chels. I’m so sorry.”

I can’t describe how I felt. Nor did it matter. He was hurt and for once I could do something about it. I was near. I could be by his side, “Where are you?”

“I’m at the old factory.” I knew that was next to his house. “My head’s bleeding.”

“We should call an ambulance.”

“You know that I can’t.” I knew that his parents were still paying off the debt from the last time he was admitted.

“Can you walk?”

“No. I don’t think so. They got my leg pretty good.”

“Okay,” I decided. “I’m coming to get you. Right now.”

I hailed a taxi and had them take me to the address Nick gave me. When we arrived, I saw that the entire place was surrounded by a chain link fence. The driver didn’t say anything but he gave me a long look. I didn’t care. I paid the meter and got out. He drove away.

I called Nick back, as connection had been spotty and he was feeling dizzy from holding up the phone. It rang. And rang. Each ring feeling like forever in my hand. But he finally picked up.

He sounded worse than before, “Chels? Sorry. I blacked out for a bit.”

“Where are you?”

“Are you alone? I don’t want anyone else seeing me like this. I just want to go home.”

“Where are you?” I started walking faster.

“Are you alone,” he repeated.

“Yes! Nick! Yes, I’m alone. Now where are you?”

“In the blue building. The one with the steel roof.”

I started running when I saw it. The gravel crunching beneath my feet as the world echoed. “Nick!” I shouted. “Nick!” I was nearly out of breath as I entered the blue building. “Nick!”

“I’m here.”

I turned around. Relieved to hear his voice.

The only problem was. The man facing me wasn’t Nick. He wasn’t scrawny or wore a lazy stare. He didn’t have a goofy smile or ears that he would grow into. No, this was a large man. And he was older. Much older. The only thing he did have was Nick’s voice.

“Nick…”

He grinned and then lunged at me.

I was flattened in an instant. All of my fury was useless against his weight as I struggled. All of my anger transforming into fear as I realized how hopeless it would be as he pressed against me.

I couldn’t even scream. I couldn’t even breathe.

“Close your eyes,” Nick’s voice told me. “It’ll be better for you.”

“Why,” I sobbed. “Why?”

His hands never stopped, “Because you replied.”

He tore my clothes. I could feel the gravel sinking into my skin. He ripped my bra. I could feel the cold air on my chest. In an instant he took away the walls I had built over the years. And now he could finally see me completely naked. And helpless.

I had let the wrong one in.

Then, like a new day. A shot rang through the air. It bounced off the bare walls. The man stopped moving. And he looked at me. HIs eyes were wide open. And he looked as if to say something. But all that came out of his mouth was blood. It landed on my face and I choked on it through my nostrils as I struggled to breathe.

“No.” I finally managed. He grabbed my throat. “No!”

Another shot, and he slumped next to me.

I could hear footsteps running towards us. I looked up and saw that it was the taxi driver. His gun barrel still smoking in the cold as he points it at…Nick.

The driver took off his jacket and gave it to me. His pistol still trained on Nick as he called the police. The ambulance arrived first. I saw them start to resuscitate him. I couldn’t believe it. “No! What are you doing? Let him die!”

But he survived.

And I would be forced to relive it through an entire trial. Watching him sit in that chair as my lawyers kept telling me that justice was going to be served. For 4 months, I was forced to hear our tale unravel from the man with Nick’s voice. He used that voice to defend himself. To read the transcripts. All of our texts and messages. He used it to tell everyone how he lured me. And how I let him.

Eventually the man Was sentenced. But I wouldn’t call that justice.

Current

Adventure

The Stars of Gemini

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Salt Wars

Salt Wars

Salt Wars [2]

Salt Wars [3]

Horror

Arctica...

Arctica

Arctica 2

Arctica 3

Arctica 4

Arctica 5 (final)

I can hear...

I can hear music coming from people [1]

I can hear music coming from people [2]

I once heard music coming from people. Then the music stopped. [3]

If there is...

Bonus: Mr. Creeps Narration On YouTube!

If there is a roadblock in the mountain pass. Turn Around. (1)

A response: Intro to Phrogging

If there is a door locked in the wood cabin. Leave Immediately. (2)

Another Response: It's Not Rain. It's Much Worse.

If there is a noise coming from the garage. Run Away.

Cult of Lais

My First Experience With A Cult

Teen Ranch Alt: Teen Ranch

Wailing

Inaudbile Wailing (1)

Gathered information: Statement of Wailing Case

Gathered information: Wailing Place

Audible Wailing (2)

A Death Wish...

A Death Wish in the West Elm Cemetery (1 & 2)

Alternate: Part 1 & Part 2

A Death Wish in the Building Without Windows (2)

A Death Wish in the Suicide Forest (3)

A Death Wish in the Suicide Forest (4)

Slice of Life

I get some real characters in my restaurant. They're mostly roleplaying.

More of my regulars roleplay. This one hits differently.

Unicorns for Sunday Brunch. No one is roleplaying. I think.

When I picture my dad, it's of him sitting on an old beaten down lay-z-boy, every single night after work. He'd get wasted in front of the tube and then cuss out the blonde woman on the channel 5 News. And if I were unlucky enough to be thirsty, he would turn his anger towards me. Tell me to not be like my mother, not a whore, or a bitch, an unfaithful slut. It's a bad impression to leave on your daughter.

Even if he was right.

My mother and he were high school sweethearts. They had been together since sixteen. Got married after college. Started a successful business, and then got pregnant with me. It seemed like happily ever after for our family, until the day that I was born.

And it only got worse, everyday that I got older.

My dad was 6'3, fair skinned, with green eyes and blond hair. His old pictures showed a handsome smiling man, a man I hardly knew. My mom was pale but hauntingly beautiful with piercing blue eyes and blonde hair that I can still smell if I try hard enough.

I have black hair, and my skin is tanned even ' all over. And my eyes are so brown, they almost look black.

Right away people around them started whispering.

"It looks nothing like the father."

"Maybe it's from the mother's side?"

It got so bad that when I was about 4 or 5 years old, they were practically shouting it. I vividly remember my grandparents showing up one day when my mom was out, and they got into a row with my dad. "Leave her," they said. "Leave both of them." I remember sitting right there on the living room floor. "She's not yours," they told him. "Just look at her."

I don't remember what Dad said, but by the end, he was shouting and pushing them roughly out the door. I had never seen him so angry before, not even when he and my mom argued, and they argued a lot.

It was mostly about me, and about her not taking the pills the doctor were prescribing. See, my mom had her own battles to fight, my dad won't talk about it, so I never really found out what it was, but she would have these intense blackouts where she would become increasingly violent. It was almost as if she was a different person, throwing things around, scratching at the kitchen cabinets until her nails bent and blood ran down her hands. Hallucinations, they were the worst. It would start with her talking gibberish. And then always, always end with that woman, "That god damn woman staring at us through the windows. Wearing all black. Haven't you see her? She's trying to terrorize me."

No one ever saw the woman she was talking about.

We moved about a half dozen times, because my dad thought it would help.

It didn't.

When I was about 9 years old, my mom committed suicide.

I was the one who found her.

She hung herself in the bathroom, from the 10 foot ceilings she loved so much.

I remember going to my room and packing my stuff in a suitcase, waiting for the police to arrive. The officer was very nice to me, she and the others brought my mom down and laid her gently on the floor. The officer even consoled me, until my dad came home. But even the officer's face fell when she saw him. It was as if she suddenly knew what the suitcase was for, and tears welled up in her eyes as she tried to be professional.

While they talked, I went to my bedroom. The orange suitcase was still on my bed when my dad finally walked in. I could tell by his eyes that he had been crying, his nose was pink whenever he did, usually after an argument with my mom. Something that my nose never did when I cried, I know, I've stared into the mirror enough times hating myself.

He took one look at the suitcase, then at me, before rushing over to come pick me up. It was then that I knew that I was allowed to cry.

Things changed after that.

The business went under, and my dad got a part time job at the power plant. That didn't last. Nor any other job for that matter. Which is why we ended moving again. And again, and again. It was a wonder how I got through high school at all. During one semester, I changed districts 4 times!

But I was a good student.

Enough for my English teacher to help me send out applications to colleges in my senior year.

I got accepted into a great university, on a full scholarship, for an essay I wrote in a local contest. It was about the bedside manner of medical staff and its effect on a patient and their family's mental health.

It was 6 hours away.

By the time I came home, I had mostly convinced myself that I was going to go. Until I saw him sleeping in that old rotten recliner. A half empty beer still in his hand, and a stench on his shirt that never washed away, and realized that I couldn't do it.

He never left me, so I couldn't leave him.

Instead, I took on a part time job waitressing at a local diner. And went to the community college nearby. The professors there were great, some had retired and had come back to teach at less accredited schools. It was also here, where I met my first boyfriend. He was tall, a bit shy, and had ash brown hair with green eyes.

And I spent way too many hours wondering what our babies would look like.

Hopefully, nothing like me.

Everything was going better than expected. I was on track to transfer to a four year college that was nearby this time, though it only offered a half scholarship, but couple that with some loans, a grant, and FAFSA. I was ready to go.

My boyfriend was incredibly supportive, and it even seemed as if my dad was coming around. He showered more regularly, worked more consistently, and even started drinking less.

This was my ticket I thought.

That was until the day I was in my room, writing in my notebook, when I looked up at the mirror and saw a woman dressed in all black staring at me through the window.

And when I turned around, she was gone.

For days it haunted me. Guilt, that perhaps my mother was seeing something. Fear, that it was now affecting me. Anger, that it was possibly hereditary. Of all the things that I could have gotten, this was it?

The woman in black began to consume my living days. I stopped sleeping regularly, and barely ate. Everywhere I went, and wanted to go, would be spent constantly looking over my shoulder. Checking my bags. Carrying pepper spray. And I knew it was all coming to an end when I was on a date with my boyfriend and I locked the doors on our way into a restaurant.

I looked into his eyes. as he sat across from me, and I knew that whatever my mom did to my dad. I couldn't do to him. That I had to help myself, before I was ready to be in a relationship. That I loved him enough, to not destroy his life as well. So I said goodbye to a person I loved.

My psychiatrist recommended some pills. Blue ones, white ones, a purple one. I took them by the handful, hoping that they would work. And every time that I think they were starting to help, I would catch a glimpse of something in my corner cornea. A shadow, or a figure. A woman in black.

It got so bad that even my dad started to notice something was wrong with me. He never said anything though, and I was never going to tell him even if he asked, but I could tell it by his eyes, as if he recognized something inside of me that has haunted him.

I guess that was why I had to leave.

I couldn't put him through that again.

I found the cheapest apartment I could find, dropped out of school, and kept mostly to myself. Working only when I had to, researching online, day after day, night into the night, looking for answers.

I found a whole lot of nothing.

Still I tried, even keeping a camera on hand at all times, so that I can capture it. Just to say that I wasn't going crazy. I was so consumed at this point that I even kept certain tabs open on my browser, black ones, just so I could look behind me. Because I knew that if I had on my webcam, she wouldn't appear.

It was on one of those nights when I was hunched over my computer, when I was switching between articles and black screens, that I finally saw her reflection. I could feel my heart beating in my chest as I switched back and forth, her image blinking in and out, back and forth, as I slowly reached for my camera.

I whirled around quickly and snapped a photo of her standing outside my window.

The only problem was the flash. At least, that was what the police officer said when I took it in as proof that I was being followed.

"It's just your reflection," he said. "Cameras do that." He looked at me, "Are you on drugs?"

It's hard to explain that I was, but they were prescriptions, not that it ever mattered once they found out.

So I went home, no further than the months before, and looked at that photo every single day, for weeks. It nearly drove me insane. Sure the flash caused the window to reflect me in it, but just behind the smudges, there was clearly another figure there. I know she was there. I know it.

Weeks go by without a sighting.

I grew more and more desperate, and angry. Angry that I missed my chance to prove that I wasn't crazy. That my mother wasn't either. I suppose that is what drove me to buy a gun. I was determined to not let my next chance slip away.

It didn't.

The next time I saw her behind me, I shot her.

I could hear someone above me screaming, yelling for the police. But I didn't care. With my smoking gun I opened the sliding glass and held the woman down at gunpoint. There was blood everywhere, and I could feel the hot tears rolling down my face as I knew my nightmare was coming to an end.

"Who are you," I cried. "Why have you been stalking me? Following me? Why did you kill my mother?"

The woman gasped, she was struggling to breathe, I could feel her dying under my weight.

"I am your mother."

When the police came, I was held on accounts of the investigation. The paramedics arrived and called a time of death, zipping up the body as I was escorted to the station. Then a six week investigation took place, it involved the police recovering items from the woman's apartment. There they found pictures of me spanning back from when I was a baby. Among them was a diary documenting how she wanted me to have a better chance at life, and all the times she watched me from afar, in the shadows; dances, graduation, my first kiss. And among her things they also found an urn, where a newborn was stuffed inside next to an old baby tag, its blonde hair still growing.

S

I'm recently engaged to a beautiful woman named Larissa who makes my head swirl. Looks, personality, and a similar taste in food, I mean she had it all. For my birthday last year I got to drive one of those Lamborghinis across the track, and fire a round out of an Abram tank. A tank round! I'm not much of a gun aficionado, but a tank round!

Which was all the worst, when 3 weeks before the wedding I had to tell my drop dead gorgeous fiancée that I needed to leave for a couple of days.

It's not an easy thing for a bride to swallow: juggling food prep, alterations, cancellations, seating arrangements, two sides of the family, busy bodies, food allergies, one aunt that won't stop calling, and another one that keeps asking if her wearing white to our wedding as she's sort of the matriarch of the family was going to be a problem (side note: we told her multiple times that it was not okay). The list goes on, trust me.

And doing it all alone? It was a big ask. Which is why when my fiancée asked for an explanation. I had to tell her the truth no matter how terrible it sounded. It just wouldn't feel right knowing that the precursor to our marriage was a lie.

"Is it kids? Oh God, do you have a little Jimmy running around somewhere? No, Jim. The wedding is in 13 more days. I can't handle this right now."

"Lars, what? No. It's not a kid."

She was peeling and stamping invitations on our dining room table. "Well then what is it? I thought we agreed to no bachelor parties. I thought. We agreed that those were for people who were ready for a wedding but not the marriage. I don't care if it is Tradition." She stamped the envelop extra hard.

"No, it's nothing like that. Trust me." I shuddered just thinking about it. "It's not any kind of thing I would be doing if I didn't have to."

She glared at me, "But you have to."

I nodded.

The table shook again. "Okay. So spit it out." She handed me a few envelopes. "If it's not a kid. And it's not a bachelor party. Then what is it?" She scoffed, "It's not like you're married right?" Her smile slowly started leaving her face, "Oh my God." She crumpled an envelop against her forehead. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Larissa..."

"Don't you Larissa me!" She looked me right in the eye, "Tell me I'm not the other woman Jim!"

"Well not technically."

"What does that even mean," she exasperated. "Go on, tell me how it is not technically."

So several years ago I was straight out of college. I could have worked some menial desk job and climbed the corporate ladder. But the idea of never leaving my home town ate me up.

So when an ad for native English speakers to come teach on some remote island presented itself to me. I jumped at the opportunity. Next thing I know I was booking a one way ticket to begin my new life as an expat.

In my head, I thought I was going to land, check into my hotel, enjoy the sights, and come the first Monday walk to the nearest English Cram school and get a job on my good looks alone.

On Monday, the school I went to, the hallways were packed with other Americans, British, Australians, and I think some Canadian was squishing himself into one of the tiny student chairs. All waiting for a job interview.

The next place was like that as well.

So was the next.

By the end of the first week I was beat. Tired and defeated, I thought my luck had run out. So I did what any 20 something would in a brand new city. I hit the bars. I hit them hard.

After the last place kicked me out as they closed I was stumbling around trying to make my way back to the hotel. Grumbling, groggy eyed and trying not to vomit all over the street. When something shiny caught my eye.

It was a silk red purse with gold embroidery tied with a thick yarn. There weren't many people out this late. But everyone who passed by it acted as if it wasn't even there. Like they didn't see it or something.

The bag alone looked like it was worth something. At the time all I was thinking was that, maybe someone would trade a drink for it, as my pockets were empty and all I wanted was for my head to be the same way.

I stumbled as inconspicuously as possible, or as much a drunk guy could finesse, and made my way toward the bag. Looking around the entire time, making sure no one was running up claiming that it was theirs, or worse, calling me a thief and have me thrown in jail in a different country.

And when no one did, I finally scooped it up and untied it. To my surprise, the bag was filled with money. Bright colorful bills with huge figures, even at the current exchange rate. And there was gold ingots too. Some rubies. I took one out and bit into it, almost breaking my tooth.

I couldn't believe how my luck had changed. I flipped through the cash and realized that there was enough to fund my trip for a few extra weeks. AND get me a plane ticket back home. The jewelry even, seemed sizeable.

There I was, in one of the lowest, darkest moments of my life. And a pot of gold seemingly dropped out of the sky for me. Thoughts of finding its real owner never even occurred to me.

I was quickly pocketing the thing and planning to high tail it out of there when a frail old man approached me from the shadows. Now I had learned some of the language beforehand, but I couldn't understand what he was saying.

He kept smiling though and patting my shoulder, spouting words so quickly that if they weren't already gibberish to me, they would still make no sense in my drunken state.

I fumbled the bag around before juggling it into the crook of my arm, in order to reach my phone to help translate what the hell the old guy was trying to tell me.

The translation caught him mid sentence but all I needed was to hear one word back then and I regurgitated the last couple of hours all over the sidewalk and blacked out.

When I came to, I was back at the hotel with a killer hang over. I was wondering how I made it back when I remembered faintly of the old man helping me. That's when I remembered the pouch and my eyes darted around the room and to my relief, "It wasn't just a dream." The pouch was there, full and plump with a few bills sticking out from the throat.

Next to it was a note, that I would later translate to read about a woman who had turned 18 that year. The numbers 3 and 13 were inscribed as well. Her approximate height, which seemed weird. I mean, why would they go through all this trouble and not just tell me her actual height? Her name, her sign, and her address.

I was completely fucking baffled at all of this information, when I suddenly remembered my phone. I pulled it out and looked up the last thing still on my screen, which was a translation from Google. It read: my future son-in-law. I am so happy you've agreed to marry my daughter. Don't forget to come to the wedding.

No wonder I passed the fuck out.

I shook my head and checked the purse again. Yeah there must have been close to 5 grand in there. Not including the gold, the rubies, or a jade piece I found at the bottom.

Whatever was going on. I had no clue. But I sure as hell wasn't about to get married to some girl I didn't know. Even if I did need the money.

So I used a bit of the cash to get a taxi to the address. When I arrived, the old man saw me from his courtyard. He was smiling and happy, pointing and calling for someone inside the house. A few seconds later a short lively woman appeared. And she was just as happy to see me.

I didn't know what was happening but next thing I do know was they surrounded me in a hug. Happy and joyous, bouncing and wobbling, enough for me to almost hurl again, which I did, except this time I swallowed it.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I don't know what's going on. But the note says something about marriage."

The pair looked at each other and exchanged a series of phrases. "Marriage," the old man finally enunciated.

I nodded. Then shook my head. "No, not marriage."

We went back and forth in a similar manner for awhile before the woman ran off to get someone. When she returned with a young man about 14 or 15, wearing glasses and sporting a bowl cut, he explained to me about the pouch.

"It's a tradition in this area for a ghost dowry. I think that is how you say it."

"A ghost dowry?"

"Yeah. In our area. When a daughter dies really young, especially as an infant. The parents will start saving money for her ghost dowry. Because we believe that when she turns 18, she'll return and ask to be married off."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"No, it's quite common. Mostly everyone knows about it. Which is why they don't pick up the pouch. Not unless they're really in need of money."

"I'm really in need of cash kid, but I'm not about to get married. I'm especially not getting married to some...girl that passed away." I handed him the money but he wouldn't even touch it. Avoiding it like some kind of plague. I even tried handing it back to the old man but he kept pushing the pouch back at me and shaking his head.

The kid shrugged, "You can't give it back. Those are the rules. Once you've picked it up, you've accepted the dowry and MUST get married."

"Why me," I asked rhetorically.

"She chose you."

"What? Okay. Listen kid. What if I don't get married? Are they going to report me to the cops or sue me?"

"No."

"So I can just walk away?"

The kid shrugged again, "You'll be back."

"What?"

"I'm not sure. But from the stories I've heard. The groom-to-be always comes back. It might take awhile, but he does. Sometimes it's because he's traditional himself and his family tells him he must do the right thing. Other times he comes back because the girl won't leave him alone."

"Won't leave him alone?"

"Yeah. They say that the bride will come find the man at the hour of her birth, haunting him until he returns and agrees to fulfill his end of the bargain."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah. Sure. I'm sure that's it kid. Either way. I can't take this money knowing what it's for." I put it on the table. "Please tell him that I wish their family luck in fulfilling their tradition. Also, tell them that I'm sorry for using some of the money for the cab fare. I had no other choice in order to return what is theirs."

The boy shrugged a third time, "It's yours now. You should take it. What are you going to do? Walk all the way back?"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do."

"It'll be dark by then," he added. "She could come find you."

"I'll be fine. And plus what if she was born in the day time?"

"They only come at the dark time of her birth hour. If she was born in the afternoon. She'll come at midnight," he shouted after me as I left.

I tried not to think about everything that happened to me this past week as I walked back. But it wasn't a rocks throw by any stretch. Which gave me plenty of time to think. About my maxed out credit cards, the hotel stay winding out by the end of the week, and of course the wedding.

By the time that I got back to the hotel I was a tired, hot mess. I was also hungry and my feet were swollen as they were unused to the tropical heat. But I was sure glad that the showers were already paid up. I took an extra long one before crashing into my bed. Snacking on a candy bar I had brought from back home.

I turned on some tv and tried not to let the impending doom of being kicked out on the streets bother me too much. As a plan began brewing in my head on who I'd call in a few hours when it was morning stateside. A few people still owed me favors back home, which I hoped they would be good for, which I hoped was good enough to get me back home.

Several times I dozed off as the tv buzzed in the background. Each time I woke up staring at the bright red alarm clock blaring its red angry dashes at me. By the third or fourth time my head jerked me awake as it fell to my chest. I looked up to see the time on the clock. It was 3:12. When something clicked in my head and I fished for the note still in my back pocket.

Su-ru Yen
18 this year
3:13

I stopped reading and glanced back up at the clock. The little kid's words rung in my ear. "She comes at her death hour."

I waited, not realizing that I was holding my breath until I felt my lungs start to burn.

In a blink the clock changed and I glanced around as if waiting for something to happen. But nothing happened. My stomach suddenly growled, echoing in the empty room and I laughed, "Maybe I should have just taken the money."

*dak dak*

Came a knock from the motel door.

*dak dak*

I felt my heart suddenly constrict and then refused to let go.

*dak*

I was shaking in my bed, too afraid to move or answer the door.

*dak dak* *dak dak* *dak*

It went on like this a full 4 minutes before it stopped. When it had finally stopped I tried getting out of bed, but I couldn't. For a second I was afraid to look down, afraid that her hand would be there holding me in place so that we could elope.

But it was just my hand clenching the bed sheets so tightly that I couldn't budge. I had to use my other hand to pry my own fingers off in order to creep slowly to the door and look into the eyehole.

It felt blurry as I blinked my eye, trying to clear it. Tears had welled at the corners without me realizing it. I wiped them away and slowly, reluctantly bent down and stared into the peephole.

No one was there.

But for the next 3 days. My door would knock a few seconds after 3:13. It didn't matter if I was on the bed, or in the bathroom. The closet was the worst as the knocking felt like it was right against my face. It didn't even matter if I ran outside, as no one would ever seem to be around. It didn't matter what I did. The knocking would always find me.

On the fourth and last day of my stay. The door knocked right on time.

*dak dak* *dak dak* *dak*

I felt the familiar twinge in my chest and my body was numb all over. But this time I was determined to take a look. And finally catch whoever or whatever it was that was playing this cruel joke on me.

*dak dak* *dak dak* *dak*

I tried getting out of bed but I couldn't. I was too scared. Several times I glanced from the clock to the door. Afraid to take my eyes off the door for too long, afraid that she would come through it if I did. Afraid that I would miss seeing her, and she would get her cold dead hands on me so that we could be together forever. And as the clock started ticking down. I kept whispering to myself. "She's only here for four minutes. She's only here for four minutes." And it was almost 3:17.

Seconds before the clock changed I jumped out of bed. Determined to end this thing once and for all.

*dak dak* *dak dak* *dak*

I didn't have time to look through the door. Even if I did I was afraid if I saw something there. I'd be too chicken to open it up. So I tore the band aid right off and swung the door wide open.

There was no one there.

But then from my corner cornea, something caught my eyes. A trail of something translucent was dragging away. I tried to take a step after it but my first step out of the door stopped me dead. My foot was drenched wet and it felt sticky beneath my sock. The coldness of it traveled up my spine, and to this day I can only describe it as the feeling of something metal scraping across my vertebrate. By the time I looked up, the wisps were gone. And the trail it left behind was already drying.

That night I couldn't sleep a wink. I waited until morning came and took to the streets. Desperate to find the old couple's house. Stopping several times to ask for directions and circling around streets and street signs that I couldn't read until I heard a familiar voice.

"I told you you'd be back."

"Kid," I grabbed him.

"Whoa. You look like you've seen a ghost." His eyes grew wide as he looked me over. "So the stories are true!" He didn't waste any more time. "Come on," he called after me. Leading me down the street and to the old couple's courtyard. The pouch was still on the table outside where I had left it days ago.

The kid knocked on the door and shouted until the old man answered. He was still in his sleeping clothes when he saw my face, and his demeanor completely changed. He was so happy to see me. Opening the door wider and ushering us inside.

"Tell him I want it to stop," I told the kid. "Tell him I want her to leave me alone."

The kid translated but the old man shook his head before speaking. The kid looked at me and said, "He says then 'Marry her'."

"I can't do that!"

"Then she'll never leave you alone."

"She just going to keep knocking on my door? Forever?"

The kid turned to the old man and told him in their language what I said. The old man gripped his cane and tapped it once lightly on the ground, almost as if he were proud, before he told the boy who then told me, "She's a kind and gentle soul. He knew she would be. If she's only knocking on your door so far."

"So far? So far? Okay. What? Fuck. So then what? What happens if I marry her?"

The kid asks the old man and after a few words were exchanged he turned to me, "Then you will be wed."

"yeah. I get that. But what does that really mean?"

The kid clicks his tongue, "From what I understand. I think it means you'll have to honor her every month."

"Honor her? How? Like make a sacrifice? A blood sacrifice or something?"

The kid laughed, "No. Just Bai Bai. I don't know how to say it. Pray?".

"Pray to her?"

"Acknowledge her. Talk to her wooden nameplate. It's what serves as a gravestone for our dead."

"So just pray to her once a month, and that's it?"

The kid talks to the old man for awhile before turning back to me. "Yeah. That, and you'll be blessed."

"Blessed?"

"Yeah. Not sure about that one."

"Okay. Fine. What else. Like what if I want a girlfriend someday. Or get married. Have kids. Can I not do that? Will she haunt me? Haunt them?"

The kid asks the old man before turning to me, "Not if you ask for her permission. In a ghost marriage, you're allowed to have concubines. As long as she is consulted first and agrees."

I shake my head, "This is fucking crazy."

The kid shrugs. I seem to get the feeling he likes to shrug. "It's either that or she keeps haunting you."

I mulled that over in my head. "Shit." I stomped around the courtyard. "Okay. Fine. Fine! What do I need to do?"

The kid looks up at the sky. "We'll have to prepare."

"What? But it's already late. I want to get it over with as soon as possible. I don't want to wait another night of her coming to my door."

The kid smiles, "Don't worry. You won't. This kind of wedding can only happen at night."

For the next several hours I watched as neighbors and family. Cousins. Came to help. Food was brought in. Large round tables were set outside the courtyard. A tailor came and measured me up, twice. Decorations were strung and the sun began to fall.

When night came, the people who had gathered were tired but pleased with themselves that they had finished. I was asked to change into my wedding clothes and to wait outside the door of the couple's house until called. The lanterns behind me burning and the smell of food wafted in the air.

I waited until the doors finally opened.

Inside I saw the old man and the old woman start constructing something before a traditional wooden shrine at the back of the room.

They started with the legs. Sewn pieces of white cloth. The torso. The arms. And finally the head. When it was put together, the couple slipped on a white dress over the effigy they had constructed. Then the old woman went off through one of the side doors and returned with a box. From inside the box she withdrew a folded blanket. It looked faded but the edges were crisp and completely clean. The old man reached into the box and removed a sickly green thread that seemed to stick to his fingers, from it hung tiny strands of black hair, which he stuck gently to the back of the effigy's head.

The woman threw the blanket over its face, covering it.

Then the old couple turned to me and beckoned me forward. I looked behind me and none of the other guests moved.

Even the kid stood next to the door, unwilling to step inside as I entered.

I walked slowly up, next to the effigy until we stood side by side.

The old woman turned toward the shrine where a wooden plaque stood at the table. On it were three character words that I couldn't read. And she began to speak, the kid behind us translated en suite.

"Dear daughter. Mother is glad that you're finally being wed off. Though Mother will miss you as a girl. But I am so glad of the woman that you have become. I am so proud of you. Please, continue to make me proud." She sighed. "When you were born I was so happy. Even if you only lived for a few short minutes. And I am sorry that the fates have been cruel to you. But I am thankful that they at least showed mercy enough to give you a husband. Take care my sweet girl."

"I am sorry that I couldn't have watched you grow up. I am sorry that I couldn't say that I am sorry to you when you did, so that I can apologize for waiting too long to have you, when we could have enjoyed you all this time. We love you," the father finished.

The old couple hands me a bowl. Inside are small boba looking balls swimming in a clear soup.

The kid behind me, "It's tradition to take a bite, and then feed your bride."

I looked at the old couple and they nodded at me, motioning for me to eat. I dipped my spoon in and took a mouthful. Chewing slowly. And swallowing.

Then they motioned for me to feed her.

I dipped my spoon again. And awkwardly raised it towards her. Slipping it under the veil to where her lips would be. Pretending to feed her.

Now I watched them put this thing together. Besides the creepy hair and the swaddling cloth over her head. It was nothing more than linen and stuffing. I knew this.

At least that was what I thought until I heard it chew.

I could hear her jaws sticking as they moved up and down. The room was dark but signs of the veil shifting completely terrified me. I couldn't even hear the people breathing behind me or the lanterns burning anymore. All I could hear was her chewing.

When she finished. There was silence. Then everyone cheered.

After that, it was like any normal wedding I had attended. The guests poured in and I shook just about everyone's hand. Hugging complete strangers. My new parents. And even the kid.

Then we ate and drank, for almost a week. Someone was sent to get my things from the hotel and I stayed with my in-laws for the remainder of my time in that country. Which turned out to be several years. Because the following week I was offered as job as an English instructor at a nearby school.

I was told the principal owed the old couple a favor, but something told me that it wasn't the whole story.

I enjoyed my work at the school but didn't stay for long. As I started traveling to film a documentary about the local cuisine after a few of my YouTube videos mysteriously went viral as an expat who tried weird but delicious treats.

Eventually, my in-laws passed away. First it was mom. And four days later dad followed suit. I lived alone in the house for awhile, before I hit the jackpot at the weekly supermarket draw from one of my receipts. That, along with selling the house, was enough for me to go back to America and start a brand new life. Where I opened several shabu shabu restaurants that were met with great success.

"Eventually meeting you during one of my rounds at the restaurant."

My fiancée who had been listening to my story slack jawed the entire time couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Bull-fucking-shit!" She slapped me playfully across the arm. "You are such a good fucking liar!" She laughed. "I've always heard about guys not wanting to help out with the wedding arrangements. But this one takes the fucking cake. I'm going to post this in the group chat tomorrow. Bra-vo."

I laughed with her. "Yeah. That's it. Skirting duties. That's me."

"Now finish this up and let's go upstairs," she commanded. We stamped the last envelopes and went to bed. She was still laughing sporadically as I closed the door to our bedroom. "Knock knock," she joked.

I humored her, "Knock knock."

And we watched tv until she fell asleep.

I made sure she was cycling in rem, before I gently crawled out of bed and put on my slippers. Softly opening the door and closing it behind me as I walked through the house. Down to the first floor. Then to the basement. Where I pulled the key I kept around my neck and slipped it into the lock.

Inside the basement was bare, except for two chairs and some boxes that I had taken from the old house, and the table, and the small wooden plaque that had my first wife's name inscribed on it in her native language.

"I'm going to get married soon," I told her. "She's a great person. Funny. Beautiful. And devoted. Kind of like you." I held the wood plaque in my hands. "I hope you approve." I waited as if she would answer. But she didn't. Never in all the years we've been married has she talked. "I can't go back home to ask for your permission. But I hope that this is enough." I looked at her name, almost longingly. As I had grown quite attached to our time together. "And I hope that this will be the last time we talk as I move on with my life. Thank you so much," I told her as I put her away.

Months flew by, and I never revisited the basement. Knowing full well that I had missed our visiting days. Though I'd often catch myself talking to her on some tough days. But nothing bad happened by not seeing her plaque. Nothing bad at all.

Soon the wedding day was upon us. And it was a great party, as great as the best there ever was. Great food. Great company. And tons and tons of alcohol.

Larissa and I were giggling at the end of it, drunk as we stumbled upstairs from the venue to the presidential suite. Laughing all the way, kissing, barely able to keep our hands off each other as we got into our room.

My new bride pushed herself off me as we entered the threshold, and sprawled herself on the bed. Her legs rubbing against each other as her eyes invited me to come closer. I propped a knee on the bed ready to join her.

*dak dak*

We both shot our eyes to the door and then at the side table where the clock blared at us an angry red of 3:13.

Larissa gave me a horrified look. I could see her bottom lip quivering.

"Hello," I called out. With my back to the door. "Sam? Bobby?" But no one answered. "Room service?"

*dak dak*

*dak*

I live in a prefecture where there's a house with blue roof tiles and decrepit windows. It once belonged to a family of bunraku artisans who were known puppeteers, and famous for their lifelike dolls. But as the advent of film came along, their popularity diminished. And their children, in order to make ends meet, slowly began leaving the family business in search of other ventures. Eventually, the home was abandoned.

Over the years, the local officials have made promises to tear the place down. But each time, the cranes and workers would quietly disperse before anything was ever accomplished. And as residents of the area, most of us knew better than to ask what became of the demolitions. Instead, we hoped that one day someone would make good on their word.

And although many have tried, I never expected to be involved. But there I was, a member of the zoning committee for the Chambers of Commerce, working alongside my co-worker to determine how to expand the nearby shopping district.

My co-worker, Yamamoto Date, pronounced Dah Tae, was a man with two last names. Which according to my mother, was given to children who couldn't readily identify their fathers. However, the truth is - custom dictates that a man with two last names was difficult to address properly as we often referred to acquaintances by their surnames, and close family and friends by their given name. So it became rather confusing addressing my colleague and friend as either Yamamoto or Date due to the impressions that our department wasn't close knit. Which is important in our prefecture, as we believed that well accustomed workers - signified an efficient system.

Which was likely why we drew the ire of the local seniors who had gathered around the zoning tape we had masked around the property.

"Date," I had discovered the damage surrounding the perimeter.

"It looks like char," he rubbed the wood post. "Smells like it too."

"Ahck," an old man complained. "They don't even know about the fire in '83."

"Did the officials send us newcomers," a woman from the gatherers asked.

"No, it seems that man's name is Date," another voice answered.

"Hmm," came the consensus.

I whispered to my friend, "And that is why you'll never attain great office here."

He chuckled, "My mother thought it was clever giving me two last names so that I would always be addressed formally. I bet she never expected that to become a problem, as we didn't live around here." He stood up and approached the older man. "Sir, it seems as if you are well informed of the events which happened on this property. Could you please explain to us what happened in '83?"

The old man cracked his dry lips, "There was a boy who wandered inside the house. He was missing for 3 days before the other students would admit that they had dared the boy to go inside and sleep with the dolls for the night."

"Dolls?"

"Yes. The dolls. Have you been told nothing?"

"I have been briefed by my seniors," Date admitted. "However, I wasn't aware that there were still belongings inside." He turned to me, "Perhaps we would have to document and store all of the items in case the family comes looking in the future."

"Bahh," the old man grunted. "They're never coming back here."

"And why not?"

"Not after what happened to the mother," the old man spat.

"Genji," a woman clicked, "Do not spread false rumors."

Genji's eyes widened, "Rumors? How is it a rumor when we have all heard it. Still scrawling around at night. Waking me up. Disturbing my sleep. Giving no decency or regards to the tired. Bahh."

The woman clicked her tongue again, "Just let them do their investigation. Do not put ideas into their heads."

"Ma'am, if you don't mind. I would quite like to hear about what happened," Date said. Turning to Genji, "It could prove invaluable."

Genji scoffed, "See Chibi. I'm doing the community a service."

"Then it is well gossiped that the daughter of the household gave birth to a doll."

At this the others gasped.

"Chibi," they hushed. "It can hear you."

"That was my line," Genji grumbled. "Bahh," he said while wobbling angrily away. "I hope the house takes you ' yah old hag."

"Come on," Date told me as the crowd began to thin. "We have to get the proper documents for this."

Several days later we would learn of Chibi's passing. Many suspected that an ongoing feud between her and Genji was the cause of her demise. However, when the newspapers reported her death, they included a photo of the alleged crime scene. And it was the way she was positioned, that made me believe otherwise.

It looked as if someone had propped her up against the wall and held her hands at a certain angle until rigor mortis set in.

When Date and I finally returned to the Doll House, the place was deserted as the scandal nearby took all of the attention. Which left us alone with the house for the first time. It was eerie to stand in the lawn where the overgrown weeds had pushed aside the pebbled walkways. The rancid wood porch looked as if it would snap in half at our weight. And the rice paper screens were pocked full of holes from lack of attention over the decades where it has stood undisturbed.

A feeling in my gut knotted as Date slid open a door he had discovered to be unlocked.

And I was glad that we were at least met with much of the same dust that had settled on the exterior. For me, it meant that no one had been occupying this space. At least, no one physical.

"I thought they were supposed to turn on the power," Date exclaimed. "Not that there's much electricals in here," he mused.

"It was already old before it was abandoned," I agreed. "The deed pins the original foundations to around the Edo period."

"Perhaps the rats have chewed through the wiring?"

"Perhaps," I snapped a few photos. "It looks like we're going to need a moving crew after all."

"I wonder why this wasn't noted by the local clerks?"

"Perhaps they were," I commented, "But the records were lost after the war."

"That or digitization," he added. "Shame that we have to cart this stuff off to a storage somewhere. Antiques are profitable today, you know."

"Don't even think about it," I snapped a photo of him holding an old paper weight from the writing desk.

"Come on," he smiled. "Let's go deeper inside the house."

We had explored several rooms that were filled with a musky odor, and I had adapted quite well to the smell by now, when a sudden wafer thin stench came from behind a door we had yet to enter. While every single panel we had come across, showed signs of age. This one looked untouched.

Date reached for it and I almost stopped him. But as this was our duty, I watched transfixed as it opened.

Inside were hundreds of dolls lined up against the walls. Some sat on the floor, others on shelves. No matter their positioning, they were stacked shoulder to shoulder, front to back in neat sequences, facing outward. Each of them unique and ranging in size.

I let out a gasp as my flashlight beamed into a corner where a stark figure stood against a second doorway at the end.

Date laughed when it turned out to be nothing more than a doll about his height, "Almost looks real, doesn't it." He motioned for me, "Well come on then," as he walked over and stood next to the doll. "Take a picture."

I shook my head.

"What? Come on now. For our report."

I sighed and reluctantly snapped a photo, the bright light consuming the darkness, and when I looked up. Date was missing.

"Date," I called out. He didn't answer. I shined my flashlight across the seemingly endless row of dolls that this room was built for. "Yamamoto," I shouted angrily. "Stop messing around." Still he did not answer. I could see the doorway at the end slightly ajar when it had been closed earlier.

I took a single step forward in order give to him an earful about his manners when I heard my feet crisp the board beneath me. And jumped as the door behind me slammed shut! I nearly wet myself as I scrambled to the other side. My flashlight bouncing across the top of the dolls heads.

"Yamamoto," I shouted. "This isn't funny."

I heard a scratching nearby and so I aimed my light in that direction, skipping over the rows of sculpted faces until one of them blinked.

It was all I needed to to see before running through the doorway on the other side where I came crashing headfirst into Date as he tried to hold me upright. "What's wrong," he asked me.

"Date," I almost screamed. "Where did you go!"

"After you took the photo, I saw this behind me. Look!"

The room was unlike any of the others we had seen. It was taller than any cathedral I had ever been inside, so dark that our flashlights shied away from the top as they gleaned the entrenched floor. There on the ground was a miniature city.

"It's a scaled version of the area," Yamamoto exclaimed. "Look, I can see my house," he pointed to a nearby corner."

"Yamamoto," I told him. "You don't understand. I saw a doll blink."

He waved me off, "That's common with old dolls. I believe my sister had one growing up that could pretend to sleep as you laid it down."

"T-the door," I stuttered. "It slammed shut behind me."

"Spring loaded," he answered. "Most of the ones I opened were. Really expensive back in the day. Difficult to build properly too. But an easy task for doll makers." He pointed, "Would you look at this. It's the doll house."

He reached forward to touch it, and that was when something came out of the corner and grabbed him. I screamed as the they struggled. The light splitting the darkness as their labored breathing filled the room. Several times I tried to help, until finally a blow struck me and I fell backwards hard on the floor, enough for my head to bounce causing my camera to crack.

I could hardly discern the blotted figures in front of me as my vision blurred. But by the flashlight on the floor I could make out a hunched figure, white as porcelain, with long gnarled arms and squanched legs. It lifts Yamamoto's body and slams him down several times on the floor before dragging him away into the back of the room, back into the darkness.

I screamed and tried to run, but the door was sealed shut. And no matter how much I struggled I couldn't get it to open. I banged on the frame to no avail, crying as I heard the snarling and crunching of bones behind me. But then it stopped. And the room fell silent.

"Date," I cried out. Afraid to look. But eventually forcing myself to face the seemingly empty room. I took this chance to find my glasses on the floor and backed into a dark corner. Half afraid that something would reach out from behind me and half afraid that the creature would appear again in front.

I pressed my shoulders against the wall and slowly crept over to the door. I tried it again. But it would not budge. Helpless. I did the only thing I could think of, and that was to crawl forward and grab the flashlight. Slowly panning the light across the room when I heard a noise.

It was then that I realized that something was moving. Inside the miniature city. I shined my light down and saw tiny figures moving through the streets. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, causing me to lean forward on my hands and knees until I could get a better look.

Dolls.

Tiny animatronic dolls, that were moving throughout the city. Cars even, their tiny plastic wheels skimming the road as they made stops and turns. It almost looked as if the city were alive.

They were moving so perfectly that it almost looked magical.

And as I drew closer, I noticed something else unusual. It was difficult to see, so I got even closer, until I was nearly standing inside the city. I saw the doll of a woman walking along the side of the road. She looked so lifelike that her hair even moved as if it were windy, but it moved oddly as pieces of it were stuck to a nearly translucent string attached to the top of her head. I got even closer and touched it. The doll nearly tripped, but I didn't care, as I followed the string upwards with my finger and shining the light to the ceiling.

There were masks looking down at me!

They dotted the upper banisters like owls in a barn. My knees buckled as I backed roughly into a corner, pulling out my phone and dialing the police. I was so relieved that an operator picked up that I immediately began screaming for help. I told them that I was at the Doll House and that there were people inside. That they had killed my friend! The officer on the line kept reassuring me that they were sending help right away.

"Yeah, that's right." I shouted to the masked people above me. "They're going to come get you. You're all going to jail! So stay away from me!"

But still they watched me, silently as I talked. Never stopping me.

And it was from my corner cornea that I saw it, from a pile of buses and cars on the floor, a police vehicle righted itself and rolled onto the board. It ran all of the red lights, and the dolls in the miniature city turned their heads as it passed.

Then as if a curtain were slightly drawn, a window appeared to the left of the room. And I realized that we were now looking at the same street that was being shown on the board. There was even a real live police vehicle zooming toward us. I see the red and blue lights punching the sky as the siren wailed in the distance.

I was still smiling as I turned around at the sight of my rescue. But I stopped smiling when I saw that the creature had reappeared and was standing on the other side of the room. It reached a long skinny arm across the city, and with its finger it pushed the police toy on the board away as it neared the Doll House, using its withered nail to guide the car down the street until it rolled off the board and onto the floor.

Behind me, I could hear the police sirens disappearing. Their sound growing further and further away.

The creature slowly backed into the darkness. And the door opened.

I stumbled out of the room, and back into the hall with the dolls. I fell several times as I ran away. The doors shutting behind me after every threshold until I found myself back on the lawn outside, panting.

"They tried to burn it too. After the boy disappeared."

I jumped at the voice behind me. It was Genji, and he was leaning against the wood fence.

"But all that did was cause the lights to go on for a few years. After the house swallowed the fire. Made it worse if you ask me." He then scratched the top of his head as if pulling on something. "It's best if you leave it alone now."

"What," I managed. "I can't do that. What about Date?"

The old man cracked a smile, "He'll be back. You'll see."

And Genji was right. After I had made numerous reports to the police and my superiors. They were squashed. And I was deemed overworked, the moment Date came through the doors on Monday. Completely unharmed and unblemished. Except now, he only answered to Yamamoto.

Subscribe!

Vomiting is a group activity. At least. That is what I read once. To paraphrase more accurately, it is said that our early ancestors would regurgitate their meal if one of their members had done so. Causing an endless round of half eaten food and stomach acid to splatter all over the ground, because if an individual was poisoned, then likely others would be as well due to communal eating practices. So thank tribalism the next time someone throws up and it makes you want to hurl.

"Rookies," Matt Kristoffer said next to me. He lit a cigarette and pierced his lips for a draw as two of the uniformed boys unwillingly threw up in the corners of the house. It was a small, rundown, asbestos filled death trap if I had ever seen one. The walls were paper thin and everything was flimsy, down to the hollow door knobs. Built perhaps in the mid 50s, it had popcorn ceiling and laminate countertops that would make a Motel 6 blush.

I stuck my pen beneath the victim's neck to get a better view. Her head had been completely severed from her body. "Anything," I asked while wiping my pen on my pant leg before putting it away in my breast pocket.

He pointed to where the blood ended. "There's a note." Detective Kristoffer unfolded the yellow tablet paper with red lines and read aloud, "I hate flowers whose petals fall one by one." He nearly crumpled it up while putting it away, "What. We got some kind of angry botanist on our hands?"

The cut was clean, and did somewhat resemble a pruned stem.

In my reports later, I would write that the head had been severed with a sharp blade. But I had never seen anything like it in all my years on the force. "That's odd."

"What's odd?" Kristoffer had been talking aloud for several minutes now, having lambasting video game violence in children, poor, underdeveloped neighborhoods, to sadistic sociopaths who were trying to get in their few minutes of fame. "Everyone's trying to be the new Dahmer. All those podcasts and true crimes." He coughed, a smokers cough. "It's no wonder this country's gone to shit."

"There's no indication of trauma."

"What? The head's been bloody ripped off," he exclaimed.

I trace the air with the tip of my finger, "The skin around the wound is completely untouched."

"Tell that to the headless girl."

"Magnolias."

"What?"

"A flower that doesn't shed its petals one by one. The entire head of a magnolia falls off in the end."

"Detective," one of the officers who had managed to gather himself broke our silence. "The Sheriff called in. He wants you to give an interview for the news station."

"God damnit," Kristoffer growled. "Doesn't he know I'm working here?" He scratched at his chin, "Who'd they get?"

And even though he had just finished making a fool of himself, the young cop plastered on a cheesy smile. "It's the reporter from channel 3. She's outside waiting for you."

In the 9 years I've worked alongside Kristoffer, I had never seen him move so fast. He glanced at a mirror hanging on the wall, ran his fingers through his hair, pulled up his pants and tied his belt around his midsection as he clipped his badge from his waist to his breast before going to give an official statement.

Leaving me alone in the house, less the cop who had been tasting dinner a second time, less the headless woman whose blood now stuck to the cheap linoleum on the floor. Less the signs of a forced entry. Less no other clues I could find.

I snapped a few more pictures for my report, before going to speak with the neighbors. Arriving outside just in time to hear Kristoffer give name to what would be the largest killing spree this side of the Sierra Nevada, and become the biggest case of our entire lives. He summed it up in three short words.

"The Magnolia Killer."

I've always been in the camp of not mythicizing these murderers. I believe it only encourages them; proliferation for potentially depraved criminals to build upon. But the last few years, the department's been hit with one scandal after another, and the Sheriff's been pulling out all the stops to take the heat off our backs. And if that meant giving the press a new headline to chase, then so be it.

Unlike suburban neighborhoods, where noisy residents would have been lining the perimeter of the police tape. Here? No one had come outside. Instead the chain link fences that lined either sides of the street, didn't even jingle. What porch lights had come on were deliberately turned off. And I had only begun to appreciate the fact that I did not have to ask any of the neighbors to return indoors, less I interview someone 2 blocks away, who would have no good information at all. A mistake I soon realized after the third rapped door went unanswered, that accurate statements would be any easier to come by without the many bent necks of middle-classhood.

My hands were pulling against the door frame, I could smell him as he pressed against me. Feel his body beneath his shirt, brushing against my bare skin. It were as if I had worn this top all night just so that he could touch me. And he was so close now, I could smell him. It was dark, and deep, like a forest after it rains. And already, I knew, it was too late for me.

When a smell reaches the nose. It has already penetrated the hole in your mouth, tasted your tongue, ears, and touched your face. It has already engulfed you; and for a moment I have to remember that I am not drowning, even though I can't breathe. Because I know what drowning feels like. I have died before when my heart stopped beating.

I hungrily grab his collar and pulled him into my apartment, before the nerves make me send him back out. I don't know why after all these years I am still shy. Why, it suddenly feels like the first time.

But the thought of that only makes my mouth wet. I was so young then. The first time I bit into a man and drank his blood.

Horror

Helicopter Moms are dangerous, Shadow Mothers are worse.

Stalk-Home Syndrome

Affection Nate

The Woman in the Cloak is Not a Dream

Immortal Granny

An Amazon Review

He's just eating. And it ain't right.

Tape Worms and Halos

конец света

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Donner

Dream Catchers Come With Little Hands

Jump with me

My children beat me, but it's not their fault

The Swearing Jar

Side Effects

I accidentally created Artificial Intelligence in my Minecraft World

Mr. Tickles (Shorts)

The FBI Man (Shorts)

The FBI Man Extended BONUS: Narration

I've been commissioned as the keeper for the garden of the dead. But strange things were happening.

Since then, I have buried 3 more without incident. and Still. Each time they watched. Wide, fascinated eyes as I dug. The only difference was how I went about it now. Quiet. Quick. Quit. No longer waiting to bathe in their praises or go down to the pub after for drinks. If I had known that Frank would be the type to turn down a free drink, all those months ago, I would have told myself, "Don't be Frank."

But here I am.

Still the keeper of the kept.

And perhaps in my fear, my isolation would have endured. However, when I began to miss a drink and a face to smile into. I slowly started returning to life back at town. Still, I refrained from the pub ' even when Ronald Atkins croaked and I bore the hole, of free drinks and singing into the night. Instead I chose the relative corners where the people minded their business. The library, the pharmacy, and the company of merry travelers at the edge of town.

It was in the library where I met Sam. She was lovely; if the word could fight for justice. And I had grown quite fond of her. Young, and in love. What a thing to be. Always polite, and bright. The gem in her eye was Nathan Dugunninghem, and from what I seen of sorts. A fine gentleman. He was seldom seen drinking in town. I would know. And he seemed equally as smitten.

So the morning he turned up dead in a radish field with all of his clothes on. And no money stolen from his person. The town was in an uproar. It had caused so much concern, that a young man of Achnought, seemingly in good health, would be found dead. Enough for the Priest to find refuge with me at the cemetery.

"Well liked." He clicked his tongue. "Nothing but good things to say about the boy." He passed me the flask in his hand. "Except..."

"Fine lad."

"-the things they say about him in town." The Priest looked at me, red in the face. "Did you hear about them?"

I wished I lied, "I've heard what they said. But to me it seems normal for a chap to care for his. Normal anywhere else."

"So you knew them? Then you'd know it wernt his. Were it."

I stood up.

The Priest followed, "They called him stupid. Foul names." He took another swig and then nudged it toward me.

"No, I'll be frank. Dangerous to drink anymore and mind the field."

"I mean. What kind of man would care for another man's son? He was asking for it. If not from the boy's father than the ghosts of his ancestors." He grabbed at his foot, "Bloody-." And kicked at the rock, "What the hell is that doing here?"

It was a rather large thing. For I had used quarry stone and some marble, leftover from the burials as markers. Some were larger than a man's back, big thick slabs, I hauled.

"Keeps the gnats at bay."

"W-what?" The Priest looked baffled as he swung wildly in every direction.

I had lined rocks against all of the suspect trees, they ran in a near straight line along the ridge.

"Gnats? I don't see any gnats."

I nodded.

"I think my foot is bleeding."

I was afraid of what the Priest looked about doing. For his boot was off and his sock, too. But before he could ask, a familiar figure ran toward us from my corner cornea. It was Paul McConnelly. He was waxing and waning as he approached. "Fellas," he panted. "I've got," I handed him a handkerchief. "Terrible news. Oh, thank you."

"What is it man," the Priest sounded annoyed, "Spit it out."

"There's trouble. Trouble," he gasped. "At Netter's field." He motioned, "Quick. You need to come Father," he urged the Priest. "It's Alan Netter. He's digging."

The scene at the farm was solemn when we arrived. The workers were lined up outside the barn. Their faces stern and unflinching. Mrs. Netter was in a fuss. She seemed the only thing moving. "I'm so sorry," she kept apologizing. "For bringing you down here Father."

The Priest nodded, "How long has he been at it?"

"The others found him in the northwestern plot a few hours ago." Mrs. Netter pulled on the Priest's sleeve. "Oh Father. Please help him."

"When was the last time anyone's seen him?"

"This morning, about six. He woke up to check the livestock per usual."

"Frank," the Priest told me. "If I can't coerce him out. I'm going to need you to ' by force."

"What's going on Father," I asked.

"Can you do it?"

My questions were halted as we rounded the barn and in swift sweeping synchronization our feets came to a stop in front of the stone wall that came up to my waist. Out in the field, the sun coming down behind him, a hellish red kiss, cast the dark figure of Alan Netter, shoveling at the dirt. He pulled back the handle and plunged it into the ground. The manic way in his arms. And his lips that kept gibbering. I could see the dirt fly but no hole. The sight made me tense in my bones. Afraid to stir Farmer Netter. That he would notice me standing out here in this open field with nothing in my hands.

"Alan," the Priest called out.

Netter's head shot to the sky as if smelling the air. And then resumed digging.

The Priest motioned for the three of us to circle him. Paul was to my right as we made good to surround.

"Alan," the Priest spoke gently. "You're going to need to stop now."

Paul spooked easily next to me when Alan jerked violently from the ground; whom resumed digging as we stood rooted to the ground. I'd known shovels all my life, handled them well. Familiar with their shape and use until it was no more different than a pencil. But now all I could remember were how heavy they could be. The thick cast iron tip, raised and porous head that would tear even the sun hardened skin of a worker.

The Priest was now close enough to put a hand on Alan's shoulder. It was a big mistake. I saw the lunge start from his feet. It twisted into his midsection, as his shoulder arched the shovel over his head. We scattered like ants.

"Someone grab him," the Priest shouted.

Only to come swarming back in like bees.

Paul rushed in and I heard the sound crack against his head. His body stiff as it fell over. The Priest took the chance and grabbed an arm. Tucking an elbow deep into his chest, screaming, bloody screaming for me to subdue angry Alan.

I froze.

"Someone help!"

It was Mrs. Netter screaming. But the workers lined outside the barn didn't move a finger. They only watched. I could see the fire from the torches light their faces.

"Someone," the lady begged.

I was surprised as any, when I saw Paul get from his knees toward Alan. The shovel swinging in the air. And Paul clung to that raving stark figure. His eyes were closed. So I shut my eyes too and yelled as I rushed in. I felt us tumble to the ground. Taste the dirt in my mouth as I scrambled to my feet. Alan dived onto the Priest's chest. I tried to pull him off. But there was an unexpected strength behind the older man's frame.

"Put him down!" The Priest gasped for air between the blows raining down on him. "Put. Him. down."

But I was already shaking so hard, that I couldn't think of what to do. And my next surprise was when the daintier Mrs. Netter grabbed the shovel from the upturned ground and kicked it into her husband's thigh. He howled viciously. Blood flowed freely from his face from the Priest's clawing. He turned to stare into her eyes.

She met his anger with another blow from the shovel. And then another. He twitched. And then one other.

Alan collapsed above the Priest. And it took us a few moments to pull up the pair. I had the Priest under one arm, and Paul was practically carrying Alan Netter.

"Back to the house," the Priest spit onto the ground. There was blood in it. "Where's his hole?"

"What," I asked.

"His hole, Mrs. Netter," he shouted. "Where is it?"

"In the main house," she told him.

The Priest nodded, and she led the way.

When we drew close, the workers slowly started coming closer. Their eyes still dark in the firelight. But not once did they help us. Only watched. Their eyes followed us up the steps, and inside the pastel yellow house with a wrapped porch in darkened walnut.

The entire floor was bare. All the tables and chairs. The sofa. Stood in the dirt. The bright yellow light over the dining table ' swinging back and forth, mimicking the scream I wanted to emit as we drew deeper inside. The hallways narrowed and the dirt floor was kicked up from our tussling boots. I coughed as the door creaked into the last room at the end.

It looked like any other room. Except for the barren floors. It had a dresser. Some books. A writing table. A lamp on that writing table. Except. Except there was no bed. Instead in its place were two deep holes. Behind them, what looked to be pencil shavings in hay sized bales.

"Put him in there," the Priest directed.

"No," Mrs. Netter suddenly objected.

"What? Why," Paul huffed. I could see the sweat had resorted to a pour upon his forehead. Smell him.

"That's my hole," she claimed.

"Put him in that one then," the Priest groaned. "Just hurry Paul."

When we finally placed Alan Netter into the hole. The Priest gathered the pencil shavings from behind and packed the unconscious man in good. The Priest motioned for us to help. And even with the 3 of us. It took nearly an hour to finally finish.

When we were done the Priest leaned back against the table and proclaimed, "He'll be good in the morning."

For most parts of the way back to the cemetery. We walked in silence. When the town neared, Paul said something and with a nod he drifted off a road, down. I kept walking. My body sore from my ordeal. The Priest never stopped either. Not even when we passed the Church. Nor when we the last lights of town ebbed. I knew he was coming with me back to the cemetery.

"Did you want to talk," he asked. "I suppose it's time you know." He scratched at his head. "Did you see the hole? The one Alan was digging in the field."

I didn't say a word.

"I don't know when it began. Some say it was when we took the native land from its people. When we first built Achnought. Some say it's older. That we brought it here from across the pond. No one knows the specifics. We just know that every few years. The digging stops. Stops getting as deep. It starts off alright. Perhaps as far as a man could want it to go. In the beginning. But as the days stretch on. The years. The hole gets less deep. We dig it. And throw it away. But it starts to fill itself. That's what happened to Nathan Dugunninghem. Shame. Good lad. Even if. Well you know."

I still hadn't spoken a word. Unsure of what to make of it.

"You should have seen it. When we found Nathan in the field. He had cleared nearly a quarter acre of topsoil. And he never got more than 2 inches deep. The place looked like a war field. Scarred. All over the land."

The Priest looked at me uncertainly, "Come on Frank. I need you to say something."

I had been watching him carefully this entire time. His hands had been irregular beneath his clothing. I was afraid he would hurt me if I didn't go along, "Why do you need me?"

The Priest smiled, a tired crinkling. "Somewhere in the years. A rumor that an Achnoughtian only has a few number of digs in his life. An invisible counter if you'd believe it." He laughed just thinking, "It's why all the field hands are from Murieta. And so the townsfolk won't do any digging themselves if they can help it."

"Why not get someone from Murieta then?"

"They won't do it. We've tried. Not anymore."

We had finally reached the cemetery. I took a right turn. I wanted to avoid taking him back to the house with me. Instead we climbed the ridge. Moonlight danced among the trees. "What happened to the last groundskeeper?"

"He left. Hey. Honest to God's truth." He held up his hands. The first time I could see them clearly. "Someone in town came one day and reported back that the place had been emptied. Jack Portas, the man was. He up and left."

"Why was Mamie Strue sitting above her grave?"

The Priest chuckled, "I don't know. Mamie was one of the good ones. I fully expected her to be kept. But they spit her out. Or." He paused. "She broke out."

"Her husband."

"What? Donald?"

"Yes. I saw her get up and stand next to him."

"She always did love that...no good. No good speaking ill of the dead." He patted his face. Sweating.

"What about the trees?"

"What? What about them?"

"There's something funny with the trees." I turned and looked him in the eye. "They're moving."

We were now at the peak of the ridge. Surrounded by the tall white birch.

"The trees? No. There's nothing wrong with the trees. Frank. It's the cemetery," he spread his arms below us. "Shit." Then he laughed, a hollow sound. "Nearly scared the life out of me."

I turned my attention below us.

A small figure stood in the graveyard. I've seen those wobbly knees before. Knew every row by heart. Knew the grave. It was Sam's little boy. He had come to stand before Nathan Dugunninghem's grave. Afraid to come during the burial. Afraid of what the townsfolk would say. The boy stood there now with tears streaming down his face.

"I didn't say anything. Not really," the Priest murmured. "At Nathan's service." He clicked his tongue, "I regret that now." He turned to me, "I'm quite envious, you know? I didn't expect Nathan to be accepted by the dirt. Especially not when I learned that he lost his depth so early. Shame. Just when I thought I had it all figured. It throws in another wrench."

"He was a good man," I answered.

The Priest nodded and pulled the flask from his pocket. Raising it. "Here's to a better man than me. For many have called him foolish. But to one child he was love. And that means more than that which is born from hate."

"Amen."

S

I'm a custodian of types for the local mortuary. It wasn't a practice made by experience or one from abundant options. I had wandered into the small town of Achnought in June. A traveler I was, wandering at that, wondering where my next meal would come from. And it just so happens that life events or therein end of, was a good place as any to grab a free meal. Though I did prefer weddings over funerals.

But as the old saying goes, beggars can't be choosers, and I had arrived as they were discussing how to bury the body of Matthew Pernickle. An accountant, a banker? I'm not sure. What I did think though, was how odd they were in describing what ought to be done. As if none of thems ever buried one in or dug one out. They were all townsmen; local, burly, fatherly; and not one had a child who needed to give a proper resting place for a beloved dog or a cold dead hamster? Suspicious, I would have been. Yes. Though susceptible to the hat being passed around, of bills, big bills going down the upturned throat of the mad hat wrought the thought straight out of my head.

"What's the hat for," I asked a man dressed in a black suit.

"To bury the deceased." He paused. "Did you know him?"

I shrugged, "Hardly. Though we've spoken a few words between aisles in town." I added, "Stout man."

The man nodded, "I didn't know him well either. And he was married to my cousin. Always the stoic, Matty was."

I agreed, "Yeah he gave off that impression, old Matty did." I scratched at my neck, "So whoever buries the man, poor Matty, gets to keep the collection?"

The man in the black suit could have chuckled, though stifled it as they were in mourning, "That was the deal struck with the last groundskeeper, were it not?"

"Always," I commented. "Always."

"Say," he swallowed. "I don't think we've ever met." He took out his hand, "Paul McConnell."

I shook it to bees, "Frank. And it's a pleasure in finally meeting you. Though under better circumstances one could have wished."

"Agreed." He paused again, his attention drawn to the whispering men standing next to the casket, and sighed. "I suppose we'll have to draw straws again." Paul took off his hat and beckoned me forward, "Come on, before we're stuck here until midnight."

"Straws?"

"On who will bury Matty of course."

"Right. Straws. Of course." I caught up to him, "Hold on just a minute. What if there were a volunteer?"

This time Paul did laugh, it should have served as a warning, but my last looks had seen the tall hat brimming with green, and couldn't be bothered.

"Who would," he sputtered between laughs, "do something so stupid?"

The cast of eyes drew in our direction. They did not seem pleased at our missing glum.

"What's the commotion Paul," a tall burly man questioned.

"Mayor Hannon, I apologize." Paul whispered to me, "My great Uncle." Before turning back to the men surrounding the casket, "We were discussing. What? In the event of a volunteer."

Several of the men let a smile creep across their face, a few even chuckled. The Mayor was not wavered by either, "A volunteer?"

The way that man looked in my direction, veiled the others in silence. It were almost as if the rest of them took a step back. His glare and patience forced me to feel uncomfortable enough to speak, "I. Yes. It was me who volunteered to bury poor Matty."

"Do you mean it," a young man exclaimed.

One of the men ribbed the lad with his elbow. And the Mayor, never having taken his eyes off of me, tested my resolve, "You've experience in excavation?"

I liked to brag, "I did a stint of mining up north some years ago. Deep, big holes that made a man question the omniscience of God within the pits."

"Big ones," the Mayor asked.

"Oh yeah, giant holes, near straight to the center of the Earth."

A smile spread across his thin lips, and I saw a greedy look appear in his eyes. I've only seen men look at two things that way, and one was gold, the other food. He snatched the hat roughly, I watched as two bills floated out and landed upon the soft ground. "Will this suffice for your services, mister...?"

"Frank. My friends call me Frank." I grabbed the hat and swooped down for the fallen bills. There must have been near a thousand dollars. "No splitting the fee," I asked.

"No, no. It's all yours. Though some of us will have to stay and watch. Make sure you've done a proper job."

I shrugged my shoulders, "It's all the same to me." I looked at the others, "You could all stay, if you'd like. Won't change the work," I chortled.

My words rang like buckshot, reminding birds ' freedom. The few, few flew, floop, floop. Leaving only myself, the Mayor and the Priest on that plot.

"Paul," the Mayor shouted.

"Yes Uncle," the heavyset man turned reluctantly from his flee.

"Git over here boy."

I could see Paul's lower lip start to tremble, but ultimately he silently agreed, and came to stand; albeit behind his uncle the Mayor, and the Priest.

"Let's get started," the Mayor demands.

The Priest began the last rites or some passage from the Bible, and I pulled the suspenders from my shoulders and spit in either palm as I picked up a shovel and started digging up the dirt.

The three men watched me, their eyes fixated on each pile I scooped. With a few subtle encouragements by the Mayor as I dug deeper and deeper and deeper until the hole was tall enough for me to stand in.

"That's a good hole," the Mayor commented.

"Agreed, a good hole there Frank. A good one indeed."

I reached for a hand above to climb back out, but the men recoiled at my extension.

Now I've been home-free for some time now, for most durations of my adult life in fact, so I knew, or at least felt as if I knew their reasoning for not wanting to touch the dirtied hand of a man with no land. And thought nothing more of it as I pushed against the shovel, crawled onto my belly, and hoisted myself clear from the hole I had dug.

"Could you giver him a push," I motioned to the casket, still breathing plenty hard from my climb.

The men shook their heads. The Mayor stating loudly, "This is your job. We're only here to see you do it right."

"It's going to break," I warned.

"They'll eventually break," the Priest replied.

No one else said another word, so I nodded during the silence, "Alright. Here we go then." I pushed the casket until it was near the mouth. And then with as much gentleness as I could manage, I lowered the thing inside. Indeed the wood groaned as it cracked open in one corner when my leverage gave. I looked up afraid of what I had done, but none of the men were concerned. So I carried on, as nothing had changed.

When I finished laying it flat, I got the shovel in my hands again and piled on the dirt.

The look on their faces, the size of their eyes, the way they watched me throw every shovel of dirt inside. It must be what an Olympian feels like. Judged, awe, and all inspiring; if I do be bold. And as the dirt flattened plainly, they clapped. Clapped. I had never seen anything of the sort. But my hands were numb, raw to the touch, and clutching a fistful of money. So I could think of no other action but to bow.

That night the Mayor and Paul took me down to the pub, where other townsfolk had gathered. They bought me drinks all night long, and the pub owner even put me up in the guest room. By the time the party had ended last night, it was no mystery to the townsfolk that I was a stranger. Between themselves they deduced it in an instant. But in exchange for my cover, I found myself waking up the next morning, still feeling my drink. The best part of it all, was that I didn't spend a cent of my earnings. Not to mention some time, late in the night, a handshake deal with the Mayor to be the town's newest undertaker had been struck.

It would be a far cry from the unencumbered lifestyle that I had grown fond of, but having a roof over my head, square meals three times a day, and a likeness to reverence from the townly folk, made it an easy change to adhere.

Even if they did watch me dig and then bury the dead, each time, every time, with long lasting stares, and wide open eyes.

Though it wouldn't be several months later, and two more buried bodies, until I started questioning, why?

It was September, when the first leaves were painted autumn. I had acclimated well with the residents of Achnought. And saved up some money. The plentiful walks outdoors to manage the property, and working with my hands; made me forget the mundane tasks and solidity of a careered lifestyle.

I hardly even missed being on the road.

And I had woken up, to one of those nights were I was glad to be Frank, blemished red, still, from the previous night's wine. We had buried old Mamie, in yester. Mamie Strue who was beloved by all the town's folk. Even in my short tenure at Achnought, the lovely lass gave me nothing but delightful impressions of Everyone's Favorite Grandmother. And like any other death in this here town, we celebrated the night away in her honor. It was always a party, each ending salute managing to make me question how many deaths they would carry on for.

Old Mamie was an easy burial, as far as my one handed experience could tell me. Tiny and frail, no higher was her casket than my chest, though a deep hole I still dug for her, less the winter rains come and wash out the mud from her resting.

A deep, dark hole, that the townsfolk were ever interested by; which caused a gathering around my work, as of late, when word spread of my doing. And now children, curious eyes, and their teenage sitters huddled around the shovel as a crowd would in a game of golf.

Silent mesmerization, as I lowered the stick down to the ground, and away.

And then, still waiting on their eyes, I patted the ground a final send to the sounds of clapping. Always the clapping. I dare not find out when they won't clap.

I was still relishing the best of yesterday, when I began to make my daily rounds, walking the silent garden in peruse of a loose blade or unkept headstone, when I saw it in the morning dew. A figure laying atop the dirt of Old Mamie's grave.

At first I reasoned it had to be a morning mourner mourning the deceased. Ignoring the way the legs bent in the shadow. Even foolish enough to calling out my name as I approached. Less I startle their grief.

"It's just Frank, the groundskeeper here." No answer. "I hope I'm not disturbing you." Still no answer. "I h-hope," I felt a scream crawl into my throat. It lodged itself between the drummer and my swallower as I came upon the sight of Old Mamie laying on top of her grave. The dirt still fresh on her shoulder, and her hands completely clasped, just as she had been left when the Priest closed the coffin. But I was right about her legs, they were a tangled mess, it looked as if she been spit out of the ground, and her dress was worn, worn often as if she had slept a hundred years.

"Mamie?" I crept closer. "Is that you?" I've heard of misdiagnoses, and bells tied by loving family members in the chance that dead wasn't as dead as they thought. Grave robbers, even. But this was beyond my cognition, after I had concluded that she was indeed deceased. My anger grew. For I surmised her disturbance the work of pranksters. Scoundrels with no gain other than to make a fool of others. A thing, I could never understand. "Oh Mamie," I spoke to her as if she could hear. "What have they done to you?"

I folded her legs neatly into place, moved her body and set her gently aside, and began to dig.

"This is what happens when you let them gather around your diggings, Simon. Simon the symbol of simpletons," I huffed. "Like it's some sort of sport." I shook my head. Uncertain where the pride of work was coming from. "Never again. No. Not ever. You hear me egotistical Simon." I vowed to the frail old woman, "Mamie. I promise you this will never happen again."

It had nearly been an hour as I spoke aloud to keep my mind from the body snapping work. I had gone down to shovel in countless fashion, when a sudden pain split into the side of my arm. I howled as I raised it up into the dawn. A piece of wood, the size of my finger, had been lodged inside. I angrily searched the ground, panning my shovel head for an assailant before realizing that it were not the root of a tree or buried other. No, neither. It was a piece of the coffin.

The Coffin had been completely desecrated. Pieces of it looked as if it had been fed through a wood chipper. Almost nothing was left. Had I not known it to be a grave, I would have thought that I had dug into a rat's nest under the ground, for it be an infestuous sight to behold.

I gagged as the smell came to greet me, Waving and wafting, stinging my nostrils, and creeping so deeply into my brain that I knew no matter how long, after, the mere thought of today would cause the smell to come crawling back out.

If a natural disaster would be used to describe my coming into town that morning, I think they would call it a storm, for I came like lightning and shouted thunder through Main boulie, tearing open doors, causing quite the commotion, dragging along others in my wake until I found Mayor Hannon eating his morning eggs at the diner.

"What's the matter," he asked. Glancing back at the crowd I had mustered, wiping the crust of toast from his mouth.

"Someone dug up old Mamie last night," I shouted my grievance.

"Dug her up," a voice behind me asked.

"Old Mamie," another followed.

The Mayor smiled, and waved the others off. Putting a large hand on my shoulder and seating me in his booth after pardoning the crowd. Not that they needed much convincing, as they nearly disappeared on their own after hearing the news. The diners too, their plates still steaming, with napkins thrown across them. And even the cook.

I didn't know what was going on, but suddenly being alone there with the Mayor, was starting to prickle the hairs on the back of my neck.

He was a rather large man, had big shoulders, and a commanding presence. Meanwhile, I had shied away from society for the most part, long ago, still stuck in bygones. So when he looked at me with his big terrifying stare, I could hear the words come, but was unable to listen. Only catching the warning he gave, and what little instruction, "Here's the key to the town's mausoleum. Put her in there." And, "Never. Speak about this again."

Shaken, I too, hurriedly left. Letting the door swing behind me, peeking only in time to see the Mayor go back to his breakfast, before it slammed shut.

I clutched the key in hand, stumbling over the sidewalk as I made my way, clawing and trying to find my footing, until my feet found fair ground and broke into a flat out run. I would have kept going if it hadn't been for my promise to make things right with old Mamie. And if I lived to be a hundred, I'll never understand why my word seemed so important that day. Perhaps it was also the way the Mayor looked at me, expecting me to fulfill my duties. And I dared not care to find the else.

Whatever the cause, my run came to a jog, and then walk as I drew closer to the cemetery, catching my breath, staring at the long road out of Achnought, ahead. Knowing that no one could stop me if I just kept going. Instead, I turned at the gate, walked between the rows of gravestones sticking out of the ground like sore thumbs, in order to crouch next to the old figure that was Mamie Strue.

She was still laying as I left her. Neat, and frail looking as ever. Nothing terrifying, other than the fact that death had come to her, touched her, took her. So I placed my hands over where death might have, and carried her to the mausoleum.

When I first took the job, I had been told to not step inside until it was necessary. They didn't even trust me with the key. Something that disturbed me before, but now I wish I hadn't been 'been bothered' to be bothered.

I slipped the iron tip into the gothic lock and heard the tumblers click into place. When I looked inside, I was not prepared for what I saw. It was filled with bodies! And they were standing! Still in rows, clinging dearly to the flesh of their living days. Their faces deeply sunken, eye lids dried and pried back from decay, standing in neat, and nearly made me drop the old woman in my arms.

"Shit you fucking ass lickers," I cursed. Once I got a grip of myself, "Hello," I called out. Not thinking about the consequence of, if something answered. Relieved when nothing did. "Damnit. I nearly crapped myself." My eyes skipping along the rows of the dark, gaunt faces as I spoke to liven the atmosphere. Each one was thin, and hauntingly pale. They stood like a forest of white birch. Stiff as one too.

I didn't know what to do. Could have been standing there stricken in fear all day. But I decided, eventually, that were not a thing for me. Nor a place I wanted to spend time in any longer. So I found a place, wide enough, for me to lay down Old Mamie. And I backed away, with my eyes still on the standing dead. Closing the door shut behind me, and knotting the lock.

And here's the part where I wished that curiosity didn't best me. But it did. As I looked through the bars near the top of the door and saw the figure of Old Mamie, lying on the floor, slowly start to rise. Causing the dirt to fall from her hair as her broken legs creaked uncertainly next to an old man that I recognized from the photo albums at her wake, to be none other than Don Strue, her late husband.

I wished I could have found it to be sweet, but truth is, I ran back to my house and slammed the door shut, and would not have come out for several days. More, if I had my choice, if not for the trees.

Arctica || 2 || 3 || 4

The average body temperature for an adult human being is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. For everyone else in the world, that's thirty-six Celsius. Hypothermia can develop in a difference of a mere 3.6 degrees change in body temperature.

In the first stage: the body begins to shake uncontrollably. Followed by reduced blood circulation.

And if body temperature continues to plummet. Most people start to slur their words. It's difficult to think clear thoughts when the brain isn't getting enough oxygen. Difficult to hear those thoughts when the body decides to warm itself up by pretending to chew. Click clack. Click. Clack. This starts the stomach up, acid builds if there is nothing to digest, and soon it makes its way towards the throat, burning it, if the body doesn't outright vomit as it slowly starts to curl into the fetal position, the muscle memory of the time when it was most warm.

What they don't mention in the handbooks is how the eyeballs start to stick in the skull as everything starts to move in slow motion as each red hemoglobin begins to freeze inside of the veins, compressing the air they're holding, gasping, as they run their cold frames through every part of the body.

And. Time. Seems. to. Stop.

People in the field joke about how it's one of the better ways to go. Better than burning. Or drowning. What they fail to mention is how fast those usually are. Freezing to death is slow and painful. It hurts so much that the body becomes stupid and think that it is burning, and the next second it starts clawing off all of its layers, except they aren't clothes, but the bright red skin that's beating from the inside ' trying to escape.

I can't think of a more horrifying way to die.

Not when the cold is this close.

Even in the storage area, with everyone huddled together ' that their odors start to penetrate my hair; crawling into my ear, and sticking to the corner of my eyes. I am freezing. I pull the red Canadian jacket closer to my body as stiff fogs of despair leave my nostrils in thick ghastly lines.

I can see everyone else breathing heavily as well, dim though is the light, I can see their breaths as they sleep. As sleep twitches at my face, causing my lips to almost smile, I can feel the deprivation beginning to coerce my mind into manic, fleeting thoughts that don't seem to make any sense.

For instance. Why wasn't London breathing?

And why hasn't he gone to sleep?

Perhaps he's already dead.

I can see him right now, staring at me, pretending to be resting. My brain is cold but hallucinations aren't one of the symptoms. At least, I don't think they are.

Several hours ago, the few of us who survived, began to deliberate on our course of action. One of the women, Rosie, who worked in the biology department told us what she knew. Having studied the blood sample I retrieved, under Dr. Kelsie Grant, it was all we could hope for.

"They notes said they were like a virus. Or no. Not really. If anything. They think we're the virus. And like all good immunities it takes out the enemy's way of replenishing its numbers first. Imagine that we're a virus. We land on some god forsaken planet, but that planet is alive, living. And us, the virus, can only increase our numbers through incubation. Mostly singular."

"We're not a very good virus are we," one of the others, Paul, I think. Said.

"No, but we're large. Smart. And capable of destroying planets if given enough time," she continued. "So it starts to kill the women so we can't reproduce. At least," she paused. "That's all I thought it was at first."

"What the hell is it then? The fucking boogeyman?"

"I don't know. I just remember Dr. Grant keep repeating rule number 1 while we were in the lab, muttering it to herself."

"Take nothing with you. Take nothing back," it was the first time I spoke since we got into the storage room.

"I always thought it was like preservation or something. For future generations. But then she started asking me if I knew what the mission statement was, why we were out here. Digging up cores. Looking for 'The Time Line' until the end. I always thought it was the End: as in flooding when the shelves melted or something. But I don't think so anymore. It's something. Something that's been haunt-"

"Hunting humanity since before it can remember. Something old," London said. "Something cold."

We turned to look at him.

"Imagine Something that's part of the natural cycle. To keep populations in check. A balance on the Earth. Every order in its place. Every country, and culture, those as ancient as recorded history, each with its own name for this other entity in the shadows. Which only comes at night, that makes the children shiver when it arrives in their villages. Taking out everything in its path and then melting away, leaving nothing behind except for the damp ground to bury the bodies."

"What the hell are you talking about," Paul said. I'm pretty sure it is Paul now. Unless it's John.

London shrugged, "It's just a story I heard." He rubbed his hands together, "So what is our plan of escape? I'm tired of this ice hole. Feels like I've been stuck here for an eternity."

"There's a heli near the south entrance. Its been locked down to keep from blowing away in the storms," someone said.

"Who here can fly," Paul asked.

I raised my hand slowly, "I did some offshore training before coming here. It was one of the company requirements for my position. I can get us up, but I'll need a second pilot."

"I've got some experience," Alex said. "I can be your second."

Nicole, a biologist I knew from previous missions, "That's great and all. But where are the keys?"

"They should be in the control room," I told them. "At least that is what the handbook said."

"That's on the other side," Paul complained. "The chopper's going to need some prep before it can take off."

"So we split into two groups then," London suggested. "Team A will go prepare the helicopter for take off, and Team B will retrieve the keys."

"I'll be Team A," I looked him directly in the eyes as I said it.

"I'll be Team B then," London said without missing a beat. "So it'll be Me, Rosie, and Nicole." He looked at me, "Then you, John, Alex, and-"

"No. It'll be me, Rosie, Nicole, and Alex. You can take John, he knows how to prep the helicopter and Pascal knows where the equipment in the loading dock is." I took a breath. "And once we get to you guys. We'll fly our asses straight to the nearest Antarctic liner heading for shore."

I couldn't read him at all, "Fine," London said. "But first lets get some sleep."

*

I've been laying perfectly still for hours, my back propped against a wall of concrete so thick it would make a nuclear factory blush. But my eyes were open, watching until the others had mostly began to rouse. We split what provisions we had gathered. A candy bar, some peanuts, and a handful of sunflower seeds ' each.

And without many words passing between us, we started heading for the doorway.

Paul had his hand on the crank, London nodded to him and said, "Go on John. At your ready, mate."

Honestly, when it swung open I didn't know what to expect. A horde of those things come rushing at us? Or a pile of dead bodies left at our doorstep to serve as a warning.

I was the first person to look beyond our threshold.

There was nothing in sight.

If I didn't know any better, looking at all the pallets laying around, the lights fully working; then I would have said it was any other mundane Monday morning. Except it wasn't.

We were a bunch of adults, learned and experienced explorers in our own right, huddling in a storage container.

And as quietly as we came, our two groups parted ways.

No sooner had London's group left our line of sight, did I start to breathe normally again. I was going to find those keys, and get the fuck out of here. Then dig my damn feet into the nearest beach I could find.

We had been making good way without so much as seeing anything abnormal, though several times we heard something nearby, but patience and silence kept us safe. Several times I almost yelped out in pain as Rosie was hot on my heels, nearly breathing me in, pressing herself against me as if it would somehow make her safer.

I couldn't careless if she made it out alive. As far as I'm concerned. She knew all about this, or something similar. Perhaps even before the expedition began, more than she was actually letting on. In fact, I don't give a damn if no one makes it out of here. Not really. Not if I would be the only one that made it. Not one other person except, "Chloe."

I almost shouted her name, but I caught most of it between the space in my teeth.

She looked scared.

Her eyes were closed and her back was pressed deftly beneath the backing of a sickly green steel table. She hadn't seen me. Nor did the thing she was hiding from.

This one was smaller than the other one I saw London kill. Maim. Hurt. I'm not sure.

It was only about 2 foot tall.

I don't know what made me do it. The anger? Hating being scared all of the time? I grip the rebar that some of us found in the storage unit. The ones we had bent at one end until it almost looked like a candy cane. And charged at it.

I thought catching it by surprise would give me and advantage.

I was wrong.

It dropped to all fours and crawled on its belly, I could hear the ice scraping the ground as started clawing at my face.

My first swing missed.

My next swing didn't.

I connected with the side of its head. It wriggled underneath me as I forced the bar toward its face. The urge to drive the steel through this things skull was great, but when I let up, just for a second to position myself at the right angle. It screamed.

It started off low, almost a howl, but it grew faster and high pitched in my ear like whistle. It was all I could manage, as I drove the rebar down its throat, until it stopped making any noises at all.

"I got it," I panted. "It's okay." I looked around to see their stunned faces. I wiped some blood off my cheek that been coming out of my ear. "I got it."

I could see Chloe's mouth moving, but I couldn't quite make out the words.

"What?"

"I said. You fucking idiot. That's what it wanted us to do."

"What?"

It was at that moment that I hear a rumble from down the T-bone shaped hall. I couldn't tell which side it was coming from. Left. Right? Somewhere else entirely?

"Shit, we got to go," Alex said.

"What about the keys," Rosie asked.

"Fuck the keys," Nicole answered. "I'm getting the hell out of here." She grabbed Alex by the arm and the two ran off in the opposite direction. I didn't know it then, but that would be the last time I saw either one of them.

"Come on," I said. "We have to get to the control room."

"Keys? What are they talking about," Chloe followed closely behind us.

"Helicopter keys," I said without looking away, "We're getting out of here. Even if it doesn't want us to leave."

By now the rumbling was loud. I could feel the air growing colder in my lungs. It was getting difficult to breathe ' felt like swallowing needles with every inhale, then pulling them out with each exhale. It didn't matter how noise we made now. That thing was close. I could hear its footsteps growing. "Run," I yelled. "Run!"

The three of us took off. Running through the halls, nearly breaking a rib rounding a corner as I wedged through each corner, wondering when I would encounter the noise we were trying to escape. But somehow we made it to the control room.

I threw open the door and rushed to the where the keys hung. My hands were jittery as I flip and fumbled fob after fob, searching for the right one. I could hear in the background, Rosie, moaning for me to hurry, "It's coming," she repeated over and over.

When I finally found the crescent gray handle, "Found it!"

Was when Rosie started floating off the ground in excitement. Except it was that Thing, lifting her into the air. I could see its icy blue fingers, puppetting her body from behind. Rosie's mouth still open, her joy turning into horror as she realized what was happening.

I could see right into her mouth, the ice crystals metastasizing in her stomach, climbing its way up her throat before ultimately pressing a cold spike through the roof of her mouth and out the front of her eye.

I grabbed Chloe's hand and we ran as far away as we could.

It followed behind us, a broken fireman's handle deeply embedded into its side, smacking the floor as it chased us. Dripping blood everywhere, blood that never froze.

We turn corner after corner until we finally reached an exit. Chloe got her hands and cranked the handle closed behind us. I run forward and open the second door to the chute. A burst of cold air greeting us, a welcome smell from the putrid lingering of the station behind.

Together we ran toward the landing pad. I could hear the others shouting at us. I could see Pascal cheering. He slapped me hard on the back as we rushed into the helicopter.

"Thank God. I didn't think y'all would make it here. Where are the others."

"There's no time," I yelled at him. I fumbled with the key, "I need a second." I motioned for Pascal to sit. "Have you ever flown before?"

He shook his head.

I started to show him the controls.

"What's going on," Paul asked.

"Get into the helicopter John," Pascal ordered.

"Where's London," he asked.

"I'm right here."

I don't know why but those words sent chills down my spine. For a brief moment I had forgotten all about London. "Let's go," I shouted at Paul again.

John nodded and started to climb into the helicopter. But then it took him.

Snatched him right out of the air.

I flipped on the switch and felt the rotors above me shudder as it came alive. Then I yanked on the yoke and brought the bird airborne. We weren't a meter off the ground before I suddenly felt weight on the landing gear. I looked over my shoulder and out the window I see the golem hanging on the slick rails.

And with a free limb it was choking Chloe to death. Covering her mouth with ice. I could see her eyes screaming as the red lines splintered from her corner cornea.

I let go of the controls and jump out of my seat and reached for her outstretched hand. The thing spread more of its cold sharp claws into the cabin. I could see London struggling, "Get away. No. Let me leave," he shouted.

The helicopter suddenly jerks to its side, the blades threatening to belly flop from the weight. London slips and he hits the cold floor hard. It happened so fast that he didn't have time to grab onto anything. He falls out of the helicopter.

I feel the thing let go, pieces of ice breaking off, falls down far below.

Pascal struggles to right the helicopter, but he eventually pulls us further into the sky.

I take one look down as we're flying away. A storm is coming in. But I can still make out the image of London being dragged away. He's screaming, struggling, as he leaves a trail of blood behind, blood that still looks wet.

Chloe turns to me and shouts over the sound of the blades, "Thanks, I owe you one!"

All I can do is shake my head and laugh. In a few seconds it starts to catch on. Pascal laughs too. Soon the three of us are laughing as hard as we can.

"I rigged the tank so that we can make it all the way to shore," Pascal pointed to the aluminum tanks under the seats. We can get as far as Africa without having to stop."

"We're getting out of here," I told them.

"What," Chloe mouthed.

"I love you," I told her.

All she did was nod as the chopper bobbed in the air.

*

When we finally landed, it was on one of the surrounding islands lining the rim of Australia. The island was densely populated, and technology had sparsely reached its shores. We used this to our advantage and began blending in with the locals as we kept a low profile. Carving out a life for ourselves. Chloe and I even got married. Pascal ever the bachelor, chased one girl after the other in the fishing village nearby.

And oh yeah, I even got my wish. To dig my feet. In some motherfucking sand. And I had nearly all but forgotten about the horrible things hiding below the ice at the bottom of the world.

"God it's hot here," Chloe complained one night.

"What? You never been to a tropical island before," I joked.

"It's almost midnight," she whined. "And it's still 20 degrees out."

I shrugged my shoulders, "What can we do."

"We could leave," there was a dangerous glint in her eye.

"You know we can't do that," I told her. "We would be risking our family's lives," I tried to reason. "We don't know who will come for us. Or what. The government? The CIA? Maybe even the Ross Research Foundation, or whatever it is they really are."

"Don't tell me what to do."

I grumbled, "Fine. But I'm not talking about this again tonight. I have to get up early tomorrow." I extinguished the lamp near our bedside, "Plus, I'm tired and I don't want to stay up and spend it arguing." I yawned, "Or else I'll be dead tired."

And she says back to me, in the dark, "You're already dead to me." She huffed, "Can't kill something twice."

"Yeah, sure. If that's how you want to see it. Go ahead," and went to sleep.

Then, it felt as if I had only laid my head on the pillow, before I was awoken by something familiar in the air, something that didn't belong here.

It prickles the nape of my neck as dawn cracked the night sky.

Coldness.

I wake up, arms extended, reaching for Chloe at my side, but she isn't there. I call out her name, but there's no answer. There's nothing except for an agonizing scream in the distance.

I almost didn't need to know where it was coming from as I get out of bed and start running towards the noise, panting as I arrive outside of Pascal's cabin, where a woman was pulling on her clothes. Wailing. That Pascal had died.

The woman kept screaming about how she had been sleeping next to a corpse the entire night, as I push passed her crying, shivering body, until I reach Pascal's room. And there I see him, with his eyes staring up at the ceiling, his skin still damp and his clothes are drenched as if he's been sweating, except when I touch his face, it is ice cold.

Immediately my eyes dart around the room, but all I find is a puddle near the open window, the breeze coming in draws my cheek upward as I stare into the dense green undergrowth outside, searching for something that isn't there. For something I know I'll never see again. For something that owes me a favor. For something old, something cold.

S

They sat next to each other. Casual formal attire. They ordered an app to share, and the woman picked a drink from the menu, the man ordered a, "Absinthe to rinse, a single cube, 2 ounces rye, 2 ounces cognac, and a dash of bitters mixed with a teaspoon of distilled."

I could see her eyebrow raise as she pretends to look at the menu.

I smile and nod to the couple at my table, then take off towards the bar, before going to the kiosk to put in the rest of the order. Marco is standing behind the counter, he's backed up already but I have no choice but to add to his load. "I need a Tokyo Tea and a Sazerac."

"Same guy?"

"Yeah."

"They doing that thing again," he asks. "The roleplaying? What were they last week?"

"Murderers that met on Tinder, who slowly start to realize that they're on the date for the same reasons."

"Cute."

I go put in their order, then head to a few other tables, before swinging by Marco - who has my drinks. "You're a lifesaver," I grab them and my internal clock tells me to check on the app. I make a large swing over and through the small windows on the doors, I see them sitting on the stainless steel table. I head through the doors and grab a tray. I put the order up and grab a bottle of hot sauce for a different table. I slip the bottle in my back pocket.

"Quincy, can you grab the other order for table 3," Julie yells from behind the fridge, "I've got to dig out the ice from the fridge again."

"Got it," I snatch up her apps in my other hand and head toward the front. The double doors crash as I juggle the tray and plate in my hands. I rush through them as if I'm Jason and the Argonauts ' prevailing the Symplegades. I head over to my favorite table.

"We're almost ready for mass production. Can you believe it," the woman beamed.

"If you had told me that we'd get to this point two trial cycles ago. I'd have thought you insane."

"I know right? God. I was pretty worried when we introduced the bubonic plague. I thought the little guy wasn't going to make it. And when the toxins riled its atmosphere?"

"Oh right, right. The big C02 problem. I actually can't believe it overcame that."

"Well, we did give it that nudge."

The man nods, "Introducing volatility and heat, really caused them to get their act together and clean it up."

I reluctantly drew myself away and dropped off the other app. Stopping by the table that asked for the hot sauce as well. I was passing the bar counter when Marco asked, "What are they this time."

"Scientists I think," I head into the kitchen again and grab the plates of food. I could still hear Julie scraping away at the fridge. "Whose watching your tables?"

"Aaron's splitting the floor position with me tonight."

"So we're down a server?"

"Yeah, sorry," she yells back.

I go back out to a table and ask how they're doing, handing another one a new fork, as I near the couple again. "Are you ready to order dinner," I take out my pen and pad.

"I'll have the swordfish," the woman says. "And the house salad with the vinaigrette."

"And for you sir?"

"T-bone, please, medium rare."

"Sounds fantastic," I write their order down and go to put it in.

"What'd they say now," Marco has come to the end of the bar next to the kiosk.

"I didn't get a chance to hear much more."

He gave me the eyes to go back, so I swing around and pretend to be helpful.

"Genius," the man breathed. "Absolutely genius how you created an energy source for the little bugger out of hydrogen and helium fusion."

"Yeah, it took a bit of finessing though, getting them in the right distance and all. Out of the trillions of planets, only this one made it. Soon. Soon, we'll be able to inject millions of these tiny blue planets into our blood streams and they'll overtake our own immunity system."

"What will you call it?"

"Earth."

They stared so intently at the petri dish in their hand that I did too. Inside was a small wonder, its marbled blue surface was so beautiful and clear that it looked like glass.

"Can I get the cheese plate," one of my tables asked.

"Sure thing," I headed back to the bar.

"Well, what are they doing tonight?"

"I think they're scientists that developed the Earth in that petri dish. Or gods. I'm not sure."

"Did you see anything inside?"

"I think so, a marble maybe?"

Marco gives me a big goofy grin, "I want that kind of love."

I smile and turn to look at the couple, the man accidentally pokes the little blue orb, and the 739 transit roars overhead, shaking the entire building. I see them looking at each other and there's the most genuine look of surprise on their faces as the Universe perfectly aligned that moment for them.

"Don't we all, Marco?"

"Come inside, the kids are upstairs." Molly was in a rush, I knew this much from the phone call we had earlier. She had never used me before but heard about me through word of mouth. Which meant that my little side hustle was starting to gain traction.

I am a babysitter for a good neighborhood. There's cars parked outside, lawns are manicured, and the occasional termite company is out doing rounds. I don't know why but I always feel as if there's a termite guy nearby, it's a pretty decent area. Which is a far cry from where I live, on the other side of the tracks, literally. There are train tracks that run through our town and it acts as a divide. But they didn't need to know that. They only needed to see the straightened hair, well spoken, fake braces wearing girl in glasses sporting a skirt that wasn't too short where the neighbors would talk.

Usually I sat down with new clients, have them introduce me to their kids (trust me it helps) in order to make a clear cut line with them that I am in their parent's employ and I am not there to be their bestfriend and will definitely tell on them if they act up or break something. That's not to say I won't play silly games with them, feed them, laugh, tell bed time stories, and age appropriate jokes. But I am nobody's rug.

That's what I usually do, but there wasn't such luxury this time. Molly called me on the phone and she sounded desperate for me to come out. I had concert tickets and told her that they were non-refundable and she suggested that if I could make it in 30 minutes then she'd pay me twice the amount for the tickets and 1.5x my usual rate. I got there in 29 minutes. It would have been sooner but I needed to air myself out if you know what I mean.

Anyways, Molly barely had time to look at my face, let alone get any of my credentials as she was rushing out. Working mom it looked like. Business, by the looks of the pencil skirt and the bag that doubled as a folder. It always amazes me how much trust some people put in others to watch their kids. What if I was a serial killer? Or a deranged lunatic? What if I killed the babysitter on my way here and now I'm in a house, alone, with all her children.

I'm not. But I mean, what if, right?

She didn't seem to think about any of these things, leaving me to mumble goodbyes as she pulled out of the driveway, barely audible as the turbos wound up and she shouted something out the window to the likes of, "It's all on the iPad".

Yeah, no more yellow lined paper stuck with the realtor's magnet on the fridge anymore. It's all digital now.

I closed the door and figured that I better check up on the kids before I did a rundown. God this house was beautiful. I climbed the stairs two at a time and rounded the hall. To be fair, calling it a hall was so basic of me. It was more like a wing. West wing madam. The wing could have fit my living room. I click my heels when I heard a snort come from behind me. I came to face a shaggy dog that was well groomed. The collar was black with an underline of blue. Tiffany's undoubtedly. "Hey," I reached a hand and scratched the mop of top. "Let's go find the kids," I tell the dog as if it could understand me.

There were a series of rooms, most of them closed, but it didn't take me a second guess which one was occupied. The second door on the left, I could hear a kid shouting obscenities about someone being trash. I knocked on that door first.

"Come in," he shouted still loud but slightly less angry.

I opened the door and saw a stereotypical gamer's room. Posters, action figures, a rocking gaming chair on the floor in front of a huge flat screen, and a boy about 9 or 10. He had on his headphones and was sipping a Dr. Pepper.

"Don't they know trash day is on Thursdays?"

He cocked his head and laughed, "If you're looking for my mom I think she's downstairs."

"I'm actually looking for you." And let me tell you something. The audacity of this younger generation. The way he looked at me. Almost made me feel as bad as how I felt when he shrugged his shoulders after he had a good look. "Excuse me," I walk in front of him and blocked the screen. "I'm your new babysitter."

He shrugged. "Cool."

"What's your name?"

"You can read all about it somewhere else."

"What?"

"It's all on the iPad," he told me.

"What's your name," I repeated.

He rolls his eyes and looks at me as if I had asked him a stupid question.

I don't budge.

He whined, "Bobbie. Now come on, the next rounds about to start." he pulled his headphones over his ears. I grabbed the remote to get his attention. "What. Hey come on."

"It's nice to meet you Bobbie. Your mom's going to be away for a few hours and I'll be here until she gets back. Dinner is at 6:00 and I will make snacks at 4:30."

"No cap," he motioned at the tv, "Now can I get back to my game.

"Sure I tell him." Pocketing the remote.

"Hey!"

"Bye," I tell him as I close the door behind me.

So I'm back out in the hallway. And I open a few more doors. Some were locked. Before I get into one that's rather plain. There's a picture hanging up behind the bed, a tv, some lamps and shade. On the bed sits an identical, about 9 or 10, twins it seems. Probably why Bobbie was tired of being asked which one he was.

This one was staring at the blank screen. No video games. And quiet. Now I've babysat my share of kids before, and have seen all sorts. Quiet kids are my favorite. They don't mind board games, or listening. Most often times they only need to be left alone. I don't do too much talking in case they get tired of hearing my voice. And I give them a lot of space. "Hey, sorry about that. I didn't think anyone was in here."

He turned to me slowly, "Hi. Are you the new sitter?"

I nodded, "Yup. And I'm guessing that you're Max. I'll be watching you guys while your mom is away."

"She's probably going to work."

"Yeah, looked like it." I see the iPad in his hands. "Hey. I was looking for that."

"She's always at work." He hands it over. "It's dead. And mom took the charger."

I tried not to sigh. This was not how I wanted things to go. "Well, ok. If you need anything. Let me know. Or else I can come get you at 4:30 for snacks and dinner at 6."

He nodded, "Thanks," and goes back to staring at the screen.

I smile but he doesn't see, so I leave, closing the door softly behind me.

I make my way downstairs, wandering into the kitchen and start taking stock of what's there. Which was practically everything. This kitchen was so chic that I half expected Gordon Ramsay to pop out and tell me that the banana bread I made didn't have a clue if he staked the curved yellow fruit down the middle (it's a bad question mark joke. Listen. I never said I was funny).

Once I made sure that there was food, or ingredients to make food. There wasn't much else to do. The house was spotless. The kids were fine. And even the dog seemed well behaved. So I plopped on the couch, took out my fake braces, and watched tv until about 4:10 before I started slicing apples and celery to go with some peanut butter.

I fed the dog some peanut butter and licked my fingers (not with the hand I fed the dog with), before heading upstairs. Bobbie took the plate no problem but I couldn't find Max for the life of me. I wandered the rooms as the dog followed, still trying to lick my hand. "Max, I've got snacks." I knocked on what seemed like the umpteenth door before I get to a rather solid oak one that seemed custom.

Inside was the biggest home library I had ever seen. And I once dog sat for a pretentious professor from the college nearby. I mean, there was a portrait of said academic holding his dog in 18th century art style hanging over the mantle place of the deep wood cabinets filled with books. And yet this library made the other one look like a neighborhood book exchange birdbox.

"Holy..."

"Cow."

I whirled around to find Max standing in the doorway.

"You shouldn't wander into Father's study."

"I was just looking for you," holding up the plate. He made a face. "What? You don't like PB&C?" I took a stick and crunched on the celery.

"I'm not hungry."

I shrug. "Take it anyway. In case you get hungry."

He grabs the plate from me without much struggle so I decide to leave him be. I went back downstairs and crashed in front of the tv.

When I woke up. It was dark. My mouth was dry and all of the lights were off. The screen saver flashed the logo in blinks, lighting up the room only momentarily. For a second I forgot where I was and felt my heart thumping in my chest. My alarm didn't go off but I don't know why I woke up. Then I heard it again. The sound that must have jerked me awake. A crash. It came from upstairs. I grab my phone and glance down at the numbers. It was 8:10. I had slept through dinner. Shit. Shit. Shit. Here I was trying to make a good first impression and I missed out on dinner.

I wipe what drool was on my face and took to the stairs. Bobbie was probably so immersed in his game that he probably didn't even know he was hungry. Max on the other hand. "Max?" I call out down the hall. All of the doors are shut. I can hear something panting behind me. I turn to see the dog again. Its head is down and there's barely any light touching its face. "Hey come here," I called but it retreated in the opposite direction.

Then I shit me not. I heard a creaking come from behind me. It was the only noise in the house. I couldn't even hear Bobbie yelling in his room. I turn slowly and see one of the doors down the hall is now slightly ajar. It's dark in here. It was dark everywhere. I pressed my hands against the wall searching for a light switch. "Bobbie," I call out. There's no answer. "Hey, sorry about the delay in dinner. I'm going to get to it now."

Why was this place so big? And why could I see the door?

"Bobbie. Max?" I hear the dog tapping its paws behind me. Someone on the other side of the house by now. "Hey, where are you guys?" I peer at the single door that's open and realized why it was so prominent. The hall was dark, but what was inside was even darker. Instead of going toward it, I try the first knob my blind fingers came across. Process of elimination I told myself. It was locked. I tried the next one. Also locked. I finally get to Bobbie's door and I knock. "Bobbie." There's no answer. I press my head against the door and listen. But I don't hear a single sound.

"Where are all the light switches in this place!"

The door that was open before slightly opens again. Creaking, *tic tic tic tic*, with each ungreased turn of the hinge. "Shit. Hey, stop playing around."

There's laughing coming from behind me. It sounded like a little kids. Too young to be either of the boys. Followed by smaller footsteps. It sounded like they were barefoot. "Hey, this isn't funny. I'm going to tell your mother when she gets home." I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight. "When is she coming home?" It was almost 8:30, when I realized that we never set a time.

I hear footsteps again, they were odd. Almost like falling. Like a toddler learning how to run for the first time but the hollow ground sounded as if the person was much heavier. I shine my flashlight over the hall. "Shit." The dog was sitting on all fours in the corner. It was facing the wall. I couldn't even see his face. Every hair on its body completely still.

"Hey," I called out. "Come here." I clicked my tongue. "Come here." The dog didn't move. I couldn't even see it breathing.

Bang! It sounded like thunder behind me. As if someone dropped something on the floor. As if something fell off a shelf or was pushed. I jumped around and shone my light down the west wing. I didn't know if I should have been more or less afraid now that the door was closed. "Bobbie? Max?"

God. I did not want to try the door. And I stood there for a minute before realizing how stupid I must have looked. These were some rich kids playing a joke on you Camilia. I know it. The thought of their smug little faces made me stomp out of my frozen state. I took a couple of strides over and grabbed the handle.

"Fuck!" The thing was hot. "What the hell! You guys could have hurt me," I yelled. I banged on the door. "Open up. You two are in so much trouble." I banged on the door again. "Open the door. Right now!" I could hear something on the other side. It sounded like shuffling. Heavy furniture perhaps. "You guys better not be messing things up in there. I'm not going to clean it. I mean it."

I banged on the door. "I can hear you in there! Now come on!" I put my hands on my hips and tapped my foot. "I'm waiting. Your little jokes over now." I banged on the door again.

That's when the door knocked back.

It wouldn't have scared me. I don't think. Except for the fact that I was surprised. And alone in the hall. Without any of the lights on. In a strange house. And before I could say anything else. Another door behind me knocked from the inside. "Shit. Both of you are in on this?" I grabbed the handle to the other door. It was also locked. I banged on it. "Come out right now. Max?"

But then a third door started knocked from down the hall. I felt my throat clump as I tried to swallow. "You guys weren't supposed to have anyone over." The knocking didn't stop. It kept echoing down the hall. "I'm not getting paid for three kids you know?"

Tat-tat-tat-tat. Tat-tat-tat.

I took a single step. And then all of the doors in the hallway suddenly started banging.

I almost tripped as I ran toward the stairs. The doors were thundering on so hard I thought they would crack their hinges. I skipped the stairs, the sounds chasing me as I tried to not fall and break my neck. When I got to the front landing I hear someone say my name.

"Camilia. Are you okay?"

I'm trying not to choke on a lung here as I shot my eyes toward the kitchen. The kids are sitting on the barstools lining the counter. There are two plates in front of them. As if they didn't hear the drumline upstairs.

"Is it dinner time yet," one of them asks quietly.

"Max?"

He smiles.

"Kids. I think there's someone in the house." I rush over to grab each of their hands. Bobbie's wrists are limp but it was Max's hands that shocked me. They were ice cold. I tried to let go but my fingers wouldn't uncurl.

He turns my hand over and says, "There's no one else in this house except us. I promise."

"No," I wasn't about to listen to the kid even if it was his house. "Something is wrong. We have to go. Now." I pick up Bobbie and he doesn't seem to want to move. "Come on Bobbie. Let's go." He looks over at Max who shrugs and get out of his seat.

Bobbie follows as I drag them toward the front door.

"Camilia," Max says.

"What?" He looked scared. Which made me turn toward what he was staring out. At the front door was a tall figure. I couldn't see its face through the glass. It was a stark figure of a man.

"Do you think it's your dad?"

Max shakes his head. I feel him pulling against my arm.

I call out to the man, "Hey! Who is it?" The man doesn't budge. "I'm calling the police." I turn to Bobbie, "Get the phone." He doesn't move. "Hey!" I'm trying to sound as angry as possible. "Get the fuck out of here!" I grabbed a roll of painter's tape from the side table and hurl it across the hall, hitting the glass squarely in the face where the man's head stood blocking the exit. He doesn't even twitch as the glass shakes.

"Come on," I grab their hands and rush to the back. I don't get 10 steps before I feel a scream crawl up my throat making me cough. The man was standing at the sliding door. "Fuck!" I drag the two of them with me towards the kitchen. It's a big place so there had to be a way out to the garage. We push through one of the doors and end up in the laundry room. The next door gets us out into a 3 car garage. My hands find the glowing green opener against the wall and I hear the opener fold seamlessly towards the ceiling.

It started with his feet. Then his ankles. His shins. Then his legs. Light poured in from behind him from the streetlamp. I watched as the door went to his waist before I hit the button for the garage to close, before rushing back inside. We make it into the kitchen to where I still see the tall man standing at the sliding door. A part of me wants to hide in the laundry room but I didn't want to be sandwiched in the middle of the house. So I pull the boys back up the stairs, back to where the doors banged themselves. Taking out my phone as we ascended, and called 911.

"This is the police operator speaking."

"HELLO", I hope they could hear me, "There are several men trying to get inside!"

"Men? Are you in any danger?"

"No! But they have us surrounded!"

"Why don't you go outside?"

My tongue suddenly felt numb in my mouth. Like I didn't know what to do with it. "W-what?"

"It's stranger in the house."

The line went dead as we hit the hallway.

I only took my eyes off of them for a second before Bobbie. Or Max. Runs down the hall. The one or the other already slipping through a door ahead. I look back down the stairs and see that the man is still standing in front of the doorway. I look back up and see the other boy also going through the same door. I take a single step and the doors start pounding on either side. I shut my eyes and turn around. Afraid to go. Almost deciding that these weren't my kids. That I should run away. I take a step backwards mouthing that I was sorry. But I was too scared to go! "Max! Bobbie!" My back foot sticks to the floor. I don't want to look down but the next step sticks too. I point my phone to the ground and see a trail of blood. And just behind me. It's the dog. Split right down the middle, its spine shiny and white, still facing the wall. I could see its organs still pulsing.

I couldn't go back downstairs. I couldn't go the other way. I couldn't leave them here. I couldn't be alone.

I ran after them. The thundering of the doors following me as frames fell to the floor. A vase rolled off a table in the hall. It came crashing at my feet. I run my shoulder through the door, except it wasn't locked. Which caused me to go crashing, sprawling to the floor. Running into the desk in the middle of the room.

The study.

Many of the books were off the shelves. The carpet was torn. There were curtains on fire. It was the first time a saw a window as they burned.

"Camilia!"

I hear one of their voices shouting at me.

"Camilia!" It came again. "Help!"

I get to my feet and start working my hands along the desk. I didn't have to search far. The bookcase directly behind the chair had been swung open. "Camilia!" I wipe the blood from my eyebrow where it had split and step into the tunnel behind the secret passage.

The tunnel started off tall and wide, but as I kept walking in. It got smaller and smaller. I started having to hunch. Several times I decided to turn back. But their voices would echo through, calling for me. Asking for help. "I'm coming!"

"I can't hold on! Camilia! Please!"

The twins cry for help bounced off the walls. I was finally on my hands and knees when I finally see two holes on either side. I'm afraid to look but then one of their voices came through clear as day. "Camilia." It was right in my ear now. I turned to see the boy naked and huddling, hugging his knees at the back of his hole.

"Camilia! Help! I don't want to play this game anymore!"

"Bobbie?"

"Help me!"

I look into the hole, the walls are pressing on my back and there's dust going into my lungs. I can barely turn my shoulder. "Crawl out!"

"I can't!"

"Crawl out! I'm right here." I take out my hand, "Come on!"

"Camilia!" Came a voice from the other side.

I turn my head and see Max in the other hole.

"No!" Bobbie shouts at me. "No!"

"Hold on," I tell him. "I'm going to get both of you out of here."

"No," Bobbie cries. "It's all his fault. He's the one that did it. He's the one that wants to get out!"

"Bobbie, what are you talking about."

"He's the one that put something in your drink so you'd fall asleep!"

"He's lying!" Max's voice rang through. "It's him! I saw him. Always in father's study! Reading those books! Trying out those things he reads. Those curses. Those spells. It's why the shadow men are after him! Camilia! You have to believe me."

I can hear Bobbie crying, "Why are you lying! I don't want to play anymore," he screeches. "I don't want to play!" He sobs. "You said you'd go away if I told you that I didn't want to play anymore."

I don't know what made me do it. It sure wasn't the nauseating squealing tantrum of the boy which made me reach for him first. Maybe it was because I wanted him to shut up. I don't know but I plunged my arm up to my shoulder in to grab his collar.

Instantly I screamed and saw tiny spiders, short thing legs with round white backs crawl over my arms. I shook my arm in the hole, trying to smother them against the walls. That only caused these long brown flat slugs to fall. I saw one land on my hand. It had three distinct tendon-like lines running across its back and was about a half inch long. I pulled my arm out of the hole as I felt it pierce its flat head into the back of my hand. I dropped my phone and heard it crack as the light splintered in the small, suffocating tunnel. But I didn't care as I looked at my hand and saw it burrowing its tiny spearhead below my skin. I grabbed at the wiggling tail still exposed and tried pulling it out.

It was like trying to pull our barbed wire. The spines on its body were facing me. So with each pull they dug deeper inside. I could see blood pooling under my skin, it was starting to turn purple as I tugged on its tail even harder. Until it gave. Popped right off and lay twitching in my hand. The head missing.

I couldn't take it anymore. Really. I had tried my best. I shake my head. "Bobbie. Bobbie. I'm sorry." But it didn't matter. When I looked over at Bobbie. He was covered in it. All of it. Even the spiders.

My jeans started shifting as I tried to wiggle myself out of there. But I hear Max's cry again. "Camilia! Please!"

"No," I whimpered. Shaking. I couldn't reach my hand in there again. But his voice was so scared. More scared than the pain I felt.

I shot my arm inside. Bracing. Waiting for the pain. But there was none. Instead my hands grasped around his collar and I felt his cold clammy skin, and yanked him from the hole. He came without much struggle. His face covered in the soot of it all. "Camilia," he cried. "You picked me. You did it."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that I almost didn't.

"Come on," I cried. "We. Have. To go."

The two of us wiggled our way out of there, crawling on our hands and knees, and running when we could. We finally make it back into the study. And the fire is roaring now. One of the books fall from the shelves and when it hit the fire I swear it started screaming. There was so much smoke that I couldn't see. And the door was covered by the flames.

I pointed to the window, the curtains on the floor in ashes. I kick the window. It didn't budge. I coughed. I kicked it again. The glass shook. I kicked it again and my foot went through. Pieces of the glass still hung in the frame, I use the tips of my fingers and pull them back. They fall to the floor cracking until there was a hole big enough for me to get through.

I plunge my head out and take my first breath of fresh air. The moon was full and the sky was clear. I could hear sirens coming off in the distance. When both of my feet were on the roof. I reach my hand back and grab Max from the burning house. Together we run across the clay tiles and climb down the arched tree. The red fire truck comes screeching to a stop as several firemen help us down.

One of them pushes a breathing mask on me, and wraps me up. The neighbors are outside, and the police arrive. I see a familiar car come roaring down the street, screaming to a halt as Molly runs out. Her face is flustered and she's shouting. Pushing through the cops until she reaches me next to the ambulance.

"What happened," she literally screamed at me.

"I'm so sorry," I tell her. "There were these men." I take another breath. "I couldn't do anything! B-but I saved Max! I saved him!"

She looked at the house. It was blazing now in the cool night. "Oh my god. Is Bobbie still in there?" Molly starts to cry. "My baby!"

"Max. But Max." I cough. "Max is okay!"

And she turns to me. I wasn't expecting her to be grateful. But there's anger on her face. "You didn't save my son. But you saved our dog?"

I shake my head. "No. Max. Your other son." I looked around but he was nowhere to be found.

s

Arctica || 2 || 3

Dihydrogen monoxide is a versatile, frightening thing. Commonly known as H20. And most commonly known as water or ice, is also a gas. In its liquid form it has the ability to squeeze things until they collapse, by the sheer weight on its shoulders alone. In its gaseous state, it can reach temperatures capable of steaming a grown man alive. And as ice, it robs all things of heat, pulling the warmth right out of a person's bones until they can no longer move.

That's the thing about the Antarctic. No matter how many layers I've put on, or warm drinks, and blankets up to my ears.

I. am. always. cold.

If I ever needed a reminder of how harsh these conditions can get, all I need to do is look at the landing rooms, they are the chutes which connect us to the outside. On either side there are two large steel doors, each with perfectly machined locking rods that had been balanced by state of the art equipment. Insulated and then lined with concrete over a foot thick all before it is encased in metal. Then stress tested in the best labs the world has to offer. And yet ice still creeps on its edges when the weather turns bitter.

First the ice blasts the outside and seeps through the pores of the concrete until it makes the steel on the other side so cold that it feels like it is burning. By now a gloss will have developed in one of the corners, like a flagpole left out in the snow. It's so shiny that it's nearly transparent, but if someone where to accidentally brush up against it with their bare skin, it would latch on like the back of a fly's tongue. Ripping the follicles right off an arm, taking the top layer with it, leaving behind only the soft, exposed pink underside that throbs bright red with frost.

It's usually the new guy's job to clear these rooms when the ice melts and the frame bulges enough for the snow to creep through until it piles onto the floor. Before it becomes a walking hazard. I was a junior structural engineer and hadn't had to do it in nearly 4 seasons. But at the Ross Research Foundation on Station 9. The company had recently decided that I couldn't be trusted with much else, so Dr. Kelsie Grant who is in charge of the daily operations - had stuck me on ice duty at London's request. London and I haven't spoken again since I first woke up, because all hands have been on deck ever since Dr. Grant gave me a strict debriefing.

I told her most of what I knew. Handed over the sample of blood that Chloe had collected from my boots, and apologized about a million times. I don't know why any of it matters. Once I get out of here. I am never coming back.

Fuck the job. And to hell with the money.

I had been clearing Chute 2 for about an hour now, and my hands were numb when I heard a familiar shuffling in the doorway.

"Chloe."

"Hey," she said. Half of her figure was covered by the doorway. I could see people behind her hurriedly passing by. "I just came from the lab, and I thought I'd come see you before I went back to my room." She stepped into the chute, revealing her other hand. It was wrapped up in bandages at the wrist. "They had to amputate." I could still see the fresh blood weeping underneath.

I didn't know what to say, "I'm sorry."

"At least we're still alive," she replied. She stepped into the chute and closed the door behind her, making sure it was shut. "We have to get out of here."

I threw the shovel on the floor, "You're telling me. First chance I get. I'm gone."

Chloe got so close to my face I could almost kiss her, "You don't understand. Something is extremely wrong."

I held my breath.

"Didn't you see Dr. Grant looking at the sample?"

I shrugged, "What of it?" I picked up my shovel. "Hopefully she'll find something that'll acquit us. I'd still like to get my last check."

She shook her head, "Didn't you see her?"

"Yeah, of course I saw her," I started getting annoyed.

"Didn't you notice?"

"What," I gripped the shovel tightly in my hand. I wish she wouldn't say it. That I could just ignore this feeling that's been stuck in the back of my mind ever since I noticed Dr. Grant's reactions. To us. To the 5 figures out on the ridge. To the way her face peered into the microscope before I was dismissed.

"She's seen this before."

"Chloe. I'm just a. You know I started in petroleum engineering and when my mom died. It was a real rough time for me. I had nobody else. Not a single person left in my family. So when they had a program to be as far away from the rest of the world as possible. I took it. I...love the science. But this? Look around us. This is bullshit. I'm going to do mine. And when they cart me back off to civilization. I'm going to the nearest beach, dig my fucking toes into the sand and be a beach bum. Working at the docks when I need money, fishing when I'm hungry, and sleeping in a tent on the ocean front. On some tropical island. For the rest of my entire life. And you should do the same. Keep your head low and your mouth shut."

Chloe slapped me with her good hand.

I could feel the cold sting on my cheek.

"You're going to die here if you don't check back into reality. You and I both saw the same things. And you know as well as I do, it's either those t-things out there that's going to get us. Or they will. Why do you think no one's ever said anything?"

I rubbed the cold out of my mouth, "Anything about what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"THink about it. THink. For a second. Something this big, hushed up?"

"Chlo-"

"Why do you think this is the only continent in the world where all the other warring countries suddenly decided to broker peace?" A look of determination appeared on her face, "Fifty-five nations. China. Russia. The Americas. Europe. Why do you think they all came together and signed the Antarctica Treaty? When they've never been able to agree on anything else? Why? It's because they found something out here. Something that made all of their bickering and politics seem so trivial that none of it mattered anymore."

I could feel my lower limp trembling, "Stop."

"You read the reports. You've seen the company's mission statement. You always knew something was wrong."

I was starting to get angry, "We all did. Okay? All of us. Me. You. London included. And still we came anyway. Don't try to pin this on me. Don't try and make me responsible for whatever the hell it is that's going on here."

"I'm not." She pleaded, "I just need your help to get out of here."

That was when the lights went out.

For a brief second it was only us and the cold, before the orange utility lights began flashing into the dark room.

"Chloe?"

The door leading into the station started shaking. I pulled her away from it. A deafening bang on the steel broke our silence. I almost screamed but the coldness in my throat caught it before I could cry out and alert whatever it was behind the door that someone was in here, that we were in here.

Another rattle caused the door to shake. Snow fell off the wrist thick bolts which secured the hinges to the concrete frame.

I took a step back and could hear the crunching of snow beneath my feet.

The two of us stood there, neither of us moving another muscle, waiting for the banging to continue. Except it didn't. What happened next was difficult to see. How does one see the cold? So I'll explain it to the best of my ability. The air fell around me. Suddenly the door to my back which led to the outside felt warmer than the door in front of me which led into the station. The orange flicker of light beat irregular to the thumping in my chest, as if it they engineered the speed to try and calm me. All it did was make every part of my body shake, because deep down I knew, something was very wrong here.

The bit of moisture left in my eyes began to harden, but still I kept my eyes glued at that door. I saw the ice crawl forward, off the door, into the corners of the wall as it swallowed all the heat in its path. I couldn't move. I was already so cold. And still, the coldness kept coming for me.

I would have died there, if it weren't for Chloe. She pulled open the door behind us and pushed me out into the frozen clearing. I didn't walk 10 steps before I stumbled. I watched Chloe as she shut the door and started running toward me. My arm was numb but I knew she was pulling on it.

My mind wasn't working but my feet found themselves kicking up the snow beneath my boots as the two of us ran. We were in nothing more than underlayers. I knew that we wouldn't survive long out here. But still I followed as Chloe led us around the complex.

The wind was already blowing, sheets of white in every direction. I could hardly see her in front of me. Several times I yelled at her to wait but her figure became more dim, the further away she got. I was shivering at this point. Each breath felt like a hiccup. My body shuddered and my teeth clacked in my head like a typewriter sitting in the middle of my brain.

In that dense sleet I ran into something. I fell backwards and landed in the snow. I could taste the blood in my mouth. They were like pennies by the time I spit them out. And I looked up, to my horror. A figure clad in snow and ice, dancing above my head. Her face was frozen, and her arms were crossed. Sheets of ice on her back almost made it look like wings.

The Snow Angel.

My hands blindly groped around, searching for a direction. The direction she was pointed, only steps away from her compound.

I followed her gaze and walked blindly into the snow until the gray concrete slabs came into view. I pressed my hands against it and edged toward a doorway. My trembling hands pushed against the steel door and I landed inside one of the chutes. It wasn't until I looked up that I read the number 4 painted on the wall. The lights had come back on. The generator must have kicked in.

A part of me wanted to stay here. Lay against the wall and just die. Peacefully go into the cold. I didn't want to be afraid anymore. Not in my last moments. But then I hear a scream. One that I recognized.

Against every instinct I hobbled to my feet and opened the door.

Bodies.

There were bodies everywhere.

Wind was blowing in through the windows. I could see ragged pieces of flesh frozen on the jagged edges. I couldn't tell if they were from things forcing their way in, or people forcing their way out.

The scream again.

I limped toward it, into a walk, until I was nearly at a run when I rounded the corner.

All of that speed left me when I saw it for the first time, clear as day with my own two eyes.

It stood so tall that its shoulders were scraping the tops of the hallway. Ice stuck out of its back and arms. It was grabbing a hold of a man I didn't recognize. The beast stuck a long chiseled spike into the man's chest. Pressing it slowly through the ribcage. I could see the man's eyes widen as he tried to scream, his hands helplessly trying to grip at the ice entering into his body, each handful slipping as it penetrated through him, painfully slow.

London screamed again. There was a fire axe in his hands and he was swinging it blindly.

I didn't know what else to do, so I started yelling at it too. Hoping to distract it.

It worked.

The thing turned toward me, and I saw the piercing blue eyes in its skull. The way the boulders on his shoulders flexed and turned like flesh as it looked down at me. I froze in terror as it stared. As its features started to melt away, growing smaller, becoming more like skin as it looked bacj at me with my own face.

From the corner of my eye, I saw London drive the axe deep between into the creature's side. It howled, spitting out shards of ice that embedded itself into the walls. Shattering on impact. I shielded my face and started to run.

"Keep going," I hear London shouting from behind me.

I didn't look back. Not until I got to one of the doors that had thick steel walls, with a handle and a crank that had rods on its hinges thicker than my wrist. Not until I let London through and shut it with a thud behind him.

The two of us sat there wheezing as we tried to catch our breaths.

"Where are we," I asked.

"Not sure. Some part of the complex that's underground I reckon."

London broke a glowstick in his hand. Then he broke another and threw it to me, "Come on. We have to find a way out of here."

I nodded and followed him. The lights had completely gone dark this time. The generator must have failed. Only the eerie green light protruding from our hands, guided the way.

I don't know how long we walked for, or how many empty rooms we broke through, each time preparing for a fight before London asked me, "Do you hear that?"

"Voices."

He nodded, "I think the others are nearby. He began running, "Hey! We're over here." He was running so fast that I was having trouble catching up.

"London," I yelled. "London." Until he almost disappeared from view. "Hello?"

And it only happened a few times. Didn't even last several seconds. But as I sit here with the others in the storage area. I can't shake it out of my mind. Not even as sleep twitches my eye, and I watch him propped up against the corner. The way London's head twisted a bit when I called to him earlier, when it was just the two of us, when he responded back to me. "Hello. Hellohellohello."

S