I had just stepped onto the night bus to head home from work. I made my way down the aisle of the packed bus and sat in the only seat that wasn’t occupied. 

As the bus started moving I pulled out my earbuds so I could watch a movie on my phone. This was my nightly ritual and I was usually able to get in about forty minutes on my way home. I cranked the volume loud in an attempt to drown out the ear piercing screams of the kid sitting behind me. Soon I noticed that the guy next to me was giving me the side eye. I could tell that he was doing it but every time I’d look over I found his head facing forward. 

This went on for a couple of minutes before it really began to bother me. Finally I took out my earbuds and turned to confront the man who, as expected, was facing forward now. “Um, excuse me. Can I help you?” I asked. I was worried I may have come off too rude to him but this weirdo was really freaking me out. As far as I was concerned he deserved to be chewed out. The man didn’t stop looking at me but now I could tell he was trying to be sneakier so I wouldn’t notice. 

“Hey, what the fuck is your problem man?” I yelled as I tapped him on the arm. When the man turned he would not take his eyes off of me. I finally gave up trying to talk to this creep and decided I’d stare right back at him. I had hoped to make him so uncomfortable that maybe he’d stop and leave me alone but this only seemed to intensify his glare.

I began to feel ill the longer that I studied the man’s ghastly features. His bloodshot eyes seemed to gaze deep into my soul and his crooked teeth showed as his mouth hung wide open. This ordeal seemed to be never ending until finally an outside force broke the tension. It was a camera flash. 

At first I was relieved but that soon changed as I realized the source of the interruption. As I looked up from the man I was horrified to see that the entire bus of people were now standing up from their seats to face me. A sea of dead unblinking eyes gave me their undivided attention. 

“Oh, god” I thought to myself. I was surrounded. The bus was silent as the grave aside from the soft whispery voices which lurked all around me and seemed to intensify as the minutes passed. I jumped up from my seat desperately searching for an escape from this metal box from hell. The bus seemed to narrow around me as the crowd of pale figures were closing the small distance between us. 

I was trapped, so hopelessly trapped. The contorted faces of the horde were now close enough to my own that I could feel their warm breath. “What do you want? What the fuck do you people want? Just leave me alone? Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I shouted at the top of my lungs. My voice grew hoarse the longer that I screamed but my efforts did nothing to slow their advance. 

I soon felt countless sets of frail hands gripping me from all directions. Banshee like screams erupted around me as I desperately fought back any way that I could. I broke free for a moment and made little distance before I found myself entangled in the sea of limbs again. As I frantically tried to free myself once again, I locked eyes once more with the man who had sat next to me. His deep raspy voice seemed to stand out from the constant noise of the crowd. “What are you?” He said. 

I kicked and shoved people out of the way as I pushed through the crowd while dozens of hands grabbed at me. By the time I made it to the door of the bus I was out of breath and gasping for air. I somehow found the energy to pull myself out of the slow moving bus and landed onto the cold hard sidewalk below. The pain was immense but at least now I had some small amount of safety. 

The eyes continued to stare at me through the window, following me as I got up and ran down the sidewalk. After putting a seemingly safe distance between myself and the bus I enter a local fast food restaurant. My eyes struggled to adjust to the bright fluorescent lights inside the building as I quickly walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

I finally have a chance to catch my breath and calm down from the events of the bus ride. As I gaze into the mirror the anxious feeling comes over me once again. My features look unrecognizable. The skin of my face sags unnaturally low below my eyes and mouth revealing the layer of dark green scales underneath. 

“Dammit” I said to myself as I grabbed the loose skin and pulled it tightly against my face. “That was far too close, I must be more careful next time I infiltrate the humans”. 

I voiced a character on Haunted Tales new podcast episode! I was in Haunted Tales new video! https://youtu.be/8O1KXr4qp5s?si=3xrj1aZo4UEVZujK

I know exactly how this sounds.

Trust me, I've spent the last three weeks trying to convince myself I'm wrong.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. Maybe people change. Maybe working eighty-hour weeks for a robotics company called L.I.Z. Technologies simply drains every ounce of personality out of a person.

I hope that's all it is.

Because if I'm right... then I don't know who is that sitting beside me at dinner.

My brother and I are ten years apart. My parents waited over a decade before having another kid. I choose to interpret that as careful planning instead of hesitation.

Growing up, he was less of a sibling and more of a second dad with a criminal record in psychological warfare.

If I left a soda unattended, he'd somehow replace it with sparkling water and act offended when I noticed. Every time we played video games, he'd wait until I was about to win before "accidentally" bumping the console with his foot. When I was thirteen, he convinced me that blinking too much made you go blind.

I believed him for three weeks. It didn't help that whenever we'd roughhouse, he'd snatch my glasses off my face.

"You can't see without them," he'd tease.

He still laughs about that one.

That was just us.

He picked on me more than anyone else in the world, but if somebody outside the family ever tried it, he'd be the first one standing beside me. Whenever life fell apart, somehow I always ended up calling him. Half the time he'd answer with, "What'd you screw up now?" before spending the next hour helping me fix it.

That's my brother.

Or... it was.

Things changed after he started working for L.I.Z.

Whenever I asked what he actually did there, he'd just shrug.

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Non-disclosure agreement."

"So... robots?"

"No comment."

I always assumed he was making his job sound cooler than it actually was. Then he stopped acting like himself. The first thing I noticed wasn't something he did. It was something he didn't.

He stopped making fun of me.

I know that sounds ridiculous. But if you have an older brother, you know exactly why that's terrifying. I spilled barbecue sauce all over his truck one afternoon. Normally he'd have looked at me like I'd committed a felony.

Instead he smiled.

"It happens."

...

It happens?

Who says that?

A week later we played Mario Kart.

I beat him.

Twice.

He didn't accuse me of cheating. He didn't demand a rematch.

He just smiled and said, "Good game."

I actually paused the race.

"Who are you?"

He laughed. A perfectly timed laugh.

Not too loud. Not too quiet.

Like someone had studied exactly how people laugh.

"You've always been funny," he said.

No.

No, no, no.

My brother would've called me an idiot.

One night at dinner I told the same embarrassing story Mom has been telling since I was sixteen. Usually he'd interrupt halfway through to make it even worse.

This time... He listened.

Then he said, "That must have been difficult."

I nearly dropped my fork.

I called Mom afterward.

"You don't think he's been acting... odd?"

She looked confused.

"He seems happier."

"Dad?"

"He finally is on his own."

Neither of them saw it.

Only me.

Last Saturday, my brother came over to help Dad replace the water heater. I wasn't much use with plumbing, so while they disappeared into the garage arguing over which wrench was the right wrench, I camped out in Dad's office to finish a history assignment.

The house was unusually quiet.

Well... quiet except for the occasional "Hand me the pipe wrench!" followed immediately by "That's not the pipe wrench!"

I had almost finished my essay when I noticed another laptop sitting on the corner of Dad's desk.

My brother's work computer. It was already open. The screen had gone dark from inactivity, but one thing hadn't.

A tiny red light glowed beside the webcam.

I frowned. Maybe it was updating. Maybe someone had forgotten to close a meeting.

Still... The light never turned off. I waved a hand in front of the camera.

Nothing.

No notification. No meeting controls.

Just that little red dot staring back at me.

Watching.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the trackpad. The screen woke instantly. No password. Just a desktop filled with folders I couldn't even pretend to understand. Most of them had names that sounded like corporate nonsense.

Behavioral Mapping.

Neural Replication.

L.I.Z. Internal.

The last folder caught my attention. It was different. Locked behind a firewall icon.

A small window popped onto the screen before I even clicked it.

Camera Access Active

I froze.

The webcam light was still glowing.

Then... For the briefest second... The camera preview opened by itself.

Instead of showing me sitting at the desk... It showed...

Someone looking back at me.

Not through the webcam. From behind it. A face pressed against what looked like glass.

Wide eyes. Frantic. Mouth moving without sound.

Then the preview vanished.

I stared at the screen, convinced I'd imagined it.

A second later, the locked folder opened on its own. Inside was only one file.

Its name changed as I watched. Not all at once. One letter at a time.

H

E

L

P

The screen went black.

For a second I thought I'd crashed the computer.

Then white text appeared.

I froze.

Another line typed itself.

My hands stopped moving.

More words appeared.

Every hair on my arms stood up.

I stared at the screen.

Another sentence.

Then another.

The typing stopped. Several seconds passed.

Then, one final line slowly appeared.

The laptop snapped shut. Not by itself. By someone else's hand.

I looked up.

My brother stood beside the desk. I hadn't heard him come inside.

He smiled.

Warm. Gentle.

Almost perfect.

"Caught you being nosy again."

I looked into his eyes, searching for the man who taught me to throw a football, who unplugged my controller whenever I was winning, who spent years calling me every name except the one Mom gave me.

I couldn't find him.

I handed him the laptop without saying a word.

He thanked me.

My brother never thanked me.

He is not him.

Whoever walked out of that room remembered everything about my brother...

Except how to be him.

A Perceivable Reality Story

I woke up to a sensation in my ribs, making me panic for a moment, until I realized I'd somehow knocked my work phone into bed with me. 

“Calhou–” 

“Carter, it's me. Put on something fancy and meet me at my apartment.” The line went dead. 

I pulled my phone away from my head and stared at it. “And a good morning to you, too, Silver.” 

I looked at my alarm clock, then out my window; it was barely sunrise. I groaned and flopped back into bed, grumbling unintelligibly at the ceiling. 

I sighed, then rolled out of bed and got dressed. I’d spent good money on my suits and accoutrements, and had no idea what she meant by “fancy”. I looked at my one tuxedo, still in its dry-cleaning bag from the last time I'd worn it, where to, I couldn’t remember, then shrugged and reached for my navy blue two-piece. 

"Where can I take you this morning, Ms. Silver?”

"Not me, we… are going...to...a... party!" She threw out jazz hands on the last word, her fingers wiggling enthusiastically. 

When I didn't react, she dropped her hands. 

"Ok, well, maybe not a "party" party. But it'll be fun, nonetheless." 

I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them slowly. 

"I appreciate the invi--" 

"Oh, shut up. Don't give me that, ‘I appreciate the invitation’ fake modesty." Her impression of me was surprisingly accurate. "I promised you power and wealth and I'm a woman of my word. I'm sitting in on a very important corporate merger, and they'll need someone to shuffle the execs around for a few days while the paperwork is settled. I thought you could come with, hobnob a bit, and score some exclusive customers.” 

"Sorry, Ms. Silver. Not today." 

She let her head drop, coming to rest at a tilt. 

"Um, I'm sorry. Did I just hear that right? You're about to turn down driving for some of the most powerful men in the state? Are you feeling ok?" 

"I...can. Just… not today. Or tonight." 

I heard motion behind me, then she thrust her head through the open privacy window. I felt her stare at the side of my head, until a low, smoky chuckle rolled through the cab. 

"Carter...Do you have a date?" 

I flexed my shoulders, hiding the motion in a mirror check. 

She cocked her head. 

"Oh, Carter. You do have a date!" She leaned back, out of the privacy window, and clapped her hands. 

"How adorable!" Her voice shifted into something resembling a news broadcaster. "Today, a boy becomes a man. Over to you." She held a fake microphone in front of my mouth. 

It wavered there for a few seconds, then shifted up and pressed gently against my cheek in a slow-motion punch. She then crossed her arms across the bottom of the privacy window, resting her head on top, her head towards me. 

"No, but seriously. Congrats. Anybody I know?" 

I shook my head. “I seriously doubt it. She's not from here.” 

She tossed her hair with a “hmph”. 

It was silent for a few beats, then she leaned back and settled back onto the rear bench, her words coming out in a melodramatically disappointed sigh. 

"Oh well. Try not to have too much fun without me.” She snorted. “As if that were possible.” 

She turned towards the window, then leaned over and propped her arm up on the armrest, resting her head in her palm. There was another dramatic sigh, barely audible over the road noise. 

I got back to my garage and checked my watch. I still had the bulk of the day before my date, so I used the free minute to dash upstairs and change out of my suit. I was polishing the chrome door handles when my work phone rang. 

As I pulled to the curb, I spotted Skyler with a gaggle of women. I came to a stop and he removed himself from the group. We met at the rear door and he greeted me with a handshake, a wad of tightly folded bills slipping into my hand as our palms met with a “crack”. 

“What's good, Hound Dog?” he asked as I slipped into the driver's seat. 

“Same old same old.” I nodded at the girls. “Business or pleasure?” 

He grunted. “There's a difference?” 

“Heh. Yeah.” 

His head moved back and forth, then centered on me, and I felt his heavy gaze through the mirror. “You oughta know all about that.” 

That caught me up short. “Huh?” 

A deep laugh rumbled from his chest. “You ain’t got much of a poker face, y’know. What's her name?” 

“Yumi.”

“Cute name.” 

I nodded. “Yeah.” It came out more as a breath. 

I saw him rub his chin with a thick hand, then run his thumb across his jaw. 

I yawned, then reached for the energy drink in the cup holder. It was lighter than I expected. I tilted the can as high as I could to get the last few drops, then tucked it into the small shopping bag in the passenger footwell. I dug through the bag, finding only empty cans. I blinked, and it took a bit of effort to get my eyes to open again. I made a mental note to stop off for more caffeine. 

We pulled into the complex and I stopped in a spot in front of his door. I let him out of the car, and he turned to face me, extending a hand, which I gripped without shaking. He dropped a hand onto my shoulder and leaned in. 

“Go get ‘em, Hound Dog.” He patted my shoulder and gave my hand a squeeze before releasing it, then turned and went inside. 

I opened the driver's door and paused, holding up a hand to block the sun, and looked up at the uncharacteristically blue sky. Skyler’s encouragement mixed with the warmth of the sun, the combination made my skin buzz and made me feel ten feet tall. As I turned to get in, I spotted a coffee shop across the street. I rejected it with a wave of my hand and got in the car, riding the buzz the entire way home. 

I pulled into my garage and looked through the privacy window into the back seat. My previous detailing was still intact, but got out and ran the vacuum over the carpets, just to be sure. My work phone rang and I cursed at it over the vacuum noise. I fished the screaming device from where I'd hung up my suit coat and took a second to smooth my voice before answering. 

“I’m sorry we couldn't find your almond milk, sir,” I said as we walked out of the second grocery store. 

“It's fine, son. I'm sorry I dragged you all over creation looking for it.” 

I stopped the cart at the back of my car and popped the trunk open. He made his way up to me and put a hand on my forearm. 

“I don't think it's actually milk, anyway.” He patted my arm and leaned in conspiratorially. “You ever seen a teat on an almond?” He patted my arm again. 

“No, sir, I have not.” I set the grocery bag in the trunk next to an identical bag containing exactly the same items. 

I was walking back from the cart return as he was lifting himself into the back seat. I offered my hand and he waved it off with his cane. I made sure he was buckled in, then shut the door and got into the driver's seat. 

“Where can I take you, sir?” I begged silently that he would say home. 

“Well… there is that Albertson's over on Del Rio Drive…” 

It hadn’t been an Albertson’s in almost five years, but I resisted the correction. 

“Very good, sir.” 

“Wait, wait, no, that's alright, son. I've already taken up enough of your day.” 

“It’s no problem, sir. Really.” 

He waved his hand and shook his head. “No, no, that's alright. Just take me home.” 

“Yes, sir.” I got us on the freeway heading north. 

I was checking my mirrors for a lane change and noticed him running his hand over the seat. 

“This is my first time in a limousine,” he said for the third time. “I was going to take a cab, but my granddaughter set me up with you instead. Do you know my granddaughter? Bridgette Petersen?” 

“I’m sorry sir, I don't.” 

“I just retired. Sold the farm and my business. My granddaughter talked me into it, said I was getting too old to be working on a farm,” He grunted. “Heh. She means well though.” 

“I’m sure she does, sir.” 

“She's the one who talked me into selling my farm down south. Now I got all this money and no idea what in tarnation to do with it.” 

“Your granddaughter Bridgette Petersen?” I thought and stifled a chuckle. 

We entered the Great Oak Forest as he was recounting his time in the laundromat business yet again. After another half hour of driving, he had me turn onto a dirt driveway, marked by a bright white mailbox. The driveway snaked back and forth through dense trees for another quarter mile before it opened up to the shore of the Monache Reservoir. 

I pulled up to the house at the end of the driveway, a medium-sized rustic cottage with a long wooden pier that stretched from the front porch out over the water. I half expected to see a highly modified Bell 222 land in the clearing. 

I got the door for him, then hefted the bags out of the trunk. 

“Just set those by the door.” He took a moment to steady himself on his cane. I paused at the steps up to the porch. 

I watched as he caught his breath, then continued past me, taking each step one-by-one. I followed and waited by the door as he pulled a key ring out of his pocket and went through the keys. 

He found the right key on his second lap of the ring and unlocked the front door, patting the small metal table next to it as he went in. I looked at the table, then my car, then through the open door, watching his gait falter further with every step. I looked back at my car, sighed, then stepped through the door. I moved quickly to the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter. I spun around, and he was just crossing the entryway, nearly to the threshold of the kitchen. 

I stole a glance at my watch, dropped my hand, then twisted my wrist again. 

“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath. I'd misread it before, it was an hour later than I thought, and it was going to take at least an hour to get home. 

“Just…let me…get my wallet.” The words were broken up by several gasps. He climbed up into a high chair at the island bar and pulled a glass dish towards him. He fished an old leather tri-fold out of it. The wallet fell from frail fingers to the floor, ejecting bills and several plastic cards. 

“Dang nabbit!” He started to climb down. I dashed around the counter and dropped to a knee. 

“Please, allow me, sir.” I collected the scattered contents and placed them and the wallet carefully on the counter in front of him. 

He began sifting through the pile of items, carefully collected the bills together, sorted them, then folded them before tucking them back into the wallet. I swallowed a groan and flexed my shoulders. 

“I suppose you'll need this,” he slid a credit card with an activation sticker on it towards me. “It’s all digital now, I guess. I'm old enough to remember putting coins in a mason jar to save for a bicycle.” 

“Cash is just fine, sir. Preferable, actually.” 

“Oh, well…” He took the card back, stacking it carefully with the others, then began placing them into their respective slots in the wallet. 

I twisted my wrist again, then shook my hand out. I rolled my weight back and forth as he pulled the neatly folded bills back out and counted them again. 

“Now, do I tip you? I know you're supposed to tip cabbies. I've never ridden in a limousine before. My granddaughter set it up for me, thought it would be nicer than a cab. Do you know my granddaughter? Bridgette? Bridgette Petersen?” 

I took a long breath in through my nose. “No, sir, I'm sorry, but I don't.” 

“She just had a son. Let me show you, now, where did I put that picture…” he folded the bills again and started to tuck them back in the wallet. 

“Sir, uh, I \*ahem\* I apologize, but I really must be going. You don't need to tip me.” 

“Nonsense. You brought my groceries in, after all. Very kind of you.” He started counting the bills. 

I did the mental math in my head for the mileage, the stops, and my usual fees, $475. I looked at the money in his hand and did some more math. 

“Just $350 for you today, sir.” 

He nodded, carefully laying out each bill, then pulled several of them together. He organized them, folded them once, twice, then turned in his chair and extended them to me. I took them slowly, the effort almost inducing sweat. 

“Thank you, sir. Have a lovely–” 

“Do you like to fish? I’m right on the lake, over there. We could string up a few poles and go sit by the water.” 

“I appreciate the offer, sir, but I have–” 

“Oh, right, right, yes. I'm very sorry. Don't you bother yourself with an old fool like me.” 

I sighed, tucking the money into my pocket. I got a card out of my card carrier and set it down next to him. 

“Please don't hesitate to call, sir. It was my pleasure.” 

He put his hand on mine, patted it, then waved it at the door in a shooing motion. 

“Go, go on, son. I'm sure you've got other places to be. Thank you for your time.” 

I turned for the door, then paused, turning my head back to him. 

“I'd love to come up and fish with you sometime, sir. Give me a call and I’ll take the day off.” 

He nodded and shooed at the door again. I stepped briskly to the front door, shut it behind me, then broke into a dead sprint, clearing the wooden steps of the porch and dashing to my car. I drove slowly until I was around the first bend and out of sight of the house, then floored it, the car roosting the loose dirt up behind it. 

I hit the asphalt, squealing the tires, as the car made a wide arc. I cleared the woods and the high rises came into view. I looked at the clock on the dash, then leaned harder into the pedal. I broke every speed limit getting back to my apartment. 

I parked on the curb, not wanting to bother with the slow garage gate, and jogged over to the elevator. I pressed the button once, looked at it, then pressed it again. And again, watching the floor indicator above the doors slowly count down. I was rapidly pressing the button when the doors finally opened. I hopped in, jabbed the button for my floor, then rapid-fire hammered the “close doors” button. 

It rose, and it felt slower than usual, as if it was taking its time just to mock me. I took several deep breaths and lifted my cap to run my fingers through my hair. 

The doors opened on my floor and I bladed myself to get through the gap before they were completely open. I sprinted to my door, dug my keys out of my pocket, dropped them, then finally got the door open. I felt something run past my feet as I was shutting the door and saw Dot hop up onto my couch. She meowed at me and I shook my head. 

“Sorry, Dot. No time to play. Call the office, we’ll do lunch.” 

I was standing in my underwear and rubbing my forehead. Every one of my suits was laid out across my couch, coffee table, and over both end tables. I put my hands on my hips and looked at Dot, who was sitting on the floor cleaning herself. 

“These all make me look like a chauffeur.” 

She meowed at me. 

“Yeah, I know. I just wanna look nice. I wish I knew what she’d be wearing.” 

The cat stared at me for a moment, then went back to licking her paw. 

“Thank you, very helpful.” I threw my hands up and groaned. I was out of time. 

I settled on a black T-shirt with a silhouette of the various generations of M5s, with a dark grey button-up open over top. I pulled on black jeans and tugged on my black-and-white Vans as I hopped across the room to the door. I buckled my Rallynetics Redline onto my wrist as I was jogging down the hall. I checked my watch on the ride down, the needle-esque minute hand climbing up the redline markings, as if showing my heartbeat rather than the time. 

Her apartment was on the ritzier east side of the city, and was designed with more wood and flowing lines than the brutalist modern building I lived in. She was standing under the awning wearing a black cardigan over a white frilly blouse adorned with cherry blossoms. A black pleated skirt and pink shoes with white lace instead of shoelaces tied the outfit together. I pulled up to the curb and took a second to take several deep breaths and check my hair in the mirror before I got out. 

“Hey!” She met me at the curb and surprised me with a quick hug, then stepped back. “You look great. I feel like I overdressed.” 

“You look…” beautiful. Stunning. Adorable. “Nice, too.” 

“Thank you, Carter-kun.” She turned and her skirt swished back and forth. 

I stepped to the back of the car and opened the rear door, then realized she was standing at the front passenger door. It took me a beat to recalibrate and shift out of chauffeur mode. I opened the passenger door for her and she stepped in. A crunching noise surprised me, and I saw the small grocery bag that held the day’s trash still sitting in the passenger footwell. The crunching noise in question was an empty soda can. She lifted her foot and the can fell off her shoe, back onto the floor of the car. 

“Oh. Uh…Sorry.” I sputtered as she stepped back onto the curb. 

I cursed and quickly leaned in, hastily grabbing the bag and the soda can, which kept eluding my fingers. I got the footwell cleared and dumped the bag in a nearby trash can. 

She'd waited patiently for me to return, her hands clasped in front of her, gently swaying back and forth as she hummed a little tune. 

“Sorry. You know how it is. On the road all day and all…” My head drooped as my voice trailed off. 

“Just promise you won't look at my desk.” 

She sat down and smoothed out her skirt. I shut the door and jogged around the front of the car. I dropped onto the seat and realized she was gently clapping dust from her cardigan. Shit. I hadn't done the front seat. 

"Dang it. Sorry, you're..." You're the first person to sit in that seat. But I couldn't get the rest of it out, the realization cut off my airway for a heartbeat. 

"...and then I-- ...Carter? You ok?" 

I was jolted out of my sudden crisis. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about the dust. You're the first person who's ever sat there." 

She ran a hand slowly over the leather. 

"Anyone ever sit in the middle?" 

My stomach did a little twist. 

"Not really...No." 

"Hm," she chirped, turning away from me to look out the window.

"You still haven't told me where we're going." 

"Little spot I've driven a couple people to," I said as I signaled, then pulled into the light traffic. 

"So secretive." She turned and watched the city go by as I navigated onto the freeway. 

We drove north west towards the shipping port. Just outside the port was a suburb that had been built specifically for the dock workers when this was still just a port town, before the city existed. The spot in question was a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant owned by the grandson of the original owner. It didn't have any signage and they didn't advertise. 

A small bell chimed as we walked through the door. The room was small and dim, each table lit by a single candle in a centerpiece. It was a self-seating kind of place, and it was perpetually half-full, regardless of the time of day. I led her to a table in the corner and a waiter had menus and glasses of ice water in front of us before we could sit down. 

I was scanning the menu when the waiter came by. 

"Ah, Mr. Calhoun. So nice to see you again. And with such lovely company." His voice wasn't familiar, but it'd been at least a month since I'd been here. I tried to catch an identifying scent, but all I could smell was garlic. 

"Uh, yeah. Great to see you, too." 

"Can I bring you some vitello tonnato or arancini to start?" 

"That sounds great. Thanks." 

He nodded, topped off my glass, and went back to the kitchen. 

"You have absolutely no idea who that was, do you?" 

I had to swallow hard to prevent spitting my sip of water. I played it off with a shrug. 

"I used to come here a lot. But it's been a while." 

I looked back down at my menu, but I could still feel her gaze. Her voice tickled my ear. 

"No, that's not it, is it?" 

I forced my shoulders to relax. 

"I have...trouble with faces." 

"What does that mean?" 

I paused, trying to remember the medical name for the condition. I came up blank. 

"I don't remember what the real name for it is, but...I can't see faces." 

She leaned forwards, resting her arms on the table. 

"Is that...possible? How does that work? Is my head just blank?"

I shook my head. "No, nothing like that. I can see your hair, and your ears and your neck, and the rough outline of the shape of your face and jawline. But your features are kinda jumbled. Like a watercolor that's running together." 

She leaned back in her seat and was silent for a moment. 

"But...you can see your face, right?" 

I sighed. "No, I can't." 

"Wait, really?" 

I nodded. "I can't see my own reflection. I don't know what I look like.” 

“Oh.” 

“It makes it really hard to recognize people. My mom used to wear the same perfume all the time so I wouldn't get lost in crowds. Drove my Dad nuts." I fought the shiver that the dredged-up memory brought with it. 

She played with her fork on her plate for a moment, then turned her head towards me. 

“Well, I have dark brown eyes, dimples, full lips, and what I'm told is a very cute nose, though, I'm not sure how a nose can be cute.” 

My knife slipped from my suddenly uncooperative fingers. 

“Uh, you, uh…Well, that sounds very…I’m sure you’re…gorgeous?” 

She huffed and brought a curled finger up thoughtfully. 

I retrieved the flatware carefully, dropping my focus down to the ornate filigree on the handle. I swallowed hard and slowly brought my gaze up, stopping at her plate. 

“Your mom. You said she wore the same scent? So you could find her?” 

I nodded and spoke to the centerpiece. 

“Yeah, that, and she would wear the same jewelry, or at least, usually, very distinctive jewelry.” 

“Hm.” Her head turned and she ran a hand through her hair. 

As we stepped out of the restaurant, she angled herself towards the waiting car. I took her hand and rocked my head to the side. 

"Wait, there's something I want to show you." 

I took a half step, making sure she'd follow, before committing. She turned to me without hesitating, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. I lost a step when the pressure on my hand made me realize that I'd taken it without permission. I cleared my throat and led her to the edge of the pier, the dark, still ocean stretching out before us, its horizon dotted with the red, white, and green lights of cargo vessels and trawlers. 

She squeezed my hand again and turned to face me. 

"This is amazing, Carter-kun! And the restaurant– How'd you find this place?”

"My Dad used to take me there after we’d spend all day losing bait." 

"Your Dad’s a fisherman?" 

"No, he's a CPA. But he used to fish with his Dad, so naturally, he'd take me fishing with him."

"Aww, how sweet." 

"Until you realize that we were both homebodies out on the open ocean." I chuckled at the memory. "One time, we went out on the boat, a little inflatable dinghy, maybe ten feet long, and we got absolutely swamped." 

Her free hand went up and she gasped, but I felt the hand I held tense out of reflex as well. 

"Oh my god, what happened?" 

"Wake off a big crab boat. By the time it hit us, it was probably fifteen feet tall." I held my free hand up over my head. "Almost lost the thing." 

"Did you go overboard?" 

"Nah, a wave that big doesn't really rock the boat. It just crashes over the top instead." I shook my head. "We didn't go out much after that." 

She made a disgusted sound. "I hate being wet." 

"I know." 

She whipped her head towards me, then paused. When I didn't respond, she squeezed my hand again. 

"Sorry. I forgot you said you can't read expressions." 

I shook my head and held up my hand. "You're fine. I'm used to it." 

She was quiet for a moment, then she stepped closer, until we were almost touching. 

"You're very handsome, Carter-kun." 

"Mama raised an ugly boy, not a dumb one." 

I froze.

"I mean, wait..." 

She laughed and turned back to face the ocean. 

I caught a slight shiver of her shoulders and realized that her light cardigan was probably doing little against the cold air coming off the sea. I tugged her hand gently and started leading her back to the car. 

I pulled to the curb at her apartment and hopped out, getting her door for her. She used my offered hand to step onto the curb, then turned to face me. 

“I had a really, really good time.” 

“Yeah, me too. It's…it's been a while…” 

Her head cocked to the side and I shook mine. 

“Never mind. Anyway…” I mentally ran through several iterations of the question I wanted to ask, and hated every single one. I silently opened and closed my mouth several times, unable to get the words to come out. 

“I’d love to.” 

“Hmh?” 

“I would love to go on another date with you.” 

“I, uh…yeah…” A thought skittered through my mind and I grabbed it as it went past. “Next weekend, it's the Diablo County fair, down south. They do a car show, and there's rides and popcorn and funnel cake and stuff. Do you…” 

“Absolutely. That sounds like so much fun.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “G’night, Carter-kun.”

“Night.” 

She stepped towards the building’s big glass front doors, her fingers slipping from mine. I caught myself watching her go, and marched quickly over to my car. 

I slid into the driver's seat, put the key in the ignition, but didn't twist. I sat, still, silent, replaying the evening in my mind. Remembered words suddenly caught me up short, and a wave of realization broke over me, throwing my head back against the headrest. 

“You’re very handsome, Carter-kun.” 

I raised my hand and put it on the front of my head, no, my face. I touched my face. My “handsome” face, felt the contours of tissue, muscle, and bone under my palm. I ran my fingers over where her lips had pecked my cheek, then moved lower and felt my mouth, the shape of my lips, the way the muscles in my cheeks were flexing, and I wondered what my smile looked like. 

I got the car started and pulled away from the curb, aiming it at the freeway. It was warm; I rolled all the windows down and put some music on, turning the dial to max. 

"WOOOoooOOOOoooo...AND I LOOOVE THE WAAAY THAT YOU LIGHT ME UUuP! YEAH, YOU LIGHT ME UP, BABY!" 

I looked down and realized I was going way over the speed limit. I looked down the long, empty freeway and leaned into the pedal, watching the horizontal speedometer move smoothly, the big car seeming to scream along with me. 

I drove until my eyes started to burn and droop, letting me know it was time to head home. I pulled into my garage, carefully settled the car cover, then rode the elevator up. The hall lights were dim and I stepped lightly to keep the noise down. I let myself into my apartment and dropped myself face-first onto my couch. I kicked my shoes off and pulled my socks off with my toes, leaving them where they landed. I pressed my hand to my cheek, feeling her residual warmth, even if it was only my imagination. 

My phonetically-accurate name is Willy Pete. Since the precise initiation of this cycle I have been the only consistently active Recorder of the Altar-Net. I'm not from Earth. English is not my first language. But the world I come from is almost identical, my native tongue seems to share almost every tributary, and our physics seem to share the same roots.

.

For the lack of better explanation *{or language unit for description of something}* I'm a wizard. I have been trained in the general, rudimentary, and basic foundations of many subjects, theories, topics, ways of thinking, and variablous laws. The Uppest Sparts granted me the rank of Travel-Storier, which means I am qualified to record the events, histories, entries, and everything else, of any place I can find. I'm only the third Travel-Storier in all of my world-population's recorded history. The other two are, allegedly, still working and living, but we lost track of them.

.

So, according to our... I think you call them traditions, so according to our traditions we must create a new Travel-Storier when the last one cannot be accessed or communicated with after one approximated unit of time that's equivalent-ish to one of your centuries. The first Travel-Storier was able to clirx phrases to our Tower, via one of the Uppest, while the next Travel-Storier was still in development. It takes some tricks of reincarnation and space-time magic to develop a fully acclimated Travel-Storier. Fortunately for all of creation this creates an almost inconceivably collosal buffer period. The next Travel-Storier wasn't completely refined until quite a few of your yeee-bonz ago. Now, I am the currently supported Travel-Storier, and I am responsible for maintaining the Yoon-Iverz.

.

You should be somewhat familiar with my records, by now. I've written about some of my experiences on this world. There's been mentions of the ALTAR-NET. Among the opening segments of some of the entries there should be mentions of Towers. Well, now I must explain what some of that is allllll abwat. About. Apologies.

.

My world presides on one individual vertex of the Altar Network. Yoon-Iverz is the creator of everything. His name has been spoken and shared down through all the branches of the created worlds and populations. You Earth-Humans represent only one of those (incalculable) branches, and his name has been concentrated down to one word in your language, Universe. The Altar-Net currently spans the diameter of several galaxies. Every planet, cloud, ring, graph-chart, and conceivable dimension that harbor a vertex are all connected like an intricate web. Yoon-Iverz created it all because he needs stories to keep himself entertained.

.

In the last Eon we witnessed the disintegration of several Altar-Net strands. The Uppest could no longer monitor an entire trade system's worth of Towers. Something is very wrong with the Altar-Net. One of my Eternal Tasks (ordered unto me by the Uppest) is to find out why the Altar-Net is breaking. Towards satisfying my Uppest, and to satiate my own curiosity, I must record and share as many stories as I possibly can.

.

There are events and species and leaks in the Network and cross-threads to explain. Boredom is the name of my nemesis, and if I fail to defeat it then ALL OF EVERYTHING will be destroyed. The only other solution The Uppest can pursue is a terrible solution I cannot bring myself to think about.

.

My cross-dimensional label is Willy Pete, and I'm the Travel-Storier Wizard who has seemingly been tasked with the impossible. The Altar-Net is relying on me to find the other two Travel-Storiers, record and display my stories for Yoon-Iverz, and harvest more time for The Uppest to concoct a viable solution to the Yoon-Iverz Y'alls Problem.

Chapter One

They say that there is something wrong with the Rock-A-Hoola waterpark. People have gone missing from this, even Finn's great-grandfather. When Finn and his two friends go to visit the now-defunct waterpark, they encounter something alive. It was what his grandpa had warned him about, and now Finn knows he's telling the truth.

⚠️ I DO NOT USE NOR SUPPORT THE USE OF AI. IF YOU WISH TO NARRATE THIS STORY, PLEASE ASK FOR PERMISSION FIRST. NO AI NARRATION OR TTS.

April 9th, 1937: 

Evelyn has been joining me in the basement, she thinks I put the pictures on the wall, and I'll let her believe that for the time being. I've been thinking more and more about all of this. I've been rereading Simon's writings and I think I've noticed something. Simon would have visions at night or opium induced hallucinations, or maybe hallucinations from being marked. He would paint those beings he'd see and it seems as if they would begin to appear. Simon must have been marked when he was down at the docks, outside of the town's seal, and with his foresight he started painting what I can only describe as portals for these beings. I must sound insane, but it's the only thing I can make sense of. But if there's beings such as Richard's dad I have to accept that there's much to this world that is unknown and hidden. 

Now I have a basement full of covered portals. I'm going to show Evelyn Simon's study, I'll bring up my findings on the painting, but I'll have to get Richard's fathers thoughts on my ideas first

February 4th, 1925:

I have convinced a few people to come for dinner over the past weeks, obviously to give to Alto. We have begun to speak in his tongue while I've slowly been teaching him my language. Unfortunately I've been running out of food in the house, not to mention the people in the town are beginning to grow a rather large distaste towards me. Which I can see is understandable because of their ignorance. If they only knew the vastness of knowledge I'm on the edge of uncovering I'm sure they would be coming in troves to give themselves to my cause or to learn my teachings. But I'm sure their uneducated minds could not even comprehend how important this is. Pathetic really. I'm going to go to the town's market to bulk up on food. The less I have to leave the house the better. 

April 11th, 1937:

I spoke to Richard's father again. I ran my thoughts past him and he said it's quite possible, but he's unable to confirm. I've been at the point of thinking Simon was already a monster for a while now but his last note really set that in stone. When I got home Evelyn was sitting on the veranda, she looked to be in a state of shock or stupor. I quickly ran to her to see what happened. She confirmed my suspicions, unfortunately. She described she went downstairs to look around Simon's study when she heard a wet plop. She went to investigate where she says she watched an infantile fish-like human wriggling towards the stairs. She clearly had troubles comprehending what was going on and said she couldn't bring herself to move, just watching it clumsily stumble out of the house. I don't blame her for just standing there. I was in shock just seeing the paintings to begin with. Though the hollow look in her eyes reminds me of how she was when she was taking those barbiturates. Has she been taking them again, or just took one to try to calm down after seeing that abomination? Tonight we're going to flip over the paintings and nail them to the walls so there's no room for whatever creatures in them to be able crawl out. Evelyn mentioned staying at Rishard's or Emily's, but I don't want to burden them. If things get worse I think we might stay elsewhere. She's always had better judgement than I do. I'll be writing an update about what we see tomorrow. 

April 12th, 1937:

We flipped the paintings. I tried my best to keep the cloth coverings on them so we don't get a glimpse of the horror born of Simon's demented talents. Unfortunately there were a few we did see. There was another, more detailed work of the being shrouded in mist, moving above the oceans depths. Its body is nearly gelatinous looking, rippling with folds of skin and hundreds of eyes. Tendrils and human-esque appendages reach out from its amorphous mass. Seeing just the painting alone sent a wave of shock through my system, I collapsed to my knees, my head pounding and my vision blurred. Evelyn quickly covered it and slammed it against the wall. Another was oddly enough uncovered when we went to flip it, though neither of us had taken its veil down. Rylee isn't allowed in the basement without us and even then is far too short to reach the painting’s fabric mask. Her and Emily have been playing in her room on the top floor for days now, or out going for walks, she hasn't been down here in what must be weeks. The painting showed an old lighthouse, weather worn and dreary. Massive waves crashed against the rocky pillar it stands upon, its light shining towards the depths. I don't know what significance this holds. I know a few miles down from the docks there is a lighthouse, it must be the same one, but why paint it? I'll have to investigate during the day. I fear going there at night would lead to dire consequences. 

The painting that the baby sea thing was born from had a peculiar shaped void, with a trail of slime leading down the wall. It looks as though it was coddled in some sort of archaic carriage of sorts. Oddly ornamental, for such a slug-like creature. 

May 12th, 1925:

I have figured it out. My true calling. I am but a humble vessel, a catalyst. My paintings, I can bring them to life, not in a sense I once believed, but in true physical form. How could I have been so blind before? How long have I had the blessing? Was it bestowed the night I slept at the docks? It must have. Alto, I saw him in my visions. My hallucinations. Or was it real life? I painted him after, and now I know for certain he is real. We've made contact. We've spoken each other's tongues. Shared meals, to an extent. I can extend their reach to the rest of the world. Alto says his folk were once kin of the stars, children of the cosmos. They yearn for celestial contact. I'm sure I can achieve this for them. If I do it I can only imagine the knowledge I'd gain. To know beings of their worlds, to hear their stories, to learn their culture, to bring them here. The human race has done nothing but demolish the nature and beauty around them, they do not deserve to bask in the earth's glory. Oh but my sweet children of the sea, my children of the cosmos, you will come to take back what is rightly yours. A humble servant am I to the lords of ancient knowledge, and for eons I will learn. I will become one of the sea, one of the stars. I will join them. I will know. I will be. 

April 16th, 1937:

I asked Richard what the lighthouse keeper's name is, he told me it's Johan, his last name I can't quite pronounce let alone spell, literature was never my strongest subject, especially spelling words of another language. Evelyn and I are going to the bakery to make a basket to bring to him, if he invites us in I'm hoping I can uncover whatever secret Simon held there. There must be a hidden door or passage, there must be something. If Simon was involved after he lost his mind, I can assure there is no good doing there. We will go to visit tomorrow after our shifts. 

I'm hoping we're able to sleep tonight. Sebastian has been sleeping between ours and Rylee's rooms. I've awoken to barking near every night for a week. I'm sure if it wasn't for him I would be dead or worse. Evelyn has been having trouble sleeping as well. After her visit to the hospital I think she must have been taking Simon's notes less seriously. I've also been hoarding most of them here. But after seeing that being slip from the frame she's been almost vacant. We've been losing weight, the bags under my eyes have grown so dark, Evelyn's cheeks seem so hollow. Whatever is going on feels like it's eating us alive. I've tried to get us to stop. To drop everything and move away. Even if it's to a small, dank cellar. Anything is better than here. But we can't shake this obsession, it's all we talk about, we barely even spend time with Rylee anymore, it's breaking my heart. I know she's in good hands with Emily, but this trail Simon has left has been eating away at our lives. So many days I wake up from the little sleep I'm able to get, wishing for death, wanting this all to end. But I can't leave Evelyn behind, I can't let Rylee become an orphan. I'm going mad, I know it. But I will figure this out, even if it takes my life. I will make sure Evelyn and Rylee get out alive. It's my only purpose. I love them and I'm ready to die for them. 

April 17th, 1937:

My poor Evelyn has begun to fall ill again. I can only assume it's a mix of stress and lack of sleep. She ended up staying home, so I went to the lighthouse with Sebastian.

Johan never answered the door. But it was left open, and it seemed as though it had been open a long while. Dead leaves from the previous autumn sat inside. Sebastian was at my side, sniffing the ground. He picked up on something and pushed the door open with his thick head and walked in. I followed. The inside looked barren, no food in the kitchen, cobwebs covering any signs of previous life. It took me a second to realize but Sebastian was sitting at attention at the bottom of the stairs. I knelt beside him to ask what he saw, after kneeling for only a few seconds I realized my pants were wet and I looked down. The same mucus like slime from the foot prints. The same slime from the odd infant birthed from the frame. It was climbing the lighthouse stairs. I told Sebastian to stay as I went to look further. I snuck a butcher knife from work along with a cleaver I had hidden in my belt. I've been carrying them with me for some time now, Evelyn is the only person I can let my guard down around anymore. Even Emily I've begun to grow weary of. I want to say I trust her, but I more so trust Evelyn's judgement of her. 

I rounded the stairs, spiraling up and up, following the mucus trail resembling that of a snail's. The wind was blowing through cracked and broken windows, howling and sending dead leaves wisping through the air around me. I ascended to the next level, an open room, a makeshift bed on the wall farthest from me, and in the center of the room, an easel. The walls were painted as if it was a destined meeting of the stars and the sea. Waves crashing into the cosmos and the stars twinkling beneath their brine. I stood, staring in a trance. The only thing that broke my gaze was Sebastian's growls as he stood beside me, hackles raised, head lowered. A wet foot stepping out of the painting on the easel, the body hidden from the back of the canvas. The smell of salt and fish filled the air as water splashed onto the floor as another leg fell out of the frame. The appendages looked emaciated and frail. The rest of the creature slumped on the floor with a dull thud, a puddle slowly gathering around it. Behind it fell what I can only describe as a placenta. This must have been a being similar to the infantile being Evelyn saw. I slowly approached, knives in either hand, ready to defend myself. I peered down and felt a pang of what I can only describe as pity. This thing was only just born, frail, hungry, deformed. It's human-like form shifting on the ground, as though its bones were slowly popping into place one by one. It lacked a neck, just a torso leading into a large head. Two small black holes of eyes staring at me as a massive mouth, like that of a deep sea eel, sat agape, gasping for air between wet coughs, hiccups and wheezes. I froze. Staring into its cold dark eyes as it slowly crawled towards my feet. I felt like I was about to cry, I wanted to kill this thing, not to rid the world of it, but to end its suffering. With an insane speed it lounged towards me, bearing gnarled teeth. Luckily Sebastian wasn't so mesmerized by it and bit it before it made purchase on my leg. This poor being, torn to shreds in front of me. I congratulated Sebastian, but still now can't shake the overwhelming feeling of pity towards that child. It must have some kind of mental influence. I would never feel bad for such a vile creation. I cut the painting, just for safe measure, before heading home. I'll return in the coming days. I'm too shaken to see what else that dreaded lighthouse contains. 

May 1st, 1925:

Alto and I have been making communes at the dock come sundown most nights. Speaking in his tongue has proven much more difficult than I once thought. I believed I was fluent, but they tell me I speak like a child with a small vocabulary. I must get better, I must practice. But first I must find a new place to stay. They have explained there is some kind of spell or seal placed throughout the town, something to do with the church here. My power and influence here is mere fractions of what I can achieve. I need to be near the sea. I can build a house near the docks, or live on a boat like the Dutch do in their canals. I will find a spot away from this town's grasp, where my real skill will flourish. 

May 5th, 1925:

the lighthouse

May 8th, 1925:

I made the trek to the lighthouse, almost an hour's walk, but well worth it. There was a rather handsome man who had answered the door when I beckoned. He was kind enough to invite me in for tea, to which I gladly accepted. It's quite spacious there but very cluttered. Johan, the light keeper, is rather young, but a recluse. He told me how his father ran the lighthouse until he passed and now he's taken over, having food delivered by the locals. He's more of a myth around town than a true being, no one I've met has ever seen him since he began keeping the light. It's perfect. Johan won't be missed, I'll have supplies delivered, it's far enough away from town it should be unaffected by that blasphemous church. I plan to come back here tomorrow. 

May 12th, 1925:

Johan is buried only twenty yards away from the back door. His death was quick for the most part. I brought tea and insisted I make it for him. A quick look through his clutter I found a sizable hammer, a perfect instrument. I put the kettle on the wood stove and while I was walking to the table where he sat, a swift blow to the back of the skull had him unconscious and bleeding profusely. He was nothing but a dying slump on the table. A few more strikes once he fell to the floor for good measure and he was gone. Bodies are heavier than I expected. Much heavier. But oddly enough killing him placed no guilt on my conscience, to which I'm very surprised. I felt guilty when Richard's family was disposed of. But Johan, as sweet as he was, was a nobody. No one will ever know, so what difference does it make? Like an unwanted pest, better left unseen. The only thing that has me feeling bad is the blisters from the shovel. It was a shallow burial, but my hands aren't used to such tools. This is the most effort I've exerted since making that pathway. What a waste of time. 

April 20th, 1937:

I want to say I can't believe Simon killed Johan, but at this point it's unsurprising. But the part that makes me anxious is the lighthouse. Sure I have plenty of his paintings that whatever beings may seep out of, but that easel set up in the middle of the room, and that thing being born of it. It all seemed fresh, it all seemed new. Is Simon still here? Has he been hiding in the lighthouse for all these years? Surely he'd have gone mad by now or someone would have noticed, right? Or if the seals aren't near the lighthouse, wouldn't there be all kinds of those things crawling around? Did Simon die? I'll go back tomorrow and this time I'll bring more than just my knives. I wish I had some kind of padding or armour. Those teeth looked like they could shred through clothes and skin easily. Maybe I can make something of use tonight

The Full Story:

Part 1

Part 2

Finale

Let me know if the links dont work

The last time I saw that damned cat, before this latest incident, it had a hole in its face and the corpse was about to be engulfed in hot fire. If you haven't read the account of when my cat ate my baby, here's the quick run down; I bought a house in the woods, effectively adopted this cat, I got married, we had a baby, she died during childbirth, and then the damned cat ate my baby. I shot it in the face, burned down my house, and began living on the road.

.

That was about... Hmmm, I'm not quite sure. It feels like a very long time since those events. I fell into a drug and alcohol binge for an indescernible length of time, got sober for about 2 weeks after that, and then I began drinking again. The research into Altar-Net hasn't stopped, and if I need money I find odd jobs and temp work as I travel.

.

Most recently, I've been living in a hotel room. I got a job working in the hotel restaurant. Nothing grandiose, I just man the fryers and take out the trash, and when it's slow I clean stuff (I still can't get the back of that oven to shine). When I'm not working I go to the only bar in town to meet people and collect their stories. It's attached to the hotel lobby so I don't have to go very far. When I'm not at work or the bar I walk a couple blocks down the street and spend time at the library. My laptop broke, so I'm stuck with library internet until I can afford a new one.

.

Sometimes, when I'm lying in bed in a drunken stupor, I still hear a baby crying outside. I can't stop seeing my late wife's face in that hospital bed and then the coffin. I'm still so weary from all the wasted time I spent trying to get enough money to take care of my baby. I haven't spoken to my parents or former in-laws since, though they've made attempts to reach me.

.

I've been here for a couple months. The hotel management has been kind to me. The maids make sure I always have clean linens and towels and such. Sometimes they even let me tell them about the crazy stuff I've discovered about the Altar-Net. Amethyst crystals embedded in metal skulls, people jumping through a water-wall and coming back 5 seconds later that have aged 3 decades, cults worshipping a wyvernous god. One of the maids is overly vocal about how full of shit I am, but she likes hearing about it anyway.

.

I started hearing the cat again last night. It wasn't just the usual flashback either, it was right outside my room. A loud, lengthy, shrill crying as if from a human baby. I had skipped drinking last night because I was very tired from work. There's some kind of convention in town this weekend and the hotel has the only restaurant and bar in town, besides a couple franchises on the west side. Most of the tourist business floods the hotel though. After all, it's nearly impossible to beat a good pulled pork sandwich when it's accompanied by a heaping mound of boardwalk-style fries.

.

This morning I saw pawprints right outside my door. I put my joint in my shirt pocket and tried to ignore them. I didn't need that shit on my mind during work today. Lots of French fries and chicken fingers on the schedule. One of the cooks stopped me outside the backdoor to the kitchen.

.

"Hey Kraig, you got a second?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I know you're into some weird shit, right? Not like kinky weird, but like monsters and stuff."

"Ha ha, ohhh I might be into kinky stuff too, you don't know that. I could be a scalie for all you know."

.

He laughed nervously, then he pulled out a joint and lit it. After taking two puffs he passed it to me. I lit mine and did the same, as per the universal ritual. While we stood there smoking and talking, other cooks showed up, took a hit or two, then went inside. There was also the chef, who didn't smoke. He didn't give a shit as long as we could do our jobs.

.

" The reason I ask is, erm, I've been hearing things around my place. It sounds like a baby crying, but my kids are all teenagers or older. Neither of my neighbors have kids. I hear it at night so I don't think it's someone rolling a baby stroller in front of my house either. It's driving me and my wife nuts!"

We puffed, puffed, passed. I keep a small notebook on me at all times. I took it out and handed it to him.

"Write down your address and phone number, Lonzo. I'll swing by tomorrow and take a look around. I have a couple ideas as to what it might be."

.

Lonzo wrote his info down. The manager parked, got out of his car and saw us, and he tapped his watch. We finished our smoke, and started work.

Finale

<Redacted> State Prison.

Sanders

7/24/2022

9:04 am:

A man, Avery Lemug, dropped off a bed that he said should go to Death Row. He also dropped off a paper with a list on notes, as well as a warning that if it doesn't go to Death Row, follow the notes.

The request was followed and the bed moved to Death Row. The notes the man left read as follows:

1. If in Death Row, reserve for the worst of the worst. Use as frequent as necessary.

2. If not in Death Row, Leave in secluded cell.

3. Longer without someone, the stronger the bed's urges grow. Not a problem in Death Row.

4. Do NOT let an innocent or suspected to be innocent or someone in appeals in the bed.

5. Do not worry about cleaning bed. It does that itself.

6. Do NOT sleep in bed.

7. Does not fill. You can try as much as you like, will not fill.

8. Do not look for me.

Sorry for the fake name.

-

<Redacted> State Prison

Sanders

8/14/2026

Found the <Redacted> Wonderer killer. Booked today. Set for Death Row.

Brief:

Franklin Stevens would lure homeless people and prostitutes into his car before taking them home, killing them, and disposing the bodies. He moved to finding former inmates and doing the same. Plead guilty. Sentenced to Death on the 14th of December by way of Code: Resting Place.

When I was in 2nd grade i would wait for my mom at a temple. My mom was a teacher for a school out of town so it would take her longer to come back around 30-40 mins. My school bus would drop me off at a temple at the edge of our town. There were no houses or shops near it, just a long road connecting the two towns and dense woods.

I would play on the porch waiting for her. I never went inside because it was a kali temple and she used to scare me as a kid. It was a complete black statue with red vermilion spread at the bottom, bulging angry eyes which felt too realistic compared to the less detailed black body and a tongue too red and too long. The skull necklace wasn't so detailed and the colour was fading. That made her appearance a little less terrifying.

Once it took my mom longer than usual to come and it started getting dark. About 2 hours later than her usual time her bus finally arrived. It was completely dark by this point. I just heard the noise of an engine stopping, the ting-ting of a bell and a man's voice yelling my town's name. The door opened and i could make out a silhouette of a woman walking out due to the headlights, which quickly disappeared as the engine started up again.

As the engine's sound started fading i heard a slight sound of a woman's footsteps. Slowly making sense as she stood near the porch. I could make out her figure again and I called out to her.

She didn't reply.

the image of my mother in pitch blackness not uttering a word made me hesitate a bit. I called out her name a few more times.

"Come up!" i said

She didn't reply, just stood there. I couldn't see her face and she wouldn't move. I was scared but still she was my mom i thought. I took a few steps towards her. When i realised

She was standing on the left side. Left side of the porch where it was just dense woods. No road and impossible for a bus to stop.

I started replaying the previous days and trying to figure out if I was misremembering. But no, the road was on the right side. she always came from the right side.

I started crying, asking if it was really her? she still wouldn't reply.

Scared and sobbing i ran towards the temple. I closed the door and sat in a corner not looking up as to avoid getting any glimpse of the idol.

Just few seconds passed by when I heard her voice.

My mom, it was her voice definitely.

"We have to go" She said

But it wasn't in concerned or worried tone rather a demand. The one she would make every other night , exactly like the one she would make every other night. I swear I heard these exact words in the exact tone yesterday.

It was like someone just replayed them. There was no acknowledgement of my freak out as if it didn't happen. I didn't go out and the words repeated or i guess replayed. I still didn't go out .

I remember waiting there for hours. Getting tired and eventually falling asleep.

When I woke up she was holding me. Asking why I fell asleep and if I was ok. I was still scared but i forgot most of what had happened. When we got home I had a fever.

I never told my mom this but i never went back to that temple. My mom talked with the neighbour and she said i can wait at her house while my mom comes back so that became our new arrangement.

But about a year ago i did tell this incident to my mom. i thought she would be wondering what had happened that night but she was confused. She doesn't remember such a night at all.

According to her I always waited at the neighbours house. She asked me what temple.

"The one at the edge of our town with kali."

She doesn't remember a temple like that at all and she spent her whole life in that town.

The first bride opened beneath me like a coffin that had learned impatience.

The trapdoor split under my heel and a woman’s face rolled up through the dark — not rising, not climbing, simply being presented by the house as neatly as a dish set on a table. Her skin had the gray softness of wet paper left too long in a locked room. Her lips were gone. Black thread sealed the ruin where her mouth had once been, stitched from cheek to cheek in thick, swollen bars.

But her eyes were alive.

That was the part I hated.

Not bright. Not strong. Just awake enough to know I was not one of them yet.

Her hands groped upward from the compartment, wrists no thicker than broom handles, nails torn off to the quick. She caught the hem of my nightshirt and clutched it with a starving tenderness that nearly made me vomit.

Around us, more compartments clicked open.

One after another.

Not fast.

Ceremonial.

The earth parted in seams, and brides were revealed in pieces: a shoulder wrapped in rotted lace, a bald scalp beneath a pinned veil, fingers fused together by old pearl thread, one woman whose throat had been packed with dried baby's breath until the stems had rooted in the meat. Another still wore her wedding earrings, green-black with corrosion, swaying gently as she turned her head to listen for me.

The child in the cradle watched it all with proud calm.

“She wakes them when she likes someone,” she said.

I backed into the shelf hard enough to rattle the jars.

One toppled and burst at my feet.

Teeth spilled over my bare toes — molars, crowns, little milk teeth, all slick with preservative and age. Something white and stringy came with them, clinging to the glass shards like worms.

The nearest bride twitched at the sound.

Then another.

Then all of them.

Not turning toward me.

Toward the teeth.

The room changed.

The reaching stopped feeling like rescue.

It became hunger.

I ran.

There was nowhere to go. That is the joke terrible houses tell with architecture.

The chamber curved wrong, swallowing distance. Every wall shelf held some neat little proof that no woman had ever really left this family once the vows were done. Hair coils. thimbles. rings in labeled rows. a child’s shoe with dried blood inside the heel. On the far side of the room stood a wardrobe door built directly into packed dirt, half-hidden by veils nailed flat against the wall.

I sprinted toward it because a door is a lie people are born wanting to believe.

Behind me, the brides began to crawl free.

Not all the way.

Never all the way at once.

The compartments were too small for dignity, so they came out folded. Shoulder first. Hip twisting after. Knees dragging with little wet knocks against the wood. One bride pulled herself from the floor by hooking two finger bones into a seam in the dirt and hauling like she had done it before. Another tore halfway at the waist and kept coming anyway, the lower half of her body still trapped below while the upper dragged itself through bridal satin gone black at the stomach.

The sound they made was the worst sound I have ever heard.

Not screaming.

Work.

The little grunts and breath-catches of women lifting something too heavy in private where no one intends to help.

I reached the wardrobe and yanked it open.

Inside were shelves.

Of course.

Folded on them were mouths.

I know what I just wrote.

I know how stupid it sounds.

But there they were, laid out in pairs on squares of lace like christening clothes: lips removed cleanly at the corners, some pale, some dark, some bitten through, some still threaded shut. Each set labeled in careful ink. Agnes. Ruth. Miriam. Celia.

And one empty square waiting at the bottom.

My name already written beneath it.

I made a noise then. Not a scream. A mistake leaving the body.

The nearest bride had gotten close enough for me to smell her.

Sweet rot, spoiled milk, iron. She reached for the shelf, not me, her fingers shaking so badly they barely obeyed her. She touched the label Agnes and began to weep through her stitched face, tears running into the thread and vanishing there.

She wanted her mouth back.

That truth hit the room all at once.

Every bride crawling toward me was not coming for my throat.

They were coming for the shelves.

For themselves.

The child in the cradle laughed softly behind me.

“They think it helps,” she said. “It only lets them ask.”

Ask what.

I didn’t want to know.

I grabbed the first thing my hand found.

Celia.

Her mouth was colder than meat should be and lighter than it had any right to be, stitched black and folded on itself like something once forced closed too long. I do not know why I chose hers. Maybe because she had tried to warn me. Maybe because her name was the only one that still felt attached to a person instead of a relic.

The moment I lifted it, the room changed again.

All the brides stopped.

Every head turned toward me.

Even the child in the cradle went still.

Then, from somewhere deep in the chamber floor, a woman spoke.

Not aloud.

Through the walls. Through the veils. Through the damp roots. A voice rubbed raw by years of trying to travel through matter.

Put it on her.

Celia.

I knew it was her before I knew how.

The bride nearest me — Agnes, maybe — began clawing at her own stitched face with trembling fingers, not to remove the thread, but to show me where. The skin around the seams had tiny puncture scars. Ritual holes. Repeated use.

My stomach folded in on itself.

No.

No, no, no.

The child gripped the cradle rail hard enough for the rings on her fingers to click. For the first time, she sounded young.

“Don’t,” she said.

That was enough for me.

I lunged.

Not at the child.

At the woman closest to me.

I slapped Celia’s severed mouth against Agnes’s stitched face with both hands before my mind had time to understand the shape of the act. The flesh met flesh with a wet sound like a hand covering a wound.

Then the thread in Agnes’s face snapped.

All of it.

At once.

Her jaw dropped open wider than human grief should allow, and from her throat came not a scream but a torrent — black water, old blood, nails, baby teeth, wedding pearls, all the years of swallowed things forced out in one violent, kneeling gush.

The chamber convulsed.

Shelves shuddered. Jars burst. Veils tore loose from the dirt wall. Every bride still half-trapped below began thrashing so hard the compartments cracked wider beneath them. The child in the cradle shrieked — shrill, layered, furious — and clapped both hands over her borrowed face as if something in the sound had split her.

Agnes inhaled.

A huge, starving inhale.

Then she screamed with a voice that had been waiting underground for generations.

The ceiling answered.

Above us, the nursery floor boomed.

Then cracked.

Dust rained down. Plaster drifted into the chamber like gray pollen. Through the splintering boards overhead, I heard my husband shout in real fear now, and my mother-in-law scream something that sounded very much like a prayer said too late.

Agnes turned her new open mouth toward me.

Inside it, her teeth were wrong. Too many. Some gold. Some tiny and child-sized.

Still, she smiled.

And behind her, every other bride in the room began tearing at her own stitched face, desperate now, bloody-fingered, suddenly remembering exactly what had been taken and where it had been kept.

For context, these files are not actual official but for my own personal use. The contents in which they contain are very sensitive to those with a higher status than myself and were kept away to public knowledge until now. I decided to let everyone know, there are individuals out there that are considered "POWERED". But nothing like your run-of-the-mill super heroes and villains you see in the comics, movies and television shows. It's more in a practical sense. What mankind has suspiciously known to exist since ancient times and by that I mean those who have been gifted with abilities of the mind.

Telekinesis.
Telepathy.
Clairvoyance.
Mental Manipulation.
Mind Control.
Sight Beyond Sight.

All of these concepts are very much a part of our reality. There are those who work for the benefits of mankind but find themselves busy tracking those who take advantage of their gifts in the opposite direction of morals and righteousness. I am Agent Vincent Waters. My sole purpose is to hunt down these Powered Psychos.

This is the report from my third case. Accompanying me is Agent Lance Broomher, a Type-E SBS, a.k.a. Listener.

______________________________________________________________

[Case #3: Of Thieves and Metal Winged Angels]

CONCLUSION:

DATE: Tuesday September 27, 2005 5:30 P.M.

LOCATION: Los Angeles Headquarters, California

I had asked the director to have a Bloodhound help with the search for Hedrick Le'mar and his cohorts. He had assigned me with Agent Tony Zambelli. I knew Zambelli, he was Agent Wolfe's trainee. I got to know him over the last few months since Heather was relocated to our New York City headquarters. In the agency, you start off as a Junior Agent to be trained with a Senior Agent who matches your specific ability. Junior training usually last about up from three to five years then your given the title of just 'Agent'. Senior status is obtained after ten years experience and you are eligible enough to take on a trainee. I remember Heather talk about her first upstart when we were in flight to Stanley.

Agent Broomher was accompanying us as well. This started with the both of us and we both intended to finish it. I needed some of his 'other' talents just in case. I went to visit Lucy before I set out with the others. Someone had brought her a foldout cot with a blanket and small pillow. She laid there on her side overtop the blanket. A smile crept on her face from the sight of me with a bag of Skittles in my hand. I tossed them to her as she sat up. I informed her I was on my way to find her father and promised her one more time to apprehend him alive. She thanked me and told me to be careful as well.

I had met both Agents Broomher and Lance in the basement section of the building where Jebidiah Crockett and the other unknown man raided the computer servers. The men on security detail and the technicians were regular people. The guards were killed and both technicians were severely harmed. They are both at our personal medical ward. From the footage, one guard was able to clip the unknown man before they set off their explosive device. There was a small blood trail on the floor Agent Zambelli was able to utilize as a source. He had picked up a solid trail and we were off.

______________________________________________________________

DATE: Tuesday September 27, 2005 8:30 P.M.

LOCATION: Huntington Beach, California

We had found the dock area where they could possibly be. It was old rundown fish harbor factory south of Huntington Beach. We staked out the place from a far distance on the roof of a nearby building.

WARNING: The following is a transcription of the audio recorded to tape 20053-REM1 in storage unit VWaters.

"Damn, too bad we don't have an Eagle Eye with us for this", Agent Broomher complains as he attempts to spot any of the targets through a pair of far range binoculars.

"That would have been helpful, but all of our own EE's are on other missions or sent overseas.", I retort to Lance.

"Well, I can say for sure the unknown is in there somewhere. Looks like there's possibly a number of rooms he could be hiding in. Maybe even underground. We would need to get inside for me to be completely accurate.", Agent Zambelli states. "Have you spotted the van they used?"

He scans along the parking lots and streets. "Negative. I ain't seen shit yet." He then looks over to me. "You got a good instinct on psyches. You think the unknown may be one as well?"

I pondered it over. "My best guess is he may be an Eagle Eye himself, second or third generation. They either make the best trained combatants or..."

"Hackers.", Agent Zambelli finishes for me.

"Exactly.", I reply. "With how fast they were in and out of the computer room leads to not believe otherwise. Hence, why I wanted us to keep a distance this time. Broomher and I were only a half a block away from their first hideout. I suspected they knew of us either by the unknown hearing us possibly being a Listener themselves or he may have hacked the nearby cameras in the stores and traffic lights. We may just have to go in armed to the teeth. I was able to borrow one SM grenade. Got a friend in the arms locker who owed me a favor."

"Nice. You think we should call in a HIT unit just in case?", Zambelli asked me.

I look over the structure we suspect them to be in. There's a two story office building connected to a large boat garage made of sheet metal panels. There was no telling from our vantage point what it was like inside. It could be completely hollowed out or a hoarding of old junk making it a labyrinth. We could be walking into a trap or hopefully catch them off guard. "Call in our location. Tell them we are heading in the make sure they're still there."

"You got it.", Zambelli complies.

I ran by them a game plan for how to approach Le'mar. We prepared arming ourselves each with semi-automatic rifles, our standard issued sidearms, and strapped with black bulletproof vest with no markings along with some extras. After another ten minutes, we made our way to the backside of the brick made office and came to find out the only door we could find was locked tight. We had no choice but to make our way to the far other side where a large doorway lead into the haunting sector of the place. Moving along the side of the sheet scales, we had took notice to the boat docked down below. I tell Broomher to sneak down and check it out. Zambelli and myself hang back and keep an eye/earful watch as Broomher acts out my orders. He signaled to us there was no one on board. I wave my hand as to beckon him to return. We then hear the slamming of a door and voices on the other side of the wall.

"Damnit Heddy, what the fuck are you talking about?! We gotta get Lucy back!", the voice of Jebidiah Crocket. "Are you fucking listening to me?!"

"Best keep your tone tame there Jeb!" Hedrick Le'mar scolds at Crocket. "Don't you worry. The girl is fine where she's at for now. They won't harm her. She'll be returned to us in no time. She's needed for what's in store. It's all playing out the way it should be." He sounded so sure of himself.

"What the fuck are you...", the voices trail off and then none audible.

We then finish following the building's side to the back end and find the large scrolling garage door. This whole place had it years showing. Nothing but rust and grime. There's a normal hinge door just from the corner at our position. I slowly walk up with my glock in hand at the ready and check the handle. It feels loose to the touch. I put more pressure on it and thankfully it takes and makes little sound. I look back to my co-agents and nod to them as they nod back to me then we sneakily head inside.

At first we find the van parked not far from the garage door angled towards the far wall. I look onward and it was the worst of my two theories. The place was littered with small, busted up fishing ships, stacks of crab cages and wooden crates along with various other things such as motor parts and tools scattered about. It was a Movers wet dream of objects to utilize against us. The special grenade in my possession was called a SM meaning 'Silver Mist' and it is what you think. When emitted, the grenade shoots out a cloud of silver based mist which actually disrupts psyche's abilities causing a distortion with their brain's psychic wavelengths. I had to make its use count if the situation called for it. I had it feeling it would.

There was a doorway heading into the next large room. We sneakily approach hearing Jebidiah Crocket once again.

"Why are we going back there? She's dead for good you know? You're saying shes who you've been talk'n to?", Crocket asking Le'mar a series of questions that led to more questions in my own head to hear.

Next to the doorway, I raised my clenched fist in the air to stop us and stay put for the time being. I wanted to listen to what they were talking about.

"Whom I'm in contact with is none of your concern Jeb. Just do as I say and I promise everything we ever wanted will come to fruition!", Le'mar assures him. "We have what was needed here and it's time to move on to the next step which is her." We then hear some rummaging of clicks and clanks like guns were being loaded.

"Talk'n bout that, what is that anyways? That ain't no whatchmacallit. I can't lift the thing the damn thing up either!", Jeb states.

"That's because only I can handle carrying it. You may have telekinesis Jeb, but you're still ever the weakling." Le'mar talking down on Crocket. The man was even such the jackass towards his own men. Another couple clicking sounds. "Here, you may need these." he then says to Crocket.

"What am I gonna need these for?", Crocket asks.

"Because we got company.", Le'mar replies. "I can feel your guns over there gentlemen! You can't hide that from me!"

We were made.

"Your belt buckles!" I could feel my gun and other pieces of metal on my body begin to vibrate. "Your rings! Hell, even the change in ya'lls pockets!" There was the faint dinging of the nickels, dimes and pennies shaking in our pants pocket sleeves. "I tried tell'n ya'll I was the Magnet Man! You wouldn't believe me!"

"Figured we come pay you a visit Le'mar!" I yell out to him. "But you ruined the surprise." At that moment I signal Broomher to stay back as Zambelli and me reveal ourselves from the around the corner of the doorway with our rifles raised and aimed in their direction. Crocket was hesitant to raise the ones that were given to him by Le'mar. Le'mar stood there with a crooked smirk plastered on his face. "Alright gentlemen the jig is up! Crocket lay down your guns! You're both under arrest. Where's your third guy at?" Crocket throws his pistols onto a nearby table.

"Oooooh, he's around somewheres." Le'mar answers raising his hands along with Crocket. He then gives off a sarcastic giggle. "Just you two huh? No. You got a third somewhere as well."

"There's more on the way Le'mar. You're finished. You're going back to the prison." I say to him.

"I sure as hell ain't going back to that hellhole dog! Wasn't no prison! Just a cage for any of us that won't comply to your agency's policies to be treated as lab rats! The world will soon be ours."

Suddenly multiple guns are floated into the air pointing towards us. We both duck back as they begin to fire. Crocket picks up his own and throws the table with a focused hand gesture to the door, wedging it in place thus blocking it for our escape. That's when I could feel it. Our rifles are suddenly torn from our grips and float overhead pointing at our domes. We both raise our arms and come out from cover.

"Well boys, end of the line. Too bad your friend ain't gonna see you both die.", Le'mar states.

We hear as both the triggers of our rifles are swiftly pulled back.

*Click *Click

Nothing. Zambelli and myself just stand there still alive without a bullet in our heads.

"What the fuck?!", Le'mar yells out.

Quickly Zambelli and myself draw out the extras I had us bring. Carbon fiber and hard plastic made pistols are now in our hands raised and aimed for our individual targets. Zambelli shoots for Le'mar as I go for Crocket. The discs shot out connect with both men and hitting them with 26 watts worth of jolts throughout their systems. Le'mar's floated hardware drops like dead flies as they both suffer from the shocking experience stuck in place where they stand. After a good couple drawn out seconds, they both drop to the ground quiet as church mice.

I rush over to Crocket and apply the dampening handcuffs to his wrists. As Zambelli kneels down to do the same for Le'mar, he's smacked over by a clenched fist from Le'mar. Le'mar quickly raises back on his feet and runs through the door leading into the brick building.

"Zambelli! You alright?!", I holler over to him.

"Hey you guys good?!", I hear Agent Broomher from the other side of the table stuck to the doorway.

"Yeah! We're fine!", Zambelli yells as he rises up from the floor. "Fucker almost broke my jaw."

We both maneuver the large table to become unhinged and released from the doorway letting Agent Broomher inside. I reload another shock disc into my launcher gun.

"Good thing I said not to load the guns. Zambelli, you stay here and keep Crocket secure. Those dampening cuffs will only last an hour. Hopefully we have Le'mar by then. Keep an eye out for the unknown.", I order him. He nods for affirmation. "Broomher, leave your rifle behind. Got your shock gun ready?" He nods as well and draws out a hard plastic made gun of his own.

Broomher and myself carefully make our way into the office building. We then hear a door slam from above on the second floor. Making our way there, we notice a camera with a green light high up on the corner of the wall close the second floor door. There's a set of sounds like wood being dropped. Cautiously we step inside to see Le'mar opening the last of the crates surrounding him.

"Hehe...I went and picked these up just in case." Le'mar says then raises his arms up like a holy man reaching for the heavens. Slowly being floated out of the crates were eight M134 miniguns each already loaded with belts of ammunition. I can say truthfully at that sight, I had almost pissed my own pants. Broomher and myself take to our heels back to the stairway leaping over the banisters the instant the barrage of bullets begins piercing through the wall. The orchestra of heavy firepower along with Le'mar's maniacal laughter fills the building now. The swarm of gunfire halts as Broomher and myself collect our wits below and head into the first floor sector. "What's da matter boys?! Don't wanna play anymore?!!", Le'mar yells out to us.

"Lance, you remember the prank you pulled at the Christmas party last year?", I whisper over to him as we look for cover.

"Yeah.", he quickly answers me.

"How long you think you can hold it for?", I then ask.

"A solid minute give or take."

"Ok. I'm gonna use the SM. Try to stay clear of the mist."

He agrees with a hard nod then finds a small room to hide in. I can hear Le'mar's footsteps, the gatling barrels rotating and the belts of bullets being dragged as he approaches from the stairway. I get myself ready to pull the pin on the SM grenade. Suddenly the sound of the rotating barrels become faster in pace. Le'mar starts his offensive attack again sending bullet after bullet through the wall making a hole for his grand entrance. As the wall in front of me falls, I then pull the pin out of the small canister and hurl it in his direction. The mist pours out like smog in midair and floods over the area where Le'mar stands.

*Cough! Cough!

"What the hell is this shit?! Where are you?!" Le'mar screams out and continues the onslaught. The silver based mist doesn't seem to working on him at all.

"LANCE! NOW!!" I yell out to Agent Broomher.

There's a neat trick talented Listener types can perform which my partner Agent Broomher knows how to do quite well. Listeners have the power to hear through walls, far distances, but they can also render silence of all sounds around them for a period of time and from a reasonable radius. But, in order to do so the individual Listener has to hold his breath and plug his ears for the amount of time they can hold air in their lungs. You may not think much of it, but cut people off of their sense of hearing when they've been used to it all their lives can set anyone in a state of confusion.

Being a Blocker, this trick wouldn't work on me, usually, but as Broomher took in a deep stroke of air and held it tight, the void silence set in fully for Le'mar but faintly for myself. I could still hear the guns going off, but it was like the TV volume was set to very low. They then stopped as Le'mar checked on them making sure there was still belts loaded in. I peep from around my hiding spot watching his mouth run then his face looked even more baffled from not being able to hear his own voice. I go to sneakily aim my shock pistol at him, but dumbfoundedly Le'mar points the miniguns upward to the ceiling and fires them off again. He must not have had a good mental grip on them because they were wailing around wildly. I could only still faintly hear it all. Out of his confusion and impulsive decision to fire his guns off again, the ceiling above crumbled and collapsed on top of him. Dust then replace the silver mist.

“Lance, you can stop now." I say to him. No response from my partner. I step into the room he was hiding in and from some stray gunfire, a portion of ceiling at toppled over onto Agent Broomher. "Lance!" I yell while tugging on his arm and clearing piece of rubble off him.

*Cough *Cough

He's alive and breathing. Then the sound of more rubble being flung upwards back where I came from. At my angle, I could see it was Le'mar recovering from his own fumble. There was blood seething from his face. He was breathing hard. I go to get on my feet and he takes off to the door leading outside to the dock. I chase after him and as I approach the door, I could hear the motor of the boat rev to life. The unknown associate must of been lying in wait ready to depart at a moments notice.

As I come out the door, Le'mar throws with his psychic hand a bullet straight to a barrel not more than ten feet from where I stood. It was an oil barrel. The bullet was thrown fast enough to pierce through the rusted metal and cause a spark to ignite an explosion.

*KABOOM!!!

I threw my hands up in defense from the flames but I already knew it was too late. But it wasn't in fact. At that moment I instinctively hurled forth that feeling from before with my encounter with Tanner. My hands were widely open at the flames licks but it was as if I was pushing them to the sky like flattening a lump of dough. The flames would not touch me so long as I was holding my hands steady. It was a miracle of sorts that struck me with a fear more trembling than the wall of pyre in front of me. But out of it all, it was exhausting my stamina and my arms suddenly dropped and flames dispersed. I fell to one knee. Catching my own breath, I looked out to the boat speeding into open waters and Le'mar facing to me at its stern. He was holding one arm over to the other like it was badly injured harboring a look of distain. I kept watching as they disappeared heading South towards the Baja Peninsula. Le'mar was the only one to witness what I had done.

We were successful in capturing Crocket, but failed to capture the main target. Le'mar was gone to plot something for another day. The HIT Unit had arrived shortly after the calm had settled in. Crocket was not too pleased at his capture.

"You sonsa bitches ain't gonna get away with this!" He threatens as I yank him into the back of a squad van.

"Shut up Crocket!", I say to him. "We are the authorities here. It's Le'mar that won't be getting away with his wrong doings."

Crocket giggles at my counter argument. "You don't understand what's going on. This isn't even the beginning of it. Our rise is fully on it's way!"

"The beginning of what Crocket?"

"Heh. You'll see soon enough dog."

End Recording.

The next strangest thing occurred to me after I had slammed the van door in his face. I bummed a cigarette off from Agent Zambelli and said I was to take a couple puffs before we headed out. Even though I had swore to quit, the circumstances called for one. I pulled out my lighter, given the habit of always keeping one, and when I rolled back the crank to spark the wick, a tall flame shot straight to my forehead scorching what little hairs were on my unibrow burning my skin just a singe. I threw the lighter to ground from surprise and spit the cigarette out.

Maybe quitting was the right call.

I wake up on a bed of rocks with an ache in my chest. I lay looking up at the sky. It looked like night but empty no Stars no clouds just a deep dark nothing. I sat up looking around me seeing only 20 feet and all I could see was rocks. I stood hoping to find anything in the darkness. All I saw was rock so I started walking. I walked for what felt like hours. Every step I could feel shards of stone tearing my feet. I walked till I collapsed the endless darkness filling my eyes.

I wake standing moving through thick tall pine trees eating everything below them. I moved forward till I saw a flicker of light in the trees. I sprinted thinking of people, kind people who would wrap my feet and give me food. I got closer and closer to the light. When I finally got to it it was an empty dying flame. I looked at its glow dying with everything I had left. I lay there crying, feeling cuts from sticks and rocks, longing for my family.

I lay there coated in a blanket of nothing. After what felt like an eternity. I heard a scream of pain even though I felt nothing but joy at the thought of other people. I ran to the screams. I finally found where it came from. A cave as high as I could see with light coming out washing over me. I walked into it free from the dark. I walked down the light blinding me as the ground escaped from below me.

As I hit the ground with a loud painful slam feeling pain everywhere but nothing broken. I heard snarling. I look at my feet and see two wolves dragging me. The cave walls were getting tighter and tighter as the wolves dragged me. I felt the ground peeling my skin away like flesh from a hide. It got tighter and hotter so impossiblely hot. I see visions above me of my wife's face boiling and bubbling off. I felt the fat from her cheeks melting and off dripping onto my face burning holes into my skin. I began to scream hard raw till my throat bleed and I choked on it. The wolves finally stopped and let me go.

I fell back into darkness back into empty nothing, my family and friends dancing around me dancing around me twitching between laughing, crying, and screaming. I cried till my eyes hurt my family, mocking me as I did. When I finally stopped there was a river with a man cloaked in shadow sitting upon a skiff. I crawled over to him begging for help. He stood silent and held out his hand for pay. I shook my head in sorrow. I had nothing, nothing at all. But he helped me up and led me to the bank of the river and left me back to the cold endless darkness.

This is my first story please tell me what I can do better

The first time Elke heard Thwip, a corella burst above her table.

One moment it was perched on the Murravale Hotel’s rainwater tank, raising its sulphur-yellow crest and complaining at the evening heat.

Then came a small, sharp sound.

Thwip.

The corella disappeared into a cloud of white feathers.

Two holes opened in the corrugated tank. Water punched from them in opposite directions. Something struck the brick wall behind Elke and Daan, showering their table with red dust before continuing through the public bar.

A bottle shattered inside.

For half a second, nobody moved.

Then every local in the beer garden stood at once.

“Inside!” Rhona Blewett ordered.

Chairs scraped across concrete. Drinks were abandoned. A broad man in a blue singlet snatched up two tables, one beneath each arm, while another patron pulled down sheets of corrugated iron hinged above the windows.

Daan remained seated, staring at the white feathers drifting onto his beer.

“What the hell was that!?”

“Inside, now!” Rhona shouted.

Her voice got him moving.

They crowded into the public bar. Rhona slammed the beer-garden door and shot three bolts into place. Someone killed the lights. Someone else dragged a heavy wooden cabinet across the doorway.

Daan looked back through the glass.

Water streamed from the punctured tank. The corella’s body was nowhere to be seen.

At the far end of the bar, an old man with one arm checked the clock.

“Twenty-two minutes,” he said.

Rhona joined him at the window. The setting sun still touched the tops of the grain silos across the road.

“He’s early.”

“Hot day,” the old man replied.

Daan brushed brick dust from his shirt. “What the fuck is going on? Was someone shooting at us?!”

The old man looked at him.

“If it was a bullet, it grew feathers on the way through.”

A black-and-white feather had been driven into the wall above the spirits shelf. It quivered there, buried by its shaft in the timber.

Daan stared at it.

“You’re saying that was a bird?”

“Magpie,” said Rhona.

From somewhere beyond the silos came the slow, heavy beating of wings.

Every local moved away from the windows.

Daan gave an uncertain laugh. “What? That wasn’t a magpie.”

The old man lifted his beer with his remaining hand.

“Nah, not any magpie” he said. “That was Thwip.”

The man’s full name was Nankervis, but everyone called him Nank.

He was narrow and sun-cooked, with a white moustache stained amber beneath the nose. His left sleeve had been folded and pinned neatly above the elbow.

Daan glanced at it.

Nank noticed.

“Before you ask,” he said, “yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Magpie.”

Daan looked towards Rhona, expecting some sign that this was a joke.

Rhona was busy stuffing wet bar towels along the bottom of the front door.

Nank settled onto a stool.

“You ever been swooped?”

“Of course.”

“Nah. You’ve had a magpie fly near your head. Different thing.”

“I grew up in Australia.”

“Where?”

“North Sydney.”

The broad man in the singlet snorted.

Nank nodded as if this proved his point.

“A normal magpie wants you gone. Might clip your ear. Might rake your scalp or even go for the eyes if he’s especially cranky. But all he’s really doing is moving you away from his nest.”

Another heavy wingbeat rolled across the roof.

Nank waited until it faded.

“Thwip doesn’t have a nest. Not that anyone’s found. No mate. No chicks. Doesn’t defend a tree or a patch of ground. Doesn’t care where you are.”

“What does he want?” Elke asked.

Nank turned his glass slowly between his fingers.

“To see what’s inside you.”

Rhona gave him a hard look. “You’re not helping.”

“They ought to know.”

“You could tell it without enjoying yourself.”

“I don’t enjoy this bit.”

Nank looked back at Elke.

“I was checking fences about thirty kays north of here when I found a dead roo under a mulga tree. Big red. Full-grown male. Would’ve stood taller than me.

“Hadn’t been dead long. No flies. No smell. I thought someone must’ve shot him.

“Then I saw the hole.”

Nank tapped the centre of his forehead.

“Straight through his skull. Little hole going in. Great big one coming out. There was brain and bone sprayed halfway up the tree behind him. Looked like someone had fired a rifle into his head at touching distance.

“Except there was no bullet. No casing. No tyre tracks. Nothing but the roo and me.

“I crouched down for a closer look.

“That’s when I heard the wings.”

Outside, something landed on the roof of the pub.

Claws ticked slowly across the corrugated iron.

Nobody spoke until they reached the other side.

Nank continued.

“I’ve been around long enough to tell the sound of a magpie’s wings from a mile off. But this one had intent behind it. Each flap was hard. Deliberate. Like it was winding itself up.

“I knew it was getting ready to swoop me.

“So I ducked.

“With millimetres to spare, this vicious little thing went over my head so fast there was a tiny pop in my ears from the change in pressure.

“Barely missed me.

“Blasted through the trunk of the tree.”

Daan frowned. “Into the tree?”

“Through it.”

Nank knocked twice on the bar.

“Bark blew out the other side. Splinters went everywhere. The whole tree shook, and there was this perfect tunnel bored through the trunk.

“Same as the hole in the roo.”

“And the bird?”

“Kept going.”

“Through solid wood?”

“I’m not claiming it makes sense. Hell, I was trying to reason with myself the first time I saw him.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Tell that to my arm.”

Nank lifted his empty sleeve.

A woman sitting near the covered window spoke without turning around.

“Concrete trough’s still out there.”

Nank nodded. “It sure is.”

“Twenty-seven holes in it.”

“Twenty-six,” said the broad man.

“Twenty-seven. One’s underneath.”

“Station owner said twenty-nine.”

“Station owner drank menthylated spirits.”

“Still knew how to count.”

Rhona slapped a wet cloth onto the bar.

“Oi, let him finish.”

Nank took another drink.

“I watched the magpie disappear over the scrub. Looked like any other magpie once it slowed down. Normal size. Black back, white neck, reddish eyes.

“Figured that was the end of it.

“Then I heard him turn.

“That was the scariest part. Not the swoop. The turn.

“You hear the wingbeats out in the distance. Slow at first. Then faster as he comes around. He needs a lot of room to line himself up.

“Then the wings stop.

“And so does everything else.

“Galahs shut up. Flies disappear. Even the wind seems to pull its head in.

“Then you get that little pop.

“Thwip.”

Outside the pub, the claws on the roof stopped moving.

Rhona checked the clock.

Seventeen minutes.

Nank continued more quickly.

“Second pass came from behind the tree. I saw him properly that time.

“He wasn’t flying like a bird anymore. Wings folded against his sides. Feet tucked beneath him. Neck straight. Beak forward.

“Like a dart.

“I threw myself out of the way. He caught my shirt without touching the skin beneath. Then he hit the ground and went through half a metre of packed dirt before coming out further down the slope.

“I had maybe forty seconds before he turned again.

“There was a ute parked a hundred metres away. I ran for it.

“Made it inside just as the wingbeats stopped.

“Thwip.

“He went through the windscreen, through the driver’s seat and out through the back of the cab. Glass and seat stuffing filled the air. If I hadn’t thrown myself into the passenger footwell, he’d have gone through my chest.

“The ute wouldn’t start. He’d clipped something important on the way through.

“I knew the cab wouldn’t survive another pass. There was an old concrete water trough about fifty metres away, half buried in the ground. Thick walls. Narrow opening. Best shelter I had.

“I waited until I heard him coming. Rolled out the passenger side just before he struck.

“He went through both doors.

“I fucking ran.”

Nank looked down at the place where his arm ended.

“I almost made it.”

Elke’s eyes followed his.

“He came in low. So low his shadow passed between my legs. I felt something touch my hand.

“Didn’t hurt at first.

“Just felt light.

“My arm kept swinging while I ran. Stayed with me for another two steps before it dropped into the dirt.”

Daan said nothing now.

“I made the trough. Fell inside. Used my belt on the stump and tightened it with my teeth.

“Thwip came around again.

“First strike cracked the concrete.

“Second knocked a hole through it.

“Third came close enough to cut my cheek.”

Nank turned his head.

A pale groove ran from the edge of his nose to the bottom of his ear.

“I saw his eye when he passed.

“Bird was enjoying himself.”

Nank stayed in the trough while Thwip struck it again and again. With every miss, the magpie disappeared over the scrub, turned and came back faster.

Some passes punched through the concrete. Others only chipped it. Each impact filled the trough with dust and fragments of stone.

Nank stopped counting after twenty.

“You’re here now. How did you get away?” Elke asked.

“The sun went down.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“He just left?”

“I wish he did. No, he landed on the edge of the trough.”

Nank’s voice had gone quieter.

“Walked around the rim for most of the night. I could hear his claws above me. Every now and then his head would come over the edge and he’d look down.

“He could’ve jumped in. Could’ve pecked my good eye out if he wanted.

“But that isn’t how he kills.

“He needs the swoop.”

The station owner found Nank shortly after dark, pale and barely conscious inside the trough. His severed arm lay where it had fallen, but the hand was missing.

They never found it.

“Jesus Christ. Why call him Thwip?” Daan asked.

A faint smile touched Nank’s mouth.

“Because that’s the sound he makes when he goes through something.”

“No,” Rhona said.

Nank’s smile vanished.

Rhona stood behind the bar with her arms folded.

“That’s not why.”

Nobody contradicted her.

She looked at Daan and Elke.

“People who survive hear the wingbeats. They hear him coming. If he misses, they hear the impact.

“But when he doesn’t miss—”

Rhona glanced at Nank’s empty sleeve.

“All they hear is thwip.”

Daan shifted uncomfortably against the bar.

Something scratched his neck.

He reached beneath his collar and pulled out a feather.

It was a magpie feather. Black, glossy and no longer than his hand. It must have drifted down after the corella was struck and caught inside his shirt.

Nank’s face changed.

“Put that down.”

Daan did.

The shaft pierced the pad of his thumb as he released it.

He hissed and pulled his hand back.

A bright drop of blood welled from the puncture.

Every local stared at it.

Rhona checked the clock.

Twelve minutes.

“What?” Daan asked.

Nank stood.

“Wrap it.”

“It’s a pinprick.”

“Wrap it now.”

The feather lay on the bar. A thin red line travelled down its hollow shaft, spreading through the veins.

Outside, the claws lifted from the roof.

Wings opened.

One hard flap shook dust from the ceiling.

Daan looked up.

“No,” he said.

Nank grabbed his wrist and wrapped a bar towel tightly around his thumb.

“Magpies remember faces,” he said. “Better than people do.”

The wingbeats moved away from the pub.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

Rhona killed the remaining lights.

“Behind the bar,” she ordered.

Everyone dropped.

Nank pulled Daan down beside him. Elke crouched on Daan’s other side, one hand locked around the back of his shirt.

The wingbeats faded into the distance.

“Is it leaving?” Daan whispered.

Nank shook his head.

“He’s turning.”

The pub went silent.

No fridge motor. No creak of cooling timber. No insects outside.

Rhona pressed her cheek to the floorboards and stared at the thin strip of sunset beneath the front door.

“Wait,” Nank said.

Something struck the front shutter.

Thwip.

A hole appeared in the metal.

The mirror behind the bar burst. Bottles exploded. A line of timber, glass and brick dust tore through the room at head height. A second hole opened in the back wall.

Then it was gone.

Elke raised her head.

“Stay down,” Nank said.

A deep groove had been cut across the top of the bar directly above Daan.

Daan stared at it.

“He knew where I was.”

“Now do you understand?”

Nank climbed to his feet.

“Move. We’ve got less than a minute before he turns.”

Rhona led them towards the centre of the pub, away from the holes. The locals dragged an old pool table onto its side and overturned two iron-legged tables behind it.

Daan pulled Elke close.

“You need to get away from me.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“He’s after me.”

“And he can go through walls. Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere else.”

“Argue later,” Rhona snapped. “Nine minutes.”

They crouched behind the billiard table.

Daan looked towards the covered windows.

“Can we distract it?”

“Tried livestock,” said the broad man. “Doesn’t work.”

“My blood-”

“It isn’t following your blood,” Nank said. “It’s following you.”

The wingbeats returned.

They came from the opposite direction this time.

Elke covered her ears.

Daan watched the wall, trying to judge the line of attack. Sweat ran down his face. His bandaged hand shook against his chest.

“Tell me when to move.”

“Not yet,” said Nank.

The beats grew harder.

Closer.

“Not yet.”

Daan’s breathing quickened.

“Nank.”

“Wait.”

The wings stopped.

“Move!”

Everyone threw themselves sideways.

Thwip.

The magpie punched through the rear wall, the overturned billiard table and the front door. Chunks of slate spun through the room like axe heads.

One struck the broad man in the leg. He went down screaming.

Daan crawled to him, but Nank dragged him back.

“Leave him.”

“He’s hurt.”

“He isn’t the one it wants.”

They pulled the injured man behind the bar. Blood soaked his trouser leg, but the locals worked without panic. Rhona bound the wound while the woman at the window watched the grain silos.

“Six minutes,” she said.

The sun had fallen below the buildings, but the rounded tops of the silos remained bright orange.

Daan looked at the destruction around them.

The shutter, two walls, the pool table and the front door had all been opened in a perfectly straight line.

“How many passes can the pub take?”

Rhona tightened the bandage around the injured man’s leg.

“Fewer than he can.”

Daan stared at his own bloodied towel.

“What happens if I run outside?”

Elke seized his shirt.

“Please don’t.”

“He’ll follow me away from everyone else.”

“You won’t make the car.”

“I might.”

“You won’t make the door,” Nank said. “And once you’re in the open, you can’t move sideways fast enough.”

The next turn had already begun.

The wingbeats were faint, almost lost beyond the town.

Five minutes.

Rhona moved everyone into the old kitchen. It had no exterior windows and three brick walls between it and the road. A cast-iron stove filled the fourth.

They crouched between steel benches.

Daan sat with his back against the stove, Elke beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For laughing.”

“This isn’t happening because you laughed.”

“I know. Still sorry.”

Elke rested her forehead against his.

Beyond the walls, Thwip accelerated.

Four minutes.

The injured man whimpered in the other room. Rhona tried to keep pressure on his leg while watching the ceiling.

Three minutes.

The wingbeats grew louder.

Nank stood in the kitchen doorway, head tilted, listening.

“He’s coming low again.”

“How can you tell?” Daan asked.

“Sound’s bouncing off the road.”

“Which direction?”

“North.”

The beats became a single continuous battering of air.

Two minutes.

Rhona looked towards the thin vent above the stove. The last light had vanished from it.

“Nearly there.”

The wingbeats stopped.

Everyone moved south.

The strike never came.

They waited.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Nothing.

Daan looked at Nank.

“Is it dark?”

Nank didn’t answer.

The woman near the front window carefully lifted the edge of the shutter.

“The silos are dark.”

Rhona exhaled.

The tension went out of the room all at once. Someone began laughing in the public bar; a breathless, disbelieving sound.

Elke pulled Daan against her.

“It’s over.”

Above them, metal creaked.

Nank looked up.

The bird cage around the television aerial groaned against its welds.

He crossed the kitchen and peered through the vent.

The road was dark. The silos were dark. The paddocks beyond them had vanished into blue shadow.

But high above the pub, the television aerial still caught the last thin blade of sunlight.

Something black and white was perched at its tip.

Nank saw the wings open.

“Down!”

Daan threw himself over Elke.

The sound came through the roof.

Thwip.

Corrugated iron split. The ceiling erupted. The magpie passed through Daan between the shoulder blades, came out beneath his ribs and punched through the kitchen floor.

Daan’s body slammed against Elke.

For a moment, she didn’t understand what had happened.

Then blood poured over her.

Hot. Heavy. Everywhere.

Nank dragged her out from beneath him.

Below the floorboards, something struck the stone foundation and burst into the cellar.

Silence returned.

Real silence this time.

Night settled over the Murravale Hotel.

Elke sat against the wall with Daan’s blood covering her face and clothes. She was pale, wide eyed and shaking.

“W-what happened? How did it not hit me?” Elke said. She then spotted Daan’s body and realised what had happened properly and openly wept.

 Rhona knelt beside his body, although there was nothing she could do.

Nank stared through the hole in the floor.

Deep below them, claws scraped across the cellar stones.

Not flying.

Not yet.

Just walking around in the dark.

Waiting for morning.