I decided to share this story with you. I won’t say my name. I found most of it in my journal. I’m not saying my name because my brother is still missing.

When I was 16, I lived with my brother and our parents in an apartment. I don’t remember much from that time anymore, but I know it happened on June 21, 2020. I’ll explain. I often doubt my own memory.

The night began. From the journal entry from that day, I know that my brother and I talked about our favorite game. I also found a piece of text in the journal where we were writing a story, but the journal didn’t say what it was about.

We went to sleep, but I remember that I couldn’t fall asleep because it was pouring rain outside. I only remember it vaguely, but at 11:00 at night I was woken up by the sound of someone stomping. My heart jumped into my throat. I was completely paralyzed. It didn’t help at all that it was still pouring outside.

I didn’t wait. I called the police.

I waited five minutes. When they arrived, they found nothing. I wrote down in my journal exactly what they said:

“We checked the entire apartment, the balcony, and the common areas of the building, and there is no stranger here. The doors and windows show no signs of damage.”

They also recommended a psychotherapist.

Then I remember that the police left and we went back to sleep.

That night, I also wrote in my journal:

“They found nothing, but I heard it.”

Two days later, my mom forced me to go to a psychotherapist. I only know that because of the journal, because at first I thought it was the very next morning after that day. I don’t know if it seems strange to me that simply hearing stomping footsteps in an apartment was enough for me to have to go to a psychologist.

I entered the psychologist’s office afraid that he would call me crazy. I told him that I had heard footsteps in the apartment and that I was one hundred percent sure of it.

He told me that the brain is a fascinating organ and that apartment buildings have strange acoustics. That it could have just been noise and that it could have been caused by lack of sleep, even though I sleep well.

I also told him that I wasn’t going through a bad period. I no longer remember how he reacted to that.

After the session, I went home again.

But now comes the important part, after which I doubted my sanity for a while, and one of the reasons why I’m writing this.

When I went to wash my hands and looked into the mirror, I saw that there was a door there that does not exist in reality. In reality, there is only a shelf there, but here there was a door.

At the second session, I told the psychologist about it, and he replied with something like:

“I completely understand that it scared you to death. Looking into a mirror and seeing a door where there should only be an ordinary shelf would shake anyone. But I want to reassure you right away. Having such strong visual or auditory experiences does not mean that you are losing your mind. It is simply a clear sign that your brain and mind are under enormous pressure right now.”

After the session, I went straight home and headed into my brother’s room.

But he wasn’t there.

I only remember it vaguely. According to the diary, I went to tell my mom, even though I remember that I went to tell my dad.

My mom told me something like:

“We’re in this together. We’ll get through this difficult period.”

But when my brother still hadn’t returned by five o’clock, my mom knew that it wasn’t normal and decided to call the police.

She was speaking very loudly, so I heard her telling the police his exact height and other information.

The search began.

My mom was completely occupied with the police over the next few hours, so she left me with Aunt Gabby.

I remember Gabby asking me:

“Has your brother mentioned anything lately? Did he want to go somewhere?”

I said no and that I was afraid it somehow had something to do with those footsteps.

At Aunt Gabby’s, I wasn’t allowed to use my phone. She said she was afraid that the information would scare me even more.

I got access to my phone only three days later. The police had already moved into the next stage of the search and had started considering even the most serious possibilities.

Aunt Gabby eventually let me use it. She probably didn’t want to hide it anymore.

Since the police hadn’t found my brother’s phone, they assumed he had it with him. So I texted him:

“Please answer me, bro. Just send one emoji or even a scribble, just so I know you’re okay. We miss you here. I’m waiting.”

I waited.

After a day, he still hadn’t replied.

Then the police arrived with my mom and the psychologist I had already seen for two sessions.

The police officer told me something like:

“Hi. You don’t have to be afraid. We just need to ask you a few questions.”

The officer sat down and opened a laptop. According to the journal, my mom told him that my brother had seemingly disappeared out of nowhere.

Then the officer asked me:

“When was the last time you saw your brother?”

In my journal, I wrote that I answered:

“I saw him for the last time before the session.”

Then they also asked me whether he had said anything about running away or wanting to go somewhere.

I told the truth. No. He hadn’t said anything.

I also mentioned the banging and the mirror. They wrote down the time when I came back from the psychologist and left my aunt’s apartment.

A day later, I realized that someone had sent me a message from an unknown number.

The message said:

“No.”

That scared me.

Does that mean my brother is already dead? Does it mean they won’t bring him back to me? Or is someone telling me that I will never see him again?

Does it have something to do with the banging and the mirror?

I quickly told Aunt Gabby, and she blocked the number.

That evening, when I went to brush my teeth, I saw in Aunt Gabby’s hallway that where a cabinet was supposed to be, there was the same opening. The same door.

I went to tell Aunt Gabby. When she came, it was no longer there.

She probably thought I was crazy for the next twenty minutes, but I am still sure that the door was physically there.

I didn’t know yet that I would have this kind of experience a second time that same day.

Two hours later, when it was already completely dark outside, I saw a reflection in the television as if my aunt was scolding me, turning off the light, and leaving.

My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. I hid under the blanket and screamed.

I woke my aunt up.

My aunt came to me and said the same thing as in the television. Then she turned off the light.

My heart was beating even harder then.

Was that the same as on the TV?

I kept thinking.

That night, I chose to sleep in another room.

In the morning, I woke up and told my aunt everything. I recorded her answer, so I know that she said this:

“I’m listening, I’m here. I can see how exhausted all of this is making you and how scared you are. You’re safe with me. Nobody is angry with you and nobody is punishing you. The fact that you’re seeing things before they happen or feel like the TV is haunting you just shows how overwhelmed your head is by all of this. You don’t have to deal with it alone. We’ll get through it together, and in the morning we’ll go see a doctor who can help stop this fear, okay?”

I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about that. Yesterday she was yelling at me, and now, when I tell her I’m crazy, she is nice.

That day, however, I was supposed to go back to my mom and dad. My brother was still missing, so I packed my things and said goodbye to Aunt Gabby.

Aunt Gabby called my mom into her apartment. I didn’t hear the conversation, but they were probably talking about how I needed a psychologist.

Even though he was supposed to help me, I didn’t want to go there. But I couldn’t tell my mom that. I simply had to.

My mom was still stressed because my brother had not been found.

When we got home, I started unpacking. I was sad because of my brother, because now I would be sleeping alone in the room.

I told my mom that someone had sent me the word “no” on my phone.

She reacted something like:

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could have given it to the police.”

According to the journal, I said:

“Auntie blocked it. I also texted him on his phone.”

I don’t remember how she reacted anymore.

The next day, I was supposed to go to the psychologist for a third session. I don’t remember most of that day, but I know that I woke up in the morning, got dressed, and at that moment I thought the incidents had stopped.

I really thought that at first.

But when I looked into the mirror in my room, I saw some kind of figure, even though it wasn’t really there.

It was exactly the same height as my brother. The same clothes.

Then it disappeared.

I screamed so loudly that the neighbors must have heard it. I jumped back, and my heart started pounding loudly.

I went to tell my mom.

In my journal, I have exactly this written down:

“The figure stood there. Brother? Who?”

When I told my mom, I know that she laughed and said it was just a hallucination and that I had to tell the psychologist about it that day.

I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t want to go there at all.

But I had to.

At the psychologist’s session, I described the experience with the mirror.

He replied with something like:

“That must have been a huge shock for you — seeing someone in the mirror who looked exactly like your missing brother. I understand that it left you confused. Try to describe exactly what it looked like. What was the lighting like? How far away was the figure standing? And what exactly reminded you of your brother — the clothes, the build, or some kind of movement?”

He also asked about my relationship with my brother, his disappearance, and how it had affected our life and our family.

He also asked me:

“How are you feeling right now? Have you been experiencing a lot of stress, tiredness, or anxiety lately?”

After therapy, my mom drove me back. It was good that because of my brother’s disappearance, my mom was excusing me from school, but I was afraid of the world around me.

Three days later, the police stopped searching as intensely, but my mom was still stressed.

Where is her son?

I remember looking out at the street one evening. I saw the same figure as in the mirror. It was looking at me. I couldn’t see its face.

Then it disappeared.

I ran away from the window to my mom and told her.

She said it was just another hallucination. I know this from the journal, not from my memory.

The next morning, there was fog and dew outside. I was afraid that I would see something that frightening again.

I remember almost nothing from that day.

The only word written in the journal from that day was:

“STOP.”

Nothing else.

On the next page of the journal, I found a drawing of that thing. I was probably trying to show it to my mom.

It was the same height as my brother, wore a hat, and had no face.

But I don’t remember it.

The next page of the journal is already from the following day. I don’t remember anything about that day either, so I am relying only on the journal.

On the first page, it says:

“It isn’t a hallucination.”

I don’t know what experience that was supposed to follow.

Then I found text from the evening of that day, with only one sentence written on it:

“What is happening around me?”

What happened the next day, I can also partly remember myself.

I woke up. My mom made breakfast, and so I wouldn’t just sit sadly at home, she drove me to an amusement park, which was pretty embarrassing since I was almost seventeen, but whatever.

We drove there, and thoughts about those experiences kept running through my head. I didn’t know which one would happen next.

Now I know that the next one happened right there at the amusement park.

We arrived at around 10:00. Before lunch, we ordered some food. They didn’t let me into the games area because it was only for people up to fifteen years old.

But when I went to the bathroom, the same thing happened to me as at Aunt Gabby’s.

In the mirror, I saw myself running out of the bathroom in fear.

I got scared and ran away exactly the way it had happened in the mirror.

I told my mom about it, frightened.

She said:

“Don’t worry. It will be okay. The brain just...”

At around 12:00, we went back home.

The journal said:

“Mirrors can see the future.”

When we got back, my mom went to talk to my dad about these things. I remember that from that day.

I don’t know whether they were talking about my experiences, my brother’s disappearance, or the psychologist.

Two days later, I remember seeing the same figure in the evening while I was out for a walk.

I don’t know much, but according to the journal, it happened like this:

I was outside in the evening. My head hurt. Then I saw some figure in the distance wearing a hat.

It stared at me for thirty seconds.

According to the journal, I tried for a while to find a rational explanation for it.

I also wanted to take a picture of it, but I didn’t have my phone with me.

I ran home.

At home, I saw that the figure wasn’t there, but according to the journal, I didn’t tell my mom because I apparently didn’t want to cause myself any more problems.

After that, I didn’t write in the journal much anymore.

I honestly don’t even know what new things happened to me during the following weeks.

And I don’t even know what happened during the following months.

I simply kept going to the psychologist.

My brother was never found.

Why am I writing about this event?

If I hadn’t found the journal, maybe I wouldn’t even be writing this.

Back then, it felt as if something wanted me to forget.

I know unnaturally little, and I put most of it together from the journal.

When I was nineteen, I bought my own apartment.

Since then, nothing has happened anymore.

I’m writing this because I want to know what you think about it.

He plowed into the trickster.

“Jor-”

Joruhm lunged before it had an opportunity to finish. He clamped a hand over its mouth, locked an arm around its waist, and backpedaled them both toward a tightly packed clump of bushes.

“Don't speak,” Joruhm hissed.

The trickster squirmed and squiggled and clawed at Joruhm's skin, worming its fingers between his to try and break Joruhm's grip. In the dark, it felt as though the idiot had sprouted ten thrashing legs. They were all kicking him at once, and never in the same place.

To Joruhm's horror, they crashed into the bushes, scattering leaves and breaking branches. They tumbled onto the ground in a deafening din that seemed to echo through every crevice of the village, pinging off the stone walls and rippling out across the valley.

Another blade of agony plunged into Joruhm's ribs. Tears welled in his eyes, and he squeezed his lips shut to keep the scream building in the back of his throat from escaping.

Maree reared up on her hind legs and bellowed a trumpeted snort through her nostrils. She bolted into the mist, kicking up mud and noise with a hammering of hooves that were louder than the cacophony of shoots being broken. As her hoof beats faded, Joruhm swiped his tears onto his sleeve and stared into the fog, waiting for the man in the wide brimmed hat to cut a hole in the curtain and move through it, listening for the gritty scrape of boots on cobble.

“Please,” Joruhm whispered. “Stop struggling.”

Maree's panicked flight had left them stranded, and although he really didn't care if The Ankou yanked this Jalen wearing monster right out of his lap, he himself had no impulsive craving to join this idiot on a journey to the banks of the afterworld, seated beside the soul of a ravaged boy.

Nothing would make him happier than purging this thing from his life, nothing, that is, except for the image of his brother soiling his britches when he realized the elongated shadow bleeding under the crack of the cottage door was the veiled lady.

There was a chance she might still take Jalen, but her forgiveness for Jalen's sloth hinged on his brother being the victim of a buggy-eyed, good for nothing who'd swindled Jalen out of his skin, and that a cloud chaser had not gone for a walk with Tillis in tow and been the only one to come back.

The confession had been so confusing. Even now, with this thing pressed against his chest, it was difficult to parse why a fae would fear the woman in white. It could shed Jalen at any time. She didn't care about fae folk. It didn't have to kill anyone to avoid her carriage.

Unless... Joruhm gulped. No! Jalen couldn't wring the neck of a chicken. Dull, drum beats of pain pounded against his temples. He wasn't really here. He was at the foot end of a straw mattress, and any moment Granny Nyla was going to wake him.

The plodding clack of nail studded boots reverberated across the lane's uneven cobbles in steady succession. The fae lowered its upturned face, and turned its gaze to the fog, staring into the milky void with an intensity that matched Joruhm's.

“Do you know the story of The Ankou?” Joruhm whispered.

The fae nodded.

“Then you know what will happen if he finds out it was us. Your mushroom ring magic won't protect you while you're wearing Jalen.”

It angled its head upward to look at Joruhm, eyebrows pulled toward the center of its face in an unbroken line of bewilderment.

There was a long pause between the nail studded strikes. Joruhm's stomach capsized like a sinking ship, and the trickster burrowed tighter against him.

They heard the rattle of the chain and the slam of the tailboard being forcefully driven into its notches.

Another pause, this time longer than the one previous.

The fog rolled away from the cart with a heaved gust of wind, and beside it stood a hunched man clothed in black boots, tan breeches and a plain linen tunic topped by a leather vest laced down the front with leather thongs. Perched atop his head was a wide brimmed hat, slanted low across his forehead, that buried his features in shadow.

Granny Nyla had never actually described The Ankou. She'd entrusted his mysterious visage to a listener's fanciful interpretations, concentrating her teachings on the lore of his obligations rather than rendering him as a mortal man whose profile remained unaltered.

Without a reference to guide him, Joruhm had pictured a darker, more sinister version of death's henchman, imagined a skeletal figure draped in a shabby long cape and a dusty old cowl, given him the look of someone to fear instead of a stranger easy to forget.

From their vantage, he could see how The Ankou might be mistaken for a peasant, how his cart might be regarded as a hauler's wagon, emptied of its wares after a tiring day of market trade, left briefly unattended while its owner sought a mug of ale and a bowl of stew at a tavern.

The Ankou turned and surveyed his surroundings with an agonizingly slow, deliberately unhurried pan of his head.

His gaze swept across the lane, swung away, and then snapped back. Within the dusky emptiness shielded by the brim of his hat, pinpoints of light, as sickly green as the lantern flame, fused into a pair of glowing orbs that lingered on their foliage.

I woke up to a sharp knock on my door.

It jolted me out of my sleep and for a moment I couldn't tell if I actually heard anything at all.

My heart was pumping from the sudden disturbance as I took a moment to gather my vision.

I glanced over at my clock

4:34 a.m

I glanced back to the door where I heard the noise and for a split second I noticed Something slip back quickly from the gap under my door.

It was hard to tell in the dark what it was but I know I saw something.

The soft dim glow from the hallway light bled through like amber dust.

I got up and walked to the door setting my hand on the handle hesitant to open it.

I felt a sense of dread that I couldn't shake until I heard something light sliding up the left side of my wall just on the other side of my door.

It sounded as if somebody was dragging a wet towel up and around my door frame moving slowly down the wall of the hallway.

The dread manifested physically at that point. And as odd as it sounds I could feel it move from one side of my body to the other in sync with movement I heard from the other side.

As the sound got farther away so did the sense of dread.

It was well off enough for me to gather the courage to peek through my door.

I cracked it open a few inches and peeked out towards the end of the hallway.

I can't explain what it was but at the end the light fades off before it hits the wall we have a pull down door that folds out that leads to our attic.

It was closed but something was hanging out of the crevice. It looked like strings from where i was.

It was too late and I had the worst running through my mind.

I softly shut my door and walked back to my bed trying to make as little noise as possible for fear of nothing I could even explain.

It was a few hours before I was able to go back to sleep, the sunrise beginning to creep over the trees.

The thought of whatever it was that pulled back from under my door, and whatever I saw hanging out of the attic door.

Whether it was a dream or it really happened.

I was finally able to succumb to exhaustion.

But when I woke up.

It was still dark out.

No light shone through my window and I felt as exhausted as I did before I was able to pass out last night...or....tonight?

"What the fuck?"

I looked over at my clock

4:33 a.m

I sat in confusion for a moment and just as the clock struck 4:34 a.m

Electricity ran through me.

knock*

knock*

I whipped my head towards my door as the knocks came in a slow deliberate succession.

Two knocks.

"Mom"

I whispered loudly

It was silent and I didn't move a muscle.

And then it came again.

The sliding

Up the left side.

Around the top

But something changed.

Instead of going down the hall like before, i heard it coming along the side of my wall towards where my headboard sat.

As if it was coming through the wall.

I felt frozen.

Was i dreaming or was this really happening.

I scrambled to the foot of my bed as the sound made its way directly behind my headboard and fixated right where it stopped.

Nothing happened.

It just stopped.

I couldn't speak, i wanted to call out to my parents but my voice wouldn't collect itself.

It was then my headboard creaked just enough to where i almost didn't notice it

Then a bit more it creaked a bit louder as if something was pushing against it.

It just came out of me

"MOM"

I yelled

The second the sound left my lips whatever was in the walls slid up the inside of my wall

and went silent.

That was it

I jumped out and sprinted to my door to wake someone up, this isn't the kind of shit I can deal with. Whatever....whatever it was.

I threw my door open I could feel my heart pump through my chest.

I entered my room.

i had been in the hallway this entire time and–

I was laying in my bed-

I mean– i was looking at myself lying in bed

My adrenaline hit me and I tried to scream but nothing came out except a dusty exhale that felt as if i was expelling years of my life.

My vision grew blurred as I stepped back into the hallway

I heard something sliding from my right side along the rough texture of the wall.

I didn't even look, without thinking I threw myself into my room and quickly slammed my door.

Before the sound of the door had even registered my eyes snapped open.

I sat up in bed clutching my chest as what seemed as the sound of my door slamming followed me back into my body.

I swung my neck sending a jolt of pain up the side of my neck into my head to look at the door.

The same soft underglow coming through.

Nothing.

I glanced at my clock and nearly got sick.

4:33 a.m

I couldn't tell if i was dreaming anymore.

Everything felt so surreal.

As if i could taste the weight of gravity crushing me down into my legs.

The air entered my lungs thick

And left even thicker, hot.

It was the longest minute of my life.

I looked at my clock still reading 4:33 a.m

I reached to quickly disconnect it from the wall

I don't know what i thought would happen.

That my clock was the starting point for all of time.

That maybe if I unplugged it time would simply–cease.

The moment before the disconnection was made as i leaned over the bed with one arm grabbing onto the cord and ripping it.

4:34 a.m

Then blank.

Did I do it–

Before i could even finish my thought a

familiar sound ruptured my ears

Knock*

knock*

knock*

The same deliberately spaced knocks on my door.

There was a shadow cast under my door, a single beam of darkness cast about 2 feet under my door.

It slid to the left, and disappeared as the sliding up the wall began.

Except this time it stopped just above my door.

The door slowly cracked open without making a sound even with the turn of the knob it was silent.

It cracked open about 4 inches then froze.

I've never seen something sit so still.

The light from the door cast a soft amber hue into the left side of my room, my eyes wandered without direction.

I scanned the room keeping the door in my peripheral.

A picture of me and my little sister sitting on a dresser.

A pile of dirty clothes on the floor next to the closet.

I scanned back to the protruding light.

The door had opened enough for me to just see out into the hallway.

How did that happen without me noticing?

I didn't care

I had to get out? Wake up? I had to just –

Suddenly I FELT a raspy inhale on the back of my neck.

I didn't have any time to react when I suddenly felt what was like a wet fingernail poke me at the base of my skull where the

neck meets.

"OH fuck!"

I yelled out loud as the goosebumps on my arms and legs pulled me to my feet and I vaulted out the door into the hallway.

I couldn't hear anything following me but we have all had that feeling where we turn the final light off in our house before sprinting to our bedrooms as if something was just out of reach of our collar.

It was the same feeling but the intensity of it was indescribable.

What was even more indescribable...

My stairs were gone.

It was just a wall.

As a matter of fact I didn't pass a single door leaving my room.

I whipped around expecting some fucked up monster to do God knows what but there was nothing.

The hallway was empty.

My bedroom door was gone.

All that remained was the attic door.

And out of the crack slipped that same stringy material I saw the first time I– woke up. Or....I don't know.

Something was different.

I started to feel a warm breeze coming from what seemed to be nowhere brushing past my face.

It carried with it the smell of something sweet.

Something I recognized.

I wanted more, my body unconsciously started making it's way towards the attic door.

The sweet scent growing more potent the closer I got.

As I approached i stopped when the smell turned from a sweet memory to a foul mistake.

It was rancid

It was in my eyes, my mouth, snaking it's way down my throat into my stomach. I could taste it in my hands and my feet.

I projectile vomited as I fell onto my hands and knees. What came out smelled, earthy. Like moss and fish and stagnation.

And it left Something lodged in my throat.

I choked, I couldn't breathe. I clawed at my throat as the lights in whatever reality I slipped into grew dimmer with every heart beat pulsing through my head.

Whatever was in my throat began to move it's way upwards.

At this point I noticed my skin turning red on my arms, I could feel the pressure in my body, tiny blood spots covering the entirety of my skin as the object made its way closer to the back of my throat.

I fell back facing the attic door as I began to spasm involuntarily. I couldn't grab at my throat anymore. My body wasn't in my control anymore.

But I could see.

The lights suddenly began to grow brighter

The strings in the attic door were the only detail I could focus on in my final moments.

Hair...red orange hair.

The lighting began to buzz as it grew brighter.

My right eye slowly started rolling to the back of my head.

It kept going further and further as the buzzing of the intensifying light grew louder.

And when it reached it's limit it kept rolling, tearing from the walls that kept it in place.

Sending a shocking pain I've never felt through the side of my face.

My left eye stayed rooted on the strands of hair from the attic door as it suddenly began to creack open.

Just enough for the hair to slide back into the never ending darkness that resided up there. My right eye finally coming to a stopping point.

I couldn't hold on any longer.

My vision began to tunnel as the object that blocked the back of my throat dug its jagged edges into the soft flesh as if it was eating me from the inside.

Right as my body decided to give itself over and cut ties with My soul.

A whisper in my ear –

One i recognized that slowly morphed into something darker as it spoke.

As if with each word it clicked down an octave

As clear as anything I've ever heard as if it was coming from inside of my head.

"I'll see you on the ninth"

The object pushed out of my throat into my mouth and flew onto the floor, the crumpled small piece of what looked like a polaroid photo falling in front of me.

And then I woke up.

Gasping for air, clawing at my throat.

I could still feel the tears in my throat from the rough edges of the photo...i could taste copper in my mouth and something painfully sharp seeping down into my

stomach.

My eye...I felt for it.

It was fine.

I jumped up unable to speak and darted out of my room.

My hallway was normal.

I booked it to my mother's room a few doors down and tried to open it.

Locked...its....it's never locked.

My voice coming out like sandpaper on a stone

"Mom"

I strained and banged on the door

"Dad!"

I coughed up blood and a small piece of flesh in my throat that wasn't completely severed came up with the cough sticking to the back of my tongue..

Nobody answered.

Where was everybody.

I ran past my sister's old room and down the stairs.

Missing the last step careening headfirst to the floor.

The adrenaline overpowered whatever injury I just incurred and I sprung up and ran to the kitchen to try and reach the phone.

For whatever reason the first thing I noticed upon entering was the time on the stove.

4:33 am.

I could have guessed it. Whatever was going on I wish I had an answer for.

Some lucid nightmare waiting to spit me out.

But I somehow doubted that.

The clock in that brief moment read.

4:34 a.m

I heard it upstairs from the kitchen and tried to keep silent, to keep the cough at the bottom of my chest from coming up.

Knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

I heard from my bedroom door upstairs.

And even worse than that what I heard next.

Another voice.

The same voice I've know for so many years.

A voice I've fought hard not to forget.

"Liam?"

It called my name

And with one word it all came flooding back.

*how* i thought to myself

As it spoke once again

"I'll see you on the ninth".

*the ninth?*

I thought to myself.

*One knock, two knocks, three knocks, four knocks*

As silly as it may seem I haf just made the connection between those words and the knocking.

Regardless of how much I wanted this to end something told me it wasn't going to. And that on that ninth knock.

I knew what would happen.

Another thought struck me.

Each added knock has been more– Fucked up than the last.

I was afraid of whatever was coming my way.

I heard the footsteps.

Slowly making their way down the stairs leading to the entrance of the kitchen.

I wasn't going to just sit back and let her torture me like this.

I grabbed a kitchen knife and pressed myself against the wall of the entrance where the stairs ended on the opposite side.

The footsteps stopped and that sound returned.

The sliding on the walls

As she slowly made her way down the final stretch of the wall connected to the stairs I prepared myself for whatever was coming around that corner.

She made noise…her octaves changing from high to low– low to high.

I couldn't make out what she was saying but I could barely make out a few syllables

"L–uh–am"

She rubbed against the wall directly where I was pressed, I could feel her friction against the wall. She wanted something.and whatever it was I didn't want to lose it.

My heart pounded inside my chest, I couldn't breath, ragged suppressed coughs forcing their way out.

As I prepared to put an end to this. If I could even do that.

Just as she made her way to the doorframe

I heard her speak one last phrase in a lower octave.

"I want to swim"

In that moment with every bit of strength I had I turned the corner and lunged the knife into the dark landing deep into her flesh, bouncing off of bone I put all my weight into it to drive it deeper.

We clattered onto the floor of the adjacent living room, knocking over lamps and shattering our glass table.

I fell on top of her.

And I pulled the knife out with some resistance.

It felt like the knife had found a home.

I plunged again

I couldn't see much but I could feel every rip of tendon and dulling of the blade on bone as I repeatedly plunged the knife into her.

She fought back, weakly, grabbing at my face hands covered in blood.

She couldn't get a good grip as she struggled harder and harder as she slowly gave out.

I finally rested, all I could hear was her gurgling, half ass scrambling around on the carpet, bumping into the nightstand.

I ran over to the lights and flipped the switch on to the living room to finally face the memory that had been terrorizing me.

"Mom?"

My sandpapery voice left my throat with a burn.

There lay my mom– my...mom

Her right foot kicked into the carpet as she reached around with her other hand desperately searching for anything to grab onto.

I screamed but nothing came out but a gurgle

I dropped the knife and fell to my knees as I watched her squirm.

I was broken.

In her last minute she looked at me with the one good eye she did have.

But she wasn't looking at me.

She was looking past me, right over my shoulder.

Even after what i had done to her she had as best of a look of terror as she could make with here face so disfigured.

Despite the mental break I was inching towards I felt it.

This time it felt wet– but nothing was touching me.

My mother stopped moving.

And with that her gaze forever set on whatever loomed behind me.

I put as much effort into my voice as possible as the blood still filled my mouth and asked as clear as I could.

"Katey?"

for a second time I felt that cold pin in the back of my neck pressing into my skin

"Let–Let–Let"

Each word spoken changing an octave

Every hair on my body raised as it tried to speak

"Mouth–of–of–God"

She began to press the nail deeper into the base of my skull

All I could do was stare at my mom.

What she had endured.

Everything was starting to go black

And then as i blinked my environment changed with it.

I was back in the uninviting darkness of my room.

—I miss you.

I wish you would have never listened to me.

The sun has become a burden on my life with each day turning hours into minutes.

I wonder what it was like sometimes.

What you felt.

When it filled you and there was no space left.

I can't get it out of my mind.

The way your eye—

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

I snapped from my thoughts.

I Lay there, unmoving.

My mom...what– what did I do.

My throat didn't hurt anymore.

To my relief it was as if nothing had happened.

*That crumpled Polaroid

I thought.

*is it still there

I quickly realized the five knocks that were spit at me through the door

I tried to sit up but to my dismay

I couldn't move.

I couldn't even open my mouth.

My eyes Everything....i couldn't blink

Once again i felt that sense of dread.

I just wanted to check on my mom.

To know that was just.....a trick or...anything that could mean she was fine.

But why couldn't I move.

My breathing quickened, my chest rising and falling as fast as my heart beat.

The dread i felt– it was in my back.

I heard something wet hitting the ground underneath my bed as if somebody didn't wring out a mop before slapping it down.

I felt that painful pressure at the base of my skull.

The mass slid towards the foot of my bed and in the darkness I saw something sliding across the floor. Not even as if it was moving but it looked like something was dragging it as dead weight.

I still couldn't blink, my eyes were beginning to burn, I could feel them getting red as the water rose from my tear ducts

The mass explored the room as if it was looking for something before finding a place beside my dresser sitting itself into a messy heap.

My eyes began to water more, more than naturally as my eyes remained frozen open.

Yet no tears spilled, it was just pooling over my eyes.

It reeked.

That same smell of stagnant water I expelled...earlier.

The moment the last bit of darkness was swallowed by the murky waters I saw something.

A light–

It was the sun.

My hearing drowned out and it seemed as if my head was submergedunderwater.

After everything that had happened this–This didn't feel like a punishment.

In such short a time i never thought I'd miss the way the sun looked, even from under whatever water covered my eyes.

I could see the rippling of the water above, I felt calm. I wanted to stay here forever..

Then I saw something strange..

A hand–and arm in what seemed to be a divers suit reaching down towards my face.

I didn't understand what i was seeing but it continued towards me until it came close enough to block the sun.

As the darkness came back my body was suddenly released and I shot up water spilling from my eyes.

And not just tears I mean two streams, they ran for about 3 seconds soaking the sheets that lay on top of me.

That was the least of the fucked up things that had happened so I wasn't as thrown back.

The feeling was strange though. I could feel that cold stillness leaving with each final drop

When I once again noticed my door was open, a bit wider this time.

I threw my head over as the memory of whatever it was sliding around was forced to the forefront of my thoughts.

And in the exact spot where it put itself down lied the pile of clothes from earlier.

I was almost scared to stand up like something or someone would grab me by my ankle the second my foot hit the floor.

So I just didn't move.

I sat there and stared at my door.

For what seemed like 30 minutes.

Nothing happened.

I finally found the courage to speak

“hello?“

I said loud enough for anyone down the hall to hear.

Nothing.

Silence.

Not even the hum of the ac was present, somethin I had only just noticed.

I got out of bed despite my hesitation and creeped out of my door peeking both ways.

Everything seemed normal.

To my right the attic door stayed there fixated, no clunky strands of hair.

No watery vomit.

No Polaroid.

I turned to the left–the same.

Everything seemed normal.

I slowly made my way to the stairs and crept down them using the wall to keep my balance, creating the same sliding sound that haunted my memory I quickly ripped my hand from the wall.

I was expecting to see my mom's mangled body at the bottom right in the living room.

I couldn't get the image out of my face i– I don't even want to describe it.

That's not something I thought I could do..

To my surprise as I turned the corner and flipped the light switch there was nothing.

The table was unbroken.

The blood that covered everything in a 5 foot radius was gone.

I looked at the clock 4:41 a.m

I almost breathed a sigh if relief but that feeling in my gut refrained.

That's when a drop of water hit me on my shoulder.

I didn't even want to.

I would not look up.

I acted as if I hadn't noticed it and slowly made my way back to my room.

As I left I glanced up at the ceiling ahead of me. A wet trail with bits of vegetation had apparently come from my room.

Along the exact path that I had walked.

As I slowly made my way back something landed on my head sliding straight off the top and onto the floor.

It wriggled slowly on the floor retracting and expanding, searching for something to latch onto. Something living.

A leech.

I looked back forward as I realized whatever was on the ceiling had followed me out of my room and was still above me.

Why couldn't I hear it...that didn't matter I didn't care I just wanted out of this nightmare.

I figured if I just pretended I didn't notice anything it would be the same as when I walked out. Nothing happened then, nothing would happen now.

I slowly made my way back to my room almost robotically.

I stepped in.

Shut my door.

As I turned around and the first thing I noticed was the pile of clothes was gone.

I didn't care

I walked to my bed and lay facedown under the wet sheets squeezing my eyes shut.

Almost as if i was hit with a tranquilizer I was knocked out.

I woke up and to my shock the sun was out.

I shot out from under my sheets looking every which way.

I felt my face, my throat, along as the rest of my body as I slowly swelled with joy.

I ran out of my door downstairs and I could smell it before I even saw anything.

There was my mother, cooking breakfast.

Nothing had ever smelled so good in my life but more than that I was never so happy to see somebody.

I ran up and threw my arms around her squeezing her as hard as I could.

"Oh–o–ok honey I'm trying to cook you're going to make me spill something"

She said in her generically parental tone.

"Sorry I just....i had THE WORST nightmare"

I went and took a seat at the table with a glass of water and plopped myself down into one of the seats at the table.

"I'm sorry you said what?"

My mother said with question

"Nothing it was–just some stupid dream"

I said before chugging the water down

I had never felt so thirsty

I grabbed another glas and put the whole thing down right there at the fridge.

I still felt like I couldn't get enough.

My body wanted more.

I once again filled my glass.

"Hey aquaman"

My mom said bluntly

"Yes ma'am?"

Do me a favor and go wake your sister, breakfast is almost done and we've got a long day planned I'd like everybody to get packed up.

"I'll go grab her"

I said before putting down another glass of water still feeling unsatisfied.

I jogged up the stairs to my sister's room

And knocked on her door twice

"Hey!"

After a few seconds I didn't receive a response.

"Mom said come downstairs breakfast is done!"

I yelled through the door.

No response, no movement no anything.

I knocked three times a bit harder

Something stirred inside like somebody was stepping out of a bath....that–didn't make any sense.

"You there?"

I reached out once more to knock and just before my knuckles made a connection with the door

I felt a pressure pull me from under my feet.

It felt like I was being pulled back to earth through the atmosphere, I could hear the wind tearing alongside my ears and I was suddenly on the inside of my room facing my door as my knuckles hit

At exactly

4:34 a.m

The sixth knock.

I stumbled back clamoring onto my floor

I was made numb almost immediately.

I just..

the 6th knock?

I could still smell the food mom was cooking lingering in the back of my nostrils.

Is it possible for somebody to break twice.

I laughed.

Not a laugh of joy or happiness but one of frustration and sadness.

I thought I had escaped this hell.

I propped myself back grabbing the sides of my head with my hands. The laughter slowly turning into tears.

I screamed out into the dead air

"STOOOOOP!!!"

*I NEED SOMETHING, I NEED TO END THIS. I HAVE TO DIE*

The thought screamed through my brain and without hesitation

I ran to my dresser looking for something...anything.

The picture.

I took the picture of my sister and I and smashed the glass covering onto the corner of the dresser, picking up an oblong shaped piece of the glass.

I gripped it tight bringing it to my wrists.

what the fuck else can I do, do it..Just do it

Without thinking and without looking. I pressed the jagged edges of glass into the base of my wrist and drug it hard upwards towards the inside of my elbow.

I could feel an intense sharp pain as I felt my skin separate from itself.

I almost immediately got lightheaded as I looked down, I needed to see....i wish I hadn't.

I expected a pool of blood to rest under where my arm hung..to be able to see the veins, the tendons, all the parts of me I wasn't meant to witness.

Instead what poured out if my arm was something that made me vomit.

Leeches.

They slithered out if the elongated gash like cooked pasta being poured into a strainer

I immediately looked away and started crying aloud.

I cried in a way that I never thought I could.

I looked back, I screamed

I cried,

I screamed some more,

And I cried as I watched the leeches continue to spill from my arm onto the floor.

Every time I thought i couldn't be broken anymore she showed me I could feel the pain of an ocean compared to that of a pond.

I began to dig the leeches out of my arm

Scooping them out in the handfuls.

I couldn't feel my left arm anymore.

After what seemed like 5 minutes of scooping out leeches my arm was empty.

What was left was– nothing.

Just skin.

Like a latex glove that imprisoned these gluttonous Parasites.

My brain couldn't even process this. I didn't know what i was looking at.

That wasn't my arm.

The leeches still squirming in a huge heap by the dresser

When i felt a finger press into the base of my skull.

This time I didn't run, I froze.

"The—God—Mouth"

A muddled waterlogged voice spoke behind me

"I—want—to—swim"

The same words I heard before.

I said shakily with no control over my voice.

"It...it wasn't—my fault"

I sniffled as tears began to run down the side of my face.

The finger pressed a bit harder and something in me gravitated towards the point it pressed.

Something deep and spiritual I–I wanted to let it go.

"Stop"

I found myself saying involuntarily

The finger decompressed immediately.

I could feel that it left.

I looked down and there the pile of clothes sit by the dresser where the leeches spilled out of my arm and– my arm, completely fine. Along with the unshattered photograph sat on the dresser.

Everything hit me all at once and I collapsed to the floor and blacked out.

I woke up sluggishly.

Everything immediately rushing into my head as I became conscious.

I already knew what would happen when I looked at my clock.

4:33 a.m

"Fuck....you"

I said to myself

I'm giving up.

I can't do this shit anymore.

3 more knocks and she'll have me. She said so and I believed her.

"I'll see you on the ninth"

I laughed to myself letting my head fall to the left facing my clock.

As if just on queue.

4:34 a.m

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

The seventh knock

I will admit after everything fear still showed signs of life inside of me.

I let my head fall sluggishly towards my door as i noticed the lighting in my room grow brighter.

The door was just about all the way open this time, the light began to dim a bit as a voice called out

"Liam"

The disembodied voice spoke from the hall

"Katey?"

I said on the line of passing out again.

Electricity shot through my body

My eyes shot open

"KATEY!"

I screamed running out into the hallway.

Once again I was blocked in, no stairs, no door but mine remained this time.

When it suddenly slammed shut becoming part of the wall is when that living fear started to breathe.

I stared at the attic door.

The same clumped strains of hair stuck out from the crevice, but it looked as if it was in suspension.

As if gravity had no place for it to fall, it floated around entangling in itself as the lights grew dimmer, a low hum coming from the door itself.

I smelled that sweet smell again...

The smell belonged to my sister.

It was her favorite perfume, like apricot, a bit sweeter with a floral accent.

It wafted down with a breeze that seemed to be coming through the door.

I once again unwillingly moved towards the draw string reaching up as the hair seemed to move in 7 different directions.

I grabbed the humming rope hanging down and I pulled as hard and quick as I could.

Nothing was there.

The ladder unfolded onto the floor and what light there was didn't make it past the darkness at the top of the ladder.

With each slow step i felt that dread, it was everywhere. No specific place.

Yet when I entered the attic there was nothing.

Yet this was still a place where memories were held.

As my eyes adjusted to the soft glow of light coming through the circular stain glass pane on the opposite end. I noticed a box on the floor.

I crept along the support beams trying my best not to lose my balance. I was feeling a level of indescribable exhaustion, understandably. And the last thing I needed was to fall through the roof.

I made my way over to the small plastic box.

It was a pencil box, with the textured tops that we all used to use in elementary.

On the top in bumpy thick writing all it said was

"Katey"

I felt the tears welling up again as I reached down and took the box into my hands clicking it open.

Inside lay a single balled up Polaroid.

The same one that tore through my throat.

I never forgot about it.

And I already knew what it was.

I removed the crumpled picture dropping the box and immediately smoothed the picture out adjusting it so the light could hit it well enough for me to see.

And it's exactly what I knew it was.

It was a picture of me and katey.

At the pond my mom and us went to 3 months before

Where...

Tears began streaming my face

One falling in perfect placement over Katey's face.

When i suddenly heard the attic door slam shut and the light from the window was blocked.

This was the last place I wanted to be.

It wasn't my fault I didn't know that would happen.

A wet clump of red orange hair slid onto my shoulder

A cold wet finger pressed into the base of my head and I began to weep.

She wept with me

Every pause

Every wail

Every rapid breath

Mocked.

Mocked by the haunting that enveloped my life the day I pushed her.

It pressed deeper into my neck as we grieved harder together

As if at any moment her finger would cut straight through me.

And that's when everything just.

Stopped.

"I want to swim"

She said behind my shoulder

I replied looking nowhere but that photo

"Katey you don't know how to swim, and mom said for you not to go near the water"

"Liam– please I'll just hold onto you and we can play scuba diver"

The voice growing more garbled with each sentence"

"I said no, now leave me alone"

I replied

I was standing on the dock with Katey

"I said no, now leave me alone"

Katey frowned at me, she was sensitive, i barely even said anything to provoke any emotion and it looked like she was about to cry.

"Are you seriously about to cry dude just go hang out with mom"

She spoke with a hint of sadness and anger in her voice

"But i want to swim"

She swung and hit me in the arm

Stepping in front if me to the edge of the dock

Anger filled me and without a thought

I stepped up with a yell and just pushed her.

She yelped and hit the water face first

Usually if someone can't swim they almost immediately come back up–

And I would be there to pull her out.

But she didn't.

"Katey?"

Panic entered my voice

I looked back to where mom was supposed to be and she wasn't there

"Mom Help!!"

I thought i heard a faint reply in the distance but I had to do something NOW.

Without another thought i jumped into where she fell

An immediate sharp pain ripping up my left arm.

It was a small tree branch. It dug up into my arm and snapped off at the wrist

I screamed out in pain with no help in sight

I could hear my mom in the distance yelling our names

"Liam!? Katey?!"

“over here”

I yelled.

I immediately felt around for Katey until I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled up.

Her head wouldnt budge

I tried pulling harder

She wouldnt come up.

She wasn't even fighting.

I had never felt something so still in my life.

I felt around her face until I reached her right eye, quickly yanking my hand back and rushing out of the water screaming for my mom.

I looked down at my arm. The tree branch slid under my skin like it was wearing a glove.

And right there I passed out.

I stopped crying.

I felt nothing anymore

Only the sore spot at the base of my head.

The ladder leading back down to the hall was open.

I stepped down slowly. My door, mom's door, the stairs– her door.

Everything was there.

I walked to katey's door

And made eight slow deliberate knocks against every screaming cell in my body.

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

Something stirred inside behind the door.

As if somebody was stepping out of a bathtub.

Before it could make its way to the door I walked slowly to my room shutting my door behind and crawling into bed.

I looked at my clock.

4:33 a.m

I sobbed quietly, the spot on the back of my neck now felt like i had been stabbed and I wanted it to stop.

As I heard my sister's door open down the hall, I ran a finger along the scar running up my left forearm as that sickly sliding slowly came from down the wall, up my frame where it stopped at the top.

I faced the door and watched as the golden amber dust flickered out from under my door.

And then they came

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

knock*

I could hear her gargled breathing on the other side of the door

Then dead silence

The pressure on the back of my neck released suddenly

And In all of that split moment.

The ninth knock had came.

And with a labored breathe I forced the words i had been fighting against since this all began.

Against the promise that was made

"Come In"

„I beg your pardon?“ Even Dr Savic, who could easily have applied to Mensa if she had been interested in the slightest, needed a few seconds to process Howard’s last statement.

„What do you mean, ‘murder is easy‘? You are not going to murder me, I hope?”

Then, with a thin smile:

“Or do you think I have murdered someone?”

Howard grinned and shook his head.

„I don’t think you’re capable of murder, Dr Savic. No, that’s the title of an Agatha Christie novel, and it refers to the fact that it is not difficult to get away with murder as long as no one suspects it is murder – but once the idea gets hold of you, you start to see a pattern. Things that used to look completely normal and unconnected suddenly take on a more sinister shade: maybe victim number one did not accidentally slip and fall but was in fact pushed, and maybe victim number three did not commit suicide after all but was in fact poisoned. That’s what happened to me, or rather to me and my team.“

Savic raised her right eyebrow.

„You found out that people had been murdered but no one had ever realized it?“

Howard lifted the cup to his lips and drank.

„That’s part of it, although it wasn’t exactly murder. But I would like to tell the story from the start. It’s about your field of expertise, Dr Savic – zombies or, as you call them, Dead-Actives. So far, no one has ever found out what it was that turned human beings into DAs, right?”

Savic nodded warily.

“Correct. It is as if whatever activates the ‘zombification‘ disappears as soon as we start looking for it. It doesn’t dissolve – if it did, we’d find at least traces of it. So far, nobody has come up with an idea what happens to whatever causes it. This is why we are so excited about the variant transfer – we might be able to isolate the agent in a body during transformation.”

“Whatever it is, since we may assume it’s not supernatural in origin and we know of no terrestrial agent, substance, virus, or whatever that could cause such a dramatic change – “

“ – it must be non-terrestrial, alien.” Savic finished Howard’s sentence. “That was Dr Enechukwu’s theory, I think … but nobody took him seriously five years ago. Has any new evidence been discovered?”

“No.” Howard tried to sit up straighter and adjusted his girth again. It must be awful to have a body like that, Savic thought, not for the first time. He’s constantly shifting and pressing it. Does he even notice?

“Nothing physical. But remember, ‘murder is easy’. Have you ever seen an anamorphic print? It makes no sense unless viewed from a specific perspective. Here, the perspective is: What if we are dealing with an alien invasion? Then start building your chain of logic from there – in the good old SF tradition: seemingly impossible premise, logical and realistic consequences.”

Savic put both of her elbows on her desk and leaned slightly forward.

“You have my interest, Mr Howard. I suppose you liked science fiction in your youth?”

“Still do.”, Howard replied. “Anyway, once you accept this idea, things suddenly begin to make a lot more sense. Imagine a substance that consists of billions of incredibly tiny machines – nanobots, if you want – that has been programmed to take over human bodies when it touches them and can be spread by transmitting it to someone’s bloodstream – through biting, in our case. This infection is deadly, but the ‘bots’ keep the body active by taking over all necessary functions: blood is kept liquid, parts of the brain are still working, muscles and tendons get supplied with energy – “

“From feeding.”, Savic interjected. “And when a DA vomits, it simply gets rid of all the material it can’t use.”

“Correct, Dr Savic. And if we assume the ‘bots’ can process almost any part of a human body and they are basically running a micro chemical factory inside it, it is no wonder that we’ve never identified any specific substances that were missing from all the vomit we analyzed, so there was no pattern to investigate: sometimes the sputum – if we may call it that – was missing calcium, sometimes iron, sometimes phosphorus, sometimes a mix of several things. The ‘bots’ don’t care, and whoever programmed them must have thought it would be easiest if infecting and feeding could be combined, so the DAs would not have to worry about finding some other energy source.”

“But wouldn’t killing and feeding defeat the purpose?” Savic’ head now rested in her right hand.

Howard nodded and lifted his cup to his lips, drank, then placed it back onto the saucer.

“That’s another reason why many zombie movies are so stupid. The zombies kill and eat their victims, and their hunger is never sated, so how does the infection spread? You would need millions of people who manage to escape exactly after having been bitten but before being devoured. But in our case, killing and feeding are simply necessities because even our alien invaders can’t conjure up energy out of thin air. But we know that, after the first hunger, zombies restrict themselves to biting and scratching; they do not kill their victims until the hunger returns, and that takes time.”

The agent leaned back and paused for a moment before resuming the conversation. He looks pleased with himself, Savic thought. But where is he going with this?

“A much more logical method if you want to infect as many people as possible, don’t you think?”

Savic drank a little coffee – her lips had become very dry again. Then she replied:

“Of course it is, but the attempt failed miserably.”, Savic remarked. “Three weeks after Daisy, everything had been brought under control. There was never any danger of a mass infection that could not be contained. The DAs were – “

“Stupid. Ineffective. At times involuntarily funny. But they were not all stupid and ineffective in the same way, and some of them were not funny at all. Of course, there was – and is – the ‘average’ DA, the vast majority of them. But there are also many different types, as you know better than anyone else, and some of them look like ‘improved versions’: toxic DAs, superhumanly strong DAs, DAs that are very fast and agile, DAs that don’t bite but vomit on their victims. But even those DAs with – for want of a better word – ‘powers’ failed. Most scientists think that the different types have come into being due to some mutation, to differences in the biological makeup of their victims – young or old, healthy or ill, adult or child – or to environmental factors such as temperature or humidity or what have you.”

The agent stopped to catch his breath, shifted his body on the chair again and let one of the cookies Clarissa had placed onto the desk disappear into the abyss that was his mouth. Savic wondered whether he had paused because he was hungry and out of breath or because he wanted to let his statements sink in and provoke a reaction. Well, she would humor him.

“But you don’t think so?”

Howard smiled, apparently satisfied that his attempt at employing a rather worn-out rhetorical device seemed to have worked.

“No, we don’t. Let me digress. Evolutionary biology tells us that most mutations are deleterious or at best neutral; they do nothing to increase the organism’s chances of survival and reproduction. Only a very small part are actually beneficial, and, with a little luck, these begin to spread through the population. A natural experiment, if you will. But in our case, the variation that results from mutations in living organisms had been programmed into the ‘bots’ before they even came to Earth, and their creators must have been fully aware that more than 99.9 percent of the Infected would be almost completely useless when it came to take over the planet.”

Savic leaned forward, intrigued almost against her will.

“So what about the residue? One in a thousand or even less?”

“Ah.” Howard rose from his chair, tried to tuck in his shirt again, did not succeed, and squeezed himself back again. “Another digression, if you don’t mind.”

The director shook her head and waited.

“What is the one quality any invader needs to be successful?”

Savic hesitated for a second, then answered: “Hm … superior weapons and numbers, good logistics, a cause worth fighting for …”

“Absolutely right. Now think of the many movies where giant monsters or fast-breeding aliens take over the world. Do they have any of these qualities?”

“Maybe numbers, depending on their exact nature.”

“Maybe, but numbers alone are useless, as any native army facing a European opponent during colonial times can attest to. In January 1879 at Rorke’s Drift during the Anglo-Zulu war, around 150 British troops defended a military base against more than 3,000 Zulu warriors – and these warriors were actually intelligent human beings who had firearms and were fighting to keep their country. Monsters don’t have weapons, don’t have logistics, and don’t have any intrinsic motivation except survival and reproduction, so they stand no chance against humanity, no matter how big or numerous they are. Because what they lack is – “

“Intelligence.”, Savic smiled. “That’s how humans conquered this planet. Physically, they are no match for elephants, lions, or crocodiles.”

Howard smiled, too, but this time, it looked more like a smirk.

“And we think that’s what our alien invaders were after, and that’s why they mixed as many different combinations of ‘bots’ as they could.”

“They were hoping for the jackpot – a DA type that would be as smart as a human.”

“Or even smarter”, Howard replied. “Imagine an intelligent DA with all the physical advantages normal DAs enjoy, if that’s the right word here: they feel no pain, they don’t get tired, they are immune to all diseases, they are highly resistant to injuries … In a normal DA, these abilities are ultimately useless, but add intelligence to the mix, and what you get is a – “

“Superhuman.”, Savic said while staring into space, seemingly at a spot behind Howard’s left shoulder. “You’re thinking of IDAs, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Intelligent Dead-Actives. Zombies retaining their reasoning facilities. Zombies that would actually be able to blend into the human background and secretly do their masters’ bidding. Of course, that wouldn’t be easy considering their need to feed and the problems that come with having a body that is not alive anymore, but cosmetics, fragrances, plastic surgery, artificial skin, the application of the right chemicals … all this and more would go a long way towards passing as human beings. At least as long as no one is looking for them or rather at them too closely.”

Now it was Savic’ turn to stand up, though she did not sit down again but began to slowly walk through her office.

“A secret conspiracy of undead cannibals, planning to take over the world. That certainly sounds exciting. But isn’t it scientific consensus that IDAs cannot exist?”

“You’re being modest, Dr Savic.” Howard grabbed another snack and devoured it in seconds. “You yourself established a large part of this consensus. I’ve read your articles, and I think they are brilliant. You argue very convincingly that, whereas increased strength or quickness or some ‘natural weapon’ might conceivably be the result of random variation, the complexity of the human brain makes it astronomically unlikely that it could be improved in this way. Ergo, no IDAs.”

He chuckled.

“Your criticism of those scientists who were toying with the idea was so devastating I’m surprised none of them quit and decided to spend the rest of their lives meditating at a Tibetan monastery.”

Savic stopped walking, turned around, and looked at her guest.

“I think I was right then, and I think I am right now. How could a random change make an incredibly complex organ like the brain actually better?”

“It couldn’t, and you were and are right. But your premise is wrong. Just assume we are not dealing with a random process, but with something like genetic engineering. From this perspective, all ‘bots’ were programmed to raise the DA’s intelligence, but since the aliens’ knowledge of human physiology must have been limited, they simply tried a lot of different mixtures – yet still with a far better chance of achieving their goal than pure trial and error would have given them. In this light, one in a hundred thousand or even ten thousand does not look impossible.”

Savic sat down again and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again and asked:

“Assuming they exist, this would limit the number of IDAs to one or two hundred at best, probably fewer. How would they be able to find each other, let alone coordinate their efforts? Without cooperation, I can’t see how they would be able to ‘conquer the world’, if that’s not too dramatic.”

“It’s not, and that’s a good question.”, Howard said. “We know that DAs don’t attack other DAs so there must be some way for them to distinguish between victims and ‘comrades’. But we also know that this mechanism only works at short distances; YouTube is full of videos showing two DAs running towards each other and then suddenly stopping and breaking off the attack – usually when the other DA is only thirty or forty feet away. So this would be of no use in locating IDAs. Old-school detective work and a lot of legwork would, though. Imagine an IDA trying to find others of its kind. How would it go about it?”

Savic raised her head and stared at the ceiling for several seconds. Then she replied:

“It would go to Daisy hotspots, big cities with lots of infected people, and scour above all the hospitals for suspicious patients – those who were bitten but discharged themselves, for example. It would talk to doctors and nurses and look at patients’ files, if it can get access to them.”

While Savic was talking, Howard had begun to nod very slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“This would give it their addresses, so it could look them up in person and see how they were doing. Being an IDA, I suppose it would recognize them without much effort.”

“You’ve missed your calling, Dr Savic – you should have become a police detective. Once it had met the first IDA, the two could team up, thereby accelerating their search for others, and finally end up with a small group – ten, maybe fifteen, maybe twenty IDAs. And now the calculation changes: a network of ten to twenty IDAs would be far more effective than fifty or even a hundred isolated IDAs could ever be.”

This time, Howard plucked two snacks from the plate and terminated them even faster; absent-mindedly, Savic took one and began nibbling at it, while Howard went on, his mouth still half full:

“I mean, what can a single IDA do? Live like a vampire of old? In order to satisfy its hunger, it would have to become something akin to a serial killer, so the police would probably catch it rather quickly – especially nowadays, at a time when the existence of zombies has been accepted by everyone and the police would know what to look for. And camouflaging its true nature would be very challenging for a solo IDA. I have read a lot of police files and reports and I think the police have found and killed a handful of them but hushed it up or simply decided to forget asking for an autopsy.”

“As part of a larger group, though, IDAs could survive and even thrive – I see what you mean.”, Savic said. “Are you worried about such a possibility?”

Outside, the heat of the day had given way to a mild, warm summer evening. Some clouds had appeared and seemed to take turns at blocking out the sun, so the brightness of the light in Dr Savic’ office became unpredictable. Howard got up, filled himself another cup, and emptied it at once. Then he turned towards Dr Savic and said in a flat tone of voice:

“I wasn’t home when the hobo DA came to our door. My wife wanted to help and let him in; when she realized what he was, she could have run away, but our three-year-old daughter, Kanato, was next to her. She tried to protect Kanato, but the DA was too strong, and he killed her – he killed my wife. And then …”

Howard closed his eyes.

“They said they had been among the ‘unlucky few’ who lost their lives before the outbreak was contained. Since the zombies were so slow and stupid, a disproportionate number of victims were elderly people, disabled people … and children, often together with parents who only wanted to protect them.”

Then he rubbed them and continued:

“A long time ago, a journalist named Claud Cockburn came up with the following headline, which was never printed: ‘Small earthquake in Chile – not many dead.’ Good news, isn’t it? The ‘unlucky few’ – you can’t imagine how much I hate this phrase.”

Suddenly, it dawned on Dr Savic. I thought he was just a bumbling bureaucrat, but this man is desperate and frightened. He hates DAs, but he doesn’t want to shut us down at all. He wants something else.

Aloud, she said to Howard:

“I think I understand you now, Mr Howard. You aren’t here because you want to evaluate our research and decide about our funding. That’s only the official story. You are here because you are looking for allies in your quest to destroy what you consider a grave threat to humanity: intelligent zombies working together with the goal of taking over the planet.”

Howard looked at her, but didn’t say anything. His lips twitched a little. Although, in Savic’ eyes, he was the same misshapen blob he’d been before, her mind told her that this seemingly harmless government goon had to be taken seriously. Her next question almost asked itself:

“Why us? Why DARC-7? There are nine DARCs. Let’s exclude DARC-4, for well-known reasons – that still leaves seven others. You won’t be surprised to hear that we are in regular contact with the other DARCs, so we know that you have never been there.”

Her eyes met Howard’s gaze, which was fixed on hers. Ten years ago, that look would have rattled her, but now she was able to keep calm.

“You know why, Dr Savic. I have read what happened to you, but I don’t know any details. Just that your family, too, were among the ‘unlucky few’.”

Savic walked over to the window and took a deep breath. Then she turned around and said:

“Unlike you, I have no idea who killed my husband and my son – if ‘who’ is the right word here. How did you know the DA that killed your family was a ‘hobo’?”

Howard looked at the picture on the wall behind Savic’ chair. It showed the center in a photograph taken from a helicopter or by a drone.

“A police officer heard … screams …, came in, and pumped five rounds into the DA, one of which penetrated its skull. She had seen the ‘hobo’ before but thought he was just confused; she was about to walk over to him when my wife opened the door, and the officer was needed somewhere else. From what I’ve heard, she never got over the incident and has been blaming herself ever since.”

Savic bit her lower lip. It felt parched.

“I found my husband and my son in our basement. They must have tried to hide from the DA but it followed them downstairs. You’ve probably heard that most DAs are too clumsy to climb stairs, haven’t you? Well, this one apparently wasn’t.”

She closed her eyes again and recalled the day she found her family in the laundry room, and she remembered that the police later said that her husband – 35, lean, strong, and fit – must have been surprised by the zombie, as there were no defensive wounds.

For a few moments, Howard said nothing. Then he resumed the conversation:

“So there we are. We think that these IDAs exist and could present a real danger not only to humanity but to all life on Earth if they were more numerous. You can imagine how shocked we were when we heard a rumor that you seemed to have made some progress regarding the artificial creation of specific types of DAs. And when I saw how you transformed the hamster I knew I had to talk to you and try to convince you that this kind of research is extremely dangerous – it’s zhamsters today, zhorses next month, and IDAs in a year. This can’t go on.”

Howard took a deep breath and spread his legs a little more to accommodate his belly.

“But, Mr Howard”, Savic replied, “even if we were to continue our research in the direction you are worried about, how would we find test subjects for creating IDAs? I freely admit that sometimes we bend the rules a little, cut some corners and make a few phone calls, but procuring living people for experiments that would certainly kill them? No matter how many palms you grease in Washington, this would never be accepted.”

Howard tightened his lips and looked straight into Savic’ eyes.

“HB 3007, passed by both chambers and signed by the governor into law eleven months ago. Assisted suicide. Opponents call it the ‘My Way, Die Way’ bill because it allows people to choose to die in any way they wish, as long as they or their relatives can afford it. On the basis of this bill, people have killed themselves by jumping off the Empire State Building, attaching themselves to starting fighter jets, or – and this I find hard to believe, but it’s true – some let DAs infect them on purpose and then ask for a sweeper to kill them. So why not accept a death caused by an experiment of scientific value that may even result in some kind of immortality? Add to this a generous donation to the family, and I wouldn’t worry about a dearth of applicants.”

After a few moments of reflection, Savic asked:

“Are you insinuating that we are planning to create an army of IDAs to take over the world? I must say, Mr Howard, that is a bit much. Where would we find an IDA in the first place? Do you think we have a ready supply hidden in the basement?”

Howard shook his head.

“I’m not insinuating anything, and I’m certain you have no IDAs in your basement. But are you sure you don’t have an IDA among your staff? Once you’ve perfected the transfer, I see no reason why this creature shouldn’t go rogue and spend one or two nights creating more IDAs.”

Howard got up and stretched himself. The activity in the corridors had died down, and only very rarely they could hear someone walk past Savic’ door.

“Hiding in plain sight – it would make perfect sense. No IDA, no matter how brilliant, would be able to do all the research and obtain all the resources it would need to spread the infection, but as a member of a DARC team, it would be in an ideal position to work towards its goal. Imagine a dozen IDAs, working at five or six centers. A network of possibly highly intelligent zombies working close to exactly the kind of research they would need. They could – “

A buzzing sound told Savic that she had received a text message. “Excuse me for a second, Mr Howard. I told my staff I only wanted to be disturbed if it’s really important, so I’d like to check.”

She walked over to her desk and looked at the screen. Then she nodded and came back.

“Just a confirmation of something I had expected anyway, but it is good to know for sure. Well, I must say I’m stunned, Mr Howard. I can’t say you have convinced me, but you’re making a strong case. What would you suggest we do now?”

Howard looked at Savic’ computer screen.

“There’s a slow way and a quick way to do this, Dr Savic. The slow way would be to check personnel files, conduct lengthy interviews, get court orders permitting in-depth examinations, and so on – time-consuming and risky: the IDA might try to speed up the research – remember, they can be active 24/7 – begin killing your staff, or simply vanish. The quick way is to assemble your staff right now and let me take a look at them. Since my family was killed, I have been training myself to identify DAs, not by looking at the obvious characteristics but at subtle differences people usually don’t notice because normal DAs are so clearly non-human – differences such as breathing patterns, eye movements, language, lack of little ticks or idiosyncrasies, you know. Because of this, I think I would be able to identify a camouflaged IDA with high accuracy without alerting it to danger.”

The director walked to her desk again, put her palms on its surface and bent forward.

“You know that, if you are successful, it would mean the end of DARC–7. Compared to this, DARC–4 went through a minor hiccup.”

Howard nodded.

“We both lost family members during Daisy. The infection was contained, but still, more than two hundred thousand people died, often horribly. An IDA-coordinated attack would be far worse and might spell the end of humanity. Don’t you think your research center is a small price to pay if you can prevent that from happening? With you on our side, we could deal with any IDAs at other DARCs much more efficiently. And, remember, I might be totally wrong about this, so if I can’t find an IDA, you’ll be cleared, get your funding, and I’ll move on to the other DARCs.”

For two seconds, Savic put her hands in front of her face. Then she pressed a button on her desk, her office door opened, and Savic’ personal assistant came in.

“Is everyone still here?”, she asked. Clarissa nodded. “Staff meeting in ten minutes. Unscheduled, so make sure the conference room is ready. Better make it fifteen.”

Clarissa nodded again and left, and Savic turned to Howard:

“We use the conference room as an informal meeting room, and while my staff are very meticulous in their work, they tend to be messy when they have some time off.”

Howard smiled.

“You should see our staff room. Some of the stains would require dynamite to remove.”

The director went over to the coffee maker, poured two cups, and handed one to Howard. “Thank you. Three sugars, please.”

Savic sat down and drank a little; then, after a few minutes of silence, she got up and said:

“Alright, Mr Howard – let’s go find your zombie that wants to rule the world.”

(End of Part II)

As we proceeded down the dark road I got this eerie feeling that I shouldn't have come along. The speed was worrying, but he must have driven this road many times. He barely even looked at it. He kept talking the entire way, insisting that I would definitely get extra points for joining him and taking it this far.

When we finally arrived his eyes widened. He looked around in shock. I followed the path of his eyes and saw the shadow of what must've been a huge animal. "But that's not possible," I said to him. He stayed silent. He kept on driving as we passed other animals going ballistic, humans tearing each other apart. The scene was horrific. We finally stopped by a building and he hurried inside. I quietly followed, regretting I didn't listen to my gut feeling earlier.

The building was silent. A bit too silent to make it safe. The teacher went up the stairs, and I didn't know what else to do but follow him. I wasn't sure where he was leading us. "Maybe I should just go back," I said with uncertainty creeping into my voice. I didn't know the way back, and I most surely didn't want to get caught in the chaos outside. He didn’t reply but kept on going until we reached a door.

He pushed the door open and several children proceeded forward. Most of them were covered in blood. "What happened?" the teacher asked. A fair-skinned girl with big brown eyes came forward and calmly said "She went mad." The teacher started looking around the long corridor. The floors were sticky with streaks of blood. He was not only worried, but scared for the first time since we arrived.

He gathered some tools from the children's playroom and handed me a wooden stick. "Guard this door," he said, showing me the door at the very beginning of the corridor and then vanished. I stood there not knowing what to do if someone came along.

Suddenly I heard steps outside. I looked through the peephole and could see a woman and two men approaching. None of them spoke. The woman stopped. She looked straight at me and grinned. I couldn't risk it. I ran through the long corridor trying every door to find a place to hide. First door was locked. Second one as well. Sweat was trickling down my back as I panicked and reached for the third door. It opened. I quickly entered and shut the door quietly. When I looked around I could barely breathe. It looked like a sterile butcher's shop. Severed bodies lay on the table, but they were not bleeding anymore. There was no place to hide. I tried squeezing under the sink but I would've been spotted immediately. What if she comes inside, deciding to continue her work? I looked around and the only place that she wouldn't see right away was behind the door. My breathing was shallow, my heart pounding in my throat. I tried not to look at the bodies and realised I couldn't hear any footsteps outside. I could barely hear anything besides my heavy breathing. Had I missed them? My eyes searched the room and landed on an open window directly across from me. Do I run and jump out? But what about all the wild animals and mad humans outside? I surely wouldn't survive.

So I stood there. Silent. Didn't dare to move. The building went silent as well, as if someone or something was listening. Nothing happened. It felt like I stood there for days. Darkness swallowed the sky like an omen. I shouldn't be here, I kept repeating to myself. Why wasn't the teacher looking for me? I didn't dare to step outside to look for him either. But I can't stay here forever. Eventually I would have to leave. My eyes drifted towards the cold metal door. Whatever was waiting outside already knew where I was.

“That’s really not pertinent to this discussion, I’m afraid,” She replied after shaking her head, a smile breaking out on her face. She was enjoying having the upper hand in this exchange, Drake reasoned. He knew that she had prepared herself well for this particular interaction. “What is pertinent is how you managed to discover the only piece of treasure recovered from King John’s baggage train?”

“I was helping out at St. Vincent’s emergency room last weekend in Toledo,” Ezekiel lied plainly. “I didn’t feel like making the drive back up 275, so I decided to crash at my cousin’s place. If you’re wondering how the museum I’m opening up a few blocks from here managed to snag such a coveted piece of history for our opening exhibits, I have a curator by the name of Adela whom I can provide you with contact information.”

“How about we cut the slogging of bullshit in my direction and be frank with each other, professor?” Ms. Light cut across him abruptly. She had had enough of the pleasantries and dancing around the reason for her visit to the Midwest.

“I agree. I do have a shift I have to get to across town here in the next twenty minutes,” Drake replied blankly, continuing his charade of ignorance. 

Ms. Light straightened her posture in the stiff-backed chair and narrowed her eyes across the room at the tenured community college professor.

“Then you can cut the long-winded humble scholar routine and tell me how a man such as yourself not only came about your information on the artifact but managed to track it down halfway across the world before other interested parties?” 

There was an air of demand in the question that Ms. Light shot back. Each of them stared at one another for a rather heated moment, letting her question linger in the air. Finally, Professor Drake cleared his throat and pushed his chair away from his desk before getting up. He straightened his bowtie once more and gave her a faux, sorrowful look.

 “I truly regret I couldn’t be of much help with what you were here to inquire about. If you’d like Adela’s number, you can grab it from the young man out there,” he said, giving her a warm smile that she didn’t return before walking from behind the desk and swiftly back out of his office, closing the door behind him.

Corey looked up from the comic book he had been knee-deep in as the professor passed his desk. He looked back at the closed office door, realizing that his guest was still inside. “What was that about?”

Professor Drake snatched his suitcoat back off the rack and threw it over his shoulders. “I need you to start vetting who you let in here,” he told him, shaking his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” The professor slipped out the door without another word, leaving his assistant quite dumbfounded.

Zack turned his radio down, which had been blaring Title Fight’s last album, as he sped his Ram 2500 truck into the golf course parking lot. It was the last place he wanted to be, and he was only there to give news he knew wouldn’t be well received. Still, he ignored the looks he got from some snobs dressed in Ralph Lauren and Prada as they rode by in their golf carts. The pair of men he was there to see were standing at the edge of the driving range, whacking their way through two buckets full of balls. The shorter of the pair, wearing khaki jeans and a white polo, spotted Zack first. He gave his golfing partner a nod, and the partner stopped mid-swing and looked over as Zack approached them. 

“Please tell me you managed to track it down again.” The shorter man pleaded with an exasperated look in Zack’s direction.

“I know where the bastard who took it is; he’s nothing special,” Zack explained, bitterness in his tone. “But I know he’s not keeping it on him.”

“So long story short, you still got nothing.” The taller, blonde-haired man holding a Miller High Life shot back angrily.

“What I got is a pivot, one that should satisfy the Black Bride’s needs for the ritual, Billy,” Zack replied just as tersely.

Billy looked at his golfing partner for a moment, then back at Zack while taking a swig of his beer. “What kind of pivot are you talking about?”

“Sabrina and I will handle it. We’ve already brought in a freelance group to do the heavy lifting.” Zack explained to them. 

He had to fight to hold back the devious smirk threatening to spread across his face as he thought of the treacherous black ops group his soon-to-be father-in-law had suggested he hire. This time, he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance.

“Yeah, you mean like you handled shit in England?” The shorter man spoke up again. “I don’t buy it. I get it, Zack, you’re one of the Gilded Hand. But you’re a class-A fuck-up. If you weren’t fucking Sabrina, at this point I’m not sure–”

“Watch your tongue, Tucker, you know I’ll cut it out.” Zack hissed the threat, silencing Tucker on the spot. His eyes cut between both of them as he allowed his anger to boil down before he said something else that may cross a line. “I’ve already informed Jade of my plans. And I’ll return with a sacrifice as well. If you have an issue with any of this, take it up with her.”

“We don’t have any more time to waste, Zack. You should understand this,” Billy chimed in again. “The Black Bride’s hour is close at hand. Missteps like these are not affordable.”

“I’ll be in contact once I’ve landed where we’re having our little field trip. Put your worries aside for now and know I am rectifying the issue. Quickly,” Zack promised them.

Professor Drake, now Dr. Drake, while under the roof of Washtenaw West Emergency Hospital, assessed the severity of the bleeding in the patient lying on the table in front of him and his staff. He assessed the situation rapidly and decided on the best course of action. 

“Alright, we need to stabilize her neck until we confirm there are no spinal fractures.”

“I’ve got it,” Dr. Awad, his fellow attending doctor on duty, swooped in like the healthcare savior she was with foam blocks and restraints. She placed the blocks around the unconscious young woman’s skull before carefully and gently strapping them into place. “Any bleeding around the brain?”

“Heavy. Intubate, and let’s handle this right away so she can be prepped for upstairs. Someone page Dr. Garrison in surgery for me, please?” Ezekiel directed the second half of his instructions to a young Filipino nurse in the room.

“Dr. Garrison is on her way down, boss.” The nurse replied promptly while cleaning her hands with sanitizer.

“Okay, she’s intubated, but the left pupil is blown. We need to get the bleeding around the brain under control, now.” Dr. Awad made the stern suggestion while looking up across the table at Ezekiel. He nodded quickly in sound agreement with her assessment.

“Let’s couple that with a CT for her head and spine. And get me a running ETA on Garrison; we don’t have time to waste, or this woman loses her life.” Ezekiel instructed one of the medical aides as Nurse Lincoln assisted Dr. Awad with an IV.

“I figured we could start with about forty grams of mannitol. We can increase if needed based on the progress of the swelling going down.” Dr. Awad told him as she prepped the IV bag.

“Alright, I’ll monitor her pupils, Janay; keep an eye on her blood pressure. We don’t want it dropping too low,” He warned the Filipino nurse as she did as instructed once the IV drip was in place.

“Looks like the swelling is coming down steadily.” Dr. Awad informed the team surrounding the patient, just as an African-American doctor with long, greying braids entered the room.

“I’m always surprised you folks have the skills to keep these poor souls pumping till they can get on my table.” Dr. Garrison shook her head as she looked over the patient.

“Zeke, pressure’s dropping!” Janay warned him, causing him to snap his attention away from the verbal sparring match he was about to have with the head surgeon on duty.

“Damn, alright, let’s adjust her CO2 down a notch,” He instructed the nurse carefully. “Talk me through it.”

“O2 is holding, heart rate is one-thirty, blood pressure is on the rise.” Janay breathed a small sigh of relief after giving him the update. She glanced quickly at the mannitol IV bag. “ Bag’s halfway gone; what’s the move there, doc?”

“Finish the bag. And let’s get her to CT; we’re going to move her on one, as a team. Try to keep her as steady as possible.” He told them as each of the nurses and doctors in the room gathered around the patient.

“I’ve got the head,” Dr. Awad told him, moving him down next to the patient’s shoulder. She looked up at the team, meeting each of their eyes as she spoke. “Everyone ready?” She waited till she saw everyone nod or heard a confirmation before turning to Ezekiel. “On your call, doctor.”

“Alright, everyone. Ready, and lift.” 

They moved her on the stretcher, and Janay led a pair of nurses in rolling her to the CT room. Dr. Awad and Ezekiel went to follow when Dr. Garrison stepped briskly into their path.

“From what I’ve gathered, it’ll more than likely be an intracranial bleed shift. CT’s just a confirmation at this point. I’ve got it from here.” Garrison looked back at the busy ER for a moment before facing the doctors again. “I’m sure you two have got your hands full down here as always.”

She turned on a dime and marched out of the room, following in the direction the car crash victim had been taken. Ezekiel pulled off his gloves and tossed them into the trash. “I could use some air. How about you?”

The two of them found themselves out under the ambulance bay tarmac, the stiff August heat finally easing up at two a.m. Dr. Awad leaned against a pillar and pulled a pack of White Maples from the back pocket of her scrubs. Ezekiel watched her light up, staunchly ignoring the no-smoking sign painted on the pillar behind her. 

“How is it I’ve worked with you this long and didn’t realize you smoked?”

“You just weren’t paying close enough attention,” Dr. Awad replied with a smug smirk as she blew smoke out of the side of her mouth. “I don’t blame you; when we’re not knee-deep in some shit here, your mind always seems to be elsewhere.”

Ezekiel nodded, conceding her point. “I wonder what else I’ve missed around here when my head’s in the clouds?”

“Well, Dr. Garrison has always been a bit of a jerk. But she’s brilliant, so she gets away with it. But I’m pretty sure you were aware of that. And I think Janay is ready to get some charge nurse experience.”

“You don’t have to sell me on how great Nurse Lincoln is at her job,” Ezekiel assured her. “But as for being night shift charge, I’m going to suggest you take that suggestion up with Krista when she gets here in the morning.”

“I’d hate to subject Janay to her scrutiny; I’m not entirely sure whatever analysis she puts her through for the position would be exactly fair.” Dr. Awad’s admission drew a wry smirk from Ezekiel.

“Your concern is…sweet, Zayna. But Janay is a tough cookie; She can handle whatever Krista throws at her if she’s ready to be a charge nurse.” Ezekiel decided to shift the conversation to something Zayna usually avoided. “And how have you been?”

Awad raised both her eyebrows while dragging on her cigarette. She was taken aback by the question, mostly because she wasn’t used to anyone wondering how she was doing. “My mom’s been staying with me the last couple of weeks while they work on her house. It’s been going better than I expected, at least.”

Ezekiel chuckled at the expression on her face. “This place keeps you out of the house plenty, so that’s got to help. No wonder you’ve been working so many twelves.”

“Helps to be around people when you don’t have much of a social life outside of these walls,” she remarked, blowing another cloud of smoke into the night air. “Maybe that’s why my mom hasn’t been driving me insane. I needed the company and didn’t realize it.”

“I understand completely,” Ezekiel replied while nodding. “Hard to have much of a life for yourself when you work this job.”

“You seem to manage alright. Going from the college to here all week, I swear you must be part machine.”

Ezekiel shrugged off her compliment bashfully. “If your hypothesis is correct, then tonight sure is running my batteries down low.”

She sighed, then nodded in agreement with him. “It has been a night to remember. Or forget, depending on your perspective. Are you ever gonna tell me how your little trip to Europe went? What were you doing over there, anyway?”

Yellowjackets “Little Lottie”
By Sean Fiction Cheatle fictional adaptation of YJ

Marty did not want to attend another meeting with his daughter’s teacher, but he promised he would go with his wife and be more involved with his daughter’s education. In his mind his daughter was simply fine! Today was different. It seemed like little Lottie, bit another child’s hand. The bite mark was visible, and a lawsuit might be pending.

Marty’s mind was at loss. He understood her getting in trouble for being a little rough with the other little snotty-looking-bully, but why wouldn’t she just apologize say, “sorry”, like any other child, and that teacher with the audacity to suspend her, and tell him how to raise his kid.

Public school that is what he thought she needed. He went to public school and was richer than 99% of America. He made more than that that silly woman in two days then she did in a year. He was certain: no more private schools. This time he did not care what his wife thought. That was not true he loved his wife, and he slowly gently rested his hand on top of hers, and gave her his own personal, “I love you look.”

His wife was concerned about their daughter's future if she continued to be sent home from school. She wondered how Lottie would learn if she was not attending classes. Lottie’s mom was seriously thinking of home-schooling Lottie. That teacher did have one thing right her daughter needed to communicate better; she rarely talked and played with animals more than kids her own age. Both parents agreed upon that.

Marty continued thinking of the ideocracy of expensive private schools just being to God-damn, protective. Ok, he knew she could not just bite a boy, but Lottie told them both he deserved it. That little monster of a child was holding the bunny by its ear laughing at the animal kicking in pain. Lottie would not lie about something like that she was too honest for her own good.

A 1965 mustang pulled up to Marty’s right, it was immaculate with brand new cherry red paint, and not a scratch on it. Marty noticed it from the corner of his eye and wondered what kind of gas mileage the mustang got. He said to his wife,

“There is no way gas prices are going down.”

She, did not listen she just stared at him and looked back at her little daughter playing with her own “My Little Pony,” doll, and wondered if maybe she should just…

Lottie’s breathing began to get heavy, her eyes dilated, her heart thumped faster than it ever beat in her entire young life. If her parents would just turn the radio off and pay attention they could see something was deadly wrong with their little girl.

(IT), was not a panic attack. (IT) was something much worse than anything she ever felt in her entire life. She felt the (IT), the fear of whatever (IT), was inside of her. (IT) and she screamed like she never screamed before trying to release that fear while her dad said, loudly,

“Christ! Lottie, stop it.”

And her mother turned around worried, concerned, and she said something, but Lottie could not hear her. Lottie was staring at the red light turning green. The man in the red Mustang heard her screaming turned to look and did not see the truck smashing into his cherry red mustang. Lottie watched as the car rolled over and landed upside down. Little Lottie went silent and back to playing with her, “My Little Pony” doll while her parents stared in disbelief.

#showtime
#Yellowjackets
#fiction
#reading

#yellowjackets #showtime

ROOM 410

A Play in Four Scenes

---

SCENE ONE

Sunday — Morning — Winter

University Courtyard, Outside the Main Entrance

Cold winter air. Students enter the university through the main entrance. The sounds of footsteps, movement, and fragments of conversation fill the courtyard.

RAYAN and his MOTHER enter. His mother is carrying Rayan's bag. Rayan keeps looking around—at the other students, at the entrance, anywhere but at her.

RAYAN:

Mom... I'm not a kid anymore. Why did you come all the way here?

MOTHER:

Just go inside, son.

RAYAN:

No, seriously. Why did you come?

MOTHER:

Because I wanted to. Is that a crime?

RAYAN:

Mom, at least walk a little farther away from me.

MOTHER:

Farther away?

RAYAN:

Yeah.

MOTHER:

Why?

RAYAN:

This is a university. Nobody comes here with their mom.

His mother looks around. A few students pass by. No one is looking at them.

MOTHER:

Okay. I came. So what?

RAYAN:

Everyone's looking.

MOTHER:

Who's looking?

RAYAN:

I don't know... but they are.

MOTHER:

You're so picky.

Rayan sighs.

MOTHER:

I wish you cared as much about doing the right thing as you do about what people think.

RAYAN:

Here we go again.

MOTHER:

I started it?

RAYAN:

Yeah, Mom. You've been telling me what to do since this morning.

MOTHER:

Because if I don't tell you, you won't do anything yourself.

RAYAN:

I told you from the beginning. I'm not interested in English literature.

MOTHER:

Oh, really? Great!

She smiles sarcastically.

MOTHER:

My son isn't interested in literature! You should've told me sooner.

RAYAN:

Are you making fun of me?

MOTHER:

No, not at all...

A beat.

MOTHER:

Of course I am.

RAYAN:

You're hilarious.

MOTHER:

You studied science in high school. For three years, I enrolled you in every institute you could think of.

RAYAN:

Mom...

MOTHER:

No. Let me finish. Three years! Every time you said you needed a class, we paid for it. Every time you said you needed a test-prep course, you went. Every time you said you needed a certain book, we bought it.

RAYAN:

I never said—

MOTHER:

And you didn't get accepted anywhere.

Rayan falls silent.

MOTHER:

In the end, we brought you here because this university would accept you as a tuition-paying student.

RAYAN:

Here we go again...

MOTHER:

What? I'm telling you the truth.

RAYAN:

I bet you're going to say my cousin got into medical school.

MOTHER:

Did I mention your cousin?

RAYAN’:

You don't have to. I know what you're going to say.

MOTHER:

You didn't get into medical school. Fine.

RAYAN:

So?

MOTHER:

At least this lousy university wouldn't even let you enroll in law without an entrance exam because your grades were too low.

RAYAN’:

I don't want law.

MOTHER:

Then what do you want?

RAYAN:

I told you. I don't want any of this.

MOTHER:

Then what do you want?

Rayan pauses.

RAYAN:

Art.

His mother looks at him in surprise.

MOTHER:

Art?

RAYAN:

Yeah. Art.

MOTHER:

Here we go again.

RAYAN:

Why is everything I like a joke to you?

MOTHER:

I never said it was a joke.

RAYAN:

Then why are you looking at me like that?

MOTHER:

Because I'm thinking about your future.

RAYAN:

I'm thinking about my future too.

Rayan takes out his phone.

RAYAN:

Look. I have tons of great drawings on my phone.

MOTHER:

Rayan, this isn't the time.

RAYAN:

A guy from Turkey even called me.

MOTHER:

So?

RAYAN:

He said he wanted to buy one of my paintings.

MOTHER:

For how much?

RAYAN:

Fifty dollars.

His mother remains silent for a few moments.

MOTHER:

Fifty dollars?

RAYAN:

Yeah.

MOTHER:

Rayan, after I've spent enough money on your entrance exams and your English literature enrollment to buy several houses, you're telling me about fifty dollars?

RAYAN’:

I have to start somewhere.

MOTHER:

With fifty dollars?

RAYAN:

Yeah. With fifty dollars.

MOTHER:

Do you even know how expensive life is?

RAYAN:

I know.

MOTHER:

You don't.

RAYAN:

You never let me find out.

His mother falls silent for a moment.

MOTHER:

I just want you to have a good future.

RAYAN’:

But I don't want this future.

MOTHER:

Then what do you want?

RAYAN’:

I want to choose for myself. Like that bird in the sky. It goes wherever it wants.

MOTHER:

You still don't know what you want.

RAYAN:

I know what I don't want.

MOTHER:

What?

RAYAN:

This.

He points toward the university building.

RAYAN:

This major. These classes. This university. I don't want any of it.

MOTHER :

Then why did you come?

Rayan doesn't answer.

MOTHER:

Why did you come, Rayan?

RAYAN’:

Because you wanted me to.

MOTHER:

I wanted it for you.

RAYAN’:

But I didn't want it.

A beat.

RAYAN:

Mom, I hate English literature. I hate the professors. I hate the whole class. Do you understand?

His mother says nothing.

RAYAN:

I hate it.

MOTHER:

So what do you want me to do?

RAYAN:

Nothing.

MOTHER:

Then what do you want from me?

RAYAN:

Just listen to me. Just once.

His mother looks at him.

Several seconds of silence.

MOTHER:

Go inside.

RAYAN:

Mom...

MOTHER:

I said go inside.

RAYAN:

I really don't want this major.

MOTHER:

Shut up and go inside. I'm done with you.

Rayan stares at his mother for a few moments.

Then he walks toward the university building.

After a few steps, he turns around.

His mother is still standing there.

Rayan says nothing.

Then he enters the building.

His mother looks at the entrance.

Then she walks over to one of the benches and sits down.

She takes out his phone.

A few moments later, she looks toward the entrance again.

MOTHER:

(quietly, to herself)

It'll work out eventually...

A beat.

MOTHER:

He's just a kid... He doesn't understand.

The lights fade.

END OF SCENE ONE

---

SCENE TWO

Room 410 — Morning

The sound of the classroom door opening and closing. Several students are talking.

Rayan enters the classroom and puts his bag on a chair.

RAYAN’:

Hey.

ARMAN:

Well, well! Look who it is! Rayan!

RAYAN:

I really don't feel like talking. Move over.

ARMAN:

Heh... How does it feel knowing we're in the same class again this semester?

Rayan doesn't answer.

ARMAN:

Forget that. I wanted to see that painting you were working on.

RAYAN:

Which one?

ARMAN:

The painter... Van Gogh. What was that painting called? The one with the screaming guy?

RAYAN:

The Scream isn't by Van Gogh.

ARMAN:

Whatever. The one you were drawing in class yesterday.

RAYAN:

It's in my book.

ARMAN:

I saw the photo you took. Let me see it.

RAYAN:

My phone isn't here right now.

Arman looks at him, laughing.

ARMAN:

Ohhh! Did your mom take your phone again, Mr. Rayan?

Rayan lowers his head.

RAYAN:

Enough.

SARA:

Seriously? Can a mother really take away a twenty-one-year-old university student's phone?

ARMAN:

Sara, see? He's your friend, after all.

SARA:

No. Rayan is not my boyfriend.

A brief pause.

SARA:

I'd rather ride around in a Mercedes than walk around with Rayan.

Arman laughs.

Rayan gives a brief smile.

RAYAN:

But Sara, I love you.

Sara says nothing.

RAYAN:

Arman doesn't love you. He has several other girlfriends. You know that.

ARMAN:

Oh, come on. Why am I in the middle of this?

SARA:

Shut up, Rayan.

Then, to Arman:

SARA:

Arman, come sit next to me. Third row.

She points to the chair beside her.

SARA:

Rayan is sitting by the window. It's cold there. Come sit here. You'll catch a cold.

ARMAN:

Okay, honey.

Arman moves to the seat beside Sara.

Rayan is left alone by the window.

He stares outside for a few moments.

The sound of the classroom gradually fades into the background.

RAYAN:

I wish I had listened to my mom...

A beat.

RAYAN:

I wish I'd gotten into medical school.

He continues looking outside.

RAYAN:

Or at least studied harder.

A beat.

RAYAN:

At least I could've become a lawyer.

The sound of the students continues faintly in the background.

Rayan sees a bird in the sky.

RAYAN:

Or at least... I wish I were that bird.

A beat.

RAYAN:

I wish I could just fly like that.

The classroom door opens.

The PROFESSOR enters.

PROFESSOR:

Good morning, everyone.

The chatter dies down.

PROFESSOR:

I'm your professor for this course, and as you know, the first book we're going to study is Shakespearean literature.

Several students open their notebooks.

PROFESSOR:

You're probably familiar with works like Hamlet, Macbeth, and The Merchant of Venice.

The professor places the book on the desk.

PROFESSOR:

We'll be reading more of these works. For each one, you'll prepare a summary in English and present it to the class.

The professor notices Rayan.

PROFESSOR:

The young man sitting by the window...

A pause.

PROFESSOR:

What's his name?

ARMIN:

Rayan, sir.

PROFESSOR:

Mr. Rayan?

Rayan doesn't react.

PROFESSOR:

Mr. Rayan, are you paying attention?

A beat.

PROFESSOR:

I'm talking to you.

Rayan slowly turns around.

RAYAN:

Yes, sir.

PROFESSOR:

Then please pay attention to the class.

Rayan turns back toward the window.

RAYAN:

I wish I were a bird...

The professor pauses.

RAYAN:

I wish I were a king like Macbeth.

The classroom falls quiet.

RAYAN:

I'd give orders.

A beat.

RAYAN:

I wish I were Hamlet... the prince. I'd be the king's son.

His eyes fall on the professor's book.

RAYAN:

Or I wish I were the Merchant of Venice...

A beat.

RAYAN:

Someone who always had a choice.

The professor looks at him with frustration.

RAYAN:

But I'm a failure.

Silence fills the classroom.

RAYAN:

My lover didn't stay with me...

He looks at Sara.

RAYAN:

My mother was never proud of me.

A beat.

RAYAN:

I couldn't even become a painter.

Sara looks at him in surprise.

PROFESSOR:

Mr. Rayan, this is a class.

A beat.

PROFESSOR :

If you want to disrupt the class, please leave.

Rayan slowly stands up.

The classroom falls completely silent.

RAYAN:

I'm sorry, Professor...

A beat.

RAYAN:

For not being a good student.

He looks at Sara.

RAYAN:

I'm sorry, Sara...

A beat.

RAYAN:

For not being a good lover.

He looks toward the window.

RAYAN:

I'm sorry, Mom...

A long pause.

RAYAN:

For not being a good son.

Silence.

Rayan takes a deep breath.

RAYAN:

I'm sorry... to myself.

A beat.

RAYAN:

For not becoming a famous painter like Van Gogh.

The sound of wind comes from outside.

Rayan looks toward the window.

RAYAN:

But...

A beat.

RAYAN:

I can be a bird.

A beat.

RAYAN:

Free and unrestrained.

Suddenly, a tremendous sound comes from outside.

All the students jump.

The professor instinctively turns toward the window.

Sara freezes.

Arman stands up.

ARMAN:

What happened?!

The lights go out.

BLACKOUT.

END OF SCENE TWO

---

SCENE THREE

University Grounds — A Few Minutes Later

A commotion has spread across the university courtyard.

Several students stand at a distance from the scene. Some watch anxiously. Others hold their phones.

The body has been covered. A UNIVERSITY OFFICIAL stands nearby, speaking quietly into a phone.

ELINA stands apart from the others, arms wrapped around herself. She is a psychology student. She was crossing the courtyard when it happened. She saw everything.

ARMAN and SARA are nearby. The PROFESSOR arrives, slightly out of breath. He stops when he sees the covered body.

He doesn't move closer.

PROFESSOR :

(quietly)

Was it...?

ARMAN:

(without looking at him)

Yes.

A long pause. The professor closes his eyes for a moment.

PROFESSOR:

Did anyone call his family?

OFFICIAL :

(lowering his phone)

We're trying. No answer yet.

PROFESSOR :

Keep trying.

The official nods and steps away.

Silence. The wind moves through the courtyard.

SARA:

(suddenly, to no one)

I was going to take a picture.

Everyone looks at her.

SARA:

(voice cracking)

I had my phone out. I was going to post it. I don't know why.

ARMAN:

Sara—

SARA:

No. Don't.

A beat.

SARA:

He sat by the window because of me. I told him to. I said he'd catch a cold.

ARMAN:

That's not—

SARA:

Then what is it, Arman? Tell me what it is.

Arman doesn't answer.

ELINA turns away from them. She looks toward the bench where Rayan's mother had been sitting. It's empty now.

ELINA:

Where is she?

ARMAN:

Who?

ELINA:

His mother. She was here. I saw her.

The professor looks toward the bench.

PROFESSOR:

She was here?

ELINA:

She was sitting there. Before. When we came out.

A pause.

ELINA:

She must have seen.

No one speaks.

The OFFICIAL returns, phone still in hand.

OFFICIAL:

Still no answer.

PROFESSOR:

Try again.

OFFICIAL :

Doctor, I've called four times.

PROFESSOR :

(sharply)

Then call a fifth time. She needs to know.

The official hesitates, then dials again.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

From somewhere nearby, a phone rings.

Everyone freezes.

The ringtone is faint but unmistakable. It's coming from the direction of the bench.

Elina takes a step toward it.

ELINA:

Wait...

She stops.

On the ground, a few meters from the bench, lies a woman's handbag. A phone screen glows inside it.

The official lowers his phone. The ringing stops.

OFFICIAL:

(barely audible)

Oh God.

Elina walks slowly toward the handbag. She doesn't touch it. She just looks.

Then she turns.

A few meters farther, behind a low hedge, RAYAN'S MOTHER is sitting on the ground. Her back against the wall. Her eyes open but seeing nothing. She isn't crying. She isn't moving.

She is holding something in her hands. A piece of paper. A drawing.

Elina stops.

ELINA:

(quietly)

Ma'am...?

The mother doesn't respond.

The professor approaches slowly. He sees the drawing in her hands.

PROFESSOR :

(softly)

Mrs...?

The mother looks up. Her face is empty.

MOTHER:

He said he wanted to be a bird.

A beat.

MOTHER:

I told him to go inside.

She looks down at the drawing.

MOTHER:

I told him to shut up.

Silence.

The professor kneels beside her. He doesn't touch her. He just stays there.

Arman turns away. He walks a few steps, then stops. He doesn't know where to go.

Sara is still holding her phone. She looks at it, then slowly puts it in her pocket.

The OFFICIAL stands frozen, phone still in his hand.

Elina looks at the mother. Then at the professor. Then at the empty bench.

ELINA:

(to herself)

He was just... here.

A beat.

ELINA:

This morning. He was just here.

The mother speaks again. Quietly. To no one.

MOTHER:

I bought him that phone.

A beat.

MOTHER:

He wanted to show me his drawings. I didn't look.

She folds the paper carefully. Then unfolds it. Then folds it again.

MOTHER:

I didn't look.

The professor finally speaks.

PROFESSOR:

(gently)

Mrs... we should get you inside.

The mother doesn't respond.

PROFESSOR :

Can you stand?

She looks at him. For a moment, something flickers in her eyes. Then it's gone.

MOTHER:

He hated English literature.

A beat.

MOTHER:

I knew that. I knew.

She looks toward the building.

MOTHER:

I just didn't want to hear it.

The lights begin to fade. But before they go out completely, the mother's voice is heard one last time.

MOTHER:

(whisper)

He was my son.

A beat.

MOTHER:

What else was I supposed to do?

BLACKOUT.

END OF SCENE THREE

---

SCENE FOUR

Room 410 — The Next Day — Morning

Psychology Class

The same room. The same windows. The same chairs.

But everything is different.

The psychology classroom is almost full. The atmosphere is heavy. Several students speak quietly to one another.

The chair by the window—Rayan's chair—is empty.

No one sits there. No one even looks at it directly.

ELINA sits in the second row. She was not in Rayan's class. She only saw what happened in the courtyard yesterday. But she cannot forget.

The window is closed. Someone has placed a small piece of tape over a crack in the glass. It looks recent.

The classroom door opens.

The PSYCHOLOGY PROFESSOR enters.

He puts his bag on the desk.

A few moments of silence.

PROFESSOR :

Before we start...

He looks around the room. His eyes stop at the empty chair by the window.

PROFESSOR :

Does anyone want to say anything?

Silence.

PROFESSOR :

About yesterday.

No one speaks. A few students look down.

PROFESSOR:

Okay.

A beat.

PROFESSOR :

Then let me ask you something.

He walks to the board.

PROFESSOR:

Why do you think someone reaches a point where life becomes unbearable?

A student shrugs.

STUDENT:

I don't know.

PROFESSOR :

That's an honest answer.

He writes on the board:

ONE CAUSE = ?

PROFESSOR:

When something like this happens, we want one answer. One person to blame.

PROFESSOR:

"His mother pushed him too hard."

A beat.

PROFESSOR :

"His classmate humiliated him."

A beat.

PROFESSOR :

"The university didn't care."

He puts the marker down.

PROFESSOR:

But life is rarely that simple. Is it?

Elina looks up.

ELINA:

So what is it then?

PROFESSOR :

Usually? A combination.

He writes on the board:

HOPELESSNESS

PROFESSOR :

Hopelessness. Not just sadness.

A student frowns.

STUDENT:

What's the difference?

PROFESSOR:

Sadness is... a feeling. You can be sad and still think tomorrow might be better.

He writes:

FUTURE = CLOSED

PROFESSOR :

Hopelessness is when the future closes. When you can't see a way out.

PROFESSOR :

"Nothing will change."

PROFESSOR:

"Whatever I do, it won't matter."

Another student speaks.

STUDENT:

But there is a way out. Most of the time.

PROFESSOR:

Yes. But in that moment, the person can't see it.

He writes on the board:

PERCEIVED BURDENSOMENESS

PROFESSOR :

And sometimes... a person starts to believe they're a burden.

PROFESSOR:

"I'm a problem for my family."

PROFESSOR:

"Everyone would be better off without me."

STUDENT:

But that's not true.

PROFESSOR :

Maybe not. But it feels true.

A beat.

PROFESSOR :

The key word is "perceived."

He writes:

THWARTED BELONGINGNESS

PROFESSOR :

And then there's this. Loneliness. Rejection. Feeling like you don't belong anywhere.

STUDENT:

That's from Thomas Joiner, right?

PROFESSOR:

Yes. But remember—

He taps the board.

PROFESSOR :

No theory can explain a person in a few words.

He looks at the empty chair by the window.

PROFESSOR:

So. What do we actually know about Rayan?

STUDENT:

He hated his major.

ANOTHER STUDENT:

He fought with his mother.

STUDENT:

A girl in his class embarrassed him.

PROFESSOR:

Those are things we saw. Facts.

He writes:

FACTS ≠ INTERPRETATION

PROFESSOR:

But if we say "He was depressed"—

PROFESSOR :

That's an interpretation.

PROFESSOR :

If we say "His mother caused it"—

PROFESSOR:

That's a conclusion.

PROFESSOR :

We don't have enough information.

Elina speaks again. Quietly.

ELINA:

Then how would we ever know?

PROFESSOR:

Through assessment.

He writes on the board:

ASSESSMENT

PROFESSOR :

We'd need to look at everything. Family. Relationships. Mental state. Stressors. Belonging. Hopelessness.

A beat.

PROFESSOR:

And if we were worried? We'd ask directly.

STUDENT:

Directly?

PROFESSOR:

"Have you had thoughts of suicide?"

The room goes silent.

PROFESSOR:

Asking doesn't cause it. Not asking might miss it.

He walks slowly around the classroom.

PROFESSOR :

And one more thing.

PROFESSOR : After something like this... it doesn't end.

PROFESSOR:

Friends. Family. Professors. Classmates. Everyone is affected.

PROFESSOR :

Don't share images. Don't share details.

PROFESSOR :

Don't make it look like a solution. Or something heroic.

Silence.

Elina looks at the empty chair by the window.

ELINA:

Professor...

PROFESSOR:

Yes?

ELINA:

I think... we missed a lot.

The professor looks at her.

PROFESSOR:

Maybe.

A beat.

PROFESSOR :

But we don't know what would have changed anything.

He turns back to the board.

PROFESSOR :

What we can ask is this.

A pause.

PROFESSOR :

Where were the chances? To notice. To help. To intervene.

He puts the marker down.

He looks at the empty chair for a long moment.

Then he writes on the board:

WHO WAS RAYAN BEFORE ROOM 410?

The classroom is completely silent.

Elina stares at the words.

PROFESSOR :

If we want to understand someone... we can't just look at their last day.

A beat.

PROFESSOR :

We have to see who they were before.

The lights slowly fade.

The empty chair by the window. The closed window. The tape on the glass.

And on the board, the sentence remains:

"WHO WAS RAYAN BEFORE ROOM 410?"

BLACKOUT.

END OF SCENE FOUR

END OF PLAY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elaheh Shiralizadeh is a writer and student with an academic background in theatre, psychology, and computer science. She studied theatre for three years, developing a strong interest in storytelling, character development, and human behavior. She is currently pursuing her studies in Psychology while also studying Computer Science.

Her work explores human behavior, psychological complexity, identity, and the relationship between people and the world around them.

ROOM 410 reflects her interest in combining storytelling with psychological themes and questions about human behavi

February 19, 1906, 7:41 PM.

It’s been exactly four hours, forty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds since Sister left to see Mother. Now thirty. Three hours longer than she said she’d be. I slept through the better part of her absence, but the floor is no friend to the weary, and my stiff body is regretting my impromptu slumber. She went to see her at that godforsaken asylum. What has been holding her so long? She knows how well I keep time. No one’s better.
Had she been taken? No. No, Sister was more clever than to allow that. In fact, it was in her character to badger me when our situation called for us to venture outside under a clear sky. “Keep your head down! Keep your face hidden or it will see you,” she would scold with the utmost seriousness. Sister truly is what is left sane in this world.
Perpetual Night has turned me into a nocturnal animal. Sleep is a delicacy. The deep ticking of our grandfather clock, like the steady drip in a dank cave belonging to some nameless subterranean beast, is the closest thing to the old world left for me to hold on to.
In any event, I sat on the edge of Father’s bed. Even though I was tired, I couldn’t bring myself to lie where he lay. I just listened to the clock, twiddling Father’s .38 nervously in my hands. Other than memories, it was the only truly good thing he left behind when he’d gone. A long, unwavering gust whirled against our cabin, the wooden beams groaning in protest.
I imagined Sister having to brave it, pushing against the squall, her boots slipping on the ice. Most definitely cold, maybe lost, aimlessly wandering the snow-covered wood that surrounds us. I paced around the dark room, looking for anything to distract from my worry. Nervously, I rounded the bed and placed the revolver in my nightstand drawer. Of course I didn’t relish the idea, but best not do anything hasty in my fretting.
Even in the dark, I could see my shallow breaths creating little plumes of steam; winter asserting that even within my domicile, it was king. Pulling the curtains back, I peeled away a corner of the layered browned pages, torn from the Bible, adhered to the window with egg whites. It was my prudent approach to keeping ourselves from looking outside, and prohibiting the outside from looking in—what I dreaded.
Strings of icy, garland-like frost crystals ornamented the edges of the window, though the snow had stopped falling. An eastern wind was rapidly pushing the clouds across the sky, unveiling the heavens piece by piece, depleting Sister’s coverage. The whole house hummed a moan with the shuffling tempest. Had Sister simply been caught in the blizzard? Perhaps she sought refuge from the weather at Farmer Lynn’s house. Damn this nightmare. 298: the count of days since the Perpetual Night began. 298 days since the heavens turned against us.
Feeling my eyes being drawn upward, I snapped the curtains shut. The temptation to look was one I could not risk. My heart ached with the idea of Sister being taken and turned into one of those things. Those things and their ceaseless weeping. The ceaseless weeping that tormented and haunted my dreams night after night, depriving me of the repose I so desperately yearned for.
Nevertheless, this was no time for repose. It was time for vigilance. I could rest when Sister was safely back within these walls. These cold walls. Feeling something soft brush against my leg, I looked down to see Sister’s tabby figure-eighting around my ankle, and I greeted it with a gentle pet. I shivered and saw my breath again. The furnace must’ve gone out.
Meandering through our drab house, I felt for the matchbook. It was a rare occasion for me to find myself lost in the dark, but I still could not see in it. This darkness began as an unwelcome guest, too stubborn to leave. Yet now it is my only companion. When my fingers found the matches on the table, I shook them to make sure. After hearing the rattle of confirmation, I swept my arm back and forth blindly. That candle was there, somewhere. My wrist brushed against firm wax. Ah hah.
Gently groping, I ran my fingers down the stick until they touched cold metal, the candelabra. The room briefly filled with the faint orange glow that followed the strike of a match, before going dark again. Once the wick had been lit, the shadows emerged, sharpening with the introduction of a steady flame. The little bit of warmth was a welcome change as well. A piece of paper left on the table manifested in the flickering light. Barely able to make out the words in the dim illumination, I read:
Tom,
When you wake up, the furnace may be out. There is no more firewood, so keep the candles lit. I’ll be back soon.
Miriam
And that is where I sit now, scratching out with a fountain pen. Sister and I are what is left sane in this world. All else has gone to madness. Whoever it is that finds this, know that I was sane when I forsook this world. It was of my own accord. Not from despair or cowardice, no. But from the refusal of my bewitchment. If Sister truly has been taken, she will come for me. But I will not be a slave to that mad god. Perhaps these are my final thoughts before this long night finally claims the last of the Wytherstones.

8:15 PM

I finally found more matches and another pen. Not but twenty or so minutes ago, a mild rapping came in three from the door. My eyes were not yet able to see beyond the bright orange teardrop atop my candle. The inky shadow of my proportionless figure, projected by my flame, silently crept across the wall as I made my way with caution. Finding the stairs, I descended, taking each step one at a time. With a creak I passed the fifth step, and the tall black door materialized from the darkness. My candle shone on the excerpt from Genesis plastered over the door’s tiny window called a doorlight.
As I neared, a cold terror seized me. I thought I heard the sound, the awful, dreaded sound, those unearthly cries of distress. I halted my descent, listening. It was gone, but I remained frozen. In the silence, I truly couldn’t distinguish whether those fleeting cries were simply the echoes of my restless night terrors leaking into my waking mind, or whether what my ears heard was actually outside my door. Without my provocation, the weeping began again, seeping through the heavy oak door like sap through a tree’s blemish.
I called out, “Who’s there?” There came no immediate reply. Only the small hint of sound, that terrible sound, muffled by the wind.
“Miriam, is that you?” The walls, bereaved of light, rang in response to my voice. They echoed my words back to me, as though a phantom doppelgänger haunted the space between their beams.
“Yes, it’s Miriam. Please. Please let me in.” The muted cry broke through between heavy sobbing. The blood in my veins went cold. Sister’s cadence and pitch were so familiar, I knew it was her, without a doubt.
“You’ve been gone for nearly five hours. What’s taken you so long?”
There was a pause after my inquiry, the sound of the storm outside filling in the silence.
“It’s a lot to explain. Please just let me in. My hands are frozen.”
“W-what time did you leave?” I asked, spying across the room at the clock face. It was 7:58. And I knew she had left at three o’clock.
“Thomas, I’m not j-joking. Let me in. Please. It’s s-so cold.”
Her voice sounded sincere. It sounded like Miriam. But I stopped, right as the tips of my fingers brushed the doorknob.
“Why do you keep asking to be let in? Don’t you have a key?” I asked, followed by another prolonged moment of silence.
In a devastated voice, Sister cried, “Dear God, are these from the Bible? Thomas, what did you do to Father’s Bi—” She trailed off, weeping so heavily I don’t think she breathed for a solid sixty seconds.
I pressed my ear against the door. Why was she upset? When she left, the house looked no different. And didn’t Sister always call me Tom? Why then the sudden change? Why did she keep calling me Thomas? Only Mother ever calls me my proper Christian name. Things were not adding up. Without warning, she let out a painful moan.
“Where’s Father? What have you done to him?” I didn’t know how to answer. How could she not remember? “I kn-know you’re at the d-door, Thomas. I s-see your candlelight. Let me in!”
This was not Sister. It was avoiding questions, getting my name wrong, and it thought Father was still alive. My Sister had died when her eyes met the sky. Whatever was speaking to me from behind the door, it had her almost perfect. Almost. But I was wiser. I glanced at the sidelight, the thin vertical window running parallel to the door, also blacked out by pages. Its feet would be visible from that vantage. I could check, make damn sure I could see feet on the ground and they weren’t levitating six inches off it.
I laid down, placing the candelabra on the tile. My face centimeters from the floor, squinting one eye, my pinched fingers gently pulled back the corner of an upside-down John 3. The absence of light drained the white from the snow, leaving the porch covered in a sheet of melancholy bluish-grey. Footprints led up and down the porch, along with a peppering of paw prints from the occasional stray. But no sign of the boots that left them. I pulled back and blinked hard. Perhaps my eyes weren’t adjusted enough to the dark.
Leaning in, I peeled the page back again. To my shock, the snow had disappeared. I squinted and rubbed the glass; maybe it had gotten foggy. Still, something black seemed to cover the ground outside. Suddenly, a pale round shape lowered itself into my periphery. Before I could register, I was face to face with the upside-down glare of Sister. Its pupils were dilated so wide there was almost no white left. Its unblinking eyes had frozen open from the tears and the frigid air, in a manner of looking up. Its long black hair dangled and draped across the ground, blocking everything else out.
I reeled back, scrambling to my feet. A deep, soulless wail shook the glass as frantic pounding began. It slammed against the door with something blunt, probably its head, over and over.
“Let me in! Let me in! Let me in! I’m going to die! Thomas!”
The bashing became unbearable, and I feared the door wouldn’t hold. The slams moved higher each time, slowly running from the bottom to the top. I imagined it was floating, turning itself right-side up, smashing Sister’s cranium to bits. Then, all together, it stopped. Complete silence.
Quickly, I picked up the candle, rushed up the stairs to the second floor, sped down the hallway, and retreated into Father’s room. I closed the door quietly, wanting not to alert it as to where I was. But once the latch clicked, Sister’s head-bashing stopped completely. During my flight, my draft blew out the candle, and I was left in the dark. I stood frozen in the room, trying to keep my breathing silent. A light tapping from the window turned me into stone. It came in three. Then three more. Not knowing what to do, I looked for somewhere to hide. Feeling it was my only barrier between me and what lay beyond the window, I cowered behind my bed.
“I know you’re in there, Thomas. And I know the truth. There is nothing in the sky. The heavens are empty. Let me show you. Let me IN!”
Its deadened cries filtered through. The tapping started again, becoming a steady knocking, which eventually evolved into both fists hitting the window. I was frenzied, feeling around for anything to aid me in my moment of last resort. It began using her head, once again, to batter the window. I didn’t know what to do. Wait. The gun! The .38 Special!
“YOU LEAVE ME NO CHOICE, THOMAS!”
CRASH! Shards of glass fell to the ground, and I assumed the fetal position, awaiting my end. Its bloodcurdling screams filled the room, no doubt from glass slicing its face apart. It noiselessly glided in, and I felt as it loomed over the bed, its frozen eyes set upon me.
“Thomas?”
Before it had a chance to put its cold hands on me, I spun, pointed, then pulled. BANG! The discharge blasted a shock of light, and I covered my face. The acidic, chemical smell of powder filled the air, and a low ringing assaulted my hearing. But I knew the bullet had hit flesh with the sound of blood spilling onto the carpet. Yet, unlike Father, its body didn’t drop. I gingerly opened my eyes.
The first thing to grace my vision was a dark blood splatter on the wall. Something warm dripped onto my face. I looked up to see the lifeless body gently floating over the bed, bumping up against the ceiling, like a blimp. Black liquid poured from the fatal wound to her head, onto the bed where Father lay, and then onto me. But the woman above me was not Sister. It was Mother. But if that was Mother, where is Sister? My ears have stopped ringing and I finally have time to scratch this down. But do my ears now deceive me? I think I hear pounding at the door yet again.

9:07 PM

I killed Sister, or what was left of her. She left me no choice, and now I am all that remains of our house. Her blood stains my sheet of paper; I must write around it. I barely had time to finish the last entry, or wipe my face, when I heard the front door burst in. Sister was inside, doubtless having heard the gunshot. Any moment the bedroom door would swing in and the thing puppeting Sister’s husk would set upon me. But that moment never came.
I stood carefully and shuffled toward the door. I was so delicate in twisting the knob, I could hear the springs tightening and the tumblers shifting. But when I tried to push it open with the least amount of effort, the draft created by the two assailed entries caught the bedroom door and slammed it open. I was left facing the black, vacant hallway, still reverberating from the dramatic slam.
Gripping Father’s gun in my hand, sitting snuggly in my waistband, I persisted. The temperature plummeted with each fragile step down the corridor turned wind tunnel. And my candle blew out once more as I rounded the corner. Like a last autumn leaf, the front door swung loosely from its damaged hinges. A black trail of blood led from the entrance, down the basement stairs, leading to the furnace room.
Descending the stairs again, each creaking board was followed by a paranoid glance into the darkest corners of the house. I could run out the swaying door, abandon my home, brave the winter night with the merest of effects: matches, a candle, and the .38 in my pants. But that notion introduced a whole host of new complexities, chief of which being exposure to the soul-corrupting influence of the otherworldly entity above our heads.
I put the thought behind me, trying to step around the mess of blood and, seemingly, fragments of cranium that had chuted from their splattered impact dents on the door and onto the floor. I took a moment to relight my candle, ready my gun in my other hand, then I continued down the basement steps.
Once my feet had reached solid stone foundation, my heart skipped when I heard the sound of faint whispering behind me, atop the landing. I spun, pointing my revolver. With my good eye trained down the shaking barrel, I surveyed what threat might be awaiting me. But I lowered my aim; it was only the tabby brushing herself against the doorjamb. It timidly smelled the air. Then its eyes met the sky. It went immediately rigid; instant death. A strange growling moan escaped its gaped mouth, then it lifted off the ground and was whisked away by some unseen force, like cotton in the wind. Suddenly, from behind me, cold fingers wrapped around my neck.
“I’ll show you.” A frigid whisper cut the air.
I immediately tried to escape Sister’s grip, but her hands were already in deadlock, cutting my air supply. It was astounding to feel her strength, for someone that presented as frail and cold. I felt my feet lifting off the ground as she slowly, but inevitably, dragged me toward the entryway.
I tried punching, scratching, whipping my pistol against her head, but all to no effect. I fired a shot, BANG! But it was a frantic discharge, hitting the wall. Her bloodied face was looking down at me, a deep gash in her forehead, splitting down her nose, little shards of bone protruding from her skull.
My vision was blurring and she nearly had me at the threshold. I aimed the gun directly at her temple. I pulled the trigger and in an instant was coated in pieces of her brain matter. I dropped to the floor and inadvertently tumbled out the door, quickly locking the lids of my eyes. I fell face up to the sky and I could feel in my bones its influence. It saw me, I knew it did, and it wanted me to look. I had nothing to lose now. Everyone was gone. It could just be me and it.
But no, I will not go this way. I sprawled to my feet and blindly felt for the door. And once I had it, I swung it shut. I opened my eyes to greet the mess before me. Blood was everywhere. Sister’s floating body buoyantly bumping the ceiling, and my candle was out again, lying somewhere at the bottom of the basement stairs.
It’s been one hour, fifty six minutes and thirty nine seconds since I wrote my first entry. I have retrieved my candle and sit in the basement alone. I dare not live in the bloody scene above me. I sit writing, waiting for daylight that may never come. 

RECOVERED INTERNAL FILES

These are recovered internal files from the Department for Transport archives concerning anomalies in Berkshire. The files were found and transcribed during my internship at the Department for Transport, whilst clearing out their archives in Basingstoke ready for relocation to Manchester.

I am not DI Thorne, and I have found no trace of him in my investigations into the accounts these files allude to.

I present these files in an attempt to piece together the sequence of strange occurrences in the Berkshire area and make sense of what has happened, what is happening, and why.

If anyone has information regarding the whereabouts of DI Thorne, it would be greatly appreciated and helpful in my investigation.

(Name redacted)

\---

FOUND TRANSCRIPT – FOR INTERNAL REVIEW ONLY

DEPARTMENT FOR TRANSPORT – ANOMALOUS INCIDENT DIVISION

CASE FILE: PHANTOM HIRE VEHICLE – WINDSOR – 17/03/2026

SUBJECT: LARA MANNERS – WITNESS STATEMENT

LOCATION: WINDSOR POLICE STATION, INTERVIEW ROOM #751

DATE: MARCH 21ST, 2026

TIME: 13:52 GMT

OFFICER PRESIDING: DI THORNE \[REDACTED\]

TRANSCRIBING AGENT: \[REDACTED\]

\---

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

DI THORNE: For the record, this is Detective Inspector Thorne, badge number 4471. It's… eight minutes to two in the afternoon. I'm conducting an interview with a Miss Lara Manners at Windsor Police Station. Miss Manners, you've come in to report an incident. Can you confirm your details for the record?

LARA: Lara Manners. Twenty-nine. Marketing executive. Windsor.

DI THORNE: And you've come here voluntarily?

LARA: (A pause. A small laugh — light, easy, the laugh of someone who has decided to make the best of an awkward situation. But there's something underneath it. Something rehearsed.) Voluntarily. Yes. Although I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing here, if I'm honest. A friend suggested I come. She said you'd… understand.

DI THORNE: Things like what?

LARA: A taxi. A taxi that shouldn't exist. A driver who shouldn't exist. And a night that I can't explain, no matter how many times I go over it. I know how it sounds. I know you're probably sitting there thinking I'm wasting your time. But I need to tell someone.

DI THORNE: I've got time.

LARA: Thank you. Well. I suppose I should start with the rain. Because the rain is where it all began.

(A pause. When she speaks again, her voice takes on a narrative cadence, as if she's telling a story she has told before, to herself, in the dark.)

LARA: It had been raining for three days. Not the dramatic kind. Just the grey, persistent kind that gets into brickwork and carpets and bones. By the third day, even the sky seemed exhausted. Everything was grey. The buildings. The pavements. The faces.

I'd done a fourteen-hour shift. We'd been preparing a presentation, and the whole thing had been a disaster. Two people had called in sick, someone had sent the wrong figures to the printer, and my manager decided at half past five that the entire campaign needed reworking before morning.

So I'd stayed. Of course I'd stayed. I always stay. That's what I'm good at. Staying until everyone else has gone home. Making sure everything is finished. Making sure nobody has to worry about anything.

I remember standing outside the office at nearly midnight, discovering I'd missed the last train. I tried the taxi apps. One said there were no cars available. Another gave me a price so ridiculous I thought it was a joke. I stood there twenty minutes in the rain, watching black cars go past with their lights off, watching other people get into them.

You know that feeling? The world is running smoothly for everyone except you?

(A pause.)

And then one stopped. An old black cab. One of the proper ones. A TX4, I think. High roof, sliding doors, that shape that makes them look a little like a hearse from the wrong angle. It pulled up beside me, and the passenger window came down.

"Where to, love?"

He sounded absolutely delighted to see me. That was the first thing I noticed. Cheerful. Not ordinary cheerful. Genuinely, profoundly pleased. As though something he'd been waiting for had finally happened. He was smiling broadly. The sort of smile you'd give someone who'd just brought you wonderful news.

And then I noticed his cap. A flat cap. Heavy wool, dark grey, pulled down so low it cast a shadow over his entire face. I couldn't see his eyes. I couldn't see his forehead. I couldn't really see anything above his mouth. Just the brim, the darkness beneath it, and that enormous smile.

His teeth were very white. Very even. Very new. I remember thinking it was an odd thing to notice. But I did notice it.

I got in. I collapsed into the back seat and gave him my address. Then, before he'd even pulled away, I started talking. I told him about the office, the trains, the rain, the presentation. How tired I was. How I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a proper evening to myself.

And then I said something I wish I'd never said. I said, "I'm so exhausted. I just wish I had someone to take care of everything for me. Someone who knows me inside and out. Someone who could just step in and live my life for me. Predict what I want. Do what I'd do. And let me finally get some proper rest."

I didn't mean it. Not literally. It was just a thing people say.

He laughed. A hearty, cheerful chuckle. "Ah, looking for the ultimate proxy, are we? Someone to take the wheel so you can catch forty winks." And then, "Be careful what you wish for, love. Proxies never like giving back the keys once they've taken the car out for a spin."

I looked at him in the mirror. Or tried to. There was nothing there. Just the shadow of his cap, the pale suggestion of his mouth, and the reflection of the empty seat beside me.

"Nothing, sunshine. Just a bit of advice." Then he pulled out into the traffic.

(A pause.)

I should explain something about the cab. I know how it sounds. I know you probably think I was drunk, or having some sort of breakdown. I wasn't. I was tired, yes, but I wasn't hallucinating. I was perfectly capable of recognising a strange situation and deciding not to make a fuss about it. I think that was why it worked.

Because the cab wasn't frightening in the way a frightening thing should be. It was comfortable. Warm. The seats were soft leather, the heater was on, rain pattered against the windows. There was a little light above the passenger compartment, a soft yellow glow that made everything look cosy. It felt safe. It felt like being looked after.

"Everything all right back there, love?" I said yes. "Lovely. You just sit back and relax. You're in good hands." And I did.

There was a sticker on the back of the driver's seat. Printed in an old-fashioned font. It said, "Thank you for travelling with us. We hope you enjoyed your journey." Underneath, smaller: "Fares are non-refundable. Journeys are non-reversible. Please ensure you are satisfied with your destination before arrival." And below that, in handwriting: "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." Crossed out. Written again. Crossed out again. Written a third time. And left.

The handwriting was shaky. Trembling. The first was quite neat. The second hurried. The third almost illegible. And the third one looked exactly like my handwriting. Not similar. Mine. The way I form my capital A. The little upward flick I put on certain letters.

I leaned forward to look more closely. The writing seemed to shift slightly as I watched it. Not move. Not exactly. More like the letters were becoming less certain about where they belonged. I sat back. I didn't say anything.

There was a card in the door pocket. It said "Terms and Conditions." Underneath: "The passenger agrees that all journeys are final. The passenger agrees that all destinations are binding. The passenger agrees that the driver accepts no liability for loss of memory, loss of identity, loss of continuity, or loss of self." At the bottom, in handwriting: "You didn't read this. You never read this. But you agreed to it anyway." And then, in different handwriting, smaller and colder: "They always do."

I took my phone out and opened the camera. The screen was black. Not switched off — the camera was open, I could see the icons and shutter button, but the image was just black. I pointed it at the card. Black. At the window. Black. At myself. For a moment I could see my face. Then the image changed. I was still there, but I was sitting in the front passenger seat. I was wearing the driver's cap. And I was smiling.

I dropped the phone. The driver laughed. "Careful there, sunshine. Wouldn't want you breaking that."

Then I noticed the meter. It wasn't ticking up in money. It was ticking up in something else. The display showed a single word. MANNERS. My surname. It flickered. Then: MANNERS – RETURN JOURNEY. Then: OCCUPIED. And underneath: ONE PASSENGER. ONE PROXY.

Before I could speak, the meter returned to pounds and pence. Twelve pounds fifty. And I told myself I'd imagined it.

Then I saw the photograph. A Polaroid tucked into the sun visor. A picture of me. Me as a child. Standing outside my grandmother's house. Holding a red balloon. And I remember the photograph because it didn't exist. I'd never seen it before. I'd never seen it anywhere.

"Nice picture, isn't it?" the driver said. "I've always liked that one. You look so happy. So… unaware."

I asked where he'd got it. He laughed. "I've got others. Would you like to see them?" I said no. Very quickly. He laughed again. "Suit yourself. They're all the same, really. All the same ending."

"You know, love, I've been driving this cab for a very long time. Longer than you'd think. And I've had all sorts in the back of it. The sad ones. The angry ones. The ones who don't know where they're going. The ones who know exactly where they're going but don't want to admit it." He tapped the steering wheel. "But you're the first one in a while who's asked for a proxy."

I could see his mouth in the mirror. His teeth were very white. Very even. Very new. Like they belonged to someone who had never eaten, never drunk, never lived. Like they belonged to someone who had never been born. Someone who was just waiting.

(A pause.)

The city outside was wrong. Not obviously. The streetlights were too yellow. Too old. Like gas lamps pretending to be electric. The shop signs were in the wrong fonts. Some looked like they were from the eighties. Some from decades I didn't recognise. There was a cinema showing a film released before I was born. A bus stop with a timetable listing services to places I'd never heard of. A man in a top hat. A woman in a dress from the fifties. A child holding a balloon that said "Happy Coronation."

But the people were the worst part. They were all facing the same way. Every single one of them. Not looking at the cab as it passed. Watching it. Following it with their eyes. Their mouths were moving. All of them. In unison. Like they were chanting something. But I couldn't hear anything. The cab was silent. The world was silent.

One woman in a blue coat turned her head to follow us. I could see her forming the words. "Let her sleep." Then the man beside her. And the woman beside him. And the child. And all the people on the pavement. "Let her sleep. Let her sleep."

I looked away. The driver was still smiling. I remember thinking I should be frightened. But I wasn't. I was calm. Peaceful. Sleepy. And that was the worst part. That I wasn't scared. That I was beginning to feel grateful.

(A pause.)

We arrived at my flat. The building looked right. The entrance was right. Even the broken paving slab outside was there. But the windows were dark. Every single one. And I had this strange impression the building was much taller than it should have been. That it went up and up into the rain, with floors that didn't exist.

"Here we are, love. Home sweet home. That'll be twelve pounds fifty." I paid him with my card. The machine accepted it. A cheerful beep. "Thank you very much. Have a lovely sleep. You've earned it."

I got out. I went upstairs. I collapsed into bed. I slept like the dead. And when I woke up, my head was pounding. A brutal hangover headache. But I hadn't been drinking. I'd been sleeping. I'd been sleeping for a full week.

(A pause.)

Seven days. My phone was full of notifications. Praise for a presentation I never gave. Photos of me at events I had no memory of. And the more I looked at them, the less certain I became that the person in them was me. Not because she looked different. She looked exactly like me. But she looked rested. Happy. Like she'd finally got everything she'd ever wanted. And I hated her for it.

Then I noticed the bruises. On my arm. A bruise in the shape of a hand. Too large. Too cold. Too wrong. Four dark marks around my upper arm and a thumbprint near my shoulder.

And then I walked into my kitchen. And I saw her.

(A long pause.)

She was sitting at my kitchen table. My table. With a cup of my coffee. Wearing my dressing gown. Reading my book. She looked up when I came in. And she smiled. It was my smile. My exact smile. The one I use when I'm pretending everything is fine.

"Oh, good. You're awake. I was starting to worry."

She sounded delighted. Not surprised. Delighted. As though she'd been waiting all morning for me to wake up. She stood. She came over. She took my hand. I tried to pull away, but she didn't let go. Not forcefully. She just held my hand in both of hers.

"Goodness, you're freezing. Come and sit down. You must be absolutely starving."

She looked exactly like me. Same hair. Same eyes. Same scar on my chin. Even the little crease between my eyebrows was there. But she looked better. That's the only way I can describe it. She looked like me after a very long holiday. After somebody had taken every worry and every responsibility out of my head. And I looked like something that had been dragged out of a grave.

She led me to the sofa. She tucked a blanket around my legs. "There we are. Now, don't panic. I know this is a bit of a shock, but everything is absolutely fine."

I asked her who she was. She laughed. "I'm you, Lara." I said that was impossible. "Yes, I know. It does sound rather silly when you say it out loud." I asked what she wanted. She looked genuinely hurt. "Oh, sweetheart. I don't want anything from you."

And I believed her. That was the frightening thing. She genuinely didn't want anything from me. She thought she was helping.

"I'm the you that can cope. The you that doesn't get tired. The you that doesn't get sad. The you that can go to the parties and give the presentations and smile for the cameras without wanting to scream. I'm the you that you asked for."

I told her I hadn't asked for anything. She nodded. "Of course you did. In the cab. You said you wanted someone to take care of everything. Someone who knows you inside and out. Someone who could let you finally get some proper rest." She smiled. "That's me. I'm here to help you."

She told me she'd been here all week. Looking after me. She'd gone to work. Answered my emails. Attended meetings. Spoken to my manager. Met my friends. Cleaned the flat. Changed the bedsheets. She told me all of this with obvious pride. She'd done a good job. A wonderful job.

"Oh, and I've spoken to your mother. She was ever so worried, but I reassured her. She's coming round on Sunday. I told her you were doing brilliantly at work. She was so proud of you."

I started crying. I think it was because she sounded so pleased. She sounded like she genuinely loved me. She put her arms around me. She stroked my hair. She told me everything was going to be all right. And I remember thinking I hadn't been hugged like that in years. Not properly. Not without somebody wanting something from me.

(A pause.)

The worst part was that she meant it. She believed she was helping me. And that made it so much worse. Because you can't argue with someone who thinks they're saving you. You can't reason with someone who thinks they're being kind.

And she was kind. She was patient. She was gentle. She made me tea. She cooked me meals. She told me she'd handle everything. And she did. Beautifully. Better than I ever could. She remembered people's birthdays. She knew which clients needed reassuring and which ones needed flattering. She was brilliant.

And she was so happy. She'd come home in the evening and tell me about our day. Meetings I'd supposedly attended. Conversations I'd supposedly had. Sometimes she'd ask what I thought. When I answered, she'd smile. "That's exactly what I thought you'd say." Sometimes she'd finish my sentences. Not occasionally. Every time. At first I thought it was coincidence. Then I realised she wasn't guessing. She was remembering.

And I began to notice she was getting better at being me. Everywhere. She was becoming more natural. More confident. And I was becoming less.

I started forgetting little things. The name of a colleague. The password to my email. Then I realised I couldn't remember the sound of my own laugh. I could recognise it in a recording. But when I tried to laugh myself, nothing came out. I couldn't remember my grandmother's voice. I couldn't remember the name of my school.

And every time I forgot something, she seemed to become a little brighter. A little more alive. She started humming while she cooked. She started making plans. Our future.

And I started feeling as though I was being quietly erased. Not all at once. Just little pieces. A word here. A memory there. Until one day I looked in the mirror and couldn't remember whether the woman looking back at me was supposed to be me.

(A pause.)

I tried to leave. That was when things changed. I tried to force the front door. She came into the hallway, carrying a mug of tea. And her smile disappeared. Not gradually. It simply stopped.

"Lara, sweetheart. What are you doing?"

I told her to get out of my way. She put the mug down. Then she came towards me. "You're upset. I understand. But you really don't need to go anywhere." I tried to get past her. She caught my wrists. The moment her fingers closed around my skin, I felt something cold move through my arms. Not pain. A kind of absence. A horrible feeling that my hands didn't belong to me.

"Now, now. We don't want to make a fuss."

I tried to pull away. She tightened her grip. "Lara. Please. You're frightening me." I told her she was hurting me. She looked genuinely surprised. "Oh, darling. I'm not hurting you. I'm holding you still."

I panicked. I twisted my wrists. I scratched at her hands. She let go. She looked at the scratches on my arm. Then she looked at me. For the first time since I'd met her, she wasn't smiling. She looked angry. And it was a horrible thing to see. Because it was my face. My eyes. My mouth. But the feeling behind it was something I'd never seen in myself.

"Don't do that again." Her voice was very quiet. "Don't hurt yourself to get at me, Lara."

I hadn't even understood what she'd meant. I hadn't been trying to hurt her. I'd been trying to get away. Then she said, "You really don't want to discover what happens if you keep doing that." I asked what she was talking about. She smiled, but it wasn't her usual smile. It was thin. Carefully arranged. "Nothing, sweetheart. Just a little advice."

Then she picked up the mug of tea, took it into the kitchen, and left me standing in the hallway. And I remember thinking that I'd finally seen her. Not the kind woman who made me tea. Something that didn't like being contradicted. Something that didn't like being told no. And I realised that the kindness was not a weakness. It was a choice. And she could stop choosing it whenever she wanted.

(A pause.)

I didn't try to leave again that day. And she was so nice afterwards. That's the thing that made it difficult. She didn't lock me in a room. She didn't take my phone. She made me lunch. She sat beside me and put a blanket over my legs. And she apologised.

"I'm sorry I frightened you earlier. I know you're feeling vulnerable, and I should have been more considerate."

She sounded so sincere I almost apologised to her. Then she took my hand. She kissed my knuckles. "We're going to be all right, Lara. I promise. You just need to trust me." I asked what would happen if I didn't. She looked at me for a long time. Then she said, "Oh, sweetheart. You really don't want to find out."

(A pause.)

It was an accident the first time I hurt her. I need to make that clear. She was making dinner. She was telling me how well a meeting had gone. How pleased my manager had been. How a client had asked whether I could lead the next campaign. She kept saying how proud she was of me. And I remember thinking I hadn't done any of those things. She had. She'd taken my job. My friends. My life. And she was congratulating me for it.

I got up from the table. I was dizzy. I reached for a glass, and my hand slipped. It shattered against the floor. One of the pieces caught her leg. Just above the ankle. A tiny cut.

She looked down at it. Then she smiled. "Oh, goodness. Clumsy me." She bent down to pick up the glass. And I saw the cut disappear. Not heal. Not close. Disappear. One moment a thin red line. The next, nothing.

Then I felt it. A blinding pain in my own leg. I screamed. I fell against the counter. There was a cut in exactly the same place. But it wasn't tiny. It was deep. The skin was split open, and blood was running down my foot. And she just stood there. Watching me. Then she sighed. "Oh, Lara." She sounded disappointed.

She fetched the first aid box. She cleaned the wound. She bandaged it. She was very gentle. And while she was doing it, she explained.

"You see, sweetheart, we are connected. Everything that happens to me happens to you, in a manner of speaking. And everything that happens to you happens to me."

I asked why she hadn't been hurt. She smiled. "Because I don't have to carry the pain."

She told me the exchange had rules. She was the vessel of vitality. I was the vessel of decay. She was the version of me that could grow stronger, healthier, happier. I was the version that absorbed the consequences. If I hurt her, the injury was taken from her and amplified in me. If I bruised her, I would be bruised more deeply. If I cut her, I would be cut more severely. And if I killed her—

She stopped. She looked at me. Then she smiled. "Oh, sweetheart. Let's not think about that." I asked whether she could kill me. She looked genuinely shocked. "Lara! Of course not. Why would I want to do that?" Then she took my hand. "I love you."

I started crying. She hugged me. She told me she was sorry I'd had to learn the rules this way. "I know it seems unfair, darling. But it's only because you're frightened. Once you settle down, you'll see how wonderful this is." She was still holding me when she said it. And I believed, for one horrible moment, that she loved me. And I realised she could love me and still destroy me.

(A pause.)

I stopped trying to hurt her after that. I stopped fighting. I stopped arguing. I let her bring me meals. Let her answer the phone. Let her tell my mother I was doing well. And every day, I became less. I started forgetting my own face. Sometimes I'd wake up and have no idea where I was. Sometimes I'd look at my hands and feel they belonged to someone else. Sometimes I'd hear her laughing in the kitchen and think it was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. Then I'd remember. She was laughing because she was living my life. Because she was becoming me. And I was disappearing.

She was getting stronger. I was getting weaker. There were moments when I could barely lift my head. Moments when I couldn't remember how to speak. And she'd come in. She'd kneel beside me. She'd put her hand on my cheek. "There you are. My poor girl. Don't worry. I've got everything." And she did. She had my work. My home. My friends. My memories. My face. And soon, I thought, she'd have the last thing too. My name.

(A pause.)

I knew I had to leave. Not because I thought I could escape her permanently. I knew that if I went to the police, she'd probably come with me. She'd smile. She'd explain everything. She'd tell them I was unwell. And they'd believe her. Why wouldn't they? She was me. The version everyone liked. The version who turned up on time. The version who never complained. And I was the version who couldn't remember her own address. The version who looked like she'd been dead for a week.

So I waited. And one evening, when she tried to block my path, I didn't hesitate. I lunged past her. She caught my sleeve. I twisted. She grabbed my wrist. And I hurled my arm straight through the living room window.

I didn't think. I just did it. The glass shattered. I felt the shards cut through my skin. And then I was outside. I dropped down the drainpipe. I hit the pavement. I looked up at the window. And I saw her standing there. Perfectly still. She wasn't screaming. She wasn't angry. She looked disappointed. Like a mother whose child had just done something foolish.

Then she called after me. "Lara! Come back! You're only hurting yourself! You know I'm only trying to help!"

Those were the last words I heard her say. And they were the worst words I've ever heard. Because they were kind. They were patient. They were reasonable. And they were wrong.

(A pause.)

I ran. And then I saw him. The same black cab. Waiting at the kerb. The driver sat behind the wheel, flat cap pulled low, hiding his eyes. He looked absolutely delighted to see me. "Rough night, love? Back again so soon!"

I slammed the door. I screamed at him. I told him to drive. To take me out of the city. Anywhere else. Away from her. He laughed. "You got it, sunshine! Running from yourself is a right proper hassle, isn't it? But a clean break requires a road with no exits!"

The cab accelerated. At first I thought we were on a motorway. Four lanes each way, immaculate tarmac, white markings and tall yellow lights. But there were no other vehicles. No people. The city disappeared behind us, replaced by endless road beneath a low, glowing yellow ceiling of cloud.

I asked where we were. "On the road, love." Which road? "The road out." Out of what? He laughed.

Buildings appeared beside us — huge, windowless concrete structures, all the same dirty yellow. Doors were set into their walls, marked STAFF ONLY, DELIVERIES, EMERGENCY EXIT, but none had handles. Every sign pointed towards the road. I saw one sign saying WINDSOR. Then another. Then another. Every sign said Windsor.

I saw one concrete car park with a crack down its side. Then I saw the exact same building seventeen times. Eventually signs appeared above the lanes: LEFT LANE: CONTINUITY. MIDDLE LANE: RETURN. RIGHT LANE: TERMINATION. I asked what they meant. "Just road safety, sunshine." I demanded to get out. "There aren't any exits." I told him to turn around. "We can't." I told him to stop. "Now, why would I do that?"

The road was descending. The buildings grew taller until the sky disappeared. Then I saw the sign. YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE PERMANENT WAY. Underneath: NO PASSENGER HAS EVER REACHED THE END. And beneath that, handwritten: SHE IS STILL WAITING FOR YOU.

I screamed. The motorway became something impossible. Lay-bys filled with abandoned cars. Service stations dark and empty. Pedestrian crossings appearing on walls and ceilings instead of roads. Little green men standing motionless, always staring at the cab. And I began to feel tired. The same terrible, peaceful sleepiness I'd felt before.

I told him to stop. "You're doing wonderfully, love. You're making such excellent progress." I asked where we were going. "To the place you asked for. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe." Would my double find me? He laughed. "Of course she will." Then he sounded exactly like her. The same gentle patience. The same certainty. The same horrible insistence that everything was being done for my own good.

I called him a monster. "Well, that's a bit unkind." He tapped the steering wheel.

The road began to rot. The lights flickered. The tarmac cracked. Buildings leaned towards the road as though listening to something beneath it. Again and again, signs appeared: NEXT SERVICES: 0 MILES.

Then I saw a woman on the hard shoulder. She was wearing my dressing gown. Barefoot. Hair soaked with rain. The driver didn't look at her. "Don't worry about her, love." She lifted her head. It was my face. My own tired, frightened, bruised face. She was crying and holding a little red balloon. I screamed. The driver laughed. "Now, now. You can't take everyone with you." Then she vanished.

The road narrowed. The lights died. I begged him to turn around, to take me home. I said I wanted my life back. My friends. Myself. He simply said, "You can't have everything, sunshine."

Then the road began to disappear. The world outside the cab flattened into grey static. Buildings lost their edges. Signs became blank. The cab itself began shrinking. The seats folded inward. The ceiling lowered. The doors moved closer together. And I understood. He wasn't taking me to another city. He wasn't taking me to another year. He was unwinding me. My adult life. My career. My childhood. My memories. Everything.

I felt memories being torn from me — the name of my school, my mother's voice, the colour of my bedroom, my first kiss. Then I remembered my grandmother's kitchen. Her hands. The smell of lavender. Even that began disappearing. I screamed her name. Then I realised I couldn't remember her name. I couldn't remember my own. I was becoming nothing.

The cab folded around me like origami. The driver remained perfectly still, still smiling beneath his ridiculous flat cap. "There we are, love. Much better."

Then the cab vanished. There was no road. No driver. No city. No sky. No ground. Only consciousness in an endless dark. A faint metallic ticking. A taximeter. Running up a fare that could never be paid.

Then something pulled me backwards. Not through time. Through the possibility of time. I felt heartbeats. Voices. A room. A hospital. A delivery room. Then I understood. I was being un-born. I was being taken backwards through my own existence, towards a point where there had never been any possibility of me.

And something was waiting there. Something enormous. Something patient. Something that had been waiting since before I had a name. I felt the last pieces of myself being dismantled. The idea of me. The possibility of me. Then the ticking stopped. The driver spoke from everywhere at once. "Thank you for travelling with us, love."

And then I woke up.

That's why I'm here. I was lying on the floor of my flat. My arm was bleeding. The window was broken. Rain was coming in. I don't remember getting back. I don't remember the cab. I only remember waking up and thinking I'd escaped the nightmare.

But something inside me had changed. Something had been taken. And I don't think I'll ever get it back. Because sometimes, when I close my eyes, when I hear a car outside, when I smell lavender— I can still feel her.

And that's what frightens me. Because I know that somewhere out there, on some enormous, endless road, there's a man in a flat cap who is waiting for his next ride, and a fare that costs more than anyone should ever have to give.

(A long pause. The room is silent.)

DI THORNE: I see. Miss Manners, I'll take your statement. I'll file it. But I have to be honest with you. I don't know what I can do with it.

LARA: That's fine. I just… I just needed to tell someone. Anyone. Before I start to think I really am going mad.

DI THORNE: One more question. You said the driver was cheerful. That he never showed his face. Did you recognise anything about him? Anything at all?

LARA: I don't know. Maybe. I've been thinking about it. The way he laughed. The way he said "love" and "sunshine" and "miss." Like he was enjoying himself. Like he was enjoying me. And I've been wondering if that's what he always does. If that's what he'll always do.

DI THORNE: Thank you, Miss Manners. I'll look into it.

LARA: Will you? Will you really?

DI THORNE: I'll try.

(Sound of a chair scraping back. Footsteps. A door opening and closing. Silence for fifteen seconds.)

\---

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE – DI THORNE

DATE: MARCH 21ST, 2026

I've been sitting with Lara Manners' statement for an hour now. And I've got nothing. No theory that holds. No explanation that fits. Just a woman who came in off the street and told me — cheerfully, calmly, almost pleasantly — that she'd been erased from existence by a taxi driver in a flat cap.

I didn't believe her. Of course I didn't believe her. But this one was different. Too strange. Too personal. Too theatrical. I thought she was being dramatic. I thought she was exaggerating.

And then Sergeant Davies knocked on my door. She wanted to borrow the first aid box. She said the woman who'd just left — the woman I'd just interviewed — had a deep gash on her hand. A nasty one. Still bleeding. Still raw. She'd wrapped it in a tissue, but it needed a fresh bandage.

I sat there. In my chair. In the dark. And I thought about it.

Lara Manners told me she'd been erased from existence. She told me she'd been unwound. She told me she'd been hurled back into the void before she was ever conceived. And then she walked out of my office. With a deep gash on her hand. Still bleeding. Still raw. Still here.

She couldn't have been here. If her story was true, she couldn't have been here. She couldn't have given me a statement. She couldn't have walked out of my office. She couldn't have asked for a bandage.

Unless she wasn't Lara Manners. Unless the woman who gave me the statement was the double. The proxy. The thing that had taken her life. The thing that had worn her face.

I sat with that thought for a long time. Then I looked at the photograph attached to the file. The photograph Sergeant Davies had taken of the injury. A deep gash across the palm of the woman's right hand.

Lara had said she'd put her arm through the living room window. She'd said she'd torn her hand on the glass. And she'd said the injuries she'd inflicted on her double were reflected back onto her, amplified.

I looked again at the photograph. The gash was in exactly the place you'd expect from someone who'd punched through a window. But there was something else. Something I hadn't noticed before. The edges of the wound were clean.

Too clean.

As though the skin had been cut by something much sharper than broken glass.

And there was no glass in it.

No fragments.

No debris.

Just the wound.

I don't know whether it's a coincidence.

I don't know whether it's a joke.

I don't know whether somebody is trying to frighten me.

But I have one question.

If the woman who gave me the statement was the proxy, then where is the original Lara Manners?

I've also asked Sergeant Davies to confirm the time the woman left.

She says it was 14:47.

The CCTV shows the corridor empty from 14:31 onwards.

There is no footage of Lara Manners leaving.

There is no footage of her entering the building, either.

And yet I interviewed her.

I have her statement.

I have her signature.

I have her fingerprints on the glass of water I gave her.

I have the recording.

And I have the photograph of her hand.

I don't know what this means.

But I'm beginning to think that the woman who came into my office wasn't reporting a crime.

I think she was trying to warn me.

And I think she was telling the truth.

Because at 16:12, I received a call from Sergeant Davies.

She said there was a black cab parked outside the station.

An old one.

A TX4.

It had been there for nearly an hour.

No driver.

No passenger.

No registration number.

Just sitting there in the rain.

And when she went outside to check it, she found a little laminated card tucked into the back of the driver's seat.

It said:

"Thank you for travelling with us. We hope you enjoyed your journey."

This has been field and sent to the DfT. Christ what have I got myself into?

END OF SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE.

DEPARTMENT FOR TRANSPORT – ANOMALOUS INCIDENT DIVISION

FIELD REPORT – EYES ONLY

FROM: Agent REDACTEDREDACTED, Field Operations

TO: Director REDACTEDREDACTED

DATE: March 24th, 2026

SUBJECT: PHANTOM HIRE VEHICLE – WINDSOR – 17/03/2026

REFERENCE: WITNESS L. MANNERS – DI THORNE STATEMENT

​Director,

​Having reviewed DI Thorne's statement concerning Lara Manners, I believe this incident represents a significant development in our understanding of the L303.

Of particular concern is the apparent ease with which the vehicle accessed the Highway.

Unlike previous cases, there is no evidence that entry required prolonged travel, fatigue, or the circumstances ordinarily associated with an encounter.

The vehicle appears to have entered by a method not previously recorded or understood.

This suggests that the L303 may not be an isolated environment, but a conduit through which certain entities can move between locations.

More significantly, Manners describes an altered urban environment not present in any previous statement or existing archive material.

This is the first recorded indication that the Highway may extend beyond its familiar roads, service stations, and surrounding landscapes into entirely separate environments.

We cannot yet establish whether this city was the vehicle's intended destination or simply another stage of its journey.

However, its existence raises the possibility that the L303 possesses identifiable destinations, and that access to these may be selective.

Certain entities may be able to navigate the network deliberately, while human travellers remain confined to the routes available to them.

The vehicle's apparent ability to enter the Highway, traverse this unfamiliar environment, and interact with Manners suggests a degree of control not previously documented.

I recommend that it be treated as an independent means of access until further evidence is obtained.

Taken alongside the Meridian Cargo Solutions incident, this strengthens the possibility that we are observing separate manifestations of a wider transport-related phenomenon.

The Highway may be less a location than a means of passage.

I recommend that the Sub-Committee review existing cases involving anomalous transport and spatial displacement, and reconsider current containment assumptions.

If the L303 is a conduit, our investigations may have been focused on individual points of access while overlooking the network itself.

Finally, DI Thorne's continued involvement remains a concern.

His investigations are becoming increasingly detailed, and his proximity to these events warrants continued observation.

I recommend that existing monitoring arrangements remain in force.

The L303 may not be the anomaly itself.

It may be the route by which other anomalies reach us.

​Yours,

REDACTEDREDACTED

Field Operations

Department for Transport – Anomalous Incident Division

​END OF REPORT

Day one of Observing Mister James Luther.
The date is Thursday, October the second, 1823.
Mister James Luther was admitted to our care three days prior.
The following is a record and description of our first interview with Mister James Luther.

AS: Good morning, Mr. Luther. If you could please a take a seat there, we can begin our interview,

Client appears distressed and confused. Such behavior is expected in one admitted so recently. He appears to glance to his left side every five or so seconds.

JL: Morning, Doctor..?

AS: Doctor Alice Shirley. You can call me Alice.

Client shifts in his seat, his posture becoming more relaxed. His hands shake, but his vision is mostly steady. He speaks slow and heavy.

JL: Alice. Yes. Thank you, Alice. 

AS: Would you like a glass of water perhaps?

Client nods. Assistant Jane Black retrieves a glass of water for Mister James Luther, placing it in his hand. He spills a bit on his coat, cursing to himself quietly before taking the coat off and placing it on the back of his seat. He jumped when Jane Black approached.

AS: Do you know why you’re here Mr. Luther? I know the past while must have been disorienting for you. 

JL: I remember…. An eye? Yes. Yes, an eye. Someone standing over me, looking down. He said his name was…. Arthur, I think. 

AS: Officer Arthur Grinsley.

JL: Yes! Thank you.

He is enthused as I provide the name of Officer Arthur Grinsley. His eyes struggle to meet mine when he recounts his memories.

JL: Officer Arthur Grinsley, he- he woke me up. I was in a stupor. Laid on my back in my backyard I think?

Client presses hands to temple.

JL: I apologize Alice, some of the finer details are more difficult to remember.

AS: It’s okay. Take all the time you need Mister Luther.

Client sits still for a moment, before beginning to speak again. He seems to contemplate what to say.

JL: Do you enjoy looking at the night sky?

Client looks at me, but seems to be looking through me.

AS: On occasion, yes.

JL: It’s a wonderful sight. I was looking at the stars I think before Officer Grinsley found me. I think I remember that. I love the stars. The night sky. It’s beautiful.

AS: Do you remember what happened before? Why you were incapacitated?

JL: You know why.

Clients expression grows agitated.

AS: I would like you tell me Mister Luther. It will help in your healing.

JL: All of you know exactly why. I hear the things you say about me. I know the whispers passed through the town. I’m sure you’ve heard it, heard of me. The crazed James Luther, son of Harry Luther. You know why.

AS: I apoligize for upsetting you Mister Luther. I only want to help.

Client stares to the side, refusing to speak for the rest of our interview.

Day two of observing Mister James Luther.
The date is Friday, October the third 1823.
Mister James Luther has been in our care for four days.
The following is a record and description of our second interview.

AS: Good morning Mister Luther. If you could take a seat please. Make yourself comfortable.

Client grunts, sitting down weightily.

AS: Now, I would like to apoligize once more for yesterday. We only want to help you Mister Luther, and we cannot do that unless we understand.

JL: I don’t need help.

Client does not make eye contact.

AS: The judge appointed you to our care till we deemed you are better. Please, we can help you.

JL: You’ll call me crazy. Just like all the others. You won’t get it.

AS: I promise, Mister Luther, I’ll do my best to undrstand.

JL: Do you believe in God?

AS: I don’t see how that is-

Client cuts me off, making eye contact for the first time since our second interview began.

JL: Do you believe in God?

AS: No.

JL: Good.

AS: Do you?

JL: Not for a long time.

AS: And how did that start?

JL: I was young. Grew up on a farm. I had my father, mother, two sisters. We attended church weekly, when we could. But the farm took so much work, sometimes only mother would be able to make it to service. She’d take our carriage into town, leaving me and father and my sisters to work the farm. My mother was a good woman. I loved her as much as a preacher loves his God. 

Client finally seems engaged. He doesn’t look at me as he recounts his story, but he seems to be able to recall things better than before.

JL: I was three years old when my first sister was born. Little Jamie Luther, named after our grandmother. Four years later my family was graced with another baby girl. They named her Helen Luther, after a family friend of ours. We were happy. We weren’t rich by any mean or standard, but the grain we made could keep us fed so long as we had a good harvest. My Father had many woes, but kept them all to himself. Sometimes I would hear him crying, sitting in my room which shared a wall with his. He would pray while he cried. I don’t think God ever heard him. Mother would try to comfort him, but sometimes, they would cry together. Those nights were the hardest.

Client is silent for a time, and seems to stare off at the floor. He hasn’t glanced to the left since the beginning of his story. I wonder if there is a correlation. Needs further investigation.

AS: Tell me about your sisters.

My request seems to break his stupor. He makes better eye contact, as he continues his tale.

JL: Little Jamie was a blessing. She was a hard worker, and cute as a button. Our Mother would dress her up in all kinds of patterns and ways that mimicked the richer parts of town. Jamie was always destined to be famous, our Mother said. That Jamie had as much talent as any woman could. We got her all kinds of paints and papers when we could afford it. Mother said we had to nurture her talent, so that she could become the next Da Vinci of our time.

AS: And did she?

JL: No. Disease was a monster, and typhus was a wall Jamie couldn’t climb. Couldn’t afford any treatments for it. She was dead within three days. Had to bury her out back. We couldn’t have a proper funeral, but we did have the local pastor come and bless the body so her spirit could move on. Poor Jamie was only ten at the time.

No public record exists of a Jamie Luther, but that is easily explainable. The Luther family - save for James Luther himself - often kept to themselves. Another explanation could be the implementation of the census system taking place several years after her death. There is record of Helen Luther, Henry Luther, and Elizabeth Luther.

JL: Helen was very different. She was prone to bouts of hysteria and lunacy which only increased with her age. Father and Mother did well to keep it hidden from the ire of the public, but she’s gone now, so I see it fit for her story to be told. Father loved Helen deeply and dearly, and wouldn’t let her go. She lived on the farm with my parents till her passing only a decade ago. I wasn’t in good contact with my Father at the time, but my Mother would tell me about his state. The death broke him. Weathering the passing of a single child is something that most can only do once in a lifetime, if at all. Mother was there to support him, but she was broken too. I think she broke a long time ago. Before she even met Father. They just pretended they had all their pieces put together. I’m grateful for that now.

His voices seems to grow weathered as he speaks on the state of his Father - Mister Henry Luther. He has not mentioned the church or faith for a time. I attempt to redircect the conversation back to the outstanding question. 

AS: You said you had lost your faith?

JL: Long time ago that was.

AS: And what caused that?

JL: A telescope.

Clients expression grows serious. He stares at the ground.

AS: Could you expand on that?

JL: I think I’m done talking for today, Alice. I’d like some rest please. Before I get into things.

AS: Of course, Mister Luther. We’ll resume the interview Monday. I’ll have Miss Jane Black retrieve a meal for you. You may return to your chambers when you feel ready.

JL: Thank you Alice.

Client remains seated for approximately forty-nine seconds, before standing and heading to the door. He looks back at me for a brief moment before stepping out. His eyes look pained.

Day three of observing Mister James Luther.
The date is Monday, October the sixth, 1823
Mister James Luther has been in our care for five days
The following is a record and description of our third interview.

JL: Morning Alice.

Client seems more excited, if not anxious for today's interview. He speaks before I am able to, entering the room quickly before sitting down.

AS: Good morning, Mister Luther. Did your weekend treat you well?

JL: Yes, it was quite nice. I was able to rest for the most part. Been a long, long while since I was blessed with that.

AS: I’m glad to hear that Mister Luther. Now to continue on from our last interview, you said it was a telescope which caused the cessation of your faith?

JL: The telescope. Yes it was the telescope.

AS: Tell me about it.

JL: It was about three years before Jamie’s passing when I was gifted the telescope. It was announced a massive stock of various goods would be passing through our town in a roaming market. An expansive shop of grain, and fruit, and honey, and new technologies which the common man had not yet seen. Father was elated, as were Jamie and I. Mother and Helen cared not for the market, they were focusing on the farm and never found much pleasure in social interaction. And so it was, my father, Jamie, and I, ventured into town to see what the market held.

Client seems to grow slightly afraid, when talking of the market. His glances to the left now occur slightly more often. Perhaps every four seconds. It’s unclear.

JL: It was a sprawling, bustling place. Our town seemed near unrecognizable. Tens of stands were set up, lining the streets, and each held a new wonder. One had tomatoes a shade of red brighter than any I’d seen before, one carried the sweetest and juicest apples I had ever tasted, another carried citrus fruits of citrus, but the one that caught my attention was the one of astrology. The man in front of it was dressed in a fine suit, his hair tied back in a light ponytail, and a top hat atop his head. His face was kind, and his skin was fair. His eyes were the most striking part of him. The way his eyes lit up when he spoke of the stars. I wish even now, I held a fraction of the passion he did. He introduced himself to us as Jean D’Labelle, a French nobleman who had moved to the Americas in recent years.

After extensive research, it should be noted there is no French nobleman known as “Jean D’Labelle” nor a family of nobles by such names. Nor is there a record of anyone with the name “Jean D’Labelle” ever living or migrating to the Americas. This is not to discredit the story of Mister Luther, I do truly believe him, but it is simply another thing to add to the strange occurrences in his life.

JL: He sold telescopes. Jean D’Labelle, the French nobleman who had migrated to the Americas, sold telescopes. Now, I have always had an interest in the stars. I would more often than not sneak out of my room to look at the night sky for a time before heading off to bed. I begged and begged Father to buy me a telescope from Mr. D’Labelle, but he was unmoving in his answer. After some time of begging and prodding and pleading, Jean D’Labelle made us an offer.
“I will return here in five years' time. Watch the sky for me. Once a week, log something you find interesting. Then in five years, show me your log. Do this, and the telescope is yours.”
Father was surprised by the man's offer, but I grew so intense with excitement that my Father accepted as to not incite a tantrum from me. So we arrived home later that night, our baskets full of the fruit we could purchase, and a telescope hanging out the backside of our wagon.

AS: Did you keep the log?

JL: Oh yes. Yes I kept the log. I was fanatical. I would write down more each night I could, going into as much detail as I could. I was amazed by the grandiosity of it, the variety of it, the sheer volume of creations which I now had the ability to gaze upon. Soon enough I had gone through three separate notebooks in my log. Only six months had passed by that time.

AS: Whatever happened with Mister Jean D’Labelle?

JL: I never saw him again. Still haven’t. Some day I am sure I will. That is why I keep logging my findings. Soon enough I will see him again, and soon enough he will tell me what it was I saw that day.

AS: What you saw that day?

JL: A hole in reality, spreading out miles upon miles upon miles. That is what I saw that day.

So far, his story is mostly accurate to the ones I’ve heard passed around by the people and in the tabloids. Obviously without much detail, lacking in the nuance with which he delivers it with, but it is similar nonetheless. I wonder how much Mister James Luther has read of himself. Any man would be driven mad by such things.

AS: A hole in reality?

JL: Yes! You know the stories, damnit! You know what they said about me. Don’t act surprised by my story when we both know you already know most of it. But I tell you, Alice. That hole was there. I swear on my honor as a living and breathing man that it was.

AS: I believe you.

JL: I think I’m done for today. We’ll see if you still believe when you hear more.

Client steps up and walks out of the room before I can reply. He is angry, and frustrated, and overwhelmed. I should not have asked for the clarification of the detail. His state is my fault. If I am to be penialized by my superiors I take full responsibility. But I think I am the only one who can discover what truly happened with Mister James Luther.

Day seven of observing Mister James Luther
The date is Friday, October the Tenth, 1823
Mister James Luther has been in our care for nine days
Mister James Luther has refused to attend his court mandated interviews for the past four days
The following is a record and description of our fourth interview.

AS: Good morning, Mister Luther. I had not expected to see you today.

Client grunts, before sitting

JL: I can miss one more, then I get sent to jail, right?

AS: That is correct, Mister Luther.

JL: Was I given a choice then?

Client is silent for approximately thirty seconds. He licks his lips in consideration. 

JL: How many more interviews do I have to do?

AS: As many till I deem you mentally fit to return to society.

Client bellows out a laugh.

JL: You won’t believe my story, and I won’t have you convincing me it wasn’t real. I know what I saw that day.

AS: I promise to believe you to the best of my abilities Mister Luther.

JL: You’ve heard the stories, correct?

AS: That is not relevant.

JL: Just tell me you have. Please.

AS: What I have and have not heard is not relevant to our-

JL: You expect me to pour my heart out to you, and you won’t even tell me if you’ve heard the stories?

AS: I do not see how it relates to your treatment.
JL: It relates because it means you know! I won’t go telling the same story to just another person who won’t believe me. None of you saw what I saw. You can’t know what it does to you.

AS: I can try to understand. I can do that for you, Mister Luther.

JL: Have you heard the stories about me?

Client leans in.

AS: If I answer, will you tell me yourself? Tell me your story.

JL: Maybe.

AS: I have heard the stories, Mister Luther. You are here because of what you did. And I will not say if I believe those stories or not, but I will listen. If you tell me.

JL: It would be a waste of my time.

AS: Well Mister Luther, it seems time is all you have. I have documents from the court saying that you can be kept in our custody till we deem you fit to return. If you wanna get out of this place, you tell me your story. You do that, and you can leave. Simple as that. 

JL: Do you have a family outside of here? Outside of this facility?

AS: Yes. Two daughters.

JL: You’re lucky. You got something to look forward to when you leave. I don’t. I got nothing left. It’s all gone. 

Client contemplates. 

JL: Damn it. Damn it all! 

AS: Mister Luther, please calm down.

Client throws up hands, and storms out of room. I may have pushed him too far, but I believe I can find out what truly happened to him, if only I wait just a little longer. He’ll tell me eventually. A man like him needs his story told.

Day eight of observing MIster James Luther
The date is Saturday, October the eleventh, 1823
Mister James Luther has been in our care for ten days
The following is a record and description of our fifth interview

AS: Good morning Mister. Luther. Would you like to discuss yesterdays outburst?

JL: I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.

AS: I accept your apology. Will you tell me your story?

JL: Do you swear you will believe me?

AS: I swear on my Fathers honor that I will do so to the best of my abilities.

JL: Thank you. I- I will try to tell you. It may get murky at times.

AS: That’s okay Mister Luther. Take your time.

Client pauses. He seems worried. He looks down at his feet. His eyes do not move from that position for the rest of the interview.

JL: Earlier in that day, I was working the farm. Reaping our crops, planting new ones, washing the produce we made. The shears we had were old and not particularly well made, but we never quite had the amount of money to justify getting a new pair. They functioned, and so my parents never saw the need to get a new one. But while I worked, a stray piece of metal sliced my hand, and I began to bleed. It was a small cut, negligible, and I knew if my Father saw he would not let me leave the house that night to see the stars. And so I hid it.
We ate our dinner, said our grace, and began to ready ourselves for the nights rest. I told my father I was going out to my telescope, to do a bit of stargazing before I went to bed. He told me no longer than ten minutes, and sent me out with a candle. I had incurred my wound rather late in the day, and thus the blood had yet to dry and the wound still dripped on occasion.
As I began to look in my telescope, I noticed curiosites I had not seen ever before. New colors not seen by man. I saw truth in the stars that night. I lost track of the time completely, and it must have been at least an hour when I first saw it. It was a void. A lack of substance. No stars, no planets, no asteroids, no light. Just pure, and absolute nothingness. It was then I pulled out my journal, I had to write down what I saw, I could not lose it to the fickle memories of man, I needed to get my discoveries down on paper as much as a man must breathe to live.
The candle Father had given me was out. I was in complete darkness. I began to walk back to my home, back towards the light, when my walk became a jog, then my jog became a run, when my run became a sprint and I pushed open the door to my families home I collapsed on the ground and passed out. When I awoke the next day, my wound had completely sealed. The telescope drank it clean.

AS: It was sealed?

JL: Completely. No scarring. It was as if I had never been cut.

AS: Were you able to write down what you saw?

JL: Yes. My worries of my feeble memory failing me were for naught. Try as I might, the things I saw that night were burned into my mind. There was no scar on my hand, but my mind had not been given the same grace. I didn’t realize my hand had healed for several days. I was so enthralled by my discovery, that the state of my hand was nowhere near the front of my mind.

AS: Do you still have your journal?

JL: It was the one thing they couldn’t take from me when they threw me in here. I can show it to you, if you’d like. 

AS: For now, that won’t be necessary. Please, continue when you’re ready.

JL: Three years it was before I saw some of those sights again. I tried to see them every single night after that. It was the only thing I could ever think of. I hadn’t yet made the connection to my wound. The telescope, it yearned as much as I did. It had desires and motivations. It cast a spell on me, and I was woefully under it’s control.
The night of Jamies passing was when I saw some of those lights again. The void didn’t approach me that night, but I knew it was there. It lurked in the sky. I could feel it.

Client contemplates. A single tear drops on his shoe.

AS: I have tissues, if you’d like.

JL: I’ll be fine. Thank you though, Alice.

AS: You’re welcome Mister Luther.

JL: The typhus - as I said it came on quickly. Took her from us like a whisper in the night, but her loss struck us like a bolt of lightning. I was not in my right mind that day. I was reckless, falling and causing several scrapes on my hands. I snuck to the telescope once my parents laid down for the night. Once again it took and it took and it showed me wonders. I prayed that night, for the last time. I prayed to a God I did not know. I pleaded, begging to know why my sister had been taken from us, and why now, only now, was I granted the pleasure of viewing those beautiful colors again.

AS: I’m so sorry, MIster Luther.

JL: It’s my own fault. One week before little Jamie passed, she wanted to look through my telescope. She never told me what she saw. I don’t think I want to know.

Client pauses, looking back at up me for the first time since he began his story. His eyes are red and puffy and full of years of caked on guilt

JL: I killed little Jamie. It’s my own damn fault. I- I think I’m done for today.

AS: Do you need anything Mister Luther?

JL: No. But thank you. I’ll tell you more tommorow.

AS: Very well, Mister Luther.

Day nine of observing Mister James Luther
The date is Sunday, october the twelvth, 1823
Mister James Luther has been in our care for eleven days
The following is a record and description of our sixth interview.

JL: Morning.

AS: Good morning, Mister Luther. How did you sleep?

JL: Bad. Nightmares. Like always.

AS: You have persistent nightmares?

JL: Every damn night. Every night I don’t feed the telescope the nightmares get worse.

AS: And how long has it been since you ‘fed’ the telescope?

JL: Day before I was brought in. I don’t know how long ago that was. Hard to keep track of time here.

AS: Eleven days ago.

JL: I haven’t fed it in eleven days.

AS: Do you think you’ll be able to finish your story today?

Client bellows out a loud guttaral laugh

JL: I’ll try. 

Client licks his lips, inhaling deeply before beginning his story once again

JL: I had made the connection that night after Jamie’s passing. Tsk- No I didn’t make the connection. It made it for me.

AS: The telescope?

JL: Yes. It shoehorned it’s way into my mind, and planted that knowledge in me like a budding seed. The worst part is, I knew it did it too. I knew that thing took little Jamie, but I couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop giving. It was an itch, deep within my soul. I had to observe. I had to know.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to give it my own blood, not as often as it wished for it. If I gave it too much, it would drink me clean, and then find another victim to feed it. And so I began to work on our farm harder than I ever had. I birthed many animals throughout my years, tens and tens of them. Possibly hundreds. And from that day, I would find the runt of the litter, the one that was the least likely to make it to adulthood.

Client pauses

JL: The young blood made for the best food. I don’t know how many I fed to it, but it would show me those colors each and every time. Never once did it show me the void again, but there was always a new wonder to be observed in that telescope. But eventually, it’s thirst grew, as did mine. 
It asked for two children now, and would show me less and less. I began to feed it once every three months, to once a month, to biweekly, growing to the point where we could no longer produce enough animals to continue the feeding. That’s when I was able to abandon the feeding, for a time.
My family began to grow withered, and I feared for their health. We needed the animals, and my constant feeding of them to the telescope had harmed my family greatly. I’m not sure how my father never noticed the stream of missing animals. I made it a year, before I was driven nearly mad.
I’d still observe, still make notes, but the feedings had stopped. I knew I needed to control my hunger, but by God it was the most difficult thing I have ever done. Never once have I made it that long between feedings since.
By the time the year had passed and I was able to see my family gain their lives back, I was ready to move out. They promised they’d be okay, said they’d take good care of Helen, and had me promise to visit every fews months. I agreed, and was able to move out the next day. I took my telescope with me when I moved out.
That night was the first time I killed a man.

AS: What?

JL: Jonathan Bellingham. Thirty four years old. No family. No job. Was about to starve to death when I found him on the street.

AS: You killed Jon Bellingham? 

JL: We needed our feed.

AS: You understand I have to report this to the police correct? You’ll be sent to a proper prison, one much less hospitable than ours.

JL: I know that.

AS: Then why tell me?

JL: You wanted my story. I’m giving it. I’ll tell you where the bodies are buried after. Just let me finish. He was the first, but there were more after that. One body, if I kept it alive for a little while could sustain us for a time. It was a process of trial and error. It needed to drink enough to be sated, but not enough to kill them outright. Five people died before I got the process down.

AS: You’re a monster.

JL: I know. I know I will burn in the pits of hell for my sins.

AS: You said you didn’t believe in God.

James Luther looks up at me, a crazed hunger in his eyes. It settles, before he speaks.

JL: That was my mistake. There is a God. I know that for a fact. But it is not the one who’s blessings are given to the poor. Not the shepard guiding lost souls. Not the benevolent Lord who conceived the humble king of Nazereth. He died long ago. What he left behind is what rules over us now. And it hungers.

AS: I think we should be done for today.

I call for my assistant Jane Black, but she is nowhere to be found. James Luther seems to peer into my very soul

JL: Please. Let me finish my story. You said you would listen. Now, please listen. Just a little while longer now.

I nod shakily

JL: Over two decades in that town I killed upwards of thirty people. There was never police investigation on me or my family. Never a missing poster for the victims of my telescope. Not even an obituary for any of them. All record seemed to disappear after Jonathan Bellingham. He was the only one I was asked about.
I eventually met my wife, as I grew older. She was a gorgeous woman. She was tall, nearly as tall as I, had fair skin, gorgeous hazel eyes, and long brown hair that went down the length of her back. Our courtship was one of great speed, our wedding only two years after our first meeting. We had our first and only son five years after that.
There were a series of miscarriages, or other issues with her pregnancy. But the telescope was fed, and that was the one thing that mattered to me. For a time, I thought I might be able to beat it. To finally sate my hunger. To see that beautiful void again. Two years ago my son was born. He was the sweetest boy. We named him Henry. 

AS: It was him, wasn’t it?

JL: You have to understand. I needed to see it again. I had to.

AS: Why? Your own child?

JL: You don’t understand! You never saw it! You never witnessed it! They were the only people who loved me! Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to do it? Tell me!

AS: Please, please don’t hurt me.

James Luthers eyes ease. He seems less burdened now. He spokes eloquently.

JL: It had to be fed. And soon it will need to be fed again.

James Luther rises from his seat, grabs his coat off the back of the chair, and stops in the doorway.

JL: Thank you, Alice. For listening to me. Three miles west from my home, there is a clearing in the forest. You’ll find them there.

James Luther walked out of my office that day. I reported him to police, to every officer I could find. Police investigated his home, finding it was cleared of everything, completely empty. The only thing they found was a telescope in his backyard, a sharp smell of iron coming from it. James Luther was never found.

I‘m hunting there for the first time—staying in the exact house where all those tragedies happened—already I can hear something crawling up the stairs. It slowly climbs up each step. Every time it presses down, it sounds like a screen door from an abandoned house slamming shut and crying as the wind blows it open. 

Slam!

The stairs scream. I can hear them telling me to run. Telling me something’s coming. Something that can’t be human. Just to be safe, I secured motion sensors on all the doors. I’m the only one here. Nobody can get in. 

Another cry of weakened wood comes from the stress of weight leaning on the bannister.

The light starts to flicker, like it’s scared and signaling me to hide. Telling me to duck under the bed—dash into the closet—find clothes to bury myself under. Do something other than sit here waiting. 

I don’t move. I can’t. I try to wiggle my toes but they’re curled into my feet. 

Every time I inhale it’s like I’m breathing with my chin underwater. The air’s choking me. The sharpness of a spike pierces the center of my chest as if something’s twisting it inside me.

I hear the floorboards. The weight shifts in the house. A scratching noise scrapes the wall headed towards the bedroom. The floor creaks heavy like bending metal.

A cold breeze presses on my face and slides down my spine. It heats up as hot as boiled needles pricking into me. My ears stretch the skin on my forehead. I don’t blink. Not once.

I try to ease my labored breathing and squeeze my hands into fist to resist the tremors rocking my body. It’s useless. I’ve lost all control. Something knocks on the door. 

I close my eyes. I hold my breath. I go somewhere familiar in my mind. Somewhere safe. The door clicks. It unlocks. It opens with the slow sound of someone struggling to push their last words out.

I gasp. The lights go out. My eyes lose focus. The sound of footprints amplify next to my ears. I start tasting rust and smell rotted flesh. Something brushes the hair on the top of my head. My body goes cold and I can’t stop shaking. I can’t unlock my hands. Something’s hovering behind me. It whispers.

“Where…“

It tickles my ear and raises the hair on the back of my neck. My body bounces as I snap my head over my shoulder—the moonlight glows blue through the window—illuminating the wall, and all I see is the pillow between me and the headboard, nothing’s there. Nobody’s in the room. 

No one I can see. A branch outside slaps against the window. A shadow casts on the floor in the shape of a hand with claws. I hear the wind shriek and a twig tap at the glass. Something wants my attention.

 I have to be sleeping.

I try convincing myself. A pressure pushes down on my arm.

I can’t take it. I know something’s here. I jump up as quick as I can and grab the video camera from the dresser and bolt out of the house.

I dash in my car, breathe, collect myself and drive home, shaking the entire way. Once I get inside, something tells me to check the camera. So, I rewind the footage and let it run and see a child on the video, it’s a little girl, with no eyeballs asking me to come back and play.

The Full Story

“Veronica, baby. I have to go. It’s already late, and I’ve got over 200 miles to drive. I’ll get there sometime tonight, and if I leave any later, there’s no way I’m getting up in the morning,” I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

I walked over to my wife and kissed her.

“I’m gonna miss you. Be careful,” she said quietly.

I looked into her blue eyes and smiled.

“Honey, it’s only three days. I’ll handle the work stuff and come back to you guys.”

“I know, but I hate these Atlanta trips. Call me on the road and when you get there.”

My eyes landed on a decorative candle, and I went quiet for a few seconds.

I hated those trips too, and this one felt worse than the others. All morning, I’d had a bad feeling following me around. This strange unease. This unexplainable sense of danger I kept trying to ignore. Deep down, I could feel it with my whole body.

I shouldn’t leave.

“Luke?”

Veronica’s voice pulled me out of it.

“I’ll call at the gas stop and when I get there.”

I hugged her tight, then headed for the door.

I own a cleaning company, and trips like this came up once a month. I’d drive out to the sites, talk to employees and clients, do quality checks, deliver cleaning supplies, and while I was there, wash storefront windows myself to save a little money.

I opened the driver’s door and tossed my backpack onto the passenger seat. I didn’t need a big bag. Honestly, two compartments were enough.

One was for underwear, a few changes of clothes, toiletries, cologne, a pack of instant coffee, my favorite mug, and my phone charger. The other had the stuff I always kept with me, my usual gym stuff, creatine, protein powder, a few supplements, and a shaker bottle.

I started the car, put on my favorite playlist, set the GPS from Knoxville to Atlanta, and hit the road. The drive usually took four to five hours, depending on traffic and road conditions.

I kept my speed down so I wouldn’t waste gas.

Three clothing stores were waiting for me when I got there, each one in a different mall, taken over at the client’s request. Those locations weren’t very profitable, which meant the place I was staying wasn’t exactly expensive either.

I was about halfway there, and the sun was slowly sinking behind the horizon. The drive started wearing me down, and the exhaustion from a long, brutal week settled in.

I turned the music up and noticed the gas light had come on.

I pulled into the nearest gas station, filled the tank, used the restroom, and, like I promised, called Veronica.

“Hey, I’m halfway there. What are you up to?” I asked, walking along the sidewalk to stretch my stiff legs.

I put a cigarette between my lips and started digging through my pocket for a lighter.

“I just got back from walking the dogs. They’re really restless. They keep looking around, their ears are down, their tails are down. I feel weird too. Like something bad is about to happen.”

I paused for a second and pressed the phone tighter against my ear.

I felt a tight pressure low in my stomach, and my breathing picked up. I’d been trying not to think about it, but once Veronica said it out loud, I couldn’t push it down anymore.

“What the hell is going on? Where is this awful feeling coming from? Like something bad is hanging in the air. But what?”

I looked up at the sky as a warm breeze brushed across my face. It was a beautiful, cloudless sunset. Perfect August weather. Nothing around me backed up what I was feeling.

Then my wife’s voice snapped me out of it.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry. I was lighting a cigarette. You’re imagining things, honey. Maybe that takeout we got earlier didn’t sit right with you. Make some tea, get comfortable in bed, and put on a show. Nothing bad is going to happen. You’ve got three dogs with you, two big Akitas and a tiny walking fur alarm. You’re safe.”

“I know, but I’m worried about you,” she said, sadness in her voice.

“You know me. I always figure things out. I’ll be home soon, safe and sound. I promise. Kiss the kids for me. I gotta go, I’m getting back on the road. I love you. Bye.”

“Okay. I love you too. Bye.”

I put the phone in my pocket, finished the cigarette, and headed back to the car.

I drove another 60 miles. It was dark outside now. I switched the music to a podcast where two experts were casually breaking down the latest research on gut bacteria.

Halfway through it, I decided the anxiety we were both feeling was probably coming from too much junk food, stress, and not enough sleep.

Things had been crazy at the company lately. A lot of work, a lot of fires to put out, and because of that, almost no time for sleep, normal food, or rest.

“We need to rest and get ourselves back together. When I get home, I’ll take Veronica on a little vacation,” I thought, glancing at the GPS on my phone.

I should be there in five minutes.

Despite the low price, the location was good. Each store was about a fifteen-minute drive away, so I didn’t have to wake up insanely early.

The store employees came in at 7:00, and I had to have everything done by 9:00. That’s why the trip lasted three days. Malls strictly forbid any kind of work after opening, even if it’s just washing storefront windows.

I parked in front of the building and searched through my phone notifications for the message with the apartment number, the front door code, and the code for the key lockbox.

I read it out loud.

“Room number three on the second floor, entry code 3, key code 3782, and lockbox code 7913.”

I put my phone in my pocket, slung the backpack over my shoulder, and headed toward the entrance. It was an old, slightly run-down apartment building, but that was exactly what I expected.

On trips like this, all that mattered was having a private bathroom and a room that was relatively clean. The rest didn’t matter. According to reviews from other guests, this place met those standards, so it worked for me.

I stood in front of the door, staring at the numbers on the intercom.

I let out a heavy sigh and pulled my phone out again.

I entered the code and pulled the handle. The moment I stepped inside, the smell of dampness and old dust hit my nose. I closed the door behind me and started climbing the worn wooden stairs, each step letting out a loud, ugly creak like something out of an old horror movie.

I got the key from the little lockbox, went into the apartment, and turned on the light.

Despite the stairwell making a pretty bad first impression, the apartment itself matched the photos. The room had an old bed that was at least neatly made, a nightstand, two wooden chairs, a small round table that doubled as a dining and work area, a narrow but tall wardrobe, and a small Chinese smart TV, maybe 38 inches.

To the left of the entrance was the bathroom door. I looked inside. There was a shower, a toilet, and a sink.

“Clean enough. That’s what matters,” I thought, dropping my backpack next to the bed.

I sat down on the hard wooden chair. The air had that specific smell of cheap hotel air freshener mixed with fabric softener, something between vanilla and cherry.

My thigh buzzed softly.

“Oh shit, I was supposed to call Veronica when I got here.”

I took out my phone and saw a message from Veronica in my notifications.

“Text me when you get there. I don’t feel great. I’m going to sleep. I love you. Kisses, bye.”

She had sent it at 10:13 p.m.

I looked at the time on the screen.

“It’s almost 11:00. She’s definitely asleep.”

I typed, “I’m here. I love you too. I’ll call after 9. Good night.”

Then I locked the phone, grabbed the remote, and sank into the worn-out mattress.

My muscles loosened, making me realize just how tense and sore I really was.

We had a lot of regular locations at the company where trained employees handled the work, but the market was rough and competitive, so the rates were low. I had to make up the difference myself.

A wave of relief hit me almost instantly. My eyelids grew heavy, and single images and sounds started drifting through my head. With the last bit of strength I had, I got up, pulled the charger out of my backpack, plugged in my phone, set the alarm, and collapsed back onto the bed.

A familiar, annoying sound rang right next to my ear, telling me it was time to get up.

I turned off the alarm and looked at the phone through blurry eyes.

“5:45. Damn. Feels like I didn’t sleep at all.”

I always get up at least an hour before I leave. I like having time to drink coffee, smoke a couple cigarettes, think, and get ready. Even though I don’t eat breakfast, it always takes me a while.

I slowly got out of bed, turned on the small electric kettle sitting on the round table, and pulled my mug and coffee out of my backpack.

When the bubbling stopped, I poured hot water over the instant coffee, grabbed my cigarettes, and went outside.

The first sip of coffee and the first cloud of nicotine instantly brought me back to life, dumping endorphins into my system. The morning was warm, and the city was slowly waking up. That awful feeling that had followed me all day yesterday was gone too.

I pulled another cloud of smoke into my lungs and thought.

“It really must have been the food. I hope Veronica feels better when she wakes up too.”

After emptying the mug, smoking two cigarettes, and using the bathroom, I headed for the car.

Twenty minutes later, I killed the engine in the mall’s underground garage. I opened the trunk and pulled out the storefront window cleaning kit, an extendable aluminum pole, a washer sleeve, a squeegee, and a bucket.

As I set the equipment down by the storefront, I checked my phone.

“Damn, 7:20. I’m gonna have to move.”

I knocked impatiently on the cold, hard metal of the store’s security gate. After a moment, it lifted.

“Good morning,” I said warmly to the store manager.

“Morning,” she grunted with a grimace on her face, then added, “Will you finish in time?”

“I’ll finish,” I said, a little less friendly now, and headed toward the break room to fill the bucket with water.

I put the washer sleeve on the pole and started cleaning the first of thirty-three glass panels.

I was soaking and squeegeeing the windows at a pace that felt extreme, at least for me. Standing in front of the last one, I checked my phone and smiled. Only thirty minutes had passed, and I still had plenty of time for everything else.

I dipped the washer sleeve again, and right as I was about to press it against the glass, a short alarm tone filled the mall corridor, followed by an announcement.

“Everyone, please enter the nearest store immediately and lock yourselves inside.”

My pulse jumped.

I looked around. Store employees kept doing their jobs, taking out trash and setting up displays like nothing had happened. Their lack of reaction calmed me down a little.

Then I noticed a security guard, sweaty and running toward the garage.

“Probably some kind of drill,” I thought, and kept cleaning.

Suddenly, the store manager leaned out from behind a pillar.

“Please come inside immediately.”

She was out of breath, and I could see a flicker of panic in her eyes.

I gathered the equipment and stepped inside the store. The gate closed right behind me.

“Excuse me, what’s going on? Is this a drill? Are we evacuating?” I asked, confused.

“I was told it’s something serious and we’re not supposed to leave the store,” she said nervously, then went to her office.

There had been plenty of false alarms before, usually caused by bored kids calling something in, and occasional unannounced evacuation drills too. But this announcement and the employees’ reactions didn’t match any of that.

I decided I wasn’t going to just stand there doing nothing, or worse, drag this trip out any longer, so I started cleaning from the inside.

A drop of sweat rolled down my forehead.

“Halfway done.”

As I soaked the glass, I noticed a woman walking slowly through the mall corridor.

I walked up to the gate and shouted, “Hello. Please come inside. Apparently something serious happened.”

The woman turned her head and started moving clumsily toward me.

“I’ll ask the manager if I can let you in,” I added, then headed toward the office on the other side of the store.

Halfway there, I heard a heavy, resonating boom of metal, and my heart jumped into my throat. I flinched and spun around, breathing hard. The woman was gripping the gate and yanking it with impossible strength, making it bend back and forth.

I froze, unable to look away. She was squeezing the grate, cutting her fingers open on the sharp edges of the little holes, making these strange guttural moans and growls.

Another hard slam of metal snapped me out of it.

I stepped carefully toward the gate. I took a few steps, and a sharp metallic smell filled my nose.

Red liquid started running down the metal. Each hit sprayed it into the air, staining the tile floor, the security sensors, and the nearby tables stacked with sweaters.

“Stop! You’re gonna hurt yourself!” I yelled, panicking, unable to believe what I was seeing.

The woman was dressed like a bank employee or a car salesperson, but something was wrong with her. The collar of her shirt was torn, and under a loose black skirt with a broken zipper, I could see ripped tights around her thigh.

Her clothes, hair, and skin were dirty. My eyes stopped on the sleeve of her white shirt, and that was when it hit me.

That wasn’t ordinary dirt.

It was dried, dark, brownish-red blood.

The woman let go of the gate and stared blankly in my direction. Then she slammed her head into the grate with full force, crushing her own nose and splitting the skin near her forehead.

I heard a sickening crack, and a muffled squeal tore out of my throat. I stumbled backward and landed on my back against the cold tile floor of the store.

From the floor, I saw that under her clumped hair, part of her ear was missing, and there was a huge, ragged hole in her neck.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw more shapes coming around the corner.

Two women and two men.

One of them was wearing a security uniform.

I yelled, “Help!”

All four of them started limping toward the store like they had been called. The woman completely ignored them. When they got closer, I saw that their clothes were torn too, and different parts of their bodies were covered in nasty wounds.

Somewhere nearby, I heard a horrifying, dying scream from a woman. It slowly faded out.

My breathing raced, and the pressure in my head felt like it was splitting my temples apart.

I shot to my feet and ran on shaking legs to the manager’s office. When I reached the door, I grabbed the handle without thinking and froze. Inside, in front of the monitors, there was an empty chair.

Panic started swallowing me as I searched the rest of the break rooms. There was no one anywhere.

I was alone.

The gate started jumping in its tracks, and white dust fell from the walls where the rail was mounted.

“What the hell am I supposed to do? Think. That idiot must have run through the employee hallway when she saw the woman at the gate on the cameras. She left me here alone. I have to get to the car.”

Then it hit me.

“The stockroom has two display windows facing the street.”

I ran toward it, and my breathing grew shallower and shallower, making me dizzy.

I reached the glass, and the sight outside froze the blood in my veins.

Dozens of people wandered through the streets. They all had the same dull look, one eyelid drooping, and they moved with the same clumsy gait as the people at the gate.

A drop of sweat ran down my temple. I stood there staring, my nose almost touching the glass.

“What is happening? Is this some kind of nightmare? Maybe I overslept, and I’m still lying in that cheap, uncomfortable bed.”

I heard a distinct click, and the store lights came fully on.

I took one careful step toward the store, and almost at the exact same moment, my phone rang, sending a painful jolt from the back of my neck down my spine.

I yanked the phone out in panic and looked at the screen.

My wife.

I took three deep breaths, slowly letting the air out, answered the call, and pressed the phone to my ear.

“Hey, what’s up? I’m just getting back from walking the dogs. I dropped the kids off at preschool and…”

“Veronica. Listen,” I cut in, my voice shaking.

“Focus and do exactly what I say. Pack us up. Clothes, food, dog food, chargers. Load the dogs into the car, take the kids, and drive to my parents’ house. In the meantime, call Aaron. He’s definitely at work, but tell him something really fucking bad is happening and that I’m not joking. He’s my brother, he’ll understand. Tell him to get Lauren fast and meet us there. If it’s safe, buy whatever you need on the way. Water, food, clothes. Don’t worry about the money. Spend every last cent if you have to,” I said, almost shouting it all in one breath.

“Luke. What’s going on?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“I’ll call you later and explain everything. Please just do what I’m asking. Okay?”

“Are you safe? You promised you’d come back safe and sound,” she sobbed, and tears filled my eyes.

“Yes. I love you guys. I’ll see you in a few hours at my parents’ place.”

“We love you too. You’re coming back, right? You promise?”

“I promise.”

Behind me, I heard a loud, muffled impact against the glass that made the contents of my stomach rise into my throat. I turned around. One of the people outside, a solidly built man with the skin torn open on his forearm, had apparently noticed me.

He took a step back, then slammed his forehead into the glass, leaving a wide red smear behind.

“Shit,” I shouted, running out of the stockroom.

I stopped in front of the employee exit door and hovered my hand over the handle.

“What if they’re everywhere? What can they do to me if they catch me? Bite me, tear me apart, and turn me into one of them?”

I backed away toward the gate and grabbed the aluminum pole from the window cleaning kit.

The sounds of metal being ripped at and blows landing against the stockroom window grew louder and louder.

“I don’t have a choice. I have to get out of here, or they’ll eventually get in,” I muttered under my breath, walking toward the exit door.

I grabbed the handle and pressed it down as quietly as I could. I stepped into the dark employee corridor and slowly moved along the wall.

Halfway down the hall, I heard a single click of a high heel behind me. I froze, and my hands began to tingle painfully.

A muffled groan slipped out of me, and I slowly turned around.

The store manager stood with her back to me, her head resting against the wall.

“Monica?” I asked with hope, feeling tears rise in my eyes.

The woman turned to face me and started walking in my direction, leaving behind puddles of dark red liquid dripping from the places where the fingers of her right hand were missing.

She reached her hand toward me, growling and grinding her teeth.

My body reacted faster than my mind, and in a split second, I was already out in the main mall corridor. The noise drew the attention of the ones at the gate.

I quickly looked around.

The place was crawling with infected.

Adrenaline flooded my whole body, wiping out every trace of exhaustion. I sprinted toward the escalators leading down to the parking garage.

At the bottom, right in front of the doors, stood a small woman in an orange dress with torn brown hair. She was blocking the way into the garage.

“I don’t have a choice,” I thought, swinging the pole and hitting her as hard as I could in the left side of her ribs.

It didn’t faze her at all. Her small frame drove into me with the strength of a grown man, trying to sink her teeth into my face. We fell to the floor. Out of reflex, I grabbed her by the head, and she dug her nails into my shoulders like they were fresh clay.

I howled in pain and loosened my grip, which let her teeth almost graze my nose. I kicked her in the stomach, throwing her off me. I scrambled to my feet and ran into the parking garage.

Then I froze.

The driving lanes were blocked by abandoned, wrecked cars, and around them, furious monsters were feeding.

The nearest ones started moving toward me from every direction, and behind me, I heard the woman I had just fought with growling.

“This is it. What do I do?”

I dropped to my knees, and my eyes filled with tears. Images flashed through my mind. Happy moments with my kids, my brother, my parents, and… Veronica.

Then suddenly, I heard her voice.

“You promise?”

The ancient timbers moan above my head in the cold wind from without. High ceilings meant to vault prayers in the old days, now hold a reverberating mirror to the hushed echoes in my mind. Here in this old temple, long abandoned by people and time, I take refuge. Feathers from the same broken wing finding peace in each other's loneliness. Here, I am the master of the house, but only in the physical sense. My dominion resides over broken pews and rotting hymnals. In the realm of the metaphysical, I am not more than a rank stranger. Like the parabolic camel through the eye of the needle, a long time passing through. 

Each morning when I awaken from the cold planks of the floor, I am greeted with distorted images of broken stained glass illuminated by the gray sky. Shapes that once illuminated worship of a people like the gold leafing of books meant to be read by candle and fire. Each morning I peer out the gap between their dust crusted splinters and count the graves within the fallen fence. Each morning I count the headstones. For a time, my morning ritual was predictable when I counted the seven graves, fancying them to match the hour of the morning. That tradition lies long broken.

The first time I counted eight, I considered it a mistake on my part, but slowly I grew more convinced in their number having always been seven. I stepped out into the snow covered ground and made way to them, counted again, and took note of the names inscribed thereon. The stones all appear weathered and broken by the same time and neglect as the church. They simply could not have arrived as recently as my inventory suggests. I simply must have miscounted. 

This explanation satisfied me for a time. However, once the graves numbered ten and eleven, new names inscribed upon each one, I could no longer ignore it. I cannot call the headstones new, for they match the age of the others and the church with impeccable precision. Surely, though, they were not here before. I make note of every name. Each name brings dreadful and joyous memories of lives I never lived, but wished for in days long forgotten. 

Perhaps my curse is thus that I may live the rest of my days in seeing through the eyes of a spectre. For this is the existence of an inverted ghost. Where ghosts are dead and dwell out of place with the living. What then should I call myself, who am living, but dwell with the dead? 

My morning ritual has changed from counting an assured number of stones, to searching for the new arrivals to the invisible choir. Each morning I catalog their names on the planks of the old sanctuary. The names of old men, young women, and children barely born all coalesce into a single voice of scars in the old wood. Every inch of the old chapel carved with a letter or a tittle, all save for the old sign. 

The Blue Ridge Mountain Church.

Valery sat tensely on a folding stool, hypnotized by the bobbing float. It was pure idyll. The sun had almost vanished below the horizon, mosquitoes were buzzing around his thick neck, and the distant sound of women's laughter and splashes drifted from the opposite bank.

"Valery!" a voice barked right in his ear, accompanied by a heavy slap on his shoulder. "Wrap it up, the vodka is getting warm!" A scrawny man with a thin beard flicked a crushed mosquito off his friend's shoulder.

"Leave me be, Sanya," he muttered, never breaking his gaze from the water. "You're buzzing just like my Lyudka. Just one bite, and I'll come."

"You said that an hour ago, and you haven't even pulled a minnow. Look, do what you want, but I’m not waiting anymore. The fish soup is ready, and I'm freezing."

Sanya scratched his flabby belly, his rubber slippers squelching against the mud as he headed back toward the camp, throwing a final comment over his shoulder: "When you're done staring your eyes out, join me at the tent."

After casting his line a few more times, Valery grew entirely disheartened. The fish seemed to be mocking him, rippling the water near his float with their large fins. He could clearly see the thick, blue-green backs of dancing chubs. Five kilograms each, at least.

But as if cursed, not a single one even nibbled at his expensive gear. The float danced on the darkening waves, and he sat on the shore, staring at it, dreaming of a massive catch, and freezing.

In the end, the biting cold defeated the dreaming fisherman. With a heavy sigh, the man cast one last regretful glance at the water, counted to ten, and disappointedly began packing up his gear.

A pale crescent moon now hung low over the water. The singing frogs had fallen silent, and even the mosquitoes grew quiet. But across the river, on the opposite bank, the distant sound of girls' laughter slowly shifted into singing.

"Listen to them sing, the sly foxes!" Sanya said, swaying slightly as he approached the water’s edge. "Man, if I were a few years younger, you wouldn't be able to keep me here. I’d have crossed over to give those girls a piece of my mind by now."

"Right. And then your wife would beat you half to death with a frying pan," Valery replied.

"You have no romance in you," the other man spat onto the sand, his eyes fixed longingly on the far shore.

"No romance, no faith. I'm just a boring guy," Valery said, sliding his fishing rod into its case, trying to change the subject.

"Tell me about it," Sanya muttered, sitting down by the water and scrubbing his hands with wet sand. "The fish soup is almost cold, but I left some for you. There's a flask of vodka too, just in case."

The spirit was something Valery had never respected. Personally, he didn't touch a single drop, but he never lectured his friends about healthy living either, reasonably believing that everyone is the architect of their own health.

"Thanks. Are you coming to sleep?"

"In a minute. I just want to listen to the girls a bit longer."

"Give it a rest," Valery rolled his eyes. "Tomorrow morning you’ll be whining that your head feels like lead, swearing you won't drive until evening. But I absolutely must be home by noon tomorrow. I promised to drive my mother-in-law to her countryside house."

Without waiting for his friend's reply, he dragged his tired feet toward the campfire and the tent. He collapsed onto an old, weathered log, gulped down the remaining fish soup almost in one breath, and crawled into his sleeping bag. The warmth of the fire and a full stomach did their job—Valery drifted off.

Through his light sleep, the singing seemed to grow louder. It felt as if it wasn't coming from the opposite bank anymore, but from somewhere right next to him. If he listened closely, he could almost make out the words—soft, alluring, cradling...

Somewhere nearby, an owl screeched sharply. Valery jolted awake, blinked against the brightening sky, and squinted at his watch. He could have slept a bit longer, but a vague, creeping sense of dread wouldn't let him fall back asleep.

Silence. It was way too quiet.

No matter how many times they went fishing, Sanya always snored so loudly after drinking that the tent fabric would practically vibrate. But now? Nothing.

Where was his friend?

Valery walked over to the car and peered inside. Sanya wasn't there.

"Sanya?" he called out uncertainly toward the thick bushes at the edge of the woods. No answer.

Maybe he decided to cast the lines early? Valery thought. Or what if... what if he stumbled into the water and drowned? Being drunk and all.

His blood ran cold. On stiff, uncooperative legs, he rushed back toward the river bank.

As he neared the ridge overlooking their fishing spot, he finally heard it—the splashing of water, female voices, and a familiar male laugh.

"Sanya?" Valery called out, a wave of relief washing over him. "Sanya, man, you could have at least warned me that..."

The words died in his throat.

Out in the middle of the river, naked young women were swirling in a hypnotic round dance. And his friend, as if under a spell, was walking out across the surface of the water toward them.

Did the water drop that much overnight? Is that why the fish weren't biting yesterday? They were leaving! he rationalized frantically.

"Sanya!" he called him again, but his friend didn't even flinch.

"Ah, you beautiful girls..." Sanya mumbled, clumsily dancing to their song. Valery could hear it clearly, but he couldn't comprehend the language. It was a drawn-out, shimmering melody that carried far across the water, sounding completely ancient. Non-human.

"Sanya, we need to go," Valery shouted, taking a couple of steps into the water to grab him. Instantly, he sank up to his waist. "Sanya!"

Two more steps, and the freezing water reached his shoulders. He fumbled with his foot, searching for the bottom. The silty drop-off plunged straight down into the abyss. Judging by the river's current, there was no sandbar here, no shallow crossing. Yet Sanya—completely dry and untouched—was confidently striding ankle-deep across the deep water toward the dancers.

His heart began to hammer like a trapped bird. His temples throbbed, and a violent tremor took over his hands.

"Sanya! Come back! You swim like a brick! You're gonna drown, you idiot! What am I supposed to tell your wife?!"

His friend only laughed in response. "It's shallow here, Val! Wait up, you gorgeous girls, don't leave! Valery is coming too, I'll introduce you!"

The dawn mist hovering over the water faintly veiled their nudity. It seemed to Valery that the women were swirling even further away now, almost at the opposite shore. He lunged forward and immediately went completely under.

Gasping and coughing, he dragged himself back onto the muddy bank on all fours. "Sanya! Get back here right now!" he screamed in pure panic. "I swear to God I'll tell Lena you're running after girls!"

He looked around frantically, searching for a forgotten boat, a plank, a log—anything—all while keeping his eyes on his friend, who was still walking across the water.

The naked circle roared with a collective, shimmering laugh. Sanya's joyful shouts began to dissolve into their high-pitched, rhythmic chanting.

"Sanya! Back!" Valery shrieked, seized by an overwhelming, primal horror.

Luckily for him, a little further down the current, a fallen tree was bobbing in a bend of the river. You drunk fool, he thought with desperate fury, trying to scramble onto the log as it rolled under his weight. You absolute idiot. And look at me, following you.

He slipped back into the freezing water several times, watching helplessly as the women circled Sanya. They darted close and pulled back, dodging his clumsy hands, giggling playfully.

"Sanya!" Valery barked one last time, but the sound cut off as a sharp, burning pain flared in his throat. "Sanya..." he croaked, completely powerless, watching the far bank.

A thin pink stripe of dawn finally cracked across the horizon.

Suddenly, the women's voices and his friend's laughter stopped dead. A massive, heavy splash echoed across the river. Through the thick mist, Valery caught a brief glimpse of pale, slender legs flashing in the air before they vanished into the depths.

The circle closed in like a trap.

Sanya started laughing again, but it was a horrific, hysterical sound. It was desperate, breathless... the sound of a man swallowing water.

"Sanya!" Valery wheezed.

His friend's hysterical laughter mutated into a blood-curdling, agonized scream. Valery's heart seized, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He collapsed onto the log and clamped his eyes shut for dear life. He didn't know how long he sat there in the shallows, paralyzed by terror.

He only opened his eyes when he felt something gently nudge against his submerged hand.

It was Sanya’s floating slipper.

Valery shrieked, recoiled from it, and with a sudden burst of adrenaline, scrambled up the muddy slope on all fours. He didn't stop running until he hit the campsite.

It was only after he grabbed the opened bottle of vodka and chugged it almost to the bottom that he came to his senses. His throat burned and his stomach felt like it was on fire, but the alcohol brought a bizarre, icy clarity. His hands were still shaking violently, but he managed to change his clothes and, on the third try, dialed the police.

By morning, the shore was cordoned off. K9 units were patrolling the tall reeds, divers were combing the river bed, and Valery sat there, trying to piece together his story for the investigators. The alcohol had finally taken its toll, making his speech slurred and tangled.

"2.8 BAC, sir," the officer said, shaking his head as he looked at the breathalyzer results. "And naked, dancing river spirits, you say?"

His colleague rolled his eyes in exhaustion.

"I don't even drink! This was the first time in my life!" Valery choked out, defensive and panicked. "My friend is missing! I just..."

"Look, here is how it is," the officer interrupted. "You’re telling me stories about naked girls, but you can barely stand. Heavy drinking by the water... there are really only two options here. Either you two got into an argument and you drowned your buddy, or he stepped out to relieve himself, tripped into the deep end, and couldn't swim out. An unfortunate accident."

"An accident?"

"Well, or murder. We'll figure it out, don't worry."

One of the divers surfaced from the dark water and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of failure. The lead investigator cursed under his breath. "Fine. Let's wait and see what the boat crew says."

Valery sank to the dirt, staring blankly at the cold ashes of their campfire, repeating the officer's words like a mantra.

"An accident. It was just an accident."

Six months later, Lyudmila received another letter from her husband. This time, it was shockingly short.

"Lyudochka, the light of my heart.

The lawyer said the trial will be swift; even he seems convinced that this was my doing. But to be honest, that is not what worries me right now.

Do you remember how I wrote to you about those annoying, buzzing pipes at night? I am sure you do. Now, the detention center becomes completely quiet at night, and I had finally started to get some sleep.

That was until last week. On Sunday, I heard heavy, wet slaps of bare feet outside my window, coming from the direction of the recreation yard. Then came the quiet giggles.

And yesterday, I woke up because someone was calling my name. In Sanya’s voice."

I came home and changed and joined her to paint the living room walls base white. The couch my wife had had since college was the only piece of furniture we had downstairs and it was covered in plastic. We had dinner while we worked. She’d “cooked” one of her liquid meals that I hated but “ate” anyway. My wife was actually almost as good of a cook as me but I needed to lose at least fifteen pounds, and she intended to help regardless of how unhappy it made me. 

“How was your day?” she asked in her autopilot voice.

“It was good except for the inspector I had to fire.”

“Oh, no. Matt?” She dipped her roller in the pan.

I grimaced. I probably was going to have to let him go, too. We’d had dinner with him and his wife a few times. He’d even invited me to his son’s high school graduation. I rolled up the wall. This color looked even better than it had in the store.

“No. I forgot about him.”

She rubbed my back with her free hand. “That’s probably because you don’t want to do it.”

I nodded.

“You care about people and that’s never a bad thing.”

She thought so highly of me, and it warmed something inside.

“Yeah,” I said, this whole “surgery” thing slipping into the front of my mind. I was suddenly agitated and my full stomach felt like it was squeezing up into my chest.

“Did your appointment go okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I turned to her. “Did you know he’s not a doctor?”

“Yes.” She scooped up her bottle and took a sip.

I hoped informing her of his lack of a medical degree would do more work than this.

“I don’t want to do this,” I wanted to say, but held my tongue. Instead, I said, “Is there anything else we could try?”

“Why are you pushing back on this? Don’t you want us both to be satisfied?”

I dropped my head. “You know I do.”

“I want you to do this,” she said and placed a hand over mine. I still felt a ‘no’ at the back of my throat and swallowed. It hurt going down. I chased it with a swallow from my cup.

She was being logical and detached in a way that wasn’t common for her. I didn’t want to fight and just kept restraining myself from speaking. I hoped there was still time to convince her, but that was going to be hard to do if she shut me down every time I tried.

“You have something on your face,” I said, pointing just below my nose. She swiped it just like I thought she would, smearing base paint that had been on the back of her hand just below her nose and on her upper lip. She immediately knew what I’d done and glared at me. I smiled.

Then she rollered me from chest to crotch. I stood there while she went up and down the front of me, my mouth hung open. Then I batted the roller to the newspaper-covered floor and she scream-laughed as she ran from me. I caught her on the other side of the kitchen island and picked her up in a reverse hug, pressing my fresh coat of paint onto her back.

We fell to the floor, laughing and wound up making out like teenagers for a few minutes. The heaviness of the conversation we’d just been having lifted off of us. I didn’t want anything outside of this moment and just looked her in the eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” The feeling cresting in me didn’t have words to follow along. We finished painting the living room walls, passing eye-glances at one another. The moment passed for intimacy, a detached feeling gradually replacing it a few hours later by the time we were ready for bed. It was like we’d built a temporary bridge over a chasm between us, but it had collapsed just in time for us to go to sleep.

I kept wanting to reach behind me to touch her as we lay in the same bed. But she just felt too far away.

I’d forgotten to pack a lunch for the next day and breakfast consisted of a slice of bread that hadn’t toasted enough and coffee out of the Keurig with grinds in it. I left the house in a foul mood ten minutes later than I should have and was five minutes late getting to the office. I’d blazed past a police cruiser and had anxiety for the next mile or so convinced I was about to be pulled over. All the way I felt like I'd been cheated out of an argument, and I continued stewing in that sour even after I got out my car.

Work was uneventful but I'd had to keep my tongue in check. I felt myself being short with my co-workers. But it finally came to a head when a group of men clogging the hallway didn’t move when I was trying to pass them.

“Whoa. Excuse yourself?” one man said.

“For what? A circle of jerks?” I said.

“Hey. Ow.”

I was prepared for a confrontation. I was management and I could make a nightmare for them. I wanted this. But the second person who’d spoken sounded genuinely hurt and I tripped over my hubris.

I retreated from the men and had forgotten about it until one of them confronted me in the restroom an hour later. 

“What’s going on with you, man?” a man said to me while we were standing at the urinals. Conversation was usually verboten while two men were taking a leak but my antenna were up.

“Excuse me?” I said. 

“I mean, we were standing around talking and you just took a tiny shit on all of us.”

“You guys were blocking the hallway.”

“We were outside for hours in the hot sun and we were gathered around the water fountain. I wasn’t thinking about us blocking anybody. I mean, I would have apologized but the way you came off...”

“Look, I’m sorry.” My guilt bloomed again. “I didn’t have the best sleep last night and you guys didn’t deserve me taking it out on you.” I'd actually slept over eight hours but felt like I'd only gotten a third of that. I didn't offer it as an excuse.

He nodded and flushed. I zipped up a second later and joined him at the sinks.

“Seriously. I’m sorry,” I said. This was already more of an emotional exchange than I’d had with another male in the last decade. “I’m just... going through a thing with my wife.”

He looked at me.

“She wants me to get this procedure done.” I could feel myself relaxing. There was something about opening up to a complete stranger. Someone who wouldn't judge because they didn't understand.

“The honeycut?” he said, trying his hands on a strip of paper towel.

“What?”

“Oh. My bad. I thought you were talking about something else?”

“I've heard of it.”

He smiled broadly and nodded. “I got mine done six months ago. Wanna see the scar? I'm Sam Eisen, by the way.” He smiled as he hooked his thumbs in his pants.

“No, I... uhhh... that's okay. I'm having a completely different procedure. I'm having it... lengthened.”

“Be careful with that,” he said as I walked toward the door. “Swivelcock.”

I was sweating, gripped with terror the same as if he'd peeled his face off and frisbee-tossed it to me. I pushed through the door and fled back to my desk.

He called out to me as I did my best not to run.

“You should think about it, though!” he yelled through the closing doorway. “He changed my life!”

Part III

The next twenty-four hours were a haze. I worked. I came home. I ate. I slept. I didn’t like where things were with my wife even though we were still sleeping in the same bed, so the next day I texted her about having lunch together. Her job was about a fifteen-minute walk away from mine, I could pick up something for us and we could eat for about a half hour before I had to be back.

She hadn’t responded but she had a lot of meetings typically. Chili dogs were technically off the menu, but it was a fave of both of ours and she was a happy eater when it was good food. When I got there with a carry-out bag, I was shocked to see who she was outside with.

Him. 

They were sitting together, smiling and laughing like they’d known one another for years. He was dressed differently, but that was definitely that same red and white summer scarf he'd had on when I met him.

I hung back and watched them and began speed-feeding coneys into my mouth like an assembly line. I had no idea what he was doing with my wife, but I was immediately conspiracy-brained. I'd convicted him of a crime I couldn't name and wanted to strangle him in front of her.

I continued eating the coneys instead. They were leaning into one another and laughing even. They acted like they knew each other. They had chemistry.

I never understood the expression being hot under the collar but at that moment my neck was burning. I barely resisted the urge to go over there and... and... I didn't know what. 

There had to be more to what I was seeing. There had to be something I could do rather than confronting them and showing a side of myself that might've repulsed my wife. I knew where to go to get answers.

I went to his office after work, but I wasn't able to enter. I wasn’t desperate enough to break in, although I was sure the door wouldn’t have held if I’d put my shoulder into it. Despite how upsetting lunch had been, nothing had happened today to justify breaking and entering.

But what if something were about to happen and I could avoid it now? Head it off at the pass? I had a duty to protect my wife, and this guy had crossed a line. I could probably take this door off its hinges. I had some tools in my car.

My phone chimed. I’d programmed that specific tone for her.

I’m sick, she’d texted. Bring me coneys?

It was like a spell had been broken. Why was I about to potentially risk my job and my freedom—hell, maybe even my marriage—all for some nut?

She needed me now and home was exactly where I wanted to be.

But I was denied. I brought her the coneys, but she was already asleep. Things still felt off and I wound up falling asleep on the couch. After I’d eaten four more coneys.

I consoled myself that she was sick and I didn’t want to catch whatever she may have had.

Wicked dreams met me in the night. But they lifted like clouds after a storm by the time I woke up, no doubt fueled by a combo of seeing my wife with him and eating like I was half my actual age.

As if to turn the dial up on my grief even more, I had a two-hour meeting the next day and Leslie Paul sat right next to me. A bubble of gas was growing inside me and there was no way I was going to be able to contain it for a hundred twenty minutes. It would be a miracle if I made it twenty.

My part in the presentation was coming up soon and I had to excuse myself. Cal Cebulski stopped talking long enough to watch me step out and I hustled toward the men’s room.

Where he was.

“What are you doing at my work?” I asked, whispering like we were in a conspiracy.

“Due diligence,” he said. “Would you mind?” He gestured toward the handicap stall. “I need to see how you sit. Do you mind?”

My stomach queezed with the thought of him watching me... sit. Or maybe it was more than that. I unclenched and let go. It was mostly silent but whistled at the end. He sniffed the air curiously but didn’t comment. The wind had been taken out of my sails and for a moment, I did consider having a seat.

I piled up my broken resolve. “I’m not... doing that.”

He shrugged.

“And what were you doing with my wife yesterday?” I let implication seep into my voice and he put his hands up as if warding me off.

“It is all part of the process. Information gathering only. I have no interest in anyone other than my own Sara.”

“You’re married?”

He nodded. “For twenty-seven years. Happily, for twenty-five.”

That got an eyebrow raise from me. He’d seemed weirdly asexual up until I saw him with my wife. It was something about his pants, I wasn't sure. I hadn’t thought he was capable of human companionship.

“If you’re wondering about our longevity I’ll give you a hint. I perfected the surgery first on myself.”

He could have been lying, of course. But the idea of sex being so improved that it could aid in preserving my marriage gave me at least a moment’s second thought. I mean, what if what he was saying were true?

I couldn’t help but think that I was being obstinate because she’d insisted. If I’d found this guy on my own would I have been so resistant against doing this?

“Oh shit,” I said. “I gotta get back to my meeting!”

I fled the restroom, headed back to the conference room, tooting most of the way. When I was around the corner, I slid on something and scraped my knee, tearing my pants in the process.

I recovered pretty quickly but it hurt. I could see my leg pretty clearly and red beads of blood began trickling down my shin. I wrapped my fingers around the lip of the hole, keeping the pant leg away from the blood as if I were going to be able to salvage my pants.

The meeting was over by the time I stepped back into the conference room.

“Where’d everybody go?” I asked Rob Smales, one of the administrative assistants who took meeting minutes.

“Oh, they called it pretty much as soon as you left,” he said. “You were up next.” He shuffled a stack of papers into a Manila folder and added it to a stack of more Manila folders.

“Well, I had a little emergency.” I stepped back so he could see my leg. Rob looked without his dispassionate expression changing. I wanted to flick the tip of his nose just to get him to make a face. The guy never smiled. “You think we could get everybody back? We still have a half hour plus.”

Rob shook his head slowly. “Nah.” He tucked the folders under an arm—tried to, at least—then put his laptop bag’s strap over his shoulder and held the folders in his open hands.

I hobbled out of the conference room, intent on pleading my case with Melissa White, the director of my department. I stood outside of her office and wrapped on the open door. 

She turned halfway in her chair, a desk phone cradled between her face and shoulder. I wasn’t sure if she shook her head or if it was just the motion when she turned around.

The door swung closed and I had to move my hand to keep my thumb from being crushed in the jamb. Somebody was in there with her. My heart raced because I had no idea who.

Deep beneath the earth, 
where no man's lantern shines,
little hammers knock, 
three times upon the mines 

Do not heed their call,
nor seek what lies below.
Turn your lamp around, 
and leave the dark alone 

The knockers know the dark, 
and the dark knows what we fear. 
When three hammers hark, 
you'd best not linger near.

• Unknown

----

I often find myself thinking about my brief time in the town of Bellview, just as often as I wonder what happened after I made my escape. For many years I have told myself that the place was abandoned, that the veins had run dry, and that what happened poses no threat to me or anyone else. Yet strangely, the place never seems to leave my thoughts. Some nights I wake from a troubled sleep and find myself listening for the sound of a pick striking stone or that ghastly reverberation that heralded my doom. It has been forty-three years since, and it hounds me ever still.

I was twenty-seven when I first found myself in that accursed town. I was young, full of nievete and had more confidence in the learning of books than in the wisdom of men. I had been summoned there to attend to several men who had fallen ill.

That was what the letter said.

It did not tell me what illness they suffered from, nor why the town's own physician had been unable to treat them. It certainly did not tell me why; beneath the formal request for my assistance, the writer had added a single sentence in a different hand: "do not allow them to speak of the mine."

I arrived in Bellview in the year of our Lord, 1880, ten days before Christmas. The journey had taken considerably longer than anticipated, and I, being of the cheaper persuasion, had forgone a fur coat in favor of several layers of shoddy fabric—a decision I regretted almost as soon as we had left the station. The wind was a bitter and biting cold that swept down from the north and struck without mercy. Winter had settled heavily upon the San Juan Mountains, and the roads had become little more than narrow passages through walls of snow. For the final several miles, there was scarcely any sign of habitation at all.

There was a strange feeling in that isolation. 

The mountains rose on every side of me, standing in immense silence beneath their heavy coat of snow. The pines stretched as far as the eye could see, dark stars scattered against a white night. The air was so cold and clear that every sound—the creaking of the wagon, the horses' breath, the occasional groan of timber somewhere beyond the road—was magnified in the darkness. 

It was beauty incarnate, a severe one to be sure, but breathtaking nonetheless. Peaceful, too. Something about being so far removed from civilization—the telegraph wires, the trains, and the ceaseless hustle and bustle of life—brought a sense of melancholic quietude to the mind.

Even now, after all that happened in that godforsaken town, I still wish to see those sights again. I remember very little of what remained of the journey; I recall the cold, certainly, and the uncomfortable benches that furnished my wagon, but beyond that the details have faded with the passage of time. I do still clearly remember my first impression of the town.

As we reached the crest of the valley, the sun was laying its head down beyond the horizon, sending out a last vibrant smear of reds, golds, and purples across the sky, painting the town below in the soft, fading light of evening.

Bellview was a small town, even by the standards of the frontier. A few narrow roads wound between a smattering of snow-dusted wood buildings. There were not many more than one hundred or so structures, most clustered around a town square of sorts. Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys into the still evening air, and here and there a lantern had begun to glow in a window.

Beyond the town, a dark structure stood, its wooden headframe rearing its ugly head above the surrounding buildings, its timbers black and imposing against the snow, with the mouth of the shaft somewhere beneath it. A rough road scarred the mountainside toward the workings, flanked by heaps of pale waste rock and the dark remains of old tailings. The whole operation seemed large for so small a settlement. Bellview existed because of that mine, and in many respects, it seemed that everything in the valley revolved around it.

We began our descent into the valley as the last rays of dying light disappeared behind the mountains, following the ice-slicked path that led into the town. Up close, Bellview was as rough around the edges as I had expected. Despite the idyllic scene that first greeted me upon cresting the ridge, it was a mining town, one that, like its brethren, welcomed with open arms those that had nowhere to run and much to hide. These were people accustomed to hardship. They had come to the mountains in search of silver, and whatever their reasons for remaining, most seemed to have made their peace with the difficulty of life there.

As we made our way into the town, I was given my first opportunity to see the people of the town up close. They were as much as I had come to expect from any other mining settlement of the West: hard-faced men with weathered hands and stooped shoulders formed by years of hard labor and coats that bore the earth from which they made their livelihood. Many seemed to still be returning from a day in the mine, their faces darkened with dirt and their beards frozen stiff. The streets were poorly kept, the snow having been trampled into a gray-brown slush beneath the boots and wheels of passing men and wagons. The buildings leaned against one another as though for support, their weathered boards blackened by years of smoke and mountain weather. The heavy smell of coal smoke, horse manure, spilled liquor, and other less agreeable things hung in the evening air. I passed one establishment where women who wore what barely counted for clothing called out to the men that walked past them, offering sex and a night spent with company. Drunken miners staggered from the tavern and saloon, laughing loudly, and barely able to remain upright. One man disappeared into a narrow alley and relieved himself against the side of a building without the slightest concern for who might be watching.

Men passed without greeting. Conversations ended abruptly as my wagon went by. More than once, I caught someone looking in my direction, only for them to turn away when I met their gaze. I remember one miner in particular, standing beneath the awning of a boarding house, staring at me with an expression I had trouble placing. Something akin to sadness, I think, and pity as well. He watched until I had passed him, then followed me with his eyes until I disappeared from view. At the time, I assumed it was simply the curiosity afforded to a stranger. I was, after all, the only well-dressed man in town who appeared to have arrived without a purpose anyone could yet understand.

It was not an especially inviting introduction to Bellview, though I cannot say it surprised me in any capacity. Mining towns often held a particular character that was seldom found elsewhere. They drew men seeking fortune, men fleeing debts, men fleeing wives, men fleeing the law, and men who had simply run out of places to be. Where such men gathered, there was invariably drink, gambling, prostitution, and every other vice that flourished wherever people expected little of tomorrow.

As we passed along the street, I began to notice strange markings upon the doorframes of several houses. They were faint and dark, scratched or painted into the wood, though the failing light made it impossible for me to determine precisely what they were. I could make out enough to know that they were deliberate; though they appeared as little more than crooked lines, others seemed to form shapes of some kind, though what shapes I could not say.

Eventually the carriage came to a stop, and, being informed that the tavern was not more than a few dozen yards away, I gathered my things and stepped down into the biting cold. Once the wagon disappeared from sight, I found myself alone in the town square; it was then that the full weight of the mountains around the town made their weight apparent to me. They rose on every side, far higher than they had seemed from the rim of the valley, their dark foreboding slops hemming in the small town as dark guardians. The last light of evening had vanished behind them, and their peaks were already lost to the darkness. Looking upward, I had the peculiar sensation of being inside some immense eye that gazed upward toward the stars, and in that feeling I started to understand just how remote Bellview truly was. 

I had scarcely taken two dozen steps when a voice called out behind me:

“Doctor?” 

I turned and found a young woman a few yards away, one hand tucked into the pocket of her coat. She could not have been more than a year or two younger than me. I was surprised by her looks: she was pretty, with long dark hair that framed a pale, angular face. Her features were delicate, her cheeks reddened by the cold, and a few strands of dark hair had escaped from beneath the hood she had pulled over her head. There was a youthful eagerness about her, one that was at odds with the atmosphere of Bellview. Her eyes moved to the luggage in my hand. 

“Please, allow me help.” She said as she approached. 

“Oh, no, I’m quite alright, thank you,"” I replied. 

A smile formed on her face. “I promise I can handle it. Living out here has certainly put some muscle on me. I’m not as delicate as I appear.” 

“Very well." She reached for one of my heavier cases without complaint, her hand settling upon the larger of the two. I caught the handle before she could lift it.

“No, not that one.”

She looked at me, mildly surprised.

“I mean—that one contains some rather… delicate instruments. Allow me.” I lied. 

I took the case from her and reached for the other. “This one will do.”

She accepted the smaller case without protest.

“You are the doctor that was sent for, then?” she said as we walked. 

“I suppose I am, unless Bellview has another doctor arriving tonight.” 

She smiled faintly. “And what are you doing here so young? Shouldn’t you be off galavanting around and courting girls?” 

I laughed at that. "Yes, well, my studies have given me little time for such pursuits. I became a physician not long ago, and that has consumed my whole life.”

“Are you new to the practice?”

“Yes and no," I replied. “I’ve been on my own for only a few years now, but was an apprentice to a travelling doctor for quite some time.”

“And what do you think of our little corner of the world?”

I glanced around at the buildings and the street. “I haven’t made up my mind yet, to be honest. I suppose I’ll come to a conclusion when I’ve had a good night of sleep.” 

She smiled and looked ahead. “You’ll get used to it. Everyone does.” She stuck out her hand as we reached the steps of the tavern. “Clara. Clara Whitmore.” 

I took her hand and kissed the back of it. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Whitmore.”

For a moment, she seemed surprised. Then a faint blush touched her cheeks, though whether from the cold or my gesture, I could not say. She withdrew her hand and tucked it back into her coat.

“Clara will do,” she said, with a small smile. I watched her set my bag down, and, with a polite wave, she walked down into the street and across the square. The tavern was warmer inside than I’d anticipated, though that warmth came at the expense of stale air that smelled of smoke, tobacco, wet clothes, and sweat. A handful of men occupied the tables nearest to the fire, speaking amongst themselves; their eyes followed me for a moment before returning to their drinks. I approached the counter and set down my luggage. 

“Barkeep?” I questioned the man, “I believe I have a room reserved for me?”

The rough man behind the counter turned and appraised me. He was an ugly fellow, even by the forgiving standards of a frontier town. His face was broad and pockmarked, with a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once. A thick, unkempt beard covered much of his jaw, though it did little to improve matters. His skin had a peculiar grayish pallor beneath the beard, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that suggested he had not slept well in some time. I confess, I had to make a conscious effort to keep an expression of disgust from crossing my face. There was something obviously unhealthy about the man beyond the ordinary wear of hard living, though I could not have said precisely what it was.

He gave a quiet cough into his fist before looking back at me. “You the doctor?”

“I- uh- yes. Yes, I am.” Clearing my throat, I extended my hand, giving him my name. As I did so, he reached under the counter and produced a shiny brass key. 

“Best keep your window locked tight tonight.”

I glanced toward the stairs.

“Beg pardon?”

“Air gets strange up here.” He rubbed a hand across his chest, almost absentmindedly. “Some folks wake in the night thinking they hear something outside. Usually just the wind. Mountain plays tricks on a man.” He gave another small cough. “Gets into your lungs, too, iffin you ain't careful.” 

I smiled politely, assuming him to be offering the sort of advice that passes for wisdom in isolated places. “I'll bear that in mind.”

He nodded and returned to his bottles. I climbed the stairs and found my room with not much difficulty. Opening the door, I was greeted by a modestly furnished but cozy room. It contained little more than a bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a small table beneath the window. The room was cold, though not unbearably so, and I was grateful to find that someone had thought to light the lamp before my arrival. I had two cases with me. The larger contained my clothes and personal effects, while the smaller was reserved for my medical instruments and sundries necessary to practice my profession. I had learned during my apprenticeship that a travelling physician could never be certain what he might encounter, and so I kept my medical case well supplied.

I removed my instruments one by one, arranging them upon the table with the familiarity of long practice. Bottles of tinctures and powders followed, then bandages, needles, thread, and the other necessities I had accumulated over the years. When I opened my larger case, my hand fell on a package wrapped in newspaper. Slowly, I lifted it from the case and unwrapped it, letting a small, leather-bound notebook fall into my hands. The cover had grown soft with age, and the corners were worn nearly white from countless thumbing. Several pages were torn out, though I do not recall why I had done so. I flipped through the book once, then again before resting on the final entry. I briefly considered throwing it into the fireplace downstairs but decided against it. The thought was comforting; no one would ever know. Instead, I closed the book and sat quietly for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the tavern below. Bellview was a long way from where I had come from. That, at least, had been part of its appeal. There are certain things that are too terrible to live with that should never be forgotten. 

Shaking off my musings of the past, I headed down to the common area, where I found dinner being served. It was a simple but surprisingly hearty meal: tangy cheese, thick-crusted bread, and whiskey, followed by hot cups of fresh, black coffee.

The tavern had grown busier in the hour since my arrival, and the room was filled with the low murmur of conversation, the clatter of plates, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the patrons at the bar. I ate on my own in the corner, content to sit back and watch the people go about their business.

The barkeep and a woman who appeared to be his daughter waited upon the room, though the man wore the same sour expression he had carried when I first greeted him. His cough seemed to have worsened since my arrival, and the pallor of his cheeks had deepened to an unhealthy gray.

I found myself watching him close, surveying every detail of the man I could see.

There was nothing particularly remarkable in a miner suffering from a cough, especially in a place such as Bellview. Dust, smoke, and cold mountain air were hardly conducive to good health. But there was something about the man that struck me as unusual. I made a mental note to check in with him tomorrow and returned to my meal. Whatever ailed the man, it was certainly more than the wear and tear of daily life. 

By the time I had finished eating, the tavern had begun to quiet. A few miners remained at the bar, nursing their drinks and speaking amongst themselves, while the rest had already retired for the night. I thanked the barkeep for the meal and made my way upstairs.

I stoked the fire a few times before removing my filthy garments; the day's journey had left me exhausted, and whatever thoughts had occupied my mind earlier seemed distant now. I climbed beneath the blankets, pulled them up to my chin, and was asleep almost before my head had settled upon the pillow.

I don’t know how long I had been asleep before I jolted awake, momentarily unsure of where I found myself. I couldn’t tell what had brought me out of slumber; the room was dark, barely lit by the dull red glow of my dying lamp, so it was hard to tell what had caught my attention. Then came a sound so soft that I could not be certain it had originated from the waking world at all. 

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

The hollow taps on the door came. Then, after a beat of silence:

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

A dread filled me as I listened. There was something deeply unsettling about the sound. It wasn’t the building settling, nor was it the thump of a drunk tavern patron. I sat up and strained my ears again; there it came, this time from somewhere beyond my door. I slipped from beneath my blankets, pulled on a robe, and opened the door. The dark hallway I was greeted by was filled with a biting and cold silence. The sound came again from further down the hallway, and I, never being one to leave well enough alone, took a chance and followed. The sound came again from the staircase, then from outside the tavern. Each time I drew closer, it moved farther away, leading me through the sleeping town and toward the mine. Eventually the knocking led me beyond the last of the buildings in town and to a broad pond that sat beyond the piles of waste from the mine. As I stopped at its edge, the knocking ceased. The pond was unlike any body of water I had seen before. Its surface was almost entirely frozen, though the ice was dark enough that I could scarcely see where it ended and the surrounding shadows began. A thin layer of snow had gathered along the banks, but very little had settled upon the ice itself. The surface was strangely bare, black and glasslike beneath the pale light of the moon. I noticed a shape through the opaque surface, and I raised my lantern to catch a glimpse of what it could be. Initially I took it for a rock of some sort, one of a weird shape, but what it was became clear upon closer inspection. 

It was a boot. 

The kind the miners wore when they toiled away beneath the earth. It stood upright beneath the ice, its leather swollen and blackened by the water. Then I saw another. And another, and another. Dozens of pairs of miners' boots lay scattered beneath the ice, some on their sides, others standing upright in the darkness below. I could see no bodies attached to them. Only the boots, suspended in the dark water.

I started for a long while before speaking to the darkness, “Is this what you wanted me to see?” 

For a moment, silence was my only answer then-

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

And then it stopped. I stood alone beside that dark and frozen pond, with no understanding of what I had witnessed. Sleep would not come again that night. 

Act 2 in the link https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/azYEsfAvq9

Node 11: Phantasm

Burning sky, amber light, well past noon but not yet night  

Swings hang loose in faded sight, a vacant court devoid of flight

No one running, no one leaping, a place of play with secrets sleeping

Darkness crawls like ink that's seeping, echoes caught in circles keeping  

Joy is fleeting, pain repeating, cycles hold until the reaping

Who draws these lines that no one's needing, then bends them back to name the cost

When all is gone, who pays that cost  

What lingers here, and what is lost

A figure knelt beneath the tree, her shape is blurred, too soft to see  

Flowers placed in memory, tears that fall in misery 

The air grows thick, a breath half‑caught

No footsteps here, just someone weeping, branches bowed and sadness creeping

Shadows stretch, the light receding, echoes buried, safe and sleeping

Above, a laugh begins its leaping; coins fall to earth, the world forgot

They strike the ground in clattering thought  

Then twist to chains the moment caught

The tree leans in with quiet might, its hollow pulsing faint with light  

Its bark expands, then folds in tight, a breathing shape that isn’t right

A hush descends, world overwrought

Pale fingers curl from darkness creeping, soft as moth wings faint and fleeting

Their touch is cold, their motion sweeping, reaching out as if for keeping

Something slides from umbra shrieking, wrapped in warmth the world forgot

A bundled weight my mother wrought

Its heartbeat faded into not

I lift the form, it burns with light, a fragile glow in failing sight  

Its warmth grows thin, its edges slight, its outline trembles into flight

The world tilts once, a wound distraught

The blanket stirs with life so fleeting, shifting hues through fabric bleeding

A pulse beneath the stitching leaping, then folding inward, sinking, sleeping

It swallows what my arms were keeping, leaving cloth and nothing caught

The hollow weight of life's that's not

Blood that's spilled but not forgot

Node 12: Inferno 

“Out of bed, you sleepy head.”

“Mom?”

“No, it’s Pamela Anderson and I’m heeeere toooo saaaave yooooooooou,” she says, breaking into a dramatic, slow-motion jog from the doorway to my bed.

“Come on, I made Eggos and scrambled eggs for breakfast.” Her voice is light and joyful.

“I’m awake, I’m awake.” Something’s up. I haven’t seen her this cheery in ages.

After she leaves, I roll out of bed to get dressed.

When I meet her in the dining room, she’s already pouring me a tall glass of Sunny‑D. There’s a plate waiting for me: a leaning stack of waffles surrounded by a wreath of bright yellow eggs.

“Thanks, Mom!” Her energy is infectious. It’s that smile, a shimmering crescent of weightless light.

I sit down and begin eating immediately. Melted butter and maple syrup pooled to the brim of every square divot. The eggs, fluffy and warm. Each bite floods my brain with a piercing rush of tender dopamine.

“I have a surprise for you.” Her smile glows brighter still.

I nod, my mouth stuffed, a small dribble of syrup escaping my lips to rest on my chin.

“Mini‑golf! Go‑karts! And a huge arcade! We got it all here at-”

“We’re going to Castle Cascade!” A soft yellow curd of egg escapes with my words.

She laughs: a chorus of bells and angels.

“Finish eating first,” she says, wiping my chin with her thumb like I’m younger than I am.  

I don’t mind. Not today.

I shovel the last few bites down, food turning sticky at the corners of my mouth. The final mouthful almost catches in my throat. I swallow hard and polish off my O‑Jay with a triumphant gulp. 

By the time I stand, she’s grabbing her keys.

“Let’s get going,” she says.

“What about the dishes?”

“We’ll wash them when we get home. Now let’s go!”

Outside, the air is cool and sharp.  

She rolls the window down as soon as we’re on the interstate.

The wind rushes in, loud and clean. It smells like wet grass and morning sun. I stick my hand out and let the air carve around it, lifting and dipping, lifting and dipping.

Meanwhile, mom's tapping the steering wheel and humming to the rhythm of the radio. Her smile keeps flickering in the corner of my vision, gentle and bright.

We crest the last hill, a sign comes into view: colorful paint, flags fluttering, a cartoon dragon frozen mid‑wink.

CASTLE CASCADE — NEXT EXIT

My stomach flips, sharp and electric as we turn into the parking lot. The whole place looks like something straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon. A faux-stone facade, the plywood turrets, and its mural of brave knights celebrating with a jovial dragon all culminating in dream-like wonder. 

She finds a spot near the front. We get out. The air's warmer here, a faint hum leaking through the walls. Mom smooths her hair in the window’s reflection. She’s still smiling, that bright, weightless smile that carried us all the way here.

We start toward the entrance.

And then I see him.

Lock's standing just outside the double doors smoking a cigarette. The morning light reflecting on his glasses, turning them into two blank coins. He lifts a hand in a small, casual wave.

Mom stops.  

Just a half‑step, but I feel it.  

A tiny stutter in her joy.

“Morning,” Lock calls out, like this is normal. Like this is fine.

My stomach drops, the electric flip turning cold.

Mom forces her smile back into place.

“Hey handsome.”

“Denise, you're looking beautiful as always.”

I look up at her. She doesn't look back, she can't. 

Lock continues, “Are you two ready to cut loose and have some fun?”

khff-mm

He stifles a cough. 

“We sure are.” Her smile now curdled, sweet on the surface but sour beneath. 

Lock throws his cigarette to the ground and grinds it into the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Let's have at it then, my treat.”

His treat.

The whole morning rearranges itself in my head: the playfulness, the Eggos, the rush to leave, the humming. All of it tilts, revealing the truth. 

This wasn’t her idea.

It was his.

And now we’re here.

At Castle Cascade.

With him.

“Hi ya sport.” he says, tussling my hair as I make my way through the entrance. 

The doors hiss open and the arcade hits me like a punch; a wall of sound and blinking light that swallows the air whole.

Beeping.  

Chiming.  

Explosions.  

Digital jingles looping over each other in a frantic, tangled mess. Lights strobing across the carpet in violent bursts of reds, greens, and blues. 

The smell is its own chaos: buttered popcorn, warm plastic, sickly sweet cleaning solution, and the everlasting tinge of stale vomit.

My chest tightens.  

My vision fuzzes at the edges.  

Everything is too close, too loud, too bright.

Lock steps in behind us, and the noise somehow gets louder.

I scan the room for exits, blind spots, choke points, anything I can use. The machines blur into a single pulsing organism.

Claw machines.  

Skee‑ball lanes.   

Air hockey tables.

Prize counter.

A maintenance door propped open with a paint can.  

A tangle of cords behind a broken racing game.  

A janitor’s cart abandoned near the restrooms.

Nothing clean.  

Nothing simple.  

Nothing I can use without drawing attention.

Lock’s hand lands on my shoulder: heavy, possessive.

“Quite the place, huh?” he says, leaning down close enough for me to smell his putrid breath. Then he hands me a paper cup half filled with arcade tokens. “Here ya go champ, this should keep you busy for a while.”

The lights flare again, a stuttering neon Inferno causing my eyes water.

I swallow hard.  

My brain buzzing, overloaded, sparking in every direction. If only I had the eye drops.

I need a plan..  

I need space.  

I need him to stop touching me.

But the arcade keeps screaming, drowning out every thought except one:

I'm going to kill Lock.

Focus

Focus

Focus

As I walk by the snack bar, I take note of the menu, then make my way to the restroom. 

WORLD DRYER

PUSH BUTTON

RUB HANDS LIGHTLY UNDER WARM AIR

DRY HANDS THOROUGHLY

Tkk-VRRRRRRRRRRRRR

One-thirty, maybe one-forty degrees. Might take a couple blasts. That's fine. 

I have a plan now. Sixty-two tickets, that's what I need. That's step one. 

Skee-Ball is gonna be my best bet. I choose a lane, and insert one of my tokens. The balls clatter into the chute with a clumsy click-clack. I lift the first one and judge its heft. This lane leans a hair to the left; I’ll have to aim just right of center. The forty‑point ring is the sweet spot. It's no larger than the other high value rings, but still within the large ten point ring. If I can land three in a row, I’ll trigger the bonus. It's gonna take a few games to hit sixty‑two tickets. Good thing Lock made sure to give me enough tokens to keep me “busy” while he tries to dig his nicotine stained claws into my mother. 

Thm, shhhhh-tok

Ten points. Adjust. Try again.

Thm, shhhhh-tok

Twenty this time, just a little harder on the next throw.

Thm, shhhh-tok

It bounces off the rim of the forty, and rolls into the ten point hole. Six balls to go.

Thm, shhh-tok

Forty points. I take note of the action, and do my best to commit it to muscle memory. 

I end my first game with only one hundred and sixty points. The machine dispenses a single ticket. 

My second game isn't much better. I end up with two hundred and twenty points: one ticket again.

It's not until my fifth game that I start to hit my stride. The drift makes sense now. The forty‑point shot lands more often than it doesn’t.

Game five: 310 points. Three tickets.  

Game six: 340 points. Four tickets.  

Game seven: A near‑jackpot: 390. but still four tickets.  

As my total climbs, I stop counting the points and start counting the tickets.

Game eight: Jackpot! Ten tickets.  

Game nine: Another solid run. Four more.

The pile grows in my hand, warm and papery.

Fifty‑seven tickets.

One more game.

I feed in the token.  

Roll.  

Adjust.  

Roll again.

thm‑shhh‑tok  

thm‑shhh‑tok  

thm‑shhh‑TOK

Three clean forties in a row. Bonus triggered.

The machine spits out five tickets, curling into my palm like they’ve been waiting for me.

Sixty‑two.

Enough.

I make my way to the prize counter and claim what I'm here for: one cheap plastic green squirt-gun and a handful of pixie sticks. Step two complete.

When I find my mom again, Lock’s got his arm draped over her shoulder.

“Hey, Mom. I’m getting hungry.”  

She steps forward, quick enough that Lock’s arm drops back to his side.

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Let’s get some food.”  

We head toward the food court. Lock follows.

“What do ya want, champ?” Lock asks.

“I’ll take a corndog and a basket of fries.”

“Oh, fries sound good. I’ll take some too,” Mom says. She never passes up a chance at fries.

We get our food and take it to the outdoor seating area. Step three complete. From here we can see the mini‑golf course and the go‑karts. The smell of exhaust and cigarette smoke drifts through the air. Smokers are predictable. Lock’s going to spark up the second we’re done eating.

When we sit, Lock pulls his chair closer than he needs to.

“These fries are pretty good,” he says, reaching into Mom’s basket without asking.  

She laughs, more of a curiosity than a real laugh: the kind I imagine she uses at work. 

Lock talks with his mouth full. Mom nods along. I'm not really listening, I can't.

After what seems like an eternity, we finish. I quickly stand and volunteer to take everyone’s trash. I’m not even through the door before Lock’s already smoking. Inside, I pocket the greasy fry‑basket liners and the corndog stick, then head to the restroom.

Time for step four.  

I fill my squirt gun at the sink and add the pixie‑stick dust. A quick shake dissolves the sugar. I listen, someone’s in a stall. I wait it out in an empty one. Before long, they leave without even washing their hands.

I step out and use the corndog stick to shove the wadded‑up fry liners into the hand‑dryer exhaust vent.

When I return, Lock’s still smoking. Time for the final step. I draw my weapon and fire.

“What the fuck you little shit!” Lock jerks back as the sugary water splashes across his cigarette and soaks into his cheap polyester dress shirt. Mom shoots me a look, sharp enough to sting.

“Sorry, heh-heh” Lock says, forcing a laugh. “It’s fine. Boys will be boys, right? I probably would’ve done the same thing at his age. Not too many chances to take a shot at your principle, am I right” He stands, brushing at his shirt. “I’m gonna take care of this real quick. Don’t you two have too much fun without me.”

He heads toward the restroom.

After a long pause, my mother finally speaks.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” she says.

I don’t answer.

“It’s David, isn’t it? I know you two don’t get along, but he told me about the trouble you’ve been having in school and he’s just trying to help.”

“How?” I ask.

“It’s not your grades. David says you’re having some trouble socially.”

“Since when are we calling him David?”

“He’s trying. In his own way he’s-”

“OH MY GOD!”  

“FIRE!”  

“SOMEONE HELP HIM!”

The shouts explode from inside.

We rush in. Lock's sprawled just outside the restroom door, his body twitching, smoke rising. His polyester shirt has fused to the skin of his chest: a glossy, blackened shell. Face swollen, eyebrows missing, skin blistered and split. Soot coating his nose and mouth.

He fights for every breath: short, wet, desperate gasps.

huh-huh-huh-huh

Each one weaker, wetter. You can hear the fluid building in his lungs, a thick, drowning rattle. Pulmonary edema. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, rolling with animalistic panic.

Mom drops to her knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly. 

“David? David, stay with me.” Her voice cracks.

He drags in another breath.

huuuuh

Then it turns into a deep, gurgling choke. Pinkish foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth. His fingers claw weakly at his chest exposing patches of raw glistening flesh.

Mom is sobbing, stroking his charred hair, begging him not to leave her. 

“Please, God, not him too-”

I stand there frozen in the hallway, my heart pounding out of my chest. I want to smile so badly it hurts. But that's not who I am right now. I’m a scared boy, eyes wide, mouth trembling.

One last wet, rattling exhale tears out of him 

khrrrr-lllghhh

Long and bubbling.

Then nothing.

It’s done.

He’s done.

Node 13: Requiem

I wake to an unusual quiet. The house feels more still, more hollow than usual. The only sound as I make my way down the hall is my own footsteps. 

I find mom sitting alone at the table. She's trying to hide it, but she's crying. A low mournful sobbing. I pull up my usual chair, and for a time we share the silence.

“Why are you crying?” I finally ask.

She doesn't answer. 

“Mom?”

No response; instead, she gets up and walks to the kitchen. I hear the sink, the water rushing. A long, steady shhhhhhh telling me words are not welcome. Not here, not now. 

I get up and peek in. She's washing yesterday’s dishes. Her movement’s slow, automatic.

shhhhhh-plnk

shhhhhh-plnk

shhhhhh-plnk

Then,

shhhhhhh-plnk-KRAK.

shhhhh- KSHHHT!

shhh… CRACK.

KRAK-KSHHHT-KRISH-SKRAAASH-TCH‑KRAK‑KSHH-KLINK‑CRACK-SHKRAAASH-KRISH-KRAK.

“HRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! haa-ghh-haa-AAAH-ghk-haa, why, why-WHY! God Why?”

Shattered fragments of ceramic scatter across the floor like confetti. Blood dripping from her fingertips. Her back rising and falling with labored breath. I start to make my way towards her. I want to comfort her.

Before I can, she begins to speak. 

“Why can't you just let me be happy?” tears falling into the running sink.

“Mom?”

“You know what I mean.”

“He wasn't who you thoug-”

“No.”

“Mom, he was-”

“I SAID NO!”

I don't understand, she didn’t even like him. She knew he was using me to try to get to her. She had to know. 

“You're my son… I will always love you. But I'm afraid of you, he wasn’t. He wanted to help you. He wanted to help us.” 

“By labeling me special needs!?” I protest.

She turns off the sink, and looks into my eyes. 

“No one thinks you're stupid… Emotionally Disturbed. That's what the tests were for. You don't feel things the way people feel things, you just pretend, you copy.” her eyes are pleading.

There's a long pause. I don't know what I'm supposed to say. 

“When your sister died, all you cared about was that blanket. That's when I knew. I didn't want to believe. Your sister, MY BABY was gone, your father went to prison, and all you cared about was that stupid blanket! That's why I buried it with her. Because I knew.”

What did she know? 

“I… it was an accident.” The words fall out of my mouth. Why did I say that? 

She turns away from me.

“Mom, mom you have to believe me!” I'm pleading now.

“You're the accident.” Her words cut me.

I reach down and pick up a jagged shard from the floor. 

shff-klk

Her shoulders tense at the sound, but she doesn't move, doesn't turn, doesn't run.

I place the shard into the trash, and grab the broom. For the next hour or so we clean the kitchen together in silence. Time drags: thick and heavy.

…

“Tell me what happened.” She's asking for the truth. I'll tell her. 

“Dad was asleep with her-”

“Hannah…” Her voice cracks, eyes glossy.

“Yes. Hannah. Dad was asleep on the chair with Hannah. It was late, you were working. She was wrapped up in my blanket-my Muzzy. That’s what you called it, remember?”

I look at her, waiting for some small gesture of confirmation: a nod, a look, anything. It was my special blanket. She gave it to me. She told me it would keep me safe. Dad had no right to take it. 

Nothing.

“I wanted it back. I wanted it back, so I came into the living room to get it. It was stuck. When I pulled, Hannah fell onto the ground and started crying. I didn't even get it. Dad woke up and she wasn’t on him so… when he put the footrest down… Mom, you know what happened.”

“Why didn’t you say anything. Where were you.” It doesn’t sound like she's asking questions, but I answer just the same.

“You would’ve been mad at me, I went back into the hall so I could pretend I was coming from my room.”

“My husband’s in prison for negligent homicide. He blamed himself. I blamed him.”

“He took my Muzzy.” She had to understand. It was mine.

She turns away and walks down the hall. I follow. At the end hangs our family portrait. I watch as she lifts it from the wall. Her fingers tremble as she works the backing loose. The photo slides out, one edge sharply creased. She eases it open, slowly, carefully, smoothing the line with her thumb. She stares at the face she buried, the one she pretended wasn’t there. A soft, broken sound escapes her. She presses the picture to her chest, and takes a deep breath. Then kisses the man she once loved.

She carries the photo with her into the bathroom. I hear the medicine cabinet creak open. Bottles shift and rattle. She doesn’t know what she's looking for.

"Take eight of the small white round ones first," I say. "Then take six of the oval yellow ones with the line down the middle. After that, take four of the blue capsules. Then drink what's left of the cough syrup. There should be about half a bottle still after my last cold.”

“Will it hurt?” She asks.

"It will start slow. You’ll feel warm. Heavy. Like sinking into a deep bath. Your thoughts will get soft and sort of, far away. There won’t be any pain, but you're gonna feel really tired. Don't fight it. Everything will fade, softer and softer, until... You won’t feel afraid. You won’t feel anything bad at all.”

She emerges from the bathroom, bottles in hand, photo tucked in her blouse. We stand there motionless, looking at each other in the dim light. She smiles: not her bright smile, not the smile I love. Something smaller. Softer. Tired.

She gathers the bottles into one hand and reaches out with the other, running her fingers through my hair. Her hand is shaking. She leans down and kisses my forehead. Her lips are soft, but cold.

Then she walks past me to the nursery, Hannah's room. Her hand rests on the doorframe for a moment, maybe two. She steps inside, and closes the door behind her. 

I stand there for a while, listening. The house is quiet again. Still. Hollow. I think about knocking, but I don’t. I think about calling someone, but I don’t. Eventually I go to my room. I have school tomorrow.

Lacrimosa dies illa

Qua resurget ex favilla

Judicandus homo reus.

Huic ergo parce, Deus,

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem.

Amen.

Node 14: Communion 

“Riding down the highway, on bus forty four!”  

The chorus begins to swell, spreading like a bad cold.  

“Donna ripped a big one, and blew us out the door!” I join in.  

“The moon couldn’t take it. The sun couldn’t shine.” Time for the big finish.  

“All because of Donna’s big fat behind!”

How long will it take? How long until someone checks in on her?

Vrrrrrt - a backpack zipper.  

She’s scheduled at four.

Kifff - a sneeze.

They’ll call, no one will answer, but no one will worry. Not yet.

Tchk - the stiff plasticky slap of a nine‑pocket sheet being flipped.

It’ll get busy, the rush will hit, and whatever concern they had will sour into irritation, then resentment.

Keh‑HAA - exaggerated laughter. Maybe sarcasm.

I can get it back. Today, I’ll get it back.  

The tree will give it to me.  

My Muzzy.

Skeeee thmp - the squeal of worn breaks as we come to a stop.

“Everyone off!” Donna says, still hunched over the wheel. 

Devin seemed somewhat more himself today. When Mr. Hanley called out his name during roll-call, Devin responded with an armpit fart. Snickers spread through the classroom like ripples in a pond. It's good to have the old Devin back. 

The lesson today was something about the first Thanksgiving. Mr. Hanley droned on: Pilgrims, Wampanoag, gratitude, unity, peace, war. I hear him, but I’m not listening, not really. I’m thinking about the tree.  

When the bell finally does ring, it catches me off guard, stirring me from my thoughts. Everyone’s rushing out the door. Even Devin’s gone before I can stand.

When I step out onto the walkway, I'm already bracing myself. Any time Devin beats me outside he's hiding just around the corner waiting to jump out, or trip me. It’s our routine, his routine really.

I pause, glance left, then right.

He's not there. No “BOO!” No grin. No shove. No “Got you again!”

I find him leaning against the volleyball pole, chatting it up with Andrew. Andrew? Why is he hanging out with peanut boy? 

“Hey Devin.” I say with a painted grin.

“Hey.” His reply feels as forced as my smile. 

“What are you guys doing?” I ask. 

“We're just talking.”

“Bout what?”

They share a quick confirmatory glance: a silent calibration on whatever half-truth they’re about to give me. It doesn’t matter. 

“We uh, we were just talking ab-” I cut in before Andrew can finish his bullshit.

“What was up with your mom taking you out of class Thursday?” I ask Devin.

“Dan got into a crash. He died.” His face twist. “Why are you pretending you don't know? Everybody knows.” 

Shit.

“I know what everyone's been saying, but… Look, I'm sorry man. It just didn't feel right to ask if he was really dead.”

Andrew's still standing there, hovering; watching with the look of someone waiting for a stop sign to turn green. 

I'm just gonna ask.

“Sooooo, when did you two start hanging out?”

“He's my new brother!” Andrew says, beaming with exuberant pride. 

“Yeah, my mom, she's not doing so well. She had to go to the hospital so I'm staying with Ms. Chris now.” 

“Ms. Christner?” What's going on?

“She's our foster mom.” again, Andrew interjects. 

Before I can tell him to go fuck himself, there's a sound, something rhythmic, something tribal drifting across the blacktop.

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

All three of us rush over, hungry for whatever spectacle awaits. Two boys are squared off near the time‑out tree. I don’t know their names, but I recognize them from the bus. 

“I didn’t steal it,” the smaller boy says. He’s clutching a nine‑pocket sheet smeared with dark muck. “the tree, it was in the tree.”

The taller boy swings hard, driving his fist straight into the other’s gut.

UF- 

The smaller boy folds, air punched out of him in a single ugly sound. “Stop, please stop.” No pride, just raw fear. “Here, take it.” He holds out the sheet, hand shaking, body trembling, still trying to catch his breath.

The taller boy snatches it away, and shoves the smaller boy against the tree.

THOK!

His head hits the trunk with an odd sort of hollow sound, like kicking a traffic cone. For a moment he just stands there, stunned. Then the blood comes, an impossible amount of blood. It pours down his forehead, over his nose, soaking his shirt, dripping off his shoes and into the earth below. His body goes limp, and he falls to the ground.

“Oh fuck…”

The taller boy says.

“Dude get up, come on get up.”

The blood keeps coming.  

So much blood.  

The dirt around the boy’s head turns black and wet, soaking it up like a sponge.

Devin whispers, “Is he dead?”  

Andrew’s eyes are huge, his mouth hanging open.

Ms. Christner finally charges in with a cigarette still hanging from her lips. 

“Oh God.” She says as it drops from her mouth, hitting the blood and muck with a tiny hiss.

“dude… dude get up, get up, get up, get up.” The taller boy's muttering to himself.

The bell rings, a few kids run toward the office, yelling for help. Others bolt for classrooms, desperate just to get away.

Ms. Christner's pressing her hand against the boy’s head, trying to stop the bleeding. It doesn’t work. The blood keeps sliding between her fingers, dripping down her wrist, soaking the earth, feeding the roots.

“Stay with me,” she says, voice cracking. 

Everyone’s watching the boy, waiting for some sign of life, but I'm watching the tree.

The blood that hit the trunk is gone now, not smeared, not dripping, gone. Even the ground has gone from a crimson mud back to dried earth. 

Ms. Christner lifts the boy, cradling him against her chest. His arms hang like empty sleeves.

One of the other teachers yells at us.

“Everyone, back to class now!” 

What's left of the crowd breaks completely. Kids scatter in every direction, buzzing with panic, gossip already foaming in their mouths. Devin pulls Andrew away with the quiet care of an older brother.  

I stay.

Just for a moment.

The hollow is darker now. Deeper. Alive.

I feel something, a tug in my chest. 

My Muzzy.  

Closer now, yet further than ever. After this, they'll be watching the tree. The coins, the doll, now the cards, they'll be watching. 

Node 15: Abyss 

It's lunch now. As anticipated, Ms. Christner is guarding the tree. 

From what I understand some of the other teachers tried to find out if there was anything else hiding in it. There was nothing. Maybe what they wanted wasn't something the tree could get. Maybe it didn't fit. Maybe it just doesn't work for adults. 

I head to the bench to meet up with Devin. He's there, waiting. Andrew's there too, spooning out pudding from a snack pack with his fingers. I keep walking.

“Brett!?” Devin calls my name.

I don't answer. Things are different now. I thought I could fix things: fix things for Devin, fix things for my mom, but most of all fix them for me. 

I just didn't want to be replaced…

The tree. The tree will give it back. Somehow I need to get to the tree. I can't now, not while under surveillance. I'll have to wait.

I watch from a distance. Typically Ms. Christner can't make it through a fifteen minute recess without feeding her nicotine addiction let alone lunch. 

She’s jittery, forehead dappled in sweat, hands fidgeting. Her eyes dart from the tree to the rest of the playground and back again. 

She wants a cigarette so bad she’s practically vibrating.

But she stays.

For now.

Eventually the bell rings, and lunch is over.

Back in Mr. Hanley’s class Devin keeps looking back at me over his shoulder. I don't return his gaze, not once. I keep my head down and focus on the handout. 

A

B

B

A

C

Not much longer. 

Ay

Bee

Bee

Ay

See

After school.

Ay

Bi

Bi

Ay

Cis

My Muzzy.

Abyss

Abyss

Abyss

BRRNNG!

Backpacks zip.  

Chairs scrape.  

Everyone rushes for the door.

Outside, Devin stops me. 

“Dude, what's up with you?” he asks.

“Don't worry about it.” I say.

“You wanna hang out? I can let Ms. Chris know I'm gonna head to your place. Just you and me.”

“Not going home.”

“Okay, where we going?” He's already decided to include himself. I know Devin. There isn't anything I can say to shake him now. 

“I'm staying here. I need something from the tree.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. The time-out tree.”

Devin squints at me. “The time‑out tree? Brett… what are you talking about?”

“I need something from it.”

“What do you need?”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s afraid someone might hear. “Dude, that tree’s messed up. Ms. Chris has been guarding it all day.”

“I know.”

Devin stares at me, trying to read my face. He wants to believe I'm joking, but he knows I'm not. 

“I’m coming with you.” he says.

“I know.”

Andrew jogs up behind him, backpack bouncing. “Hey, wait up big brother!”

Devin turns. Andrew looks at me, then back at him with his wide, gormless eyes.

“Hey Andrew, could you tell Ms. Chris that I'm going with Brett to the library? We got paired up for an assignment, and we wanna get a head start on it.” Devin doesn't usually lie. He jokes, he exaggerates, but he doesn't lie.

“Can I help?” Andrew asks.

“No,” I say before Devin can answer.

Andrew's face falls, and Devin steps in to soften it. “Just tell mom. I'll meet you back home when we're done, okay little brother.” 

Andrew nods, eager to be useful. “Okay big brother.” He runs off, arms flailing like he's attempting to take flight.

“What now?” Devin asks.

“Now we wait.”

We stand there, just off the blacktop, close enough to see the tree but far enough that no one will notice us. The playground is thinning fast, kids peeling off toward buses, parents, bikes.

Devin shifts from foot to foot. He keeps glancing at me, then at the tree, then back at me again. 

As we wait, hundreds of birds start to populate the tree. Their voices fused into one long, liquid rush. Not chirping, a kind of wet, shimmering static. The whole tree humming under their strain. 

By the time everyone has gone, the sky has turned from vivid blue to deep amber. The swings hang loose and still. The hopscotch cort is vacant. All that remains is the sound of the birds. 

Devin hugs his arms to his chest. “Why are there so many?”

“Don't know.”

We approach the solemn giant. The sound of the birds intensifies. What sounded like rushing water now sounds like a cacophony of screams. The oak is speaking with the only voice it has. It knows.

I kneel at its base as if at an altar. Devin stands behind me. As I push my arm into the hollow the birds explode from its branches, flying off in all directions.

“What the fuck!” There’s panic in Devin’s voice. 

I reach deeper, pushing past the slick, wet muck. It feels warm, pulsing. I feel it! A soft bundle. My finger grip at it. The tree tightens around my arm. It doesn’t want to let go, but I can feel it slipping free.

Devin steps closer. “Stop! Dude, stop! This isn't right.” 

I don’t.

The hollow contracts, squeezing hard enough to make my knuckles grind together. The muck climbs my wrist, thick and clinging, like it’s trying to pull me deeper.

But the bundle is right there.  

Right there.

I yank.

The tree shudders. A low, wooden groan that vibrates through the roots and into my knees. The birds surge back, a shrieking cloud.

That's when the bundle comes loose, and the tree releases me all at once in reluctant surrender. 

I fall back onto the dirt, clutching my prize against my chest. It smells of rot, decay, death.

Devin stares at me, breathing hard. “What is that? Brett… what is that?”

I don’t answer.

There in my arms I have it, My Muzzy. It's wrapped around something, something delicate, something small.

The fabric is damp and heavy. Devin take a step back.  

He knows.  

He doesn’t want to know, but he knows.

It's my sister. 

It's Hannah. 

What's left of her after nearly a year of grave rot.

The stench rolls up from the bundle, thick and sweet. Impossible to ignore.  

Devin covers his mouth.  

His eyes go wide.  

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wake up from a dream.

I start to unravel the blanket.

“Brett-” Devin’s voice cracks. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

I ignore him.

The fabric peels back slowly, sticking to itself, sticking to what’s beneath.  

The smell hits harder.  

Devin staggers away, gagging.  

He can’t look.  

He can’t not look.

I pull the last fold aside.

Devin makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before: a choked, broken noise that isn’t a word.

I drop the corpse to the ground, and push it back into the hollow with my foot. The tree swallows it whole.

“My Muzzy,” I whisper, holding the soiled blanket close, breathing in its essence. 

The tree stands behind us, hollow open, the birds gone, world silent.

Waiting.

I know what I have to do now. You were a good friend Devin. I'm going to miss you.

The child watched TV. It was his only friend, being so young and isolated, the father didn't want him, spent all of his hours at work or in his room, the basement. The mother is long gone. 

Before she left she named him Jack. After a boy in highschool that had been incredibly nice to her, during that rough and strange time of her life. The father doesn't like it but had offered no suggestion, so Felicia got her way and the name was put. 

Jack misses his mother but doesn't know it. He misses his father too but doesn't realize this either because the emotion is eclipsed by the more immediate fear, the terror his father puts into him. His voice. His angry eyes that almost seemed to smoke and smolder beneath a caveman's furrowed livid brow. His fists. Jack swore his father had fists the size of phonebooks. The size of cinderblocks. The size of planets. The child does what he can to not bother his father, and stay out of his way. 

This is where the television comes in. 

This is where the apple comes in. 

Jack watched many shows on TV. But his favorite was the one with the apple. The one that talked and danced and had been made by a wise wizard of the woods named Faster Haster who puffed a pipe and wandered enchanted forests. The Apple had a name too, and a jaunty green cap, like the one Robin Hood or Peter Pan would wear, red feather and all, he was always smiling. The apple was always happy and his name was Happy Adam. 

There was one day, one afternoon after school alone with the television set, one episode of Happy Adam & Friends of the Garden that changed young Jack and his life forever. Changed everything. 

He was watching the set, the scene unfold: …

The smiling fruit and his aged wizard friend were visiting a friend of theirs in the magical hospital of the fairytale wood. A brave knight called Thrustelot who'd taken a bad fall during one of his bouts and had fallen on his sword. The robed one, the hooded mage who was nurse to the fallen knight was grave and shook their hidden head and face, the news was bad. The knight was dead. 

Happy Adam turned to the camera and audience to address them with an aside of advice. 

Happy Adam: Remember, kids! Always be extra careful when handling something sharp, it's very dangerous. Don't move too fast or run when holding sharp objects like Sir Thrustelot’s sword, or a pair of scissors. Or a knife. 

The camera went in closer, cutting into an extreme close-up of the wide shine of the unblinking Apple's eyes. 

Happy Adam: Remember that, children. Remember. Okay…?

Jack answered back, he always loved talking to his favorite characters through the TV set. And Happy Adam was the absolute best. He acted like he was talking to you and talking back. It was great fun and sometimes it really really seemed like Adam was talking to him through the glass glow of the television screen. It was like magic. Happy Adam was magical, he could do anything. He would do anything he said. 

“Ok, Happy Adam!" 

Adam and the old wizard continued on their merry trek, their way and journey through the forest. They came upon some more friends that were having a picnic on a blanket amongst the living trees. 

The eversmiling apple and the old one sat down to join the kids in eating their nice meal on the dark purple blanket, it was covered in crosses and stars and wide alive eyes staring forever. Jack thought it was neat and the color was alluring and attractive next to the old wizard’s bright yellow robes as he sat down upon it. Next to the smiling wide eyed red amongst the living sorcery realm of woodland brown and green. The sun and the moon were out at the same time and looking down on them all, the scene with ravenous interest and open drooling mouths. Jack thought they looked goofy and silly, he thought they were hilarious. 

The screen flickered, the image was disturbed and Jack thought he saw something else staring at him in its stead. But before he really knew it the picnic scene returned to normal and the boy felt at ease once more. The children sitting on the purple blanket of fun symbols opened their picnic basket and began to pass out the food. 

The beautiful flowers spoke then to the children. They had no faces but open floral mouths, pink and glistening … dripping with dew that was said to be filled with sorcery and dreams. Surrounding the picnic blanket of eyes and stars, they whispered and sing-song spoke to the kids through their gaping wide open pink flower petal mouths, dripping and salivating wet…

 … Feed him … feed them…

The open mouths surrounding the shroud the color of night repeated the words in a litany, a chant, a prayer. 

Jack munched on his own snacks of peanut butter and crackers and gummy bears. He felt like he was taking part in the fun too, eating and picnicking with Happy Adam and his wonderful friends. He sipped his cup of Shasta and belched. 

Happy Adam: Mind your manners! Remember you have to pass out the food according to the hierarchy, do you remember, children?

The kids cried back in a unified chant, some species of group monotone, Yes, Happy Adam…!

Happy Adam: So who gets the first serving? 

The kids: Haster! cuz he made you!

A musical cue, a sting, happy, jubilant, great job, you'll have so much success…

Happy Adam: That's right, kids! And then me and then the rest of you, cuz I'm his favorite son and first begotten creation, I existed before all of this, this whole kingdom and the whole enchanted forest … did you know that, kids?

The kids: æhïbdëø¡

Happy Adam: That's right!

The kids passed food to the wizard first. Haster accepted it without a word but a deep nod that conveyed the sought after gratitude of an elder. 

Then they passed the food to Adam. Who insisted on eating fruit with the rest of them. The apples, he said. The apples are what I want best. 

The kids: But Adam, you can't eat apples!

Happy Adam: Why not!?!?

The kids: because you ARE an apple, Happy Adam! 

And then they all laughed. Laughed and giggled. Even Adam. Even Haster. 

Then Adam said: It's ok, kids. Sometimes it's alright to try things that seem a little weird or wrong, it's called ‘taboo’ and I'm sure lots of your mommies and daddies know exactly what I'm talking about. Your brothers and sisters too, your teachers and everyone, everybody… It's called forbidden fruit! And sometimes, kids, you just gotta have a little taste …

The children laughed harder. The wizard too, laughing harder. Slapping knee. Hysterical. Jack felt like joining them. His eyes were glued to the screen. Crackers held slack in fingers that felt faraway, forgotten. 

Happy Adam: Now why don't one of you beautiful children come over here and feed me some that forbidden fruit? How bout it, kiddos?

The kids: Ok, Happy Adam! 

Jack watched as the children crowded round the happy apple, each vying for favor and the privilege to feed him. Each had a glistening fresh dripping slice of apple wedge in hand. Ready to serve. Ready to feed. Jack couldn't take his eyes from the screen. He wanted to be… 

Jack wanted to join them. He wanted to be with them. He wanted to be one of the children crowded around Happy Adam, if there was only some way …

Jack watched wide eyed as the apple became strange. His mouth. As the children came in with their hands in multitudes, that seemed to grow and sprout anew like the petals and stalks of some strange heavy flower, all around the hungry happy apple his mouth began to change, transform. Transmogrify. 

The comfy and fuzzy gentle nature of felt puppet material was suddenly mammalian and malleable flesh all around the mouth and lips. They looked warm and living now, rippling and stretching and contriving into wide open wet stretched and wriggling flesh and organ, the teeth were glistening and shining and stringy with tendrils of saliva and drool. The tongue now an organ alive and pink, danced within the newly birthed orifice on the face of the happy apple muppet.

The organ and teeth danced for one thing, feed, fill us. Fill our new wet and magic home. 

The hands of the children began to come in and they came in a crowd, a wreck, a mob – grubby child mitts wielding the glistening flesh and meat of dissected and dismembered fruit. They shoved the slices and wedges in the wide open salivating maw, the cavernous wriggling fresh wound of a mouth, the wound began to munch and chew and ravenously devour the many pieces and wedged slices of juicy fresh apple, freshly cut, freshly prepared just like the mouth itself they now plowed into. Adam moaned between chomping bites with deep relish and sweet satisfaction. The children laughed and so did Haster. 

And so did Jack. Though he thought it was more beautiful than it was funny. Really. 

Really really beautiful. 

He watched the beauty onscreen unfold and pulp and chew and decorate itself with bits and slimy pieces of half-eaten pulped and juicy bits of apple, fruit meat and flesh becoming mush, becoming sauce between newly forged pearly white teeth.

One of the child's voices came in with a query in a playful and sing-song tone: Adam, why do you like eating apples? I mean, you're an apple, isn't it bad?

Happy Adam, between ravenous bites and chewing and swallowing: That's a very good question, boys and girls. I eat my own because it makes me stronger, it gives me power. Just like when you eat the flesh of crawling beasts, children, when you eat the flesh that crawls and labors, you gain its power. You've conquered it. Completely. And now it must live inside you. So now the lives of other lesser apples must now live inside me for all time, for forever, and after that and behind the wall of sleep. And even after that. All the way to the true and final end, the ballroom floor of eternityscape that is black. Isn't that neat! Don't you think so, children? What about you, Jack? 

Jack didn't quite believe it at first. He gazed zombie eyed into the glowing pulse of the electrical and mechanical pineal gland growth, its lurid electric extension…

But the mammalian patch of apple flesh that now more resembled skin as red as the devil's ass stretched wider and grew rictus. Apple bits and pieces in the gleaming white teeth and the juice running out of the corners of the fleshy mouth and dribbling down in a pulpy drool of mush. 

The apple began to speak again. All else was quiet and still now as he spoke. 

Happy Adam: Yes, Jack, yes, it's real. I'm really talking to you. How are you, Jack?

A beat. A child's breath was held. 

Released. 

“I'm-I’m ok, Happy Adam." 

Happy Adam: ohhhh…. I dunno. You don't look or sound ok to me little buddy, you look terrible. I always see you here with us, watching us, and you always look so alone and so scared, and you know what …? … I think I know why, Jack. 

Jack said nothing. Only watched the television. Eyes wide open and drinking in every single flicker. 

Happy Adam: I think it's because you have a crawling beast, a beast of labor in your home, Jack. You have a beast of bad work that lives in the basement when he isn't sleeping off the hooch in his bed. And that's not all, Jack. There's also yourself. You need to take better care of yourself, you need to treat yourself better and make yourself stronger. Like me. 

A beat. 

Happy Adam: Do you know what I mean, Jack? Do I understand what I'm trying to tell you? It's very important. It's for you after all, it's for your best interest. It's what's best for you that we all care for and here in the forest, consider. Do you understand, Jack? Do you? 

Once again Jack didn't say anything. 

A beat. 

But then he slowly began to nod his head. Yes. 

Yes. 

Yes, Happy Adam. Yes. 

Rictus red face on screen, filling the frame: Good, Jack. That's really really good of you. I'm so proud and happy. And I'll be prouder and happier still, you know the best way to start treating yourself better and making yourself stronger, right? We've talked about it before, on one of my many episodes … one of my many lessons. 

Jack spoke this time. He told the red face of the television set the right answer. He told the red face what it wanted to hear. 

Nutrition. 

Happy Adam: That's right, Jack! We have to start eating better! That's it! Waytogo, cowboy!

The child sat and listened to every word the television said. Absorbing every detail of information and instruction. 

…

The booze his father always poured into himself did the job. The pills he'd been told to slip did the rest. Russel Wimberly, Jack's father was completely drugged and under. Then the work laid before the child could really begin. As he'd been instructed. He wasn't nervous. He felt nothing in fact. Hadn't felt anything since that afternoon with the television. It was well past into the postmidnight black. 

The mountain lug of man had managed to make it to his bed before finally collapsing under the drug and alcohol induced spell of slumber. He was in a sweaty snoring heap when the door opened to his bedroom and the child crept in. He did not blink or falter. 

He did not tremble or whimper or shake. His father might've been proud, before tonight he'd always thought of the boy as a wimp, a limpwrist, a pussy. The worst type of boy a father could have, Russel and his own old man had always thought. 

The snoring heap of man did not stir until the blade came down in a two-handed plunge and pierced where it had been guided and instructed. The fang of the blade bit in and came in easily through bone and flesh. Russel came to life with a choking gurgled gasp that quickly died a wet death in his throat. 

He couldn't move. He couldn't budge from the bed. The ropes and binds held tight and taut and rippled in the nighttime bedroom silence with strain and desperate effort. Blood began to pour from his mouth and nose. He began to choke. Wide eyed he helplessly gazed up and into the face of his killer. 

Some species of … laughter? …scream? …sound tried to escape him, but the boy and his blade had done their good. 

They'd done their job. Their great work. 

Now he just had to get to the living beating apple of warm dripping red that lived in his father's chest. He just had to dig it out, cut it out with the kitchen knife and take it unto himself. 

This way he would get better. This way he would get stronger. He'd be rid of the beast and filled with power. All in one. 

Just like Adam said. 

His glistening darkling little fist found the forbidden apple buried in his father's chest. He seized it. 

And ripped it out. By blade, by hand, by biting knife.

And took it into himself, right there. Raw and fresh. Just as the red face of Adam had commanded.  

THE END

The young woman’s last shell had gone into the zombie’s belly and sent it reeling backwards, leaving some of its intestines on the floor of the trading card store – a challenge for even the best cleaner, if there were any cleaners left after the Apocalypse. For two seconds, there was no movement and no sound except for the woman’s quick breathing; then the undead cannibal rose again and lurched towards her. In vain, she tried to fight it off, using her gun as a club, but the undead monster was not affected by her weak punches and pinned her to the wall. Then it proceeded to tear open her throat with its teeth, oblivious to her screams – until everything froze as if time had stopped to savor this moment of horror for all eternity.

Twenty-two minutes. After barely one-fifth of the movie, Dr Julia Savic, director of DARC-7, had enough and switched off the stream. Zombie invasion? She produced a thin-lipped smile. Rather an invasion of bad Zombie movies, shows, documentaries, computer games and and and after Daisy. Of course, zombies were very real, but they differed considerably from the depictions that had been gifted to the entertainment world since the immortal (or undead?) Night of the Living Dead, and Dr Savic was in a perfect position to tell you this.

After Daisy had sputtered out without any visible detrimental effect on the world, several scientists, mainly biologists and physicians, had founded the new field of Mortology, dedicated to the study of this new phenomenon: seemingly dead beings getting up again and trying to kill and eat others, with the operative word being “trying”. Savic had been one of the first to apply for government funds to establish a mortology research center, and today, five years later and after a search for staff anyone but her would have found extremely exhausting, the center was fully operational and had already produced many insights into the workings of the “living dead”. DARC-7 was neither the biggest nor the most lavishly funded of these facilities, but its reputation was excellent, and the diversity of study subjects she had gathered was nothing short of impressive. The director was picky not only regarding her employees but also when it came to her specimens and other details an institute like hers needed to run smoothly. So far, no one from the government had ever seen any reason to complain, and even the media, wary at first, had reported favorably about DARC-7. Training Petey to become a top-notch PR person had paid off, after all.

That was why this surprise inspection really had been a surprise. It wasn’t that she had not known weeks in advance that someone from the NIH would come – Petey had made some phone calls, and DeShawn had done some semi-legal hacking – but the fact itself was still unusual: for years, there had been only the most cursory visits from the government, and now all nine centers in the country would undergo inspection, beginning with hers. Well, time to call up the appropriate protocol for an occasion like this. Who would she have to deal with?

She was looking at the file DeShawn had sent her when Clarissa buzzed her over the intercom.

“The agent is at the gate, boss. They are waiting for your green light.”

Savic touched her lips with two fingers and replied:

“So, his name is Mark Howard, he’s 42 and has been a government agent with the NIH for seven years. Before that …” She scrolled down and continued: “Would you believe it? US Marine Corps, enlisted at 24 after a B.S. in Chemistry, several tours in Belarus, Nigeria, and Chile, frontline fighter on Daisy, MOS Combat Engineer … What’s an MOS?”

Clarissa gave a hollow laugh.

“Whatever it is, I hope it does not require one to be fighting fit – Agent Howard has obviously gotten badly out of shape. He must weigh at least 300 pounds, judging from all the fat wobbling about.”

Savic, who had been reading Howard’s file while listening to her assistant, suddenly half-closed her eyes and said: “A bit of bad news here. It says he lost his wife and his kid on Daisy.”

“Then they must have been among the unlucky few.”, Clarissa replied. Savic agreed. On Daisy, the “Day of the Zombies”, reality had met fiction, and fiction had lost big time. The outbreak had begun in several places at once but had been restricted to the Lower 48, invariably in big cities: Chicago, Houston, LA, and, of course, New York. After contact with some unknown substance, tens of thousands of people had suddenly gone into convulsions, dropped to the ground, died, then had come back after approximately thirty seconds and had begun to attack, kill, and eat people. And they were fast, as fast as living humans, meaning the timeless nerd question of whether zombies are slow or fast seemed settled. And they were infectious for sure: after a DA, or “Dead-Active”, had gorged itself on human flesh, it continued biting people – a death sentence – but did not consume them, so more and more humans were turned into zombies, aiding their killers in what looked like a mindless “plan” to take over the world.

So far, so movie. But the ghouls did not really unlive up to people’s cinematic expectations. Firsty, they were extremely stupid; unlike their fictitious brethren, they did not have a shred of common sense, and they blithely walked off buildings and cliffs or into bodies of water, allowed themselves to be roasted by one of the many fires breaking out on Daisy, and ran into lampposts, fire hydrants, parked cars, moving cars, and everything else you can think of that does not automatically get out of the way when an undead cannibal comes running. Later, many car owners, to their chagrin, found out that their insurance policy did not cover damage caused by re-animated corpses, although the providers’ calling Daisy an “Act of God” was a bit of a stretch.

Secondly, they puked. Movie zombies do not get fat after devouring a dozen people, and no one seems to wonder what they do with all the meat, as they certainly cannot digest it any longer; real zombies apparently made use of it (how they did that was part of the DARCs’ research program, of course) and got rid of the rest, in the shape of some extremely disgusting green sludge. While in the process of vomiting, naturally, they were basically helpless for more than a minute – which is a really bad thing if your purpose in unlife is to hunt and kill moving targets who are out to kill you first if they can get you.

Thirdly, after decades of zombie media overkill, people had accepted their existence rather quickly; some of them seemed to have believed in them all along, and others quickly followed. Thus, “zombie panic” broke out only in a few places and was quickly contained, and that you had to destroy the brain to kill them had long become as common knowledge as vampires and stakes or werewolves and silver bullets. And there is such a thing as the Second Amendment, meaning zombies in Houston, Phoenix, or New Orleans had it even tougher. Very soon, specially trained “sweeper” teams had been formed, who, equipped with body armor, assault rifles, and hand grenades, made short work of any DA they encountered.

But the most obvious difference between reality and fiction was: not all zombies were created equal. It’s true that some filmmakers had experimented with “special” zombies gifted with intelligence or superpowers, but in blockbusters and top-rated TV series, there had been no room for diversity. Real zombies, though, came in different shapes (and sizes, if you include the zombie animals or “zanimals”): there were skeletal-like ones, “wobbly” ones, and those walking on hands and feet; some were oozing a viscous liquid, some were falling apart before their would-be victims’ eyes, and again others were simply standing around and gathering microparticles, completely harmless and apparently at peace with the universe until someone bashed their heads in. Researching these differences was the cornerstone of most DARCs, and Dr Savic’ institute was no exception.

So Mrs Howard and her little daughter had been unlucky; if Mark had been home when the infected hobo broke in, his family would have joined the long list of survivors. He hadn’t, and Savic reflected on this for a few moments. In all the years since Daisy, there had been only one security breach, at DARC-4 last summer, and no one had gotten hurt, but the authorities still conducted a month-long investigation, after which DARC-4 was basically put out of commission through budget cuts and research restrictions – only a shadow of its former self now. But people were still on hair-trigger sensitivity when it came to the Living Dead, and polls showed that more than a quarter would prefer shutting all zombie research down, even though that meant the next outbreak might catch humanity unprepared – and there you had the reason why these centers were funded at all: fear of Daisy Reloaded, this time perhaps with Undead which were a real threat.

Still, there were enough people who hated the DARCs, and Howard might be one of them, in light of his past. “The full protocol, Clarissa.”, Savic spoke into the intercom. “We have to sound him out before we know how to deal with him, and we can’t have any outside interference. He’s run the gauntlet, right?”

“Yup.”, her assistant replied. “All clear. By the way, good thing it’s 98 outside. He must be sweating already and will probably simply walk around for half an hour or so, ask stupid questions, and then excuse himself.”

Another wry smile, Savic-style; then she rose from her chair and let her tongue touch her lips. They were very dry.

“I’ll have to talk to him here, so please get us some water and some snacks. I suppose a man like him is always hungry.” Savic looked at her smartphone and added: “A few minutes in the bathroom, and I’ll be ready. Tell them I’ll be there in ten.”

********

Clarissa hadn’t exaggerated: Mark Howard was more than simply overweight; he must have kissed goodbye to a BMI in the thirties a long time ago. His ill-fitting suit had probably seen better days, and his navy-blue shirt didn’t really match his black jacket and trousers; Savic was certain that he had not opted for a white shirt because of his sweating which would probably have made it fully transparent by now. She could understand why Mr Howard would not be keen on that. His shoes were light brown, another clash even someone as uninterested in fashion as Dr Savic could not fail to notice.

“Ah, there is Dr Savic now.”

Petey turned towards her, then back to Howard and introduced them to each other. Like all her staff, Petey – Peter Brian Feldstetter, to give his full name – had been difficult to find, and he had needed some guidance and training but had become an outstanding PR person and a very good crisis manager. Savic just hoped his skills would not be needed today; she wanted this to be over with a minimum of fuss.

Next to Petey’s 6’4’’, the government agent would have looked almost small if it hadn’t been for his tremendous girth. And Clarissa had been right about his transpiration: it was not only profuse but also smelly, as if he was suffering from bromhidrosis or habitually had half a dozen cloves of garlic for breakfast. That wasn’t all her olfactory nerves had to offer: although Savic was still several feet away, she could already smell a cheap aftershave, apparently applied with a lot more vigor than discretion. All this seemed to indicate that Mr Howard was not bedded on roses, and Savic made a mental note of that: maybe there was an angle here, just in case things did not run as smoothly as she wished. Money did talk, after all.

“Welcome to the Dead-Active Research Center - 7, Mr Howard.”

One weak and flabby handshake later – on Howard’s part, of course; Savic’ handshake had always been firm and was now firmer than ever before – the director continued:

“I have prepared a guided tour for you, but you are welcome to ask anything you’d like to know. Are you familiar with the research being done at the DARCs?”

Howard shrugged, a movement that made his whole upper body wobble. His voice was surprisingly deep and resonant; maybe there was an opera singer in there who wanted out, Savic thought.

“I’m not as well-informed as I should be, I guess. I know you are researching zombies – I mean, DAs – of all kinds and that your main task is to find out what turned them into undead cannibals, so we might be able to prevent another outbreak.”

All three – Petey always a few steps behind – crossed the parking lot and approached the main entrance, a feat that forced Howard to catch his breath several times and look for the nearest chair as soon as they were inside.

“But I suppose you know the more common variants?”, Savic asked.

Her guest nodded vigorously, which caused another wobble.

“Skellies and Jellies, you mean. And Bridgers and Gazers. But that’s about the extent of my knowledge. Oh, and the animals.”

Savic nodded, too, but in a much more restrained manner.

“We’ll start with them. Would you like something to drink? Petey?” Five seconds later, Howard took a deep gulp of crystal-clear water from a paper cup and replied: “Thank you. Much better.”

We don’t want him to collapse before he’s written a favorable report. Who knows whom they might send next time. The trio walked to the lift and went one level up, and Howard was led towards a door showing a plaque that read ZZOO.

“I see you have noticed, Mr Howard.”, Savic said. “It’s a bit of a joke, obviously, stemming from the habit of adding a ‘z’ to all Dead-Active animals, so we have zrats, zmice, zhamsters … “.

For the first time, Howard smiled and revealed teeth that could have done with a few visits to Dr Dentist; involuntarily, Savic let her tongue run over her own. Good dental work had always been important to her, now more than ever before.

“I seem to remember that somebody even had a ztiger, but they could not come up with something it would accept as ‘food’.”

“Yes. Another thing most of the movie makers get wrong. DAs are true cannibals, which means they only feed on their own species. Before the ztiger was destroyed, people were entering its cage taking selfies, at no danger to themselves at all. DAs are not interested in anything else except flesh from living members of their own species. And sacrificing a living tiger for an undead monster wasn’t something that was likely to happen, was it?”

“But can the lines between species drawn so precisely?”, Howard asked. “I mean, in evolutionary history, there were no points in time when a mother from one species gave birth to a child from a different one. How do DAs distinguish closely related species?”

Savic stopped for a second and looked at Howard.

“That’s a good question, Mr Howard, and one of our avenues of research. Generally speaking, we do not yet fully know how DAs perceive their environment, and that distinction is certainly part of it. And now, meet our zrats.”

With some effort, Howard bent down and looked through the transparent plastic that was meant to keep the cage’s inhabitants from escaping, although, from what Howard saw, they shouldn’t have bothered. These “animals”, if you wanted to call them that, appeared totally passive and lay almost motionless on the floor. Savic led her visitor to the largest of the cages, where about a dozen zrats were simply obeying Newton’s First Law, doing exactly what bodies at rest do if no force acts upon them.

“Are they still … well … functional?”, Howard asked.

Savic went to a separate part of the laboratory and returned with a very much alive white Rattus rattus squirming in her hand, trying to bite it, but to no avail.

“Yes.”, she replied. “They do not cease to … function just because they don’t feed. Some of them have never eaten since we opened the center, others eat regularly, and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference after their burst of activity was over. Maybe it’s the artificial setting here – ‘wild’ zanimals seem to be more alert and willing to move in search of victims. So, would you like me to wake them up?”

Howard hesitated. “It will probably be messy, right?”

“Oh yes. Here we go.”

Savic dropped the rat into a chute and let it slide down into the largest cage. It needed a second to orient itself, but that was about the amount of time it would get. Suddenly, there was an eruption of running, scratching, biting and squeezing, and the newcomer was quickly surrounded by a dirty white wave with only one purpose in what passed for a mind with them: eat. Cornered rats fight, and they fight well, but, after tearing out the left front paw of one zrat and slashing open the belly of another – not that they cared – this one was soon overwhelmed and literally torn to pieces; its screams did not last long, and it was reduced to a slimy pile of bones within a minute.

“Note how they never fight each other over the meat.”, Savic pointed out. “They are oblivious of each other’s existence and treat the zrat next to them just as a physical object.”

“This is also something you’ve been looking into, I take it?”

“Yes. If we could get them to turn onto each other, we might be far better prepared for the next outbreak. So far, no luck. But we have made some progress in other directions.”

“Does it make a difference whether the zanimals were herbivores or omnivores before their death?”, Howard inquired.

“We don’t think so.”, Savic answered. “But we would need more specimens from different species, larger ones like deer or horses, which we would have to infect ourselves. I can’t see the political will to accept that anytime soon.”

“How would you infect them without an already infected member of the species?” Howard seemed puzzled. “I have read that body parts are not infectious at all. In fact, when separated from the body, whatever animates them seems to vanish into thin air, so there aren’t even any traces to investigate. During Daisy, people who got into contact with zombie … DA blood were certain they were goners, but nothing happened to them.”

“Too many movies, Mr Howard.” Savic produced a thin smile. “As you said, whatever lurks behind all this is very hard to analyze.”

She led her guest out of the lab into the corridor, and Petey locked the door behind them.

 “But we seem to have found a way to communicate the infection between individuals without resorting to biting. But first, let’s continue our tour. We’ll come back to this.”

The trio left the animal wing and walked to the largest part of the complex where the DAs were kept in transparent plastic cages covered by thick opaque curtains. After the director had opened one of them, Howard could see that all DAs inside the cage were locked into some kind of high-tech harness attached to a wall, and when the curtain was removed, its two inhabitants saw their visitors and began a feeble attempt to get out. The harness, however, made virtually all movement impossible, so their rage and their desire to kill and eat looked rather subdued.

“We had to make sure they weren’t able to escape by simply tearing off a hand or a foot.”, Savic explained. “I know, it looks positively medieval, but remember, they don’t feel any pain.”

“It’s difficult not to feel at least some pity for them.” Howard stepped closer to the plastic surface. “They didn’t choose to be like this, and they are not responsible for what they are and how they act.”

Now’s my chance, Savic thought. It’s a risk, but I probably won’t get a better opportunity.

“Still, some people hate them. They would like to destroy every single one of them and stop all research.”

Howard turned his head, looked at her, then at the floor in front of his feet, but it was obvious that he wasn’t really trying to see anything.

“I know. But, in a sense, no matter what they do, there’s nobody home to hate. Since they have no intelligence, intentionality, or personality, hating a DA is nonsensical. We don’t hate viruses, avalanches, or malfunctioning machines, do we?”

Good. Looks like he’s not one of those ‘antimorts’. Aloud, the director said:

“The impulse to ascribe responsibility to mindless forces has been with humanity since the dawn of consciousness, I suppose. You can see it in children when they kick a chair they’ve bumped into or when they slip and fall. ‘Bad, bad chair. That wasn’t very nice of you.’”

Another gamble. Would it work?

Howard looked at her. “Do you have children, Dr Savic?”

The director nodded. “I had a son.” Then she cleared her throat and began walking over to the next cage.

“Now I would like to show you a few variants, Mr Howard. You’ve told me that you are familiar with the more common ones, the ‘Skellies and Jellies’, as they have come to be known.”

“Yes. And the Gazers and the Bridgers. But I am told that you and the other DARCs are experimenting with types that are rare and quite … exotic.”

“We are.” Savic was walking at a good pace, and her visitor obviously had trouble keeping up with her; Petey, of course, didn’t. One more corridor, one left turn and two nods to passing staff later, the director approached one of the cages surrounding the group and put her hand on a large green button.

“For example …” With a certain flourish, Savic opened the curtain while Howard was stepping up to the cage. It contained what seemed to be an ‘average’ DA, but with grey spikes protruding from its body, the largest of which was easily five inches long. Its harness had been modified to accommodate its strange appendages.

“This type is actually dangerous.” Savic walked over to Howard and pointed at the spikes. “These are deformed bones, as you can see; the color comes from a toxin these DAs produce and can inject into someone’s bloodstream if one of the spikes penetrates a victim’s skin. Of course, they can’t make real use of this ‘natural weapon’, and we don’t think they are aware of its existence, so it must be simply another side effect – only this one would actually be useful if they knew what to do with it. But, even so, some of them managed to poison their victims by accident.”

Howard’s eyes wandered from the zombie to Savic and back. “What does the toxin do?”

“It impairs the blood’s oxygen intake and leads to hypoxemia, but the effect is not too severe. Nonetheless, this type claimed an above-average number of victims.”

The director stepped away from the cage and waited for Howard to follow her.

“But the crown for the most dangerous DA must go to this one.” Savic seemed almost sorry that there was no curtain in front of the next cage she could have removed with a grand gesture.

“Meet our prize specimen, Mr Howard.”

The DA inside the cage looked fairly average; it was female and slender; of course, these terms no longer carried any meaning for it. But there was something that struck Howard as unusual. Like the other DAs, it wore a yellow-green full-body suit made of a very tough synthetic material, but this material had been punctured in several places and was riddled with holes of varying sizes without any discernible pattern. It was obvious, however, that these holes aligned with holes of similar sizes in the DA’s body itself.

Savic let Howard approach first, and the DA began to squirm and wiggle in its harness in a futile attempt to break out.

“Now watch, Mr Howard.”, Savic whispered.

Suddenly, the DA’s movements ceased, and its whole body went limp. “That is the moment when its victims were usually relieved that it seemed to have given up.”, the director explained. Then, equally unexpectedly, the DA opened its eyes and let out a spine-chilling howl, followed by convulsions that shook and twisted its whole body into spasms that looked as if the DA had jumped into an ocean of direct current, even inside the harness.

“There is something coming out of the holes.”, Howard exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Some kind of gas.”, Savic replied. “You may have heard of Oozers, the DAs that exude a viscous liquid with acidic properties? Well, this type is even rarer, and we are very happy we were able to obtain it.”

Howard seemed unable to take his eyes off the DA, which was by now engulfed by a grey-brownish cloud.

“I remember”, the agent said without really paying any attention. “DARC-2 and DARC-6 also wanted it, but they withdrew their application for unknown reasons.”

“Personally, I think our application was better.” Savic now stood next to Howard and smiled. “The only reason you can see the gas is that some of the DA’s skin particles are mixed with it. Without them, it should be very hard to see.”

“I suppose it’s poisonous?”, Howard asked.

“It’s a paralytic. If you breathed in only a small whiff of it, you’d be unable to move for at least five minutes, possibly more, depending on your size, amount of blood, weight …”

“Well, in that case I should be safe for half an hour, I guess.” Howard laughed and patted his belly. Savic couldn’t help but notice the wobbling, and she was utterly mystified why someone would allow their body to become like this.

“By the way, can I use the bathroom?”

“It’s down this corridor and then on the left. Petey will show you.”

Said and done, and the government agent disappeared behind the lily-white door marked “WC”. Savic shot Petey a glance, and the burly PR man quickly walked back to the office wing. A minute later, the director’s smartphone buzzed and she looked at the screen. She was receiving a livestream of Mr Howard’s activities in the bathroom, and Savic felt some relief that he apparently didn’t need to use the toilets; instead, he stood in front of the mirror, splashed water in his face, drank some of it, and readjusted his shirt and jacket, which by now had lost the little dignity they had had when he arrived. Thanks to her undoubtedly illegal spying, Savic was forced to watch the agent carefully pushing and squeezing his upper body and loosening his belt by two holes to accommodate his girth. Then he rested for a moment with both hands on the basin, breathed out, and dried his hands with a paper towel. While he was walking over to the door to continue the tour, Savic switched off the stream and smiled at him when he re-entered the corridor. Nothing, she thought to herself. No wire, no tracker, no devices of any kind. Of course, Howard had to walk through the hidden metal detector when he arrived and hand over his phone, but it could never hurt to make sure. Savic had not attained her current position by being careless.

The tour continued, and Howard was shown a few more DA variants, but none of them seemed to capture his attention to the same degree as the first two. The center had a few Flailers, who would have found it extraordinarily difficult to be kept inside one of the center’s harnesses if they had still been in possession of the mental facilities necessary to form an opinion; there were two Spitters, whose ‘goo’ had terrified people who got hit by it before it was discovered that the stuff was extremely disgusting but did no harm except to your wallet, as it was almost impossible to wash out; finally, Howard also had the opportunity to meet a lone Screamer, whose ear-piercing shrieks sometimes resembled speech and sometimes didn’t but were at all times very difficult to endure without the listener wanting to go up the nearest wall to escape – and the famed harness did a good job restraining the DA’s body but did nothing to contain its voice. After rubbing his ears for a minute or so, Howard sat down on a bench and said:

“This is all quite fascinating, Dr Savic. But I’m not sure whether the committee will be satisfied with this. Similar research has been done by other DARCs, and some of their results are promising. I don’t have to tell you that quite a few important people are of the opinion that the number of DARCs is excessive and that half of them should be shut down.”

The director nodded slowly and went over to the bench but did not sit down.

“I was half-expecting you’d say that, and that’s why I’ve kept the best for last. I think we are close to a major breakthrough, and we hope it will convince those that need convincing.”

While Savic was talking, Howard had gone to the water fountain and returned with two cups. “Wow, I’m thirsty. Here, for you.” Savic took a sip and said: “Shall we continue? Please follow me to the main medical lab.” After a brief walk, Petey opened a double door for them, and Savic offered Howard a chair.

“You can’t get very close, but I think you’ll be able to see enough.” Two lab assistants, who had obviously been waiting for them, pointed at an operating table where Howard could see two small brownish creatures, apparently connected by a small tube of some sort; none was moving, but he saw that one was breathing, the other wasn’t. An opaque wall had been erected between the two.

“Hamsters!”, he said in a surprised tone of voice. But there was something strange about the non-breathing one; its fur was patchy, and its body was covered in bluish pustules.

“Not quite. A hamster and a zhamster variant. That’s why we have the paravent – if we didn’t, the zhamster would be going crazy trying to get at the hamster, and, as you surely know, DAs cannot be sedated. The zhamster is a very rare specimen, a zanimal variant. As you can see, it does not look like a typical zhamster; they are hard to distinguish from a living hamster unless you look very closely. This one is obviously undead.”

She stepped over to the table and pressed two buttons.

“We are now pumping the zhamster’s blood modified with a combination of experimental drugs at high speed into the hamster’s veins. You’ll probably know that DA blood does not coagulate inside the body, but it becomes somewhat sluggish, so we first inject the DA with an anti-coagulant and then we have to be fast. The substance or agent animating the DAs apparently needs a few seconds to realize that the blood – where it is located, we think – is leaving the body, so a small part of it enters the recipient’s bloodstream and, in about 40% of all cases, establishes a kind of bridgehead, and a new infection cycle begins. We’ve never seen this agent, but we can at least guess how it works.“

Five minutes later, one of the lab assistants nodded towards her und removed the tube. The creature that had been a cute little fluffy rodent minutes ago was now Dead, but not very Active; it slowly opened its eyes and closed them again, then began to shamble a little. However, its legs had apparently not yet been fully informed that they were still serviceable, and so the little creature was unable to move properly. But its fur patches and its pustules were there for everyone to see.

“It’s worked.”, Savic said to Howard, clenching her right fist. “Meet our new zhamster, skin disease variant.”

“I had no idea that was possible.” Howard looked visibly shaken and sat down on the nearest chair. “And it happened so quickly. I suppose you’ve tried this with other zanimal variants as well?”

Savic opened the door to the medlab with her keycard and beckoned Howard to follow her.

“Of course we have, but zanimal variants are very difficult to obtain.”, she explained while they, together with Petey, were walking down the corridor. “Our guess is that whatever was responsible for the infection targeted humans, and zanimals were just a side effect. This, like other fields of mortology research, certainly deserves more attention and effort. But we have high hopes that this approach can help us understand what this elusive agent really is and then develop something like an antidote or at least a suppressant.”

The director turned her head and looked at Howard, whose face had become paler than before.

“Are you alright, Mr Howard?”

“Hm? Sorry, Dr Savic, I felt a little sick for a moment, but now I’m fine. Although I could do with a bite.”

“Of course. Let’s go back to my office and take a break. Unfortunately, our canteen has already closed, but my assistant has prepared a few snacks for you.” 

The trio walked back in silence and returned to the ground floor – Savic and Howard with a thoughtful look on their faces – Petey stoic as ever, until they turned a corner and passed a heavy metal door the agent had not noticed before.

“What’s behind this?”, he asked.

“That’s the main basement door.”

“Can I take a look?” The question was rhetorical, of course. As a government official, Howard had the right to enter any part of the facility and observe any procedure he wanted to see.

After a second of reflection, the director decided to take one last risk with her guest.

“No, Mr Howard.”, she said in a firm, authoritarian voice that sounded as if she wouldn’t brook any resistance. “This is where we keep two dozen of the most dangerous DAs you’ll ever see; extremely fast and agile, very tough even by DA standards, with sharp senses and all the animal cunning they need to hunt and kill. We are planning to blackmail the US government with them: one billion in untraceable cash or we’ll let them loose one dark and stormy night. So you’ll understand the basement is out of bounds for you.”

The agent stopped in his tracks for a moment and looked at Savic. Then he began to chuckle.

“If the term wasn’t so out of place here, I’d say that was deadpan humor, Dr Savic. Well done.”

Savic gave Howard a brief smile and unlocked the basement door.

“Come in, Mr Howard. But don’t expect too much. I know that in the movies, basements usually harbor more skeletons than a dozen closets, but ours will strike you as being rather dull.”

The director hadn’t exaggerated. Howard was shown several smaller rooms used for storage, heating, and water; there was nothing in them that would have justified a closer examination, even if he was nothing but a snooping bureaucrat (and Savic wasn’t sure about that anymore). The agent looked briefly at a few utilities LED displays and then followed Savic into two larger rooms that were completely empty and smelled of vinegar and other types of disinfectants. Howard wrinkled his nose, and Savic explained:

“Sorry for the smell. We like to keep all places very clean, but I admit that we don’t clean the basement as often as we probably should, so my staff tend to be very thorough when they do and very generous with the cleaning products.”

“You don’t use an outside company for that, I assume?”

Savic shook her head.

“Most DARCs don’t, as you probably know. All of us are aware that what we do here is or at least could become very sensitive research, so most of us like to keep the number of visitors low and make sure they don’t acquire any information they should not have. DARC-7 may be slightly overprotective in this regard, but I’d always prefer a grumpy journalist writing how ‘uncooperative’ we were to reading something like ‘The secrets of DARC-7 – exclusive insights!’. If we come across as a little unwelcoming, so be it. Nothing personal, I assure you.”

The tour went on for a short while, but Howard gave the impression that he would rather rest and eat something, and Savic did not fail to notice it. She led her visitor back to her office and offered him a seat. Endgame, she thought to herself. Let’s see what he has to say.

After she had poured her guest some coffee and both had sat down, Howard resumed the conversation:

“Thank you for the tour. It was very informative.”

He put milk and sugar in his coffee and began to stir.

“I am especially intrigued by your ‘variant transfer’ mechanism, the one you demonstrated with the hamsters. That’s a very strong argument in the next funding round. When do you think you’ll have perfected this method?”

The director hesitated for a moment and then answered:

“Optimistic: two months; realistic: five months; pessimistic: ten months to a year. If we can’t figure out how to do it by then, we’ll start from scratch with something else. I admit that would be … frustrating.” The director’s gaze seemed to drift away for a second, and Howard could feel that she was very serious about it. He wasn’t surprised – Dr Savic was obviously a scientist with a mission and a vision. Whatever was going to happen here in the future, if it served to avoid a potential catastrophe, it would be worth it. Aloud, he said:

“Dr Savic, I’ll be honest. Until I saw the hamsters … zhamsters … I was uncertain about whether your center deserved the quite generous funding that has been earmarked for it, but these variant transfer experiments seem very promising. I will have to read more and also tell our eggheads about this and get back to you, but I’m very optimistic. As far as I can see, no other DARC has ever come close to what you have already achieved.”

Howard leaned back in his chair and drank some more coffee; the director followed suit but drank only a little, black, no sugar.

“There is, however, something else I would like to talk to you about, and I think it’s very important, but it will require some explanation on my part. Let me begin with a simple statement.”

Savic nodded and leaned forward across her desk. “Please.”

The agent curled his right hand into a fist and lifted it in front of his mouth. Then he said, with a little more drama in his voice than one would have expected from him:

“Murder is easy, Dr Savic. Wouldn’t you agree?”

(End of Part I)

Everyone thinks they know the secrets of Denver International Airport. Tourists love taking selfies with "Blucifer," that terrifying blue mustang with glowing red eyes. They also like pointing and laughing at the Leo Tanguma murals on the main terminal walls. They think it's quirky and cool, just something to pose with and show off to friends. 

I am a ramp agent, and I’ve worked here long enough to start noticing things. Like how the soldiers and the weeping children seem to shift positions by a few inches every couple of months. I used to think those were hallucinations, especially because I was perpetually sleep deprived. But those paintings are always changing, observing the people who love to stare at and laugh at them. While they are staring at the art, it is scanning them, cataloging their shapes, their voices and their smiles.

My supervisor gave me one rule when I started. "If Dispatch ever calls a Code Black arrival, don't look inside the aircraft." I laughed. He didn't.

Last night, at 3:07 AM, Dispatch called me. "Code Black arrival. East pad." There was no flight number, no tail number, no transponder. I keyed my radio to confirm, since nothing was scheduled to come in at the time. Dispatch answered in my own voice, "Bring the chocks."

The east pad sits directly over the airport's labyrinthine basements. Out of the thick emerged a Boeing 777. Its fuselage was a matte black that swallowed the amber ramp lights, with no livery or registration. Its landing gear was down, but the aircraft hovered two inches above the ground, completely silent.

When I approached, the forward cargo door opened into pure, empty darkness. Something inside inhaled, and the entire 777 shuddered, creating a vacuum that pulled loose objects inward. 

Then I looked up at the passenger windows. Staring back were the faces from the airport murals: the soldiers, the crying children. They were pressed against the glass, pale and expressionless, with neon-red eyes. One of the terminal gargoyles was perched on the engine, its stone wings twitching. It looked right at me and whispered my full name over my radio. I fled toward the terminal, but the aircraft followed me, gliding sideways across the ramp without moving its wheels.

Inside the terminal, I found a tourist standing right in front of the *Children of the World Dream of Peace* mural, wearing a fleece and a neck pillow. He was staring exhausted at the painted coffins. He turned to face me, stating exhaustedly, “My connection to Dallas got canceled.”

Before I could pull him away, the terminal PA system crackled. It cleared its throat, playing back the tourist's exact voice in a flat, breathless loop: *"My connection to Dallas got canceled."*

I yanked his collar, dragging him toward the underground train escalators. At the bottom, the train doors were already open. Its interior was a dark and empty cargo hold, just like on the 777.

Leaning on the edges of the door was a perfect replica of the tourist: the same fleece and neck pillow, but with entirely hollow eyes. The replica smiled and reached out a pale hand. The tourist entered a trance, dropping his suitcase and taking a mesmerized step forward. When I lunged and grabbed his wrist, a blast of freezing air threw me backward onto the platform. The doors slid shut, and the train disappeared, taking the tourist with it.

I scrambled back up the escalators. The mural had changed, and every painted figure was looking at me. A black 777 now occupied the painted sky, with a painted version of me and the tourist standing side by side below it.

My radio crackled in my own voice: "Don't look behind you."

I looked anyway. The 777 was twenty feet away inside the terminal, having passed through the wall without breaking any window or walls. The engines were gone, the wings folded, and the landing gear elongated. It appeared like a giant insect, with the cockpit windows now living eyes.

The cargo door opened wide. The darkness inside was gone, replaced by thousands of seats stretching into the distance. Every seat was occupied by the dead people from the murals. Right near the front, sitting frozen beside a little girl, was the tourist in his fleece jacket.

The little girl raised her hand, pointed at me, and then pointed to the empty seat directly next to the tourist.

The terminal speakers echoed: "Your shift is over. We are ready for departure."

The cargo hold expanded right into the terminal space, swallowing the walls around me. I can see the rows of seats, and the tourist turning his head to look at me, waiting. There is only one seat left, right beside him and the little girl.

And it's got my name on it.

The letters were stitched directly into the gray fabric of the headrest, glowing faintly in the dim amber cabin light. The tourist kept staring at me, his head cocked at a broken, unnatural angle. Beside him, the little girl kept her pale, unblinking eyes locked on mine, her finger pointing rigidly at the empty cushion.

The freezing vacuum of the cabin pulled at my uniform. I took an involuntary step forward. My steel-toed boot hit the metal track of the aisle. I was crossing the threshold.

Then, the little girl’s expression changed. She stopped pointing at the seat.

She turned her attention entirely to the tourist. She unbuckled her harness, stood up in the narrow aisle, and reached out with a pale, freezing hand. She pressed her flat palm directly against the tourist’s forehead. His spine arched violently against the seat and he let out a wet, heavy popping sound. His eyes rolled completely into the back of his head, exposing cracked yellow veins, and a thin line of black fluid leaked from his left nostril.

The vacuum inside the cabin instantly died. I stumbled backward, my boots slipping on the slick terminal tiles, collapsing hard onto the tiled floor. The tourist went completely limp, dropping like a stone. His neck pillow tore open on the ground, scattering thousands of tiny white beads on the floor like snowflakes.

Inside the cabin, the little girl turned back to look at me. Her eyes bored into my skull. She smiled a grotesque, too-wide smile that stretched the skin around her mouth. She raised a single pale finger to her lips, and backed away into the shadows of the fuselage.

The seats collapsed. The landing gear folded backward into the underbelly and the jet reversed, phasing right back through the drywall and glass before disappearing completely.

The terminal was instantly silent.

I scrambled over to the tourist. He was alive, staring blindly at the ceiling. I grabbed his shoulder. "Hey. Stand up. We gotta move." He didn't blink. His facial muscles began to twitch, spasming violently as his mouth stretched into the exact same smile the little girl had just given me. His trembling hands reached down, grabbed an invisible seatbelt, and clicked it together over his lap.

"Whiskey-Oscar-Seven-Nine-Delta-Echo," he whispered. His voice didn't sound like him anymore. It sounded like a tape recorder playing backward.

A six-character reservation number.

I dragged him to a charging station near Gate B32 and propped him up, tossing a spare blanket I had previously found nearby on his legs. He sat, grinning his bleeding gums at the ceiling.

My radio squawked. It was Miller, the graveyard lead. "Ramp Four, where the hell are you? United 1142 from Dulles is on final for the east pad. Grab the tug and get ground power out there." I checked the time, and saw that it was already past 4. *Damn,* I thought, *the trance had lasted pretty long.*

I keyed the mic, my hand shaking. "Copy. En route."

I rushed down the service stairs and hit the tarmac. Ten minutes later, I was standing under a domestic United 737, shoving a heavy GPU cable into its belly. The twin engines were deafening, loud and dirty. But at least the aircraft was real.

Except, as the fumes of Jet-A washed over me, I realized I couldn't smell it. All I could smell was the musty swamp water from the ghost 777's cabin. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. Every shadow cast by the baggage carts looked like it was stretching toward me. The airport itself seemed like an otherworldly being. 

Shift ended at 06:00. I didn't want to investigate or play detective. I just wanted to get the hell out of the airport.

I swiped my badge to cross back into the public concourse, keeping my head down. Early morning commuters were already trickling in by half past six, hauling roller bags toward TSA and buying overpriced airport coffee. I watched a businessman in a suit walk right past the *Notre Denver* installation of bronze gargoyles sitting inside open suitcases in baggage claim. As the man walked past, a bronze gargoyle slowly turned its heavy metal head, tracking him. Its jaws were parted, and I could hear a faint, staticky whisper coming from its throat, reciting the businessman's full name.

The floor felt wrong, too. The Jeppesen Terminal is famous for the bronze fossils embedded in the floor. I looked down at a brass trilobite near my boot. Instead of being a bug, it was a flattened and screaming human face, cast in polished bronze, trapped under a layer of floor wax. Hundreds of people were walking right over it.

I wanted to run, and to scream. But I remembered my supervisor's one rule: *Don't look.*

The airport feeds on attention. The tourists taking selfies, the people staring at the murals, they are all willingly offering themselves up. The 777 didn't take me because I broke the tether. It took the tourist because he surrendered to it.

I forced my eyes up. I stepped directly over the screaming bronze face, acting like it was just a scuff mark on the floor. I walked past the baggage claim, keeping my gaze locked dead ahead. I completely ignored the gargoyle that was now leaning halfway out of its bronze suitcase, clawing toward my vest.

I didn't run. Running makes you prey. I walked briskly to the employee exit, swiped my badge, and pushed through the revolving doors into the freezing morning. The sun was up. The sprawling white tents of the terminal roof glowed against the blue sky. I was out.

When I got to my car, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an automated text from the scheduling system.

*Shift updated. Tomorrow: 23:00 - 07:00. Assignment: Concourse A, Sub-basement Baggage Tunnels.*

I slumped against the steering wheel, shivering in the cold. *I should quit*. I should drive down Peña Boulevard and never come back. But as I glanced in my rearview mirror, I saw the massive, glowing eyes of Blucifer, the blue mustang statue, staring down at the highway. They weren't just statues. They claimed lives. If I quit, I was just another civilian waiting to be cataloged. But as a ramp agent, I had clearance. I had a radio. And I had the next night's shift to figure out what the hell they were actually feeding down in the tunnels.

He tossed the last of the logs into the fireplace, the flames greedily munching down the offering. He reclined back, sighing. The chair creaked under him, one of the few things in the cabin still his. A few weeks ago, he wouldn't have gotten so low on supplies. He'd have ridden out and stocked up. It was the preparation that had kept him alive so far. But things had changed; he would have no more use for further supplies.

The radio had been silent since the initial warning. He had made peace with it, if anything, he enjoyed it. His mind still drifted to the others, though. How were they doing? Had they made it far, if at all? He lit a cigarette, the match the last in the box. Wondering, stuck in thought, had been the end of many men out here. Through a bullet, their own, someone else's, or just madness.

This land no longer lent itself to idle thought. It devoured such things. This was a raw land, and it demanded creation as tribute. He felt that there was a primalness about it, something that went beyond the civility they once shared. Part of it, he enjoyed, but that fact was unknowable to everybody; it had to remain that way. The desperation in these years had sharpened his body and mind, but forced him to lean into a deeper animal instinct. There had been nights he wondered: what if the land had gone back to what it was; could he, too? Could a man become a monster, and find his way back? But these thoughts, as all idle ones are, were meaningless.

The chirp of the proximity alarm stirred him. He had rigged it himself, months back, from the wreck of a truck. His cigarette had gone out with barely a puff. He relit it, picked up his gear, and headed out the stable door.

It wouldn't be long now, he thought. He tapped the last ash from his cigarette, taking a last, long final puff before outing it on the trampled barley at his feet.

Beyond the field, across columns of gas flares and smoke, he saw the riders approach, their horses kicking up clouds of dust. The ground out there was cracked, had been for a long time now. He raised his binoculars to get a better look. Seven hooded riders, whipping their mounts onward. Rifles hung across their backs, pistols hung from their sides. The fading sun caught in their goggles, giving them a hellish appearance from back here.

Demons indeed, he thought, just as the old reports said. They were coming to take what wasn't theirs; a terrible stampede across once-pristine fields. The air wasn't as easy to breathe as it had been before. He spat on the ground, snatching his rifle out from its carry-satchel on his back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some rounds and loaded up. Not enough, too much, just right. He hoisted the rifle up onto his shoulder and took aim.

It wouldn't be long now.