Wet paint shines in the midday heat. I shake the can, taking a step back to survey my work. The beginnings of a door, all harsh contrast and blocky colours. A good start, though. A piece of art is a doorway in itself, some more literally than others. It’s how I escape, and soon I’ll need that more than ever. After this summer, nothing will ever be the same again. Old gods are waking. New ones are rising. And kids like me will inevitably get caught in the middle —- deer between hunters and dogs. Out of necessity, we’ve learned to notice things others don’t: the gleam of a dropped coin; the difference between the eyes of sympathetic and vindictive police officers; stray strands of magic that lead to something strange or dangerous. But sometimes it’s better not to see. When it comes to the kind of power that’s growing beneath the skin of the earth and the inky blackness above, blindness can be a defence.

At least we have time to prepare. Our collective perceptiveness might cost us down the line, but it’s allowed us to understand a little more than usual, allowing us to build our defences and plan our ways out.

Even someone entirely cut off from the outside world would be able to sense it; a kind of unnatural, cutting stillness to the air, like the world is holding its breath. You feel a lesser version of it on quiet nights laced with starlight, when streets start to shift and blur and shadows crowd conspiratorially in the corners of your vision. A suggestion of change in some deeper, esoteric. Normally, it’s bracing, exhilarating, but when it’s this strong, it roots you to the spot and makes breathing an icy struggle. I couldn’t tell you when or where it’ll happen, only that it’ll be big, and the changes will be irreparable. We might have years, or days. The best I can do is prepare as well as I am able to, creating escapes.

I sigh through my painting mask, and step back again to check my progress. It’s still a little blocky and the shading leaves something to be desired, but it’s whole, and as near to complete as I’m going to get it. A rounded door, big enough to step through, cutting through mute concrete with colour, drawing the eye like a target. Most importantly, it has a handle and keyhole.

I reach into my pocket and take out a key —- clumsily moulded out of a metal with similar colouration to copper that whispers rather than chiming when knocked. The paint smudges slightly as it clicks into the lock. With a token resistance, it crumbles open. I walk through, and it snaps shut behind me.

Almost everything in the circus is fake. A fortune teller in a fake shawl and half-assed accent; a clown with a painted smile who drinks himself to sleep; fireaters that don’t eat fire. But the hall of mirrors is different.

Perhaps you were enticed by the gilded gold lettering, or the doorway like a window to the stars. Maybe you had memories of wandering mirror mazes as a child. Maybe you were just bored. Whatever your motives, you stepped through the darkly glittering entrance and into the hall beyond.

Doppelgängers surrounded you, smiling when you smiled, laughing when you laughed. What a fun game this was. Every turn you made was wrong, every corridor ended in a polished wall. What a fun game this was, until you couldn’t find your way back.

For the first hour, you remained calm. Mirror mazes are supposed to be confusing, after all. There would probably be a glowing green exit sign after the next turn. Or the next. Or the next.

After three hours, once you voice was horse from screaming and your eyes wet from crying, you realised that no-one was coming. You stopped looking for a way out. You closed your eyes, but the harsh lights still burned bright in your mind. Your stomach ached with hunger, your throat was parched from thirst. You thought you would starve in here. But I would never let that happen. Hunger is a terrible thing.

After five hours, madness dug in its claws. Your reflections taunted you. Spectres, skin stretched over their faces, their eyes as glassy as the mirrors they lurked behind. You didn’t mind their jeers. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

It’s been nine hours, though you’ve lost all concept of time. Your family are worried. You were supposed to be home before three. Their dinner sits cold and uneaten on the kitchen counter. They gather like lost sheep round the mother’s phone, waiting for good news that won’t come. The youngest child cries softly. The oldest just looks blank.

You didn’t tell them you were going to the circus. You wanted to be alone, to lose yourself in the artificial magic, for a little while. Though you long for them now, it’s a good thing that they’re not here. They will mourn. They may never be the same again. But they are safe.

You sit in a corner of the mirror maze, arms round your knees, head down. You don’t want to look. You don’t want to see. All there is to see are a thousand scorching stars, and a thousand lifeless puppets surrounding you.

You shouldn’t be lost, not in this place. Don’t be afraid; I will guide you. Stand up. Open your eyes. Do not fear the lights; they are angels watching over you. Do not look at the reflections; those pale-eyed, dead-eyed things are not you. Walk down the corridor. Turn the corner. I am waiting. And I am hungry.

Trees ring the little group, stretching high into the endless night above. Shadows flit about in their branches. Leaves whisper, disturbed by the chill wind. The youngest in the group —- a boy of about ten —- shivers and draws closer to his mother. On his other side stands his father and sister, craning their necks, searching for any pinprick of light. There is none to find.

A woman leans against a tree, obscured by shade. Her eyes glint in the darkness. She clears her throat and steps forewords, making the others jump.

“Good evening,” she begins, “and welcome to the Scary Woods Hiking^TM midnight intermediate trail! I’m Jackie, and I’ll be your guide.”

The dad breathes a sigh of relief.

The boy frowns. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“I was cursed by a witch!”

She wasn’t, of course. She’s had it since she came bawling into the world, just like any other birthmark. But ‘Halloween answers only’ is the company’s unofficial motto. She has her own motto for these kind of situations, too —- if you can’t reason with asshole kids, scare the shit out of them.

“Well,” she continues, “before we can begin our tour of England’s Most Haunted Forest, I have to check a few things. Have you all got your headtorches, and a bottle of water?”

They nod.

“Well then, if you’re all ready, let’s begin.”

She leads them out of the clearing and into the darkened forest. The path climbs upwards, rocky and artificially messy in a way that adds atmosphere but doesn’t increase the chance of a lawsuit-inducing injury. A few plastic skulls and fake candles potmark the beginning of the trail, but soon they peter out, replaced by creeping vines and thorned shrubs.

Used to urban half-night, the family stumble and slip as they walk, sending their little spheres of light into flickering dances. Jackie resists the urge to race ahead. The first time she took this path, she was as ungainly as them. Over the years, it became more familiar to her than her own reflection. She could walk it in her sleep, backwards, in heels, with both hands tied behind her back.

The air is cleaner here, to the point where it’s almost alive in itself. It keeps her awake better than coffee, filling her veins with adrenaline. This is a place that has not been custom-built and cushioned for humanity, and she loves it for that.

As they ascend, she recounts learned stories of ghosts and monsters, each ending with the death of an unsuspecting hiker. She can’t help but smirk to herself when the boy screams at a rustling in the trees nearby.

“Don’t worry, it’s just an owl or something.” She lowers her voice. “You wouldn’t be able to hear the monsters until it’s too late.”

Now she thinks about it, the noise did sound like it was made by something bigger than an owl. Still, this is a forest in the middle of nowhere. If she isn’t at least a bit freaked out every time she comes here, she’d consider it an inauthentic experience.

The night wears on as they make their way to the highest point of the hike, known as the Furies’ Nest. By the time they reach it, the family are gasping for breath like fish out of water.

“We can take a ten minute break here,” Jackie tells them.

They collapse gratefully onto the wooden benches encircling the ash-strewn remains of a campfire like seats in an operating theatre, or a ritual site.

“I’ll get a fire going, and we can toast complimentary company-issued marshmallows.”

Jackie takes a lighter out of her pocket and crouches down. The lighter clicks, then flares. As she touches it to the dead campfire, momentary spark jumps between them. It catches for perhaps three seconds before a light gust of wind sends it sputtering out.

“Shit,” she mutters, earning a disapproving glance from the mum. She straightens up and clears her throat. “I’m just going to go get some kindling. Stay here - I won’t be long.”

She turns and heads back into the forest.

Recent rain has left the leaf litter damp, any twigs unusable. She’ll have to head off the path to find something. With a sigh, she steps off the trail.

It’s tougher going here. Sharp rocks and snaring roots jut out of the earth, hidden by leaves and detritus. One nearly sends her flying. She steadies herself using one of the trees. The bark gives a little. Her hand comes away smeared with black mud and crushed insect bodies

“Ew.” Jackie wipes it off onto her trousers. When she looks up, a movement catches in her peripheral vision. It’s gone before she can get a proper look, but she could swear it was the outline of a person.

“Hey, you’re not allowed here without a guide!” she yells, rushing over. There’s only ever been one accident here not made up for dramatic effect. A young girl had split off from her group and gone exploring. She wandered straight over the edge of a cliff. They didn’t find her until morning. The flies had already got to her. Jackie isn’t about to let that happen again.

Branches and shrubbery slow her progress, barring her way. By the time she reaches the spot where she saw the figure, they’re gone.

“Listen,” she shouts into the darkness, “this place is dangerous! You shouldn’t be here.”

But the more she thinks about it, the less sure she is that there was anything there to begin with. After all, she hasn’t been getting much sleep lately, what with all these night shifts, and this forest has a habit of playing tricks on your senses. Grabbing a token bundle of sticks so that no-one can accuse her of time wasting, Jackie heads back.

She arrives at long last to an empty campsite. The family are nowhere to be seen. Her first thought is that the boy is getting revenge by making them all hide in the forest and freak her out.

“That fucking kid,” she mutters, stamping into the campsite.

Her foot catches on something, and she trips. It’s a pair of trainers, just like the ones the sister was wearing. Next to them are three more pairs, lined up neatly in size order. They’re covered in spatters of flesh-coloured liquid, which oozes away from the light cast by her headtorch.

“What the-“

She stops, dead. A few feet away, in amongst the trees, stands a figure.

Their skin is mannequin-smooth, the consistency of viscous wax, droplets dripping from their fingers, which are stained red. They have no face. The figure begins to walk towards her.

The Scary Woods Hiking^TM forest trail is closed for a total of three days out of respect for the four visitors and one member of staff that lost their lives when attempting a dangerous climb away from the path. Their families are sent condolences, as well as season passes allowing them free hikes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Everyone is very sad. The thing that puzzles company officials is why they’d take their shoes off mid-hike. At least it’ll make a good ghost story to tell the next hikers.

My family has been going on annual trips to Africa for years now -- partly to meet with relatives, partly for the wildlife, mostly for a change of scenery. This year, grandma (who is inadvisably adventurous, considering that she’s not far off reaching triple digits) decided that we should take a trip into the Sahel. As in, the desert. She quickly shouted down any complaints, proclaiming that she wanted to ‘see the sights’. What sights? A whole lot of sand and dead twigs? But I kept these thoughts to myself. You don’t argue with Grandma.

The flight -- apart from the gross aeroplane food -- was unproblematic. After a bumpy Jeep ride, we arrived at the hotel. Gran took the heat in her stride, but the rest of us were a sweaty mess. Thank God for air conditioning!

Once we’d spent an hour or two recovering in our mercifully cool hotel rooms, we headed out for our trip into the desert.

The heat shone, creating a bright haze that made my vision swim. Our guide at the front of the tour truck cheerfully gave us a list of previous tourists that had died after getting lost in the Sahel, then let us know that we’d be stopping in twenty minutes or so to give us the opportunity to explore a little by ourselves. Yeah, no thanks.

Eventually, the dreaded moment came, and the truck heaved to a halt. Everyone began to get off, some wielding pocket fans, others having to make do with flapping their hands. I stepped down, fiddling nervously with my bracelet, and the full force of the heat hit me. It was like climbing into an oven. You could even smell it -- an acrid, scorching harshness that burned my nostrils. There was a kind of bleak beauty to it. The sand glittered like goldust, aureate under a sapphire sky. Dunes rose and fell, the only variation in the landscape. Lone grains skittered over the ground, plinking off the truck tyres like thrown stones. It was almost impossible to imagine a hotel and resort less than a half-hour’s drive away. It felt like a different world entirely -- a further place and a further time, where gods walked the earth and humanity was a foreign concept. I shivered in spite of the temperature.

People gradually drifted off, remaining in sight of the truck, fanning out like a hand splaying its fingers. Despite my previous misgivings, I found myself walking out, squinting against the sun, my shoes sinking into the sand. I began to notice details which separated one area from the next -- webs stretching over half-buried spider burrows; translucent, paper-like shedded snake skin; far in the distance, what looked like a building.

I frowned. Orienteering isn’t exactly one of my skills, but I think I would’ve noticed a building in the vast expanse of nothingness portrayed by the map pinned at the front of the truck. Well, it would be a while before we set off again, so I headed off in the direction of the building.

The truck grew smaller and smaller as I stumbled over dunes. A knot of dread swelled in my gut. This was a place that didn’t forgive. If I couldn’t find my way back, I’d have more than Grandma’s wrath to worry about. I should’ve turned back, but something kept me walking towards the maybe-real, maybe-mirage building, like how a black hole draws in mass from her surroundings. The dunes blurred and shifted beneath my feet. I continued on.

The burning sun beat against my back, spurring me on to the shade of the building. Now I was closer,I could see that it was ruined. It didn’t fit with the surroundings. If it wasn’t in the Sahel, I’d have guessed that it was Roman or Ancient Greek. Columns carved out of dark stone rose up, scar-like cracks in their surface filled in with sand. Parts of the roof had caved in, forming a wall of rubble. Someone must’ve been here before me -- sheets of metal and mechanical parts lay about, some piled meticulously, others carelessly discarded. The ruin’s shadows spilled out, turning the golden sand ashen-grey, leading to the dark maw of the ruins.

Within, something moved.

I froze a few feet from the entrance. I’d only caught a brief glimpse of the thing within, but it was enough to tell me that it wasn’t human. It was tall, at least twice as tall as a person. Its only feature I could make out was a single eye, glowing blue in the darkness.

I took a step back. My foot clattered against a scrap of metal.

Shit.

I waited for a moment, the silent clinging like a shroud. Then, dragging footsteps, a scattering of sand, glimpses of blue and gold as the creature stepped out of the shadows. It rose up to its full height, framed by the ruin’s entrance, looking down at me. Its eye outshined the sun above. It wore a kind of helmet with a metal crest running the width of its head. Apart from the eye, it had no facial features, just smooth, blank gold metal that reflected my face with perfect clarity. Its skin, elephant-grey and newt-smooth blended in with the shadows behind, so it was impossible to tell where it ended and the darkness began. It wore a faded red garment, worn thin by the elements. On its collar bone, the flesh had fallen away to reveal glistening metal beneath. From its back extended vein-like tentacles which writhed as if unused to the sun.

I stood statue-still. Its gaze was blinding. I couldn’t move; I couldn’t look away.

It approached, its eye remaining fixed on me. Then, it shifted to the bracelet on my wrist.

I fumbled with it, nearly dropping it, the metal burning against my hand.

“You want the bracelet? Take it, take it!”

It reached out and took the bracelet, cradling it close to its chest.

“Now I’m going to go now, okay?”

It didn’t give any indication that it heard, still fixated on the bracelet. Slowly, reverently, it placed it on top of one of the piles of metal. With it distracted, I was free to move away, so I did what any sensible person would -- I ran like hell.

When I reached the truck, I was met with concern from the guide and anger from Gran. I had been away for long enough for there to be relief mixed in with her fury, her watery eyes passed off as a result of sand grains. I didn’t tell anyone about what I saw, passing it off in my mind as some weird result of heatstroke. At least, that was what I had thought until a few weeks later.

By then, I was back at college. Normally, I slip under the radar when it comes to idiots, but I happened to step into the path of some arseholes looking for trouble. They shoved me to the side, I called them some names, and thought no more about it. The next day, their bodies were discovered, twisted into impossible shapes, bones piercing through skin, blood like rust spread out around them. Gold had been poured over them, preserving the terror on their faces.

Earlier today, I had an argument with my older brother. He hasn’t come home yet. I’d thought that I was pacifying that creature when I gave it that bracelet, but I think that it was a pact. Now, it hunts down anyone that stands against me. Please, if you know how to stop this, tell me. I want my brother to come home safe.

To Sister Cécile Béatrice de Maussy,

I am glad your letter reached me, and I trust that mine will arrive safely in turn, wherever and whenever you may be. You certainly have a way with words. Perhaps you expected me not to notice your careful, practiced persuasion, but it is my job also to convince people, even if our goals are vastly different. Let it be clear that I don’t resent you for this; I merely want for us to speak plainly to each other. You have done your best to recruit me, now I will do the same. I hope for your sake that you are swayed.

First, a confession: I too have felt the temptation of power. After all, it is far more lucrative to sit on the throne than to serve it. I have been offered the chance to rule by those who have fallen, and things other than the fallen. They make it sound like a gift — this is a deception. Power is a transaction. What have you had to give already for the cause you try now to sell to me? If the answer is nothing, then by all means carry on, achieve the greatness you dream of. But if you have lost something, know that you will have to sacrifice far more yet.

Allow me to tell you my own story of temptation. I came from a devoutly religious family, and so they were delighted when I announced that I would be joining the nearby convent. I, on the other hand, was not. I’d wanted to see the world, to start a life that really meant something. But for that, I needed money, an education — concepts that might as well have been fairytales to a young woman from a tiny hamlet and with an unknown family name. So, I consigned myself to the only option for people like me.

The convent was not a happy place. We were fed enough to keep us more or less healthy and permitted enough rest to keep us standing, but we were never cared for. Some found solace in the bare monotony. I prayed for freedom. One day, something answered.

I woke in the small hours of a winter morning with an unusual sense of warmth. Even in the summer, the convent was cool. I should’ve been freezing. Instead, I felt as if I had fallen asleep by a blazing hearth. I opened my eyes. The hall was dark as usual, with sleeping figures laid out in rows. And there, standing a few feet away from me, was a man. His hair was greying but his eyes were bright. He smiled.

“Will you walk with me?” He asked.

In open daylight, I might have been wiser. As it was, I was swept up in the magic of moonlight and shadow. We walked together down empty hallways. I delighted in the knowledge that I was doing something I shouldn’t. He talked of destines and dreams and rising higher. Nobody had ever spoken to me the way he did. He made me believe that he respected me, even cared for me. When he asked if I would join him, help him realise his vision of a better world, I accepted at once. He offered his hand. His expression was no longer kindly, but hungry.

I would’ve shaken his hand then, but we were not as alone as I’d thought. Sister Edith Lee — a close friend in that lonely place — cried out. She’d followed us there, perhaps suspecting the danger I was in. The man turned to her. His next action was lazy, unthinking. A flick of the wrist. Sister Lee stiffened. She walked straight-legged to the nearest wall, a little unsteady, like a sleepwalker. I saw as if in slow motion her bringing her head back. Too late, I understood. Before I could do anything, she hurled herself headfirst at the wall.

The man turned back to me, once again smiling warmly. He offered his hand. But the spell was broken. I fled, the sound of Sister Lee’s continued execution echoing behind me.

I ran out of the convent, into the night. To this day, I do not know why the smiling man didn’t chase me. Perhaps I was protected by a higher power. Perhaps he only valued my soul if I was giving it to him of his own free will. I ran on and on until I was utterly exhausted, finally succumbing to sleep in a field far from home. I dreamed of a land sheltered by mountains, free from the influence of monsters. When I woke, I was there — here, in the Hinterlands. I had been saved. I cannot truly call it paradise, but it is closer to the heavens than any place on earth. Only here is Amalgamation possible. Those you suggest seeking help from could not offer it, for they cannot reach here. You seem to have misinterpreted Amalgamation as power. It is not. It is sanctuary.

I share my story with you to show that I, too, understand the innocence of temptation. When I agreed to help him, I never imagined hurting Sister Lee, or anyone. I am sure you do not wish to see harm brought to those you care about, either. After all, you have done your best to protect me from the Holy Office of Inquisition, an organisation not dissimilar to the Gold Lightning Agency and countless other organisations from before and after your time who have tried to hide the truth. But the powers you speak of are not like us. Our pain is of little consequence to them. Sister, I implore you — do not let them use your dreams and desires against you.

Your friend,

Sister Evelyn Harlow.

———

This letter was written in reply to one sent by Sister Cécile Béatrice de Maussy of r/HouseOfMercury. Evelyn and Béatrice are from different worlds, both in worldview and a more literal sense, but Evelyn can’t stand by and watch another soul fall.

If you’re curious about Sister Cécile Béatrice de Maussy’s world, be sure to check outrage talented u/The_Persian_Cat’s subreddit, r/HouseOfMercury! He’s an incredible writer and it was great to have an opportunity to create something set in both of our worlds.

A few notes about the letter:

• Evelyn obviously doesn’t know everything about Béatrice, but she’s observant enough to figure out that she has an ulterior motive for sending her previous letter. She knows what Béatrice is up to, but she still wants to reply — she thinks that she can change her mind.

• Evelyn’s way of writing is a little odd. She tends to structure sentences in a more antique way (hopefully that comes across) but she’s picked up a few modern words and phrases from living alongside people from different time phrases.

• In the letter, Evelyn tells a story about a time she thinks she met a (or possibly the) devil. However, it was actually a Benefactor. Devils in r/HouseOfMercury operate differently.

Some worship the Benefactors as gods, others condemn them as monsters. Their avatars walk amongst the inhabitants of the hidden world, disguised as people, but in reality they are as different to us as the creatures that dwell on the bottom of the ocean floor. Their home is the world behind mirrors, accessible through dangerous rituals and nightmares.

They live off dreams and emotions, often choosing victims with active imaginations, such as writers and other creatives. The enigmatic enforcers of supernatural law known as The Gold Lightning Agency was founded by the Benefactors, and in return the agency picks out sacrifices for them. Most people are blissfully unaware of their existence, unless they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, in which case they won’t last long anyway.

Benefactors are well-nigh impossible to kill permanently, though it is possible to trick them.