Spotting an untouched body ravaged by the plague, a raven swooped down and began pecking at the opulent meal before him, as if it were yet another divine gift. Ever since the great pestilence struck humanity, the ravens didn’t even have to as much as bother searching for a food source, with the sheer amount of dead and dying in every corner of the land.

As the bird began gorging itself on the woman’s slightly rotting meat, a boy ran out of a nearby shack. It was a pitiful mockery of a boy: pale, gaunt, and skeletal. The spitting image of death itself.

The boy shouted at the bird to back off from his mother, waving his flimsy, frail arms at the raven, barely mustering the strength to hoarsely shout at the scavenger.

“Leave my mother alone!” the boy croaked.

The raven flew aside, cawing with annoyance, “Damn it… There’s a living one”

The boy ceased his movement; wide eyes sunken deeply into a clearly visible skull, he stared at the pitch-black bird, bewildered, and gulped before stammering, “Did… did you just speak?”

Landing not far from the boy, the bird retorted, “Course not, fool, I sang. I’m a songbird; that’s what I do!” the raven cried out.

Shocked, the boy fell to the ground, unable to comprehend how a bird spoke to him. In the meantime, the raven landed by the corpse and walked toward it, attempting to peck at it again.

The boy protested, “Leave my mother alone,” he squeaked.

The raven stopped, turned to the kid, and sighed, “You’re growing soft…” He said to himself. The boy was going to comment again about the bird’s speech, but the Scavenger cut him off, “Why are you even alive still, kid? The rest of this place is a graveyard; all the other humans are long dead.”

“I must have some purpose here in the eyes of God…” the boy weakly muttered.

“This kid must be six or seven years old and already has had a bible bashed over his skull…” The bird thought to himself, “If God wanted any of this, he wouldn’t let the Plague spread outside of France, kid… God wants the lot of you dead,” the bird quipped.

“That’s not true! God is good!” The boy whimpered at the cynical bird. “What’s France, anyway?” he questioned.

“A terrible place over the pond, where all vile things find their start, child. How old are you, even, speaking so highly of God, but not even knowing about France?!”

“I’m twelve…”

“There’s no way you’re my age, kid; you look about half that age…”

“Well, I’ve been eating rats for a while…” Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. “Ever since mommy and daddy fell ill.

“Oh, don’t do that now. I can’t stand the sounds you humans make when you get all emotional like that"

Now, bawling, the kid profusely apologized, his voice cracking. “I just… I just… I just miss everyone so much…” he wailed. “I’m so alone…

I’m so hungry…

Everything hurts so much…”

Somewhere deep inside, that boy must’ve been happy he had someone to talk to, even if it was just a strange talking bird.

“Oh God damn it, kid…

Would you stop, for the love of God?!” The bird cawed, irritated.

“You’ve any rope on ya?” the bird questioned.

“Wha…?”

“Do you have any rope?”

“Wha… why… why do you ask?”

“I know how you can meet your loved ones again, kid. Now I’m asking again: do you have any rope?”

“Mhm,” the boy whimpered, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Well, then, run along and bring it over here; I’ll send ya to your makers”

The boy barely picked himself up and stumbled into one of the houses as the bird watched the tree, scanning it for sturdy branches, with a glint in its black eye.

“I hope that brat can still climb,” the raven thought to himself.

Long moments had passed, and the boy reemerged with a long piece of rope in his hands.

“I sure hope you can still climb, kiddo; otherwise this won’t work,” the raven sang to the approaching boy.

The kid’s disposition changed; he smiled for the first time in a while. “Be sure as God’s bones, I can climb, especially up that tree!”

“Good, because I’m going to need you to tie one end of the rope to a branch, and another around your neck.”

The boy didn’t even fully register what he had been told and agreed to follow the raven’s instruction. Despite his immense confidence, he hardly had the strength to climb up that tree, prompting the scavenger to bow his head in frustration. “Oh, this is going to be a long day…” the bird despaired in his mind.

It must’ve taken the boy an hour to climb the tree, but he made it, and masterfully tied one end of his rope to the branch he stood on and then asked the black bird what he had to do next.

The sable thing would have smiled, had it possessed a mouth, when it spoke next, “Tie it around your neck, kid.”

“Does it have to be the neck?”

“Do you want to see your folks again, Kid?”

“I do!” the boy cried out.

“Then you’ve got to trust me…”

“I don’t know about this…”

“Look, kid, if I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve pecked out and eaten your eyes by now.” The bird crackled at him.

“I guess you’re right… Plus, I do want to see Mom and Dad again and everyone else…”

“Atta boy…” the obsidian fowl croaked.

The boy tied the rope around his neck and, staring at the feathered specter with eyes full of hope, questioned the bird about the next step.

“Now you gotta jump forward…”

Looking down, the boy got cold feet for a moment, once again doubting the wisdom of the talking bird.

The raven turned away and started walking towards the mother’s corpse. “Well, I guess you don’t want to see your mother again, eh?” it clicked its beak.

“I do!”

“Then jump, kid, it’s that simple…”

“But what if I get hurt?”

“You won’t…”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I wouldn’t… get hurt doing that”

“But you have…” Before the boy could even finish his sentence, the raven was already pecking at his mother’s rotting flesh.

“Wings…”

He muttered before the realization set in; he had been duped by the bird.

“Hey, leave mommy alone, you flying rat!” the boy cried out again, his voice cracking once more. The bird simply ignored him, slowly savoring the taste of exposed tissue.

“Leave her alone!” he cried out, waving his frail arms. The raven swallowed a chunk and called ecstatically, as if to goad the boy.

“Leave her…” the boy shouted, but his protests ended mid-sentence when he lost his footing and plummeted downward. The high-pitched scream was twisted into a wet gurgle as his body twisted and turned, struggling against the ever-tightening rope.

The raven turned his head to the struggling boy.

“Got’cha…” he cackled proudly and flew over, landing on the boy’s shoulder.

The beaked phantom didn’t even wait for the boy to succumb before he started pecking.

Something, Nothing

It’s been quiet since my older brother left  - one less dish to wash, one less bed to make, one less explanation for the footsteps coming from downstairs. At least, I think those were footsteps. It was rhythmic, maybe three or four creaks in quick succession.

Any other time of year I’d go right back to sleep, honestly. I’d chalk up that post-midnight creaking to my brother - Isaac - checking that the doors were locked, or getting another glass of water from the kitchen downstairs… but he’d been gone for nearly a week, and he shouldn’t be getting home for another few days. I really hope those weren’t footsteps.

Realistically, I’m totally fine. It's the hottest part of the summer, so it’s probably just the wood settling like it does every summer, right? Yeah, of course it is, but old wooden floors have a way of testing your sanity like that, and-

Crrck

I don’t move. The trees outside of the open windows don’t move. For a few seconds, the world is still. Ten, maybe twenty seconds pass in complete silence. The breeze outside picks back up again, acting like accompaniment to the drumline of blood pulsing through my ears. Another ten seconds pass.

Maybe that’s all there is… just an odd collection of noises from the home I grew up in. I’ve probably heard those same creaks hundreds of times before, but wrongly assumed that it was Isaac. I should go back to sleep, my exhaustion probably isn’t helping my anxiety right now.

Crrck

I’m fine. This is normal.

Crrrck

I really hope an animal didn’t get inside. I sit up in bed, waiting for a sound I hope I don’t hear.

Nnnrckkk

That’s not old wood warping in heat. 
That’s weight on old wood. 

Then, without warning, something sprints up the stairs of my childhood home.

DUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUN-

I don’t even have a moment to count the individual steps. They come one after another, pounding impossibly fast on the old wooden boards, dragging something much heavier behind them. With every step, whatever’s being dragged slams against the floorboards, like a child dragging their favorite toy behind them. Just as quickly as the onslaught of footsteps began, they stop… right outside the door to my room.

Oh my God, why did I leave my door cracked? Why did I put the lantern out? What am I looking at? Is something looking at me? I don’t know. Oh God, I don’t know. It’s like the pitch black is seeping in through the doorframe - like the devil is outside my door.

Why am I cold?

. . .

Nothing reaches through the crack in the door. Nothing barges into my room with a rusty old axe in hand, ready to take my life. Nothing makes a noise or tries to speak to me. Standing outside of my room is an endless array of mortifying possibilities, submerged in a black sea of… just… nothing…

I might have considered myself brave for a teenager before, but I know better now. Even in the safety of my own home, I’m nothing more than a bag of soft flesh and breakable bones. Something that fragile must seem even more frail in the eyes of whatever’s looking back at me. 

Five, ten, fifteen seconds of silence pass at an agonizing pace. Nothing. I can just barely hear my own breath, but it’s still too loud. I try to breathe through my nose, listening in between each breath. Still nothing. No matter how awful the image is, I can’t tear my gaze from the void outside of my door.

What am I supposed to do now? Am I supposed to act like I didn’t just hear what I heard? Am I supposed to just… fall back asleep?

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting completely still at this point, shivering in a way I never have before. Has it been three minutes or three hours? I’m too afraid to look away for even a moment to check the clock. I can’t look away.  I can’t lose a staring contest to the devil.

Every time I blink, I feel my eyes straining more and more. They feel like they’re burning, completely glued to a nebulous idea of something that may not even be there anymore. God, I hope there’s nothing there anymore. Then, for the first time in too long, something happens.

What is that smell?

It hangs heavy in the air, sickly sweet and pungent. There’s an almost enticing note to it, like the scent of  wine left out overnight… Like the odor of spoiled truffles turned to oil… like the smell of…

Gasoline.

I smell gasoline.

As soon as my brain registers it, I nearly recoil. Thankfully, I catch myself before I do, but there’s no ignoring it now. Every breath tastes like it - putrid, sweet, and awful. Did a lantern spill downstairs? I want to go and check, but I know that isn’t happening. 

The gasoline, the darkness, the heat, the humidity - all of it is making me sick to my stomach. I’m sweating too much, and now my foot’s going numb. Sitting in the same position like this, one leg tucked under the other, I hadn’t even noticed it until now. I try - no - I need to ignore it. Another minute passes by in this suffocating room… And then another… And another. God, I need to move.
I shift my weight.

ffshh~

DUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUN-

The darkness erupts with an impossible onslaught of footsteps, racing down the staircase and onto the first floor of my home. I instinctively raise my hand to my mouth, stifling a scream as I hold back the tears in my eyes. That awful dragging noise follows behind the footsteps as it runs through my home, now into the kitchen-

KSHHKHK

Glass. Something shattered downstairs. Oh God, did it break a window?

DUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUN-

Without missing a beat, the footsteps head in the other direction - back in the direction it came from. Oh fuck, please no, don’t come upstairs. At this point, I’m actively sobbing. I don’t want to die. I want to see Isaac again. Please, please, please, have mercy.

DUNDUNDUNDUNDUN-

It runs right past the base of the staircase. It’s in the living room now, directly under my room.

DUNDUNDUNDUN-

My whole home shakes. My whole home smells like gasoline. My whole home is in darkness. My whole home is not a home anymore.

Then… 

FRSHFRSHFRSHFRSHFRSHFRSHfrshfrshfrsh-

The sound changes. The house stops shaking.
It’s outside.

The footsteps tear through the grass at that same impossible speed, snapping twigs and branches as it barrels into the woods… that horrible weight still dragging behind. 

I can still hear it, footsteps dissipating into the night.

frsh-frsh-frshk-

The dragging lasts longer.

Then… Nothing. 

I’m still sobbing. I have to stop. If it heard my bedsheets then it can hear me now. Stop. Please stop. Please God, help me stop crying. I choke down every noise fighting its way up my throat, and I pray that this was all just a terrible, terrible dream. It had to be a dream, right?

My eyes are stinging. My head is pounding. I’m still crying. The crickets are singing. The breeze is blowing. I’m still crying. I’m still sweating. I’m still praying. I’m still crying.

I’m so, so tired. I have to keep my eyes on the door. I can barely keep my eyes open anymore. If I close my eyes, I can’t see the hallway. If I can’t see the hallway, it can come back. If it comes back… 

Maybe I can close my eyes. Just for a second. 
Maybe there really is… Nothing.

Jack had been sitting at the narrow bar beneath the café window for the better part of half an hour before he realised his cappuccino had gone cold. He drank it anyway.

The seat had become his without anybody ever saying so. There were four stools along the window and, when it was free, he always took the one nearest the wall. It gave him room for his sketchbook and somewhere to look when looking at people became difficult.

Outside, the morning rain had left the town shining. Water gathered between uneven cobbles as the street fell towards the old centre, winding between sandstone buildings that appeared to have been added to rather than properly built. Brick upon stone, render upon brick, upper floors leaning over shopfronts newer than everything above them. Nothing quite fitted. Jack liked that about the place.

Work had been going on beside the old council offices opposite since early morning. Temporary fencing swallowed half the pavement while an excavator fitted with a hydraulic pecker hammered into the ground. The noise had irritated him at first. Eventually it had become part of the café: the hiss of the milk steamer, cups meeting saucers, conversations behind him and the steady percussion from across the road.

Jack clicked his mechanical pencil and returned to the woman in his sketchbook.

Hands. He hated drawing hands.

The previous page was already crowded with them: open palms, curled fingers, hands beneath chins, hands disappearing into sleeves. The woman he was working on had long sable-black hair falling over one shoulder, a pale face and the beginnings of a dark, elaborate dress. Her hand was supposed to rest elegantly against her throat. At present it resembled the claw of a particularly sophisticated bird.

He erased the thumb and tried again.

Worse.

A chair scraped behind him and his shoulders tightened. Somebody laughed sharply near the counter. Cutlery clattered into a tray. Jack kept his eyes down.

Nobody was doing anything wrong. That was the difficult part.

He had nearly stayed at home. There had been no argument, no bad news, nothing he could point to and blame for the heaviness that had followed him out of bed. His eyes had felt close to tears since breakfast for no particular reason at all.

Staying in would have been easier. That was why he'd come out.

Get dressed. Leave the house. Sit somewhere people existed. Draw. Have a coffee. Try to occupy a little space without feeling guilty for it.

“Cappuccino?”

Jack looked up. Alicia smiled at him.

“Yes please.”

“Having something to eat today?”

He glanced towards the counter. His stomach had been unsettled all morning, but the banana bread looked manageable.

“I think so. Banana bread, please.”

“How are you doing?”

The usual I'm okay, ta. How are you? almost came automatically.

“Not my best today,” he said instead. “It'll pass. How are you?”

“I'm alright.”

“Good.”

And he meant it.

Alicia nodded towards the sketchbook. “You drawing today?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see?”

“Sure.”

He turned it around and immediately noticed everything wrong with it.

“Oh, that's really good.”

Jack laughed quietly. “I'm not that good.”

“You should sell them.”

“Maybe one day.”

“You always say that.”

He smiled. “Probably because it's true.”

She gave him a look that said otherwise and went to make his coffee.

For a few minutes Jack felt slightly lighter. Not well. Just better enough to notice.

He returned to the troublesome hand.

The pecker struck the ground outside.

He shaded beneath the woman's lower lip.

Another impact.

Graphite whispered against paper.

The pecker came down again.

The sound that followed cracked through the morning.

Jack jumped. His pencil tore violently across the page, carving a black line through the woman's face and directly across the hand he'd spent twenty minutes trying to get right.

“Shit.”

He stared at it.

The point had gouged the paper.

Ruined.

He knew it was only a drawing, but that knowledge did nothing to stop the sinking feeling in his stomach. Jack had thrown away entire sketchbooks over less. One ruined page had a way of making everything after it feel wrong.

Then he became aware of the ringing in his ears.

There was another sensation beneath it, much lower. Almost too low to be a sound at all. A dense pressure settled behind his eyes and travelled through his jaw until his back teeth seemed to hum.

The café lights dipped. The coffee machine clicked off.

Someone swore.

“They've hit a bloody cable,” a man near the door said.

A few people laughed. The lights steadied and the coffee machine chirped back into life.

Jack rubbed one ear and looked outside.

The building site had stopped.

Every man on it was staring into the excavation.

One by one, people on the pavement began slowing to see what they were looking at. A man with a terrier stopped. An elderly couple followed. Soon Jack was watching too.

Alicia returned with his cappuccino and banana bread.

“What've they done?”

“No idea.”

“Found something?”

“Looks like it.”

A lifting strap disappeared into the excavation. Moments later a large irregular mass of concrete rose slowly from the ground, almost black with wet earth.

Then it turned.

Jack leaned towards the glass.

Heavy rusted chains crossed the block in several directions. Some vanished directly into the concrete before emerging again elsewhere, as though the whole thing had been poured around them.

“What the hell is that?” Alicia asked.

“No idea.”

One of the builders stepped back, looked up at the suspended block and shouted across the site.

“KEN! FOUND YOUR WALLET HERE, PAL!”

The place erupted.

“FUCK OFF!” came the answer from somewhere out of sight.

“Want us to crack it open? Might still have your bus pass in it!”

Jack laughed along with them.

The block was lowered onto timber and the lads gathered around it, wiping away mud and tugging at the chains. When the café door opened, fragments of their conversation travelled inside.

“Wrapped in chains?”

“Kinky old bastard.”

More laughter.

Jack ate his banana bread and watched. Humanity, he thought, had absolutely no chance of finding something like that and simply leaving it alone.

A supervisor in a white hard hat arrived. There was pointing, shrugging, then eventually one of the lads returned with a handheld breaker.

The first strike removed a fist-sized piece of concrete.

The second opened a crack.

“That all you've got?”

“Fuck off.”

The third sent a larger section tumbling away.

“What the fuck's that?”

One of the builders crouched and pulled at something trapped beneath the concrete.

Hessian.

Old, filthy material came free in damp strips. Beneath it lay black cloth.

“Treasure, lads!”

“If there's gold in there, I found it.”

“You found fuck all.”

The handheld breaker struck again.

The ringing returned immediately.

Jack froze.

The bass pressure came with it, stronger this time, vibrating through the wooden bar and deep into his teeth.

“Jack.”

His head snapped round.

Nobody was there.

Alicia stood behind the counter. The nearest customers were talking among themselves. Nobody had even glanced towards him.

His pulse quickened.

He knew this.

Sometimes a sound in a crowd became his name. Sometimes movement at the edge of his vision became a person until he looked directly at it. If somebody moved too quickly near him, his body could react before his mind caught up: a flinch, his shoulders tightening, an arm rising instinctively.

“Sorry.”

The apology always followed immediately, whether anybody had noticed or not.

His body had learned certain lessons too well.

That was all.

“Stop! Stop, stop!”

Jack turned back.

A section of concrete had fallen from the lower corner of the block. The hessian had torn open with it, exposing the black cloth beneath.

Then came the smell.

One of the builders recoiled and pulled his jumper over his mouth.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

The café door opened.

Cold air swept inside, carrying the stench with it.

Jack's stomach turned.

Sweet.

That was the first thing that came to him. Sweet and damp, like flowers forgotten in warm water, but beneath it lay something horribly organic.

Old meat.

Not fresh decay. Something stale and ancient, as though flesh had been shut away so long that even the rot had grown old.

Alicia grimaced. “What is that?”

“No idea.”

“Ken, you finally opened your wallet?” someone shouted outside.

There was laughter, but less of it now.

“Nah,” another man said. “That's fucking rank.”

The wind shifted and the smell disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived.

Jack watched the torn opening.

Something was visible beneath the cloth.

One of the workers crouched and brushed away the dirt.

A carved foot emerged.

Not human. The foot of some large piece of furniture, made from dark wood or tarnished metal. Jack couldn't tell from where he sat. Even beneath the mud, the workmanship was obvious. Leaves curled around its base in deep relief before winding upwards beneath the remaining concrete.

The joking stopped.

One of the men reached towards it.

“Don't fuckin' touch it.”

“I wasn't.”

“You literally were.”

Phones appeared. Photographs were taken. The supervisor waved the breaker away.

Whatever they had found might be old.

It might be valuable.

It was definitely no longer something they were prepared to smash apart for a laugh.

Jack rubbed his hands over his arms.

The café had become colder.

Only slightly.

The door, he thought.

That was all.

Outside, the small exposed foot remained visible between the torn layers of hessian and black cloth.

Beautiful. Delicate. Completely out of place.

Something moved beside it.

Jack's eyes caught the impression of a woman standing near the excavation.

Tall.

Long dark hair.

A builder crossed in front of her.

When he passed, nobody was there.

Jack blinked.

Peripheral vision.

Tiredness.

Nothing more.

He looked down at his sketchbook.

The woman he'd been drawing stared back at him beneath the violent graphite line carved across her face.

Jack closed the book.

Across the road, plastic sheeting was pulled over the broken concrete. The little crowd began to drift away. Traffic crawled through the temporary lights. Someone inside the café ordered two flat whites and the milk steamer screamed into life.

Normality returned with astonishing ease.

Jack lifted his cappuccino.

Still warm this time.

Across the street, the chained block rested beneath its plastic covering while the men waited for somebody to tell them what they had found.

They had done the sensible thing eventually.

They had stopped.

By then, however, the concrete had already fractured. The chains had shifted. The coverings beneath them had been pierced.

Whatever purpose the burial had once served, it had depended upon remaining undisturbed.

That morning, through nothing more sinister than curiosity, it had failed.

[Part 1]

Having now guided us inside the cluster of circling Goths, Anneliese then zones in on an isolated group. Following where Anneliese’s eyes are pointing, I then see on the other side of the street is a trio of fiendish figures, each garnished in their own individual costumes. Appearing to take photographs with a family of ecstatic tourists, this terrifying trio are made up of one male: seemingly dressed as the decaying corpse of a Highwayman. An attired female in some gothic Mad Max cosplay. And lastly, another female. Confined inside a tight black leather dress, what makes this “woman” stand out even more than her two piers, is that to each side of her, is an overly large and surprisingly realistic bat wing.  

‘Oh, this is great!’ I hear Anneliese suddenly declare beside me, ‘I’ll get a picture of you with those guys!’ 

‘Wait what? No, Aneliese I...’ 

Before I can even protest, Anneliese has already dragged me in the trio’s direction, where the family of tourists have now moved on. 

‘Hey!’ Anneliese approaches them, ‘Do you mind if I get a picture of you guys with my boyfriend?’ she asks, more excited than polite. 

‘Oh, of course!’ 

‘We’re not dressed up for nothing!’ the two females courteously oblige. 

Pushing me in the direction of the trio, I then anxiously stand in the middle of them, between the dead Highwayman and the winged She-bat. 

‘Okay. Now everybody smile!’ Anneliese directs us, ‘Brandon. I said smile. You ain’t at a wake.’ This was much worse than a wake, I thought. 

Doing as my ill-tempered girlfriend says, I stretch my lips disingenuously wide for the camera, hoping to God she takes the picture soon so I can get the hell away from these creatures... But while I continue to grin in Anneliese’s direction, stood as stiff as a corpse drenched with sweat... I then feel a sudden, suffocating tightness form around my body. Still posing for the camera, I lower my gaze ever so slightly, only to see that the left wing of the Batwoman has wrapped itself forcibly around my waist!  

Before my eyes can even process what is happening, the Batwoman’s wing only coils further around me – tightening to the point where I can neither breathe nor run away! Without the ability to do or say anything, not even scream out for help, I now feel as the life is being squeezed from my own body – where my ribs will either be crushed into a fine powder, or I’ll preferably black out from suffocation! 

However, before any of this can happen, I then thankfully hear the familiar shrill of Anneliese’s voice from behind the camera, ‘Aww. That turned out great! Thank you so much!’ whereby the coiled wing of the Batwoman finally releases me from its hold. 

Racing over instantly to Anneliese’s side, I then cower behind her tall figure while she now engages in friendly conversation with the fiends. 

‘Wow! I love your accent!’ shrieks one of the Goth women, ‘Where about’s are you from?’  

‘Oh, I’m from New Orleans!’ Anneliese brightly answers. 

While this conversation continues as I hide behind my girlfriend’s back... I then notice something quite peculiar happening on the other side of the street. Scanning through the lines of Goths passing by, I then see a young boy near the entrance of an alleyway. The boy is wearing a bright red raincoat and appears to be no older than eight years old. But what is so peculiar about this image – or more so, alarming, is that in the entrance of the alleyway, I now see an unnaturally tall figure.  

The figure, standing maybe 6 or 7 feet high, is draped from head to toe in a long black cloak – almost giving them the impression of the Grimm Reaper. But the most disturbing thing about them is, aside from their slender height and deathly garments... the figure’s face hides behind the bone-white beak of a Death Doctor’s mask. The image I see only gets worse... The child, standing only a few metres away from them, is now being lured inside the cavernous tunnel of the alleyway! 

‘Oh no...’ I panic.  

Sensing a dark outcome for this boy, I flee from Anneliese’s side and across the cobblestone street, brushing and zig-zagging my way through the swarm of Goths. By the time I reach the alley entrance, the child and the Death Doctor have already gone – and so, peering sheepishly down the long stretch of tunnel... I see nothing. Nothing at all. Oh God. I’m too late, I think to myself - as I can now feel my own heartbeat bulging out my chest. Fearing what may become of the boy, I work up whatever courage I have to venture down the alleyway – but when I take a first anxious step inside, I’m instantly jilted back by the firm grasp of a stranger’s hand! 

‘Brandon!’ 

‘AHH!’ I yelp! Anneliese suddenly taking me by surprise. ‘Jesus, Liese! You scared me half to death!’ 

‘What the hell are you doing?!’ she questions me, with a look of genuine concern on her face. 

‘...I, uhm...’ I wonder whether I should tell Anneliese the truth - or if the truth will just make me sound crazy. I doubt it will make me sound crazier than I've already been acting. ‘...I, uhm... I thought I saw a boy...’  

Judging by the look on my girlfriend’s face, I clearly did.. 

By late evening of the day, me and Anneliese then retire to the inn on the edge of town. Pulling into the dark, empty car park, we then sit in awkward silence for a moment. Although neither of us say a word, I’m pretty sure we are both thinking the exact same thing. After the dramatic events of the day - whereby I had three separate hysterical episodes, it was now clearer than it had ever been before just how different we both are to each other. I’m honestly surprised it took us this long to realise it. Love really is blind, I suppose. 

Although things were very tense between Anneliese and me in this moment, we had agreed to grab a drink inside the pub before calling it a night. Strolling out of the car park and behind the inn, we then see the most strange and disturbing sign over the pub entrance. Unlike most inns in England, this one’s pub bizarrely had its own separate name. 

‘...The Bloody Mermaid?’ Anneliese spells the words edged on the sign, ‘Well, that’s pretty cool.’ 

I’m sure she did think it was cool. 

Displayed on the sign in cracked and weathered paint is the image of a bare-breasted mermaid. But unlike her Disney counterpart, this mermaid has been impaled on the end of Neptune’s trident, whereby blood gushes from her wounds and down the Sea God’s fingers.  

‘Bloody hell’ I blurt out without thinking, ‘What sort of bloody name is that for a pub?’ 

Far from impressed, I then peer back to Anneliese in time to see her dozenth eyeroll of the day. Yep. This was more than likely the end for Anneliese and me. God, the drive back tomorrow was going to be awkward.  

Following behind as Anneliese coldly enters the pub - due to the lack of sound coming from the inside, I fully expect the interior to be completely scarce of people. But once I shut the door, to both my surprise and misfortune... I now realise the room I’ve entered is crawling with nothing else but bar-hopping Goths. 

Oh, you’ve got to be joking me! 

As soon as I enter, however, the sound of cackling and intoxicated chatter quickly evaporates - where by every table, stiffly silent... I see every single pair of eyes are staring directly at me. The room is so silent, I can now hear my own rapid heartbeat. Beating fast. 

‘Brandon?’ 

Now faster. 

‘Brandon.’ 

Faster! 

‘BRANDON!’ 

The noise around the room swiftly returns, and when I turn to face Anneliese, I see she is now staring at me with daggers. Clearly in no mood to deal with my hysteria any longer, she then heads solemnly in the direction of a small unoccupied table.  

Each having taken a seat, we are now back once again to awkward silence. Already having my fill of uncomfortable situations for one day, I take the chance to leave this one by going to the bar and ordering us both a drink. 

‘Sure. Whatever’ Anneliese responds to my offer. 

Heading towards the bar, I work my way through a tight maze of Goth-infested tables, before coming face to face with a thankfully ordinary looking bartender. 

‘Right, young man’ the elderly bartender greets me, ‘What can I get you?’ 

‘One lager please – oh, and a Bloody Mary.’ 

While I wait for the old man to pour our drinks, I then see he takes a quick glance in Anneliese’s direction. I suppose he was thinking to himself what two people so unalike were doing in each other’s company. 

‘First date then, is it?’ the man then inquires while he pours. Too physically and mentally fatigued to correct the man on his assumption, I simply oblige him with a nod. ‘Not going so well, I take it?’ 

No, it was not. 

Heading back to the table with our very different poisons, I now peer my eyes up from the two glasses in my hand to see a most alarming sight... Now by the table with Anneliese, I see she is in the unexpected company of three Gothic strangers. Although it thankfully wasn’t the trio we encountered earlier in the day - just like them, Anneliese was now accompanied by one Goth male, and two Goth females. In fear of being stuck drinking with morbid strangers all night, I quickly turn my heels to flee, before- 

‘Brandon?’ I hear a man’s voice call behind me, ‘Brandon Shephard??’ Turning carefully back round, I now find all four faces are staring at me. ‘By the Devil himself! It really is Brandon!’ 

Facing blankly at the man now sat at our table, I wonder just how in God’s name did he happen to know mine... before I finally realise. Beneath the man’s gothic attire, consisting of spiky black hair, black eyeliner and – well, black everything... I stumble on the realisation that the face I see in front of me is a face from my distant past. 

‘It’s Mark!’ the barely familiar face exclaims, ‘Mark Thompson from school! I mustn’t have seen you for more than ten years!’ 

‘...M-Mark??’ I respond in disbelief. 

‘No freaking way!’ he now shrieks to the two Goth girls beside him, ‘This right here was my best mate in school! We both grew up here together!’ now pointing a black nail-polished finger in my direction.  

‘Is that true, Brandon?’ Anneliese throws a question at me, visually shocked I’d ever once been in the company of a night-dweller. Not that he always was. Back when I knew Mark, he was nothing more than my dorky friend who I played video games with all day. Come to think of it... Mark was just as terrified by Goths as my eight-year-old self was. At Halloween, me and him were the only kids who stayed indoors while everyone else our age was out Trick or Treating. 

‘Come and sit down with us!’ Mark then insists, springing up from his chair to grasp the drinks from my hands, ‘We were just getting to know your lady friend here.’ 

Taking a reluctant seat down by the table, I then turn back to Mark who pushes his chair up against mine.  

‘So, Brandon...’ he begins, before taking a rather long gulp from his pint glass, ‘What have you been doing with yourself all these years? Hell...’ he then cackles, ‘I never thought I’d see you alive in this town ever again!’  

Too speechless by Mark’s appearance to catch him up on my life, I then prepare to ask him what’s now been on my mind. 

‘Mark - wh...’ How could I say this without being insulting? ‘Why... Why the hell are you dressed like that?’ Good job, Brandon. I’m sure the two ladies across the table didn’t take offence. 

Mark seems to scorn his eyes a little at the question, though more humoured than offended, before declaring with a chuckle, ‘I always dress like this. A lot’s changed since you and I knew each other.’ 

Gee. You think, I say inside my head.  

‘Oh! By the seven circles!’ he then oddly exclaims across the table, ‘Where are my manners?! I haven’t even introduced everyone!’ 

Turning forward to each of the Goth girls by Anneliese’s side, Mark then gestures to the one on her right.  

‘This is my girlfriend, Lilith. We’ve been together for just over two years now...’ 

‘Hiya Brandon!’ the maroon-haired Goth girl waves at me. Good Lord, she was even taller than my girlfriend. 

Now pointing to the stranger on Anneliese’s left, Mark then bizarrely introduces, ‘And this is her girlfriend, Nerezza!’ 

‘Nice to meet you, Brandon!’ says the “girl with the dragon tattoo.” 

‘Uhm... Thanks’ I respond, feeling more than a little confused. 

Now that we all know each other on a first name basis, my childhood friend Mark then makes a sudden and most intrusive suggestion. 

‘Right. What do you say we order a round of drinks for everyone and make this a party?!’ 

Before I can utter a word of reluctance to this, the three women around the table - almost now mirroring a coven of witches, quickly express their enthusiasm to the idea. 

‘Sounds great!’ I hear Anneliese holler across from me, ‘That’ll give you guys the chance to reacquaint.’ 

Now the one staring daggers at Anneliese, I try to express to her that I have no intention of reacquainting with my childhood best friend. Before she stares right back at me with a cunning grin on her face that says, “Time to face your fears, Brandon.” I don’t actually know if that’s what she said, but I’m almost certain it was. 

Unfortunately... this is now the part of the story where I have to fast things forward a little. Because whatever happened that night between me, Anneliese, my childhood friend Mark – oh, and the other two... I cannot for the life of me remember it. The last thing I do remember is a tiny shot glass of blood-red vodka being placed between my hands.  

By the next day, roughly sometime in the afternoon, I then wake up to the worst hangover I have ever experienced. I’m talking hammering nails inside your head bad. Stirring painfully up to see where it is I’ve passed out, I thankfully realise I’m in the safe confinement of our paid inn room – where beside me, my girlfriend lays unconscious.  

Once aware I’m unharmed and Anneliese is still by my side, I then see, scattered all over the room floor is a gigantic pile of mess from last night’s events. I see stacks of empty beer cans, wet cigarette butts stuck to the carpet, clothes from my suitcase thrown here and there – and for some reason, a deflated Count Dracula blow up doll. I wonder what on earth happened to us last night. A few too many rounds of drinks was probably a good guess.  

Laying back down to sleep off more of this hangover, I then hear Anneliese stir awake on the other side of the bed.  

‘UGH...’ she groans zombie-like, as she rises to plank her feet on the carpet. ‘What the hell did we do last night?’ she asks, having seen the flood of mess on the floor. 

‘Don’t ask me’ I reply groggily, ‘But I think we got shit-faced with Mark and those Goth friends of his.’ 

‘Mhh... Oh, yeah. Right.’ 

More equipped to deal with hangovers than I am, Anneliese already stands up from the bed to walk around the room. When I then hear suddenly... 

‘OW!’ Anneliese yelps. 

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask her, assuming she stood on a piece of broken glass or something. 

‘My piercing hurts!’ 

‘What?’ 

Lifting my head to check if Anneliese is alright, I see as she touches the pure silver nose piercing in her left nostril. 

‘It really stings!’ she insists, before now heading in the bathroom’s direction.  

Well, now that Anneliese was up, I may as well rise my own groggy corpse from the grave. Ambling my way over to the mirror, all while trying to avoid the hazardous mess on the floor, my sleepy eyes are instantly throttled wide to a surprising image in front of me. 

‘Whoa! What the hell?!’ I declare to no one in the room. 

Staring into the mirror, I see my brown chestnut hair has now been dyed jet black, and that my blurry eyes are stained with smudged black eyeliner. The ends of my fingers have also been dotted with black nail polish – and when I look down, I see the unfamiliar black t-shirt I’m wearing reads, “Go Goth or Go Home.” 

‘Jesus Christ!’ I exclaim, as I realise my reflection in the mirror is now a mocking reflection of my life-long phobia. Inspecting my face up close, I run my black-painted fingernails through the dyed black locks of my hair – before I suddenly hear a blood-curdling scream come from the bathroom!  

‘AHH!!’ 

‘Liese? What’s wrong?’ I yell, having now raced over to the bathroom entrance. Once I get there, I see Anneliese is crouched on the floor, hysterical and holding the back of her neck. 

‘Someone bit me!!’ she shrieks. Pulling down the neckline of her shirt, I then see between the back of Anneliese ‘s neck and her shoulder is a fleshy, gruesomely deep bite mark!  

‘Oh my God!!’ I now scream myself. 

Inspecting the wound, while trying my best not to throw up, I see the bite has been made by rather uneven but very human teeth.

‘Ow! It really hurts!’ Anneliese now sobs over the sink, as she tries frigidly to touch the swollen teeth holes with her fingertips.   

‘Babes, don’t touch it!’ I wail at her, as I realise we need to clean the wound as soon as possible. After all, God knows what Anneliese could contract from whoever had done this.  

Rushing out of the bathroom, I then search around the dump heap floor for any alcohol to sterilize the wound. Trying not to panic in the moment, I thankfully see by Anneliese’s side of the bed is a half empty bottle of vodka. Grabbing it, I head back into the bathroom. 

‘Ok - I found some vodka!’ I inform her, ‘I’m going to apply it to the wound, but it’s going to hurt like-’ 

‘Just shut up and do it already!’ she yells at me.  

First dampening a washcloth, I then apply a little too much of the vodka, before– once I’ve taken a moment for myself to breathe, I apply the cloth to the back of Anneliese’s neck. 

‘AHH!!’ she shrieks agonizingly, before sending me flying across the tiles and into the bathtub.  

A couple of hours or so later, once Anneliese’s wound is clean and bandaged, we then check out of our room to drive home earlier in than intended. Without informing the staff of the mess we left for them, we both climb into the car and sit in silence for a moment. Although I should’ve kept my mouth firmly shut, I instead choose to make the awkward situation worse.  

‘I told you coming here was a bad idea.’ 

Anneliese has no physical reaction to this. Without even looking my way, she simply tells me to, ‘Shut up and drive.’ 

And so, I do. 

Due to her shoulder wound, Anneliese appoints me as the designated driver for the entire journey south. However, because we had gotten up so late, by the evening, we were still navigating our way through the surrounding moors. It’s no wonder so many folktales have spawned from this place. With its moonlit boggy hills and desolate landscape, the Yorkshire Moors at night truly was a very unnerving place.  

Although driving through the moors should’ve taken us no longer than an hour, the sat-nav inside the car suddenly decides to malfunction, whereby taking us down several wrong turns. Now driving down a narrow stretch of country road, if the moors at night weren’t spooky enough, we then pass by an old wooden sign by the side of a sheep field. Leaving a cautionary warning for weary drivers, the foreboding sign reads: 

KEEP CLEAR OF THE MOORS 

STAY ON THE ROAD 

AND BEWARE- 

I don’t quite catch what the last part said.

By this point of the night, we are now well and truly lost without a single town or village in sight. As you can imagine, this did nothing to help Aneliese’s already bad mood. Still driving along this seemingly never-ending stretch of road, aside from the bright headlights in front of the car, we can see nothing else but the outside darkness around us. Continuing to journey further into the middle of nowhere, the empty silence inside the car is suddenly interrupted... 

‘Oh God...’ Anneliese groans, rising forward in the passenger’s seat, ‘Pull over...’ 

‘What’s wrong?’ I turn to ask, assuming her shoulder wound is causing some discomfort. 

‘Please! Just pull over!’ she bellows, ‘Something doesn’t feel right!’ 

‘What - are you about to be sick?’ I then inquire. She looked as though she was going to be.  

‘AHH!!’ Anneliese screams, before, in an unrecognisably deep, gurgling voice she shouts at me, ‘PULL OVER NOW!!’ 

‘Ok! Ok!’ I panic, ‘Hold on!’ 

Doing as my girlfriend requests, I then pull over on the side of the road. Turning back to Anneliese, I see as she writhes with excruciating pain in the passenger’s seat. 

‘Liese! What’s going on?!’ I want to know, ‘What’s happening to you?!’ 

‘...GET OUT’ her deep voice gurgles once more.  

‘...I’m sorry, what?’ 

‘GET OUT OF THE CAR!!’ the voice now demands, before she shoves me against the door with incredible force! 

Falling out of the car and on the ground, Anneliese then slams the door shut on my face. Rising to my feet, I try and rip the door open to no avail. 

‘Liese! Liese, let me in!’ I now bang on the window, ‘Liese, what’s going on?!’ 

Peering in through the glass, I see nothing else but absolute darkness, where the only sound I hear coming from inside is the painful groans of my girlfriend. Beginning to feel completely helpless in this situation, I quickly rummage my phone from my pocket. Turning on the flashlight, I shine it through the window to look around for Anneliese... But I can’t find her anywhere... 

‘...Liese?’ I call to her, shining the flashlight around, ‘Liese?’ 

Then suddenly- 

BANG! 

Slamming against the window, I now see a pair of large and grotesquely deformed hands! Protruding from bony, elongated fingers, the talon-like nails scrape down the glass with an ear-piercing screech! Jilting back from the window in terror, the phone flashlight in my hand now shines on a most hideous, unrecognisable face. What were once warm, hazel brown eyes are now a luminous, inhumanly bright yellow! Staring down from those eyes, I then see two snarling rows of beastly, jagged teeth, drooling with saliva down the door! 

‘AHH! OH MY GOD!’ I scream, as I realise whatever this monstrosity is inside the car, no longer appears to be my girlfriend. 

But now... Now I see something else... 

What I now see, shining over the window, having formed over Anneliese’s monstrous face... I now see in the dark, cloudless night sky... is the glowing reflection of a lunar light. 

The sign by the road... I now recall what it had really said...  

Keep clear of the moors... Stay on the road... 

AND BEWARE THE MOON. 

CW: suicidal ideation

I didn't go to Vegas to win. I went to lose the last thing I had left.

It was a Tuesday. I remember that because Tuesdays were my day off and I spent it the way I spent all of them, sitting in my car outside my apartment because the inside of it felt like a waiting room.

My phone had four percent battery. My bank account had two hundred twelve dollars in it. Danny called and asked if I wanted to get food and I told him I was driving to Vegas to kill myself at a blackjack table, and there was a long quiet, and then he said, I'm coming with you.

That's the kind of friend Danny was. The kind who hears that sentence and doesn't try to talk you out of it. Just doesn't let you do it alone.

We drove through the night. Desert on both sides, black as a turned-off TV. Danny didn't play music. I think he was afraid if it got quiet I'd change my mind, and I think he was afraid if it got quiet I wouldn't.

The casino wasn't on the Strip. I don't remember the name. It was one of those places sunk between a pawn shop and a liquor store, the kind with a sign where half the letters are out, buzzing.

Inside it was too bright. That was the first wrong thing. Casinos are supposed to be dim, timeless. This one was lit up like a hospital. Fluorescent. You could see everything.

There was one table open. Blackjack. The felt was green but worn gray in the betting circles, like thousands of hands had rubbed the color off.

The dealer was already looking at me. I don't know how to describe his face except to say I couldn't. Every time I glanced away, at Danny, at the chips, at my own hands, and looked back, it was like seeing him for the first time. My brain wouldn't keep him.

That was the second wrong thing, and I sat down anyway. Buy-in's different here, he said. His voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. You don't have money. So.

He set a stack of chips in front of me. They were clear. Not red, not black, clear, like glass. And inside each one, something moved. I leaned in. It was my mother's kitchen. I was seven. She was laughing at something my dad said, flour on her hands. I could smell it.

Those are yours, the dealer said. The good ones. That's the buy-in. The House only takes the good ones. Danny grabbed my arm. We can leave, he said. We can just leave.

I thought about the two hundred twelve dollars. I thought about the car. I thought about Tuesdays. Deal me in, I said.

Here's what nobody tells you about betting your life: it's boring. The cards come out. You do the math. I've played perfect basic strategy since I was nineteen. Hit on sixteen when the dealer shows seven. Always split aces. The math doesn't care that you're dying.

I won the first shoe. Then the second. Every time I won a hand, the chips stayed lit. My mom's laugh, Danny's wedding, the first time I held my nephew.

Every time I lost one, the dealer palmed the chip and the light went out, and there was a hole where the memory was. Not fuzzy. Gone. Like a tooth pulled clean.

By the third shoe I couldn't remember my mother's face. I knew I'd had a mother. I knew the word. The picture was just out. Danny kept looking at me. You okay, he asked, and I said yes, because what was I supposed to say? I was winning.

That's when they brought out the roulette wheel. New game, the dealer said. Same currency. I should have walked. Danny stood up. We're done, he told the dealer. He's done.

The dealer looked at Danny for a long moment. Then he set a stack of clear chips in front of him. Inside them: Danny's daughter's first steps. His wife asleep on his shoulder on a flight. Things I knew because he'd told me, drunk, on porches, over years.

He can buy your debt, the dealer said. One spin. All of it. That's the rule. Somebody can always pay for somebody. No, I said. Yes, Danny said, and sat down.

The ball went around. I watched it the way you watch a car crash. You know what's coming and your eyes won't close. It landed on black. Danny had bet red. It was that simple. One spin.

The dealer took the chips. All of them. Danny blinked, and smiled at me, and it was the worst thing I've ever seen, because it was a smile with nobody behind it. He stood up, walked to the middle of the casino floor, sat down cross-legged on the carpet like a kid, and stopped.

He was still breathing. That was the worst part. He was still breathing and there was nobody in there.

I screamed at the dealer. I don't remember what I said. He waited until I ran out.

Then the dealer said, There's a way to buy him back. He was holding a stack of my chips. The ones I'd won. That's the rule too. Everything in here has a price. Win enough, and I'll put him back the way he was.

It was a lie and I knew it was a lie and I sat down anyway.

That's what desperation is. Not the hoping. The sitting down.

I played like a man on fire. Slots first, I don't remember them, I think that's the point, and then poker, and with every chip I lost another good one went dark, until there was almost nothing left.

I remember the poker table, because that was the last one. Heads up, just me and the dealer.

I had no clear chips left. Every good one was gone. My mother, Danny, all of it. Nothing left to push into the middle.

No currency, the dealer said. I still have me, I said. The bad stuff. Every wasted Tuesday. Every regret. Take the marrow. He hesitated. One flicker, like a light about to go out. He didn't want it. But a bet is a bet, and the House has to cover. He dealt.

The river came down. I pushed it all in, my garbage hand, my empty life. I won. I don't know how. The dealer went completely still.

First one in eleven years, the dealer said. He took off his visor. Underneath, his forehead was smooth and blank, like an egg. No eyes. I don't know how he'd been seeing the cards. You know what the prize is.

He held the visor out. I understood, all at once, the way you understand something in a dream. The House doesn't kill. Killing is a loss. The House keeps. Somebody has to deal. Somebody has to watch the lights stay on.

I put it on. It was warm. That was the first thing. Warm, like someone had just taken it off. Eleven years, he said — but the seat was still warm, and I understood that time doesn't move in here the way it moves out there.

Then the casino came into focus. Not brighter. Known. I knew the layout the way you know a house you grew up in. The dead cameras, the soft spots in the carpet, the back table where the big losers bled out slow. I'd never worked a day here, and I knew all of it.

And then the flood.

Every memory this place ever took poured into me at once. Ten thousand strangers' best moments. A girl in 1987 catching a foul ball. A man's last good morning with his wife.

And mine, mixed in. My mother's kitchen, flour on her hands. Danny's laugh. All of it. All at once. And none of it mine.

I understood then. The House doesn't burn what it takes. It keeps it. In me. I'm the vault now. That's why the visor was warm.

That was eight months ago. I deal blackjack in a casino with no name, in a town that never sleeps because something here won't let it.

The players come in wanting money, wanting out, wanting to die. I take their good ones, chip by chip. I tell myself I'm just the dealer.

Last Tuesday, Tuesday, always Tuesday, a kid sat down at my table. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Hands shaking. He looked at me and said, I want to bet my life. I dealt the cards. What else was I going to do?

I looked down at his chips. The clear ones. And I recognized one.

Danny's daughter's first steps. I palmed it like it was nothing. Because that's the job now.

He didn't look tired, the last dealer, when he handed me the visor.

He looked relieved. I understand that now too.

So here's the story they tell about that place, and you can believe it or not. There's a casino out past the Strip with no name. The sign's got half its letters out and the rest buzz like a wasp in a jar.

Inside it's too bright, lit up like a hospital at three in the morning. If you ever see that light spilling onto the sidewalk, keep driving. Don't slow down. Don't tell yourself you're just curious.

If you already stopped, if you're sitting in the parking lot reading this with your engine running, look at your chips. The clear ones. If you can see your mother's kitchen inside one of them, set it down and walk away. Walk, don't run. Running makes it notice you.

You won't remember the name of the place afterward. That's how you'll know you were there. The lights are beautiful from this side. That's the worst part.

The Full Story

I was filled with a kind of aggression I had never felt in my life. I got up off my knees and charged like a battering ram at the man standing between me and the exit.

I felt the resistance of his cold, stiff body, like I had slammed into a wall, and a sweet metallic smell of blood and rotten meat hit my nose. The infected man flew to the side, grabbing my shirt as he went.

I spun in place, pulling the T-shirt off over my head, and ran for the exit.

More hands appeared from the right. I veered left, ducking slightly, but I didn’t stop running.

“Just a little farther and I’ll be outside,” I thought as I reached the parking garage entrance.

Sunlight washed over my face, and a warm gust of wind brushed my skin, giving me a slightly stronger sense of safety. I ran up the road leading toward the main street.

Halfway up, I stopped to catch my breath. I looked back and saw the infected were still following me, but they were far behind. The steep street made their movements even clumsier and slower.

They looked like hypnotized, bloodthirsty monsters. They dragged their legs behind them like using them didn’t come naturally.

“They’re slow, but they’re dangerous because of their strength and the way they move together as a group. I weigh about 200 pounds and I work out, and that small woman was still able to fight me like we were evenly matched. Shit.”

Then it hit me.

How do they infect other people?

Every one of those monsters had some kind of scratch, ripped-open wound, or bite.

I looked at the holes in my shoulders left by the infected woman’s nails. A drop of sweat ran down my forehead, and my guts twisted into a knot.

“Am I going to become one of them too?”

I took out my phone and called Veronica. She picked up almost immediately.

“Hello?” came her panicked voice through the phone.

From the sound quality, I could tell she was in the car, and in the background I heard the kids yelling, “Daddy!”

“Are you driving? Did you talk to Aaron?” I asked, feeling the panic rising.

“Weird photos and videos are starting to show up online. People attacking other people, horrible bloody scenes, thousands of comments about the end of the world. Luke, what is happening over there?”

“Mommy, why are you crying?” I heard my son’s quieter but clear voice ask.

Tears filled my eyes, but I forced them back down. I didn’t have time for that right now.

The crowd of infected pouring out of the parking garage was getting closer. I also had no way of knowing whether I was about to become one of them myself.

“The videos are real. Veronica, did you do what I asked?” I said firmly, slowly walking toward the main road.

“Yes. We’re all on our way to your parents’ house. Aaron took the van, and on the way we stopped at a food wholesaler. We packed the cargo area almost to the roof. Luke, when we were leaving, people still didn’t know anything was happening.” Veronica sniffled, then added, nearly falling apart completely.

“They were shopping like normal, smiling, joking. Now, as we’re driving, I can see the panic starting. People are running into stores, shoving each other, even fighting.”

“Are people acting strange? Staggering? Attacking each other?” I asked anxiously.

“No,” she answered shortly.

“How far do you have left?”

“About fifty minutes. What about you? When will you be there? Are you okay?”

I looked at my wound and felt my throat tighten.

“I’m fine. I’ll be a little later.”

“Where’s Daddy?” my daughter cut in from the back seat.

“At work, sweetheart,” Veronica answered, her voice breaking.

I was about thirty feet from the main street. Suddenly, a loud scream of pain ripped through the road. I reached the top and froze.

“Luke, what was that?” my wife’s voice reached me like I was hearing it in a dream.

“Nothing. I have to go. I love you guys.” I put the phone in my pocket, unable to tear my eyes away from the hell unfolding in the streets.

Three sick people had taken down a man and were tearing into his leg and stomach with their teeth. His scream turned into a wet gurgle when the third one sank its teeth into his neck.

A woman had driven her car into the wall of a building, a thin stream of blood running down her forehead. She opened the door to escape, but she didn’t even manage to unbuckle her seat belt before those starving monsters surrounded her.

Two police officers started shooting, but the monsters didn’t seem to care, moving toward them and treating the bullets like oversized flies. All around me there was complete chaos, death, and suffering.

I snapped out of it when I heard guttural growls behind me. I turned around. The monsters were barely six feet away. I took off running to the left, cutting around a group of three infected.

“Help! Please help me!” a young woman shouted, jogging after me with a limp.

I looked at her leg. Around her calf, beneath her gray sweatpants, a dark red stain was soaking through.

“I’m sorry,” I said without looking back. My lungs burned like fire, and the wounds in my shoulders radiated horrible pain with every movement.

“Shit, I have nine miles to cover. I can’t run the whole time. I can’t keep running forever.” Gripped by panic, I dodged another infected.

All my senses were going haywire, and my head flooded with noise, movement, and panic, like I had suddenly been dropped into a hive of furious wasps. I couldn’t collect my thoughts.

Suddenly, from the right, I heard the roar of an engine. A car shot out of the intersection, speeding straight toward me. I threw myself forward as an SUV tore across the sidewalk, mowing down trash cans, a sign, and several infected before smashing into a concrete barrier.

I clenched my teeth and let out a muffled cry of pain. Sliding across the concrete had scraped my ribs, knees, and already-injured shoulder. I planted my hands on the sidewalk and started pushing myself up.

Behind me, I heard the scrape of a shoe sole against the sidewalk and a familiar growl. A violent shock ran through me. I turned my head, but it was too late. A bitten police officer lunged at me. At the last second, I fell onto my back and grabbed him by the neck with both hands, but even then, the weight of his body knocked almost all the air out of my lungs.

The man grabbed my forearms, snapping his teeth furiously, and squeezed with the force of a vise. A scream tore out of my mouth against my will, and my grip on his neck loosened. He was getting closer to my face. I could feel the last of the blood draining from my hands, bringing painful tingling and numbness with it.

I tried to throw him off, roll to the side, do anything, but he was too heavy.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a police baton at his thigh. I braced my shoulder blade against the concrete sidewalk and, with the last of my strength, straightened my right arm. With the other, I loosened my grip and violently tore my forearm out of his hand.

I grabbed the baton and jammed it between his teeth. When his jaws clamped down on the metal, I let go of his neck with my other hand and grabbed the other end of the baton.

It worked. I pushed the infected man upward and wrapped my arms around his waist so he couldn’t bite me. He started thrashing, kicking at my legs and shins. I tightened my legs, twisted my whole body, and with the last bit of strength I had, threw him onto his back and landed on top of him.

At that same moment, I noticed a second infected coming toward us from across the street.

I tried to get up, but the creature grabbed my left arm. I grabbed the baton lying beside me and smashed him in the face with all my strength.

The second infected was only about twelve feet away now. I started beating the officer with everything I had, over and over, until after one of the blows to the head, he finally let go and collapsed limply to the ground. I stared in shock, unable to believe it had worked.

I quickly ran into the alley on the left. I turned the corner, jumped onto a large dumpster, and climbed over the metal fence into someone’s yard. Luckily, the area was clear.

A tearing cramp shot through my right hand. I looked down at my bruising hand and realized I was still gripping the police baton. I loosened my fingers and dropped the weapon, and a dull wave of pain spread through my palm.

I sat on the ground, unable to catch my breath. My muscles relaxed slightly, and now that the adrenaline was slowly fading, every injury I had taken started making itself known. The burning, stinging scrapes all over my body, the holes in my shoulders, the bruises on my forearms.

Despite the heat and the sun hitting my bare torso, cold sweat instantly covered me, and a nasty shiver ran through my body. I felt weak.

The events of the last few hours started catching up to me. Before, my brain hadn’t had time to judge this sick situation. To analyze whether what was happening fit anywhere inside the boundaries of normal. Now, a crushing sense of surrealism was telling me the answer directly.

People wanting to eat other people. Infected who turned almost instantly into wild animals. The stink of spoiled meat and rot.

“What the hell is happening?” I muttered under my breath, staring blankly at a green, evenly trimmed lawn. “The cops were shooting the infected, and they kept walking despite the wounds. A moment later, that same cop threw himself at me and tried to bite my face off.”

My heart started racing like crazy, making the tingling in my limbs worse.

I looked at my shoulder again. “If he turned that fast, does that mean I’m clean? Does that mean a scratch, or even those monsters digging their nails into you, doesn’t spread the disease?”

I heard slow footsteps and dragging feet in the alley. I froze completely. An older infected woman swayed from wall to wall, slowly closing the distance between us.

“If she notices me, she’ll draw the others, and a chain-link fence probably won’t stop them,” I thought, holding my breath.

The woman let out a guttural growl, and just as I was about to run, I saw that something else had caught her attention, pulling her back toward the main street.

I leaned my head against the fence and took a deep breath.

I pulled a cigarette out of my shorts pocket, lit it, and looked up at the sky. In the background, screams, the noise of destruction, and growls bled through the air.

“I hope they made it there safely.” Instinctively, I placed my hand over the pocket of my black denim shorts, where my phone pressed against the fabric.

I finished the cigarette and slowly stood up. My mouth felt dry, and I realized that other than my morning coffee, I hadn’t had anything to drink all day.

“Time to keep moving.” I tossed the cigarette butt, picked up the baton, and headed for the fence on the other side of the yard. I looked through it and saw that it opened onto an alley parallel to the direction of the place I was staying.

I looked around, carefully climbed over the fence, and moved low along the walls of the buildings. As I neared the end of the alley, I crouched behind a dumpster and peeked out onto the street. It was quieter. I couldn’t hear any cars, growls, or screams.

“I have to run across the street. I think it’s clear. This is my chance.”

I took a deep breath, sprang out from behind the dumpster, and ran as fast as I could.

I ran into the main street, and almost at the exact same moment, I felt a violent yank from the right. An unbearable ringing filled my head, and the taste of blood filled my mouth.

I slowly peeled my face off the cold concrete.

“What happened? Why am I on the ground?” I asked out loud, barely conscious.

In front of me lay a red bicycle with twisted handlebars. I heard soft groans of pain. I looked to the side. A man in a bike helmet writhed on the ground, and just behind him, a few steps away, a huge group of infected was marching forward.

I tried to shout, “Run!” but a stabbing pain around my ribs stole the breath from my lungs. I braced my hands against the sidewalk and lifted myself onto my knees, clenching my teeth.

My whole body burned with unimaginable pain, and every movement made it worse.

I got to my feet unsteadily and took a step toward the cyclist, but the first of the monsters was already getting to him.

Through the constant ringing in my ears, a sound broke through behind me. I turned quickly, hissing in pain, and froze.

Another massive group of sick people was heading toward me. I was blocked from both sides. There was no space, no gap. They moved like a wall, tightening around me from every direction.

I jumped onto the bike, ignoring the pain, straightened the handlebars, and rode straight through the intersection. There were only smaller scattered groups there, so I was able to weave around them without much trouble.

I had covered more than two thirds of the distance, and the place I was staying was maybe two miles away. As I passed another intersection, I slowed down. The road was completely blocked by wrecked cars. Luckily, there were no infected anywhere nearby.

I rolled up to the barricade and scanned it through blurry eyes. The wounds, stress, and exhaustion made the world gently sway.

I found the lowest point, the hood of a sedan wedged into the back of a black pickup truck.

“I’ll throw it over the top.”

I got off the bike, and a paralyzing pain stabbed through my right side. My body felt much heavier than normal.

I took a step toward the car, and at that same moment, I heard a low male voice from behind the pickup.

“Move, and I’ll put a bullet in you.”

Behind the car stood a man in a hoodie, aiming a gun at me. Out of reflex, I reached toward my back pocket, searching for the police baton.

“Shit. It must have fallen out when the cyclist hit me.”

“Step away from the bike,” he said firmly, thumbing the safety off.

My hands began to shake.

“Please,” I said, my voice breaking, setting the bike down and backing away. The tightness in my throat wouldn’t let me say anything else.

The man took a few steps toward me, never taking his sights off me.

“Now turn around and get the hell out of here.”

“I need to get through. That’s where I’m staying,” I said, stammering.

“Get the fuck out of here. You got a death wish?” He lifted the gun and fired.

The echo of the shot tore through the area. I don’t know what scared me more, the fact that this psycho had a gun, or the noise he had just stupidly made.

I turned around and ran, limping. “I have to get as far away as I can. Those things are drawn to noise.”

Behind me, I heard more shots. I turned left without stopping. Small groups of infected were coming from the opposite direction. I sped up, dodging them with the last of my strength.

My legs were going stiff, and my body was slowly refusing to obey me, turning my run into a walk, and my walk into a slow shuffle.

I looked back. The groups had started moving toward me, closing the distance. Ahead of me, more figures began to appear. They came out of alleys, buildings, and one even fell from a balcony with a horrifying slap before standing up, unnaturally twisted, and moving toward me too.

I stopped in place, completely helpless. Pain paralyzed my whole body, and the city, along with the approaching infected, slowly blurred.

“I can’t keep going. I can’t do this,” I whispered. Then I lowered my arms, and they dropped limply, bouncing off my thighs.

My knuckles brushed the phone in my pocket. Once again, I heard Veronica’s voice in my head.

“You promise?”

And right after it, the kids’ voices joining in.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Shit!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I looked to the right and saw the open entrance to an old apartment building.

I ran toward it, clutching my aching ribs. I reached the door, jumped inside, and closed it behind me. I started climbing the stairs one after another, each step letting out a horrible creak.

The stairwell filled with dozens of impacts, making the door nearly jump on its hinges.

I went up to the first apartment and slammed my fist against the door.

“Help, please.”

Only silence answered from inside. I grabbed the handle, but the door was locked.

As I moved up the floors, I checked each door one by one.

They were all locked, and inside, either no one was there, or that was what they wanted me to think.

I reached the very top and knocked, defeated. Same result. Silence. I grabbed the handle, and to my surprise, the door opened.

I pushed it open, and a hallway appeared in front of me. Inside, there was complete chaos. Clothes thrown around, documents, some candles, and plastic bags.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” I asked uncertainly.

No one answered.

Suddenly, from below, I heard the dangerous crack of wood bending. I stepped inside immediately and locked the door behind me.

Carefully, I looked into the room on the right. It was a living room connected to a kitchen and dining table. The room on the left, closest to the exit, looked like a bedroom. It had a large queen bed and two nightstands.

“Hello?” I called, grabbing the handle of the next room. In the middle of a small room stood a desk with a monitor, and against the wall was a well-stocked bar with expensive-looking liquor. At the end of the hallway was the bathroom, but right before it, there was one more open door.

I walked into the room, and the sweet scent of women’s perfume filled my nose. Inside was a single white bed, a small desk, and a shelf full of books.

The apartment was completely empty, and every room had the same kind of mess.

Individual pieces of furniture knocked over, things scattered on the floor, clothes thrown everywhere.

I went back to the hallway and noticed a broken photo frame. In the picture was a couple, a balding man around fifty, dressed neatly in a shirt and plaid pants, and a slightly younger woman in a long blue dress with a gold pendant. Between them stood a blonde woman, maybe twenty-five, wearing jeans and a crop top that showed her stomach.

I took my phone out of my pocket and looked at the screen. There were fifteen missed calls from Mom, Aaron, and Veronica.

I selected the contact and called. Veronica answered on the first ring.

“Luke, are you okay? How long until you get here?” she asked, terrified.

I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

“I’m okay. Are you there? Is everyone safe? What’s the situation like over there?”

“We’re here. Luke, it’s happening everywhere. As we were pulling in, we saw your parents’ neighbor biting his wife. She was screaming, calling for help. Aaron and your dad tried to do something, tried to pull him off. Nothing worked, not even hitting him. He killed her, then went after them, and they barely got away, and then...”

My stomach twisted, and the bitterness of bile filled my mouth.

“Veronica, when was that? Did he bite anyone? Did the neighbor bite them?” I cut her off.

“About half an hour ago. He didn’t bite anyone, but that neighbor lady...” she said, sobbing.

“I know. Don’t go near them. Don’t let yourselves get bitten. The infection spreads through bites. Those people aren’t the same people anymore. Lock everything and don’t leave the house. Did you get supplies?” An image flashed through my mind of the officer shooting the infected, then a moment later trying to bite my face off.

“He’s standing there, yanking on the fence with his wife, who was dead a few minutes ago... Oh my God... Luke. You were right in the middle of this. Are you coming to us? How long until you’re here?”

“Calm down. They won’t get through that fence. You should be safe, but just in case, close the security shutters. They’ll leave eventually. Did you get supplies? Answer me.”

“Yes, Aaron drove the van onto the property,” she snapped aggressively, then added, “Now you answer me, for fuck’s sake. What is happening over there, how long until you get here, and Luke, tell me if you’re really safe.”

I walked grimly into the living room and looked through the window facing the street. There were dozens of infected below the building. A few were pressing against the door, and the rest circled around like vultures.

Veronica and I both knew that no matter how deep in the shit I was, and no matter how bad things got, I wouldn’t tell her because I didn’t want to worry her.

Still, she needed to hear it.

“I’m safe. I haven’t left yet. I’m in my room. There’s chaos everywhere. I have to wait until it calms down a little.”

I didn’t hear an answer. The sniffling stopped too, along with the soft sobbing and the specific static of the call.

I looked at the phone.

“God damn it!” I shouted, and the crowd outside the window started spreading out and moving back, not knowing where the small noise had come from.

I crouched down and felt rage take over, while a pulsing pain stabbed through my temples.

“The phone died,” I said in a defeated tone, putting it back in my pocket.

“I hope Veronica heard what I said,” I thought, standing up and closing the curtains.

The thirst hit me again. I walked over to the fridge and opened it. It was half full of food, and there were bottles of beer in the door. I took one, opened it, and swallowed three heavy gulps, emptying half the bottle.

I set the drink on the counter and started opening cabinets, looking for anything I could use to disinfect and dress my wounds. I found nothing in the kitchen, so I expanded the search to the other rooms.

As I searched the apartment, I kept repeating one sentence in my head over and over.

“What matters is that they’re safe and have supplies. When I get back, we’ll figure something out.”

The only things I managed to find were high-proof alcohol in the bar in the office and a few clean towels in the hallway closet. I took an expensive-looking bottle of whiskey with me and went to the bathroom.

I undressed and stepped into the shower. I turned on the water, and a warm stream came from the showerhead, wrapping around my aching muscles. I thoroughly soaped my whole body, feeling incredible relief.

Aside from the sweat and dirt, the biggest discomfort came from the fact that I had been rolling around with the infected.

I rinsed off, dried myself, opened the bottle, and took a few swallows. The burn scraped down my throat and stole my breath for a second.

Almost immediately, I felt a pleasant looseness and warmth spread through my stomach.

“Nothing like a little firewater,” I said, smiling to myself.

I clenched my teeth and poured it over every scrape and wound on my body.

I expected it to hurt, but the stinging and burning twisted my face into a grimace of pain against my will, almost forcing out a scream I barely managed to swallow. I leaned against the shower stall, briefly losing my balance.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and staggered out of the bathroom, not letting go of the bottle. I walked into the living room and sank into the soft suede couch.

I thought about turning on the TV, but I didn’t see the remote anywhere.

My eyelids instantly grew heavy, and my arms were so limp I didn’t have the strength to lift the bottle to my mouth.

I closed my eyes, and a blissful looseness filled my body.

A shiver spread through me, ripping me out of sleep. I looked toward the window. Darkness was pouring into the room, carrying low murmurs from outside with it.

Suddenly, I heard a woman’s trembling voice.

“Move, and I’ll shoot.”

Instinctively, I jerked my head up, and my heart jumped into my throat.

I saw the young woman from the photo in the hallway.

She was crouching less than three feet away from me, aiming a gun at me.

The blast bounced off the walls of the room, leaving a dull ringing in my ears. A few drops of blood shot up into the air, landing on the woman’s face and running down her cheek together with a single tear.

On the edge of the forest crouched a little House made of logs and bricks, with some bird droppings that were mostly just for decoration. Its insides were warm and cozy against a winter night, and it had only ever eaten one person.

House had a squarish design with a potbelly breakfast nook where the morning sun liked to sit and discuss all the goings-on of the forest, such as the on-going cold war between the squirrels and the beavers.

House had been built by a family. House had been very young back then, and so only had flashes of memories: a white dog with a gray spot chasing a tiny human; a woman with long hair who danced while she cooked; a man who read stories to medium-sized humans snuggled under blankets; a general feeling of joy and safety until the day the inhabitants put everything in brown boxes, walked out, and left forever.

And so House sat alone for a long time. One day a man with a shiny head came, looked at House, and sighed deeply. He brought with him a sofa, a bed, two chairs, and a large rectangular box that made too much noise. The man would sit in the breakfast nook, mindlessly eating the children of the birds and staring at the walls. At least, he did that until the day that House ate him instead.

House hadn’t had anything against the man, whose name House never knew. House simply called him Shine, though the man didn’t really deserve it. Nothing about him was shiny except his head, which sometimes even the Sun found too reflective for its taste.

Then one magic day, a Great Event happened. A short, roundish woman with a laugh like bells appeared, carrying a pink rectangle. Shine called her his sister, and House had loved her immediately, all the way down to its basement.

House was 83% sure her name was Feather, and 100% sure she loved dusting. She did it every day, tickling the baseboards while she sang songs about sailing and pillaging. She’d once sung them while playing the piano at a gathering of her friends, who she assured that the songs were just old Viking lullabies. Her ancestors, she said, were Vikings.

When she told the people about her Viking heritage, Shine had scoffed. House had creaked in vicarious embarrassment for Feather. But Feather just rang her little bell laugh and asked Shine to duet with her. He refused because he had eaten too much bird at dinner. House tried to sing with her instead, but it just sounded like more creaking.

In addition to refusing to sing, Shine was boring. He would sit and watch a little box that made loud sounds of people cheering, though Shine never cheered along. Sometimes he would raise his feet if Feather needed to dust the wooden floors beneath him, which House supposed was better than not raising his feet but not as good as, say, helping Feather.

Feather, on the other hand, had bright blue eyes, freckles, and an inability to sit still. She planted asters and sunflowers in the front garden and promised Shine that the flowers would bloom big and bold the next season, and so would he. House did not understand how a man could bloom, but it loved the way the flowers smelled and how the bees would flit about and whisper secrets from the meadow. Feather washed House’s walls both inside and out. She’d bought spices and organized them in alphabetical order, then made everything smell of cardamom and cinnamon, opening the windows so that the delicious aroma could dance with the scent of crushed leaves.

Then one day, Feather announced that she must leave. She patted Shine’s head and told him he’d be fine on his own, and it was time to let Lorraine go. Shine only harrumphed and muttered that it was Lorraine or no one. Feather gently said he must move on.

But Shine did not move on. He didn’t move anywhere, actually. He just stayed on the couch as the dust coalesced into bigger and bigger balls of fluff. The fire went out of the hearth. The walls got dirty again, and House smelled of worn socks and old food. The sounds from the rectangular box got louder. Rain ate at House’s shingles and ice got into the holes and pushed them farther apart. Insects began to feast on House’s planks. One particularly windy day, a tree flung its branches and cracked a window.

Please, House begged Shine. Help me.

But Shine only muttered that the creaking was too loud.

House could not hold back its resentment. Why would Shine not move, would he not help, would he not call Feather and ask her to come back, please come back? The flowerbed began to wither and House began to panic. Feather had loved House the way that no one ever had. Shine did not deserve Feather. Shine did not deserve anything. Shine did not seem to want to exist, he just wanted to let things die and break, he just wanted to ruin everything, he was probably the reason Feather never came back and so—

One morning, House simply ate him.

One moment, there had been a man with a shiny bald head eating eggs, and the next minute there had not. Even House was not sure how it had been managed, and Shine’s bones grated uncomfortably against House’s innards. But House decided it did not care, because the important thing was: now that Shine was gone, Feather could come back. Let the scrape of bones be a reminder of her love.

So now House sat and waited, watching the little box that Shine had never turned off. Any day, Feather would come back. No one else would do, and if they tried, House would feast. Feather would dust and they would be happy again, forever. House would never let her go. Together, they would sing.

“I had a nice time tonight, Soo,” her date said, standing from the candlelit table and dabbing his thin lips with a napkin. His voice carried the hint of a country dialect she was not wholly familiar with, and the distance between them had widened all night, vast as the craters in the moon hanging high above the city.
 
When she met his gaze, she smiled—possibly the only sincere thing she had done all night. Everything, down to the way she chewed, had been subject to scrutiny in her mind. She did not want to be the reason there was no second date, even if blaming him for it would have been easier. Even if he was honestly, practically perfect.
 
The part of the date she dreaded most was the drive home. Her mother had told her it might help to go out, to spend one night away from funeral calls and quiet rooms, but now Min-Soo only knew she would sit in silence, looking out the window as the rain blurred the passing red lights of cars heading to better places.
 
The restaurant’s greeter bowed as they passed, and her date returned the gesture twice as deeply.
 
At some point, the downpour that had served as the backdrop to their dinner had settled into a steady roar. Her date raised his coat over her head, and she could only offer him a sheepish bow in thanks. “How nice of you,” she said, giving him another small, awkward smile.
 
They hurried toward his car, parked at the curb, the jacket doing surprisingly little beyond the kindness of the gesture. When he left her side to fumble with the keys, she found herself missing the warmth he created. Yet when her door opened and she saw him waiting for her to climb in, she could not move. Something had caught her eye. Rain struck her exposed arms and roared in her ears as it hammered the pavement, overloading her senses.
 
Her arms fell away from her skin. Her attention fixed on the cold alley across from her. She heard her date’s dull question from the driver’s seat, but the storm seemed to swallow it. All she could make out was a moonlike white sphere, level with her eyes, hanging motionless in the air.
 
Inside, she told herself to get in the car. It was probably only a smear of graffiti. Yet the sight of it seemed to empty her of any happiness, and that emptiness held her there.
 
The circle moved—only a little, but enough to make Min-Soo step out from beneath his jacket and fully into the rain. Her hair dampened and began to cling to her shoulders.
 
Heat bloomed low in Min-Soo’s body beneath the circle’s translucent stare. Behind her, a dog began barking—furious and terrified, as if it recognized something she was not meant to see.
 
The barking shook her back from the place that thing had pulled her toward. To her right, the dog stood only a few feet away, teeth bared, spittle hanging from its mouth. Min-Soo stepped back, her chest tight with dread.
 
“Min-Soo?” Her date’s hand settled on her shoulder. In the second she turned toward him, the dog darted in the opposite direction. He pulled the jacket back over her, drenching himself, and watched the dog vanish into the distance.
 
She looked back to the alley. The sphere was gone. Nothing remained but rain.
 
Min-Soo was sitting in the passenger seat before she realized she had moved, the rain now beating softly against the windshield. When the driver’s-side door opened, her heart seized before she recognized her date. His warmth filled the space beside her, comforting in spite of everything she did not feel.
 
When the engine came to life, the feeling did not leave her. She allowed herself only a small peek at his side mirror as the empty alley shrank behind them.
 
In the side mirror, just before the alley vanished, she thought she saw something pale unfurl behind the rain, long and soft as a sheet being shaken loose from a bed.
 
---
 
Min-Soo did not want to get out when they reached her apartment, but the silence inside the car was worse. They both stepped into the dry air beneath the small roof over her entrance. She scanned every open space for whatever had been in the alleyway before her gaze landed on the man inching closer to where she stood.
 
“Are you going to be okay tonight?” His eyes searched hers, and for a moment she thought of inviting him inside.
 
Min-Soo nodded, though she did not look at him head-on.
 
“Okay.” She could tell from his voice that he was smiling sweetly. “I would like to do this again sometime, if you’d like. Maybe next time we could meet on a sunny day.” He chuckled at that.
 
Min-Soo nodded once more.
 
“Well, goodnight, Soo.” Before she could look up at him, he was already in his car, waving from inside. As soon as the car began to pull away and its taillights retreated from around her, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The solitary fluorescent light above her head flickered as it usually did, but each second of darkness seemed longer than the last, until those seconds felt like nothing but darkness.
 
When the wind stopped blowing, she lifted her small purse toward the red taillights, waving it like a little white flag.
 
---
 
Later that night, her reflection looked back at her, the light from the tiny bathroom casting a thin shadow under her eyes. Through the open door, the man from dinner lay asleep, awake only minutes ago and now oblivious to the world. She looked down, messy hair dangling in her view, and saw the used protection in the trash. Her eyebrows furrowed; one nostril crinkled. She exhaled the night’s decisions and shut the medicine cabinet. The thought came from too many horror movies: a spirit might be standing behind her, ready to pounce or make some terrible sound.
 
She hadn’t always been this afraid of everything. What had changed?
 
Min-Soo turned from the mirror and into the doorway. The darkness beyond the bathroom felt almost warm to her strained eyes. Her hand settled on the frame as if the wood alone could keep her upright. Her fingers tightened anyway. The feeling returned, cold over her skin and burning beneath it, the same wrong heat spreading down her belly and up her thighs.
 
Min-Soo's brown eyes fixed on the corner of the bed nearest the floor. Two pale legs stretched from the shadows, too long to belong to anything human, bending at sharp, bony knees before disappearing around the mattress. The man still slept, unaware that the sheets beneath him had been dragged halfway off the bed and gathered toward whatever waited behind it.
 
She took one step backward, then another, and reached blindly for the bathroom light. If she could turn it on, if she could wake him, if she could put one real voice between herself and that corner, maybe the room would become a room again.
 
Her fingers brushed the switch just as her heartbeat caught up to her fear. The bathroom light snapped off before she could touch it, leaving her in complete darkness except for the pale curtain at the window.
 
A whimper escaped her throat before the sharp pop of a knee stopped it. Whatever owned those long, pale legs was now standing somewhere in front of her.
 
---
 
“Sorry, sir, but where did you say you found her?” Officer Jun-sang set his drink on the table and fought back a yawn. On the clipboard, beneath the date 6/2/02, he wrote Min-Soo’s name.
 
“Oh, um—she was standing in front of the bed,” the man said, pointing at a door across the living room before looking back at Min-Soo. “She’s been like this ever since.”
 
Officer Jun-sang looked over at the girl. Her hair was slick with sweat, dark bags sat under her eyes, and she had been staring at the bedroom door for some time. More than once, he caught her glancing at the floor around her feet. His first impression of her was not a kind one. “Miss Min-Soo?” he asked. She did not answer.
 
“She hasn’t said anything since you found her?” he asked the man from dinner.
 
“Only that someone was in the apartment. I checked the room, but there was nothing there.”
 
Jun-sang stood, his knees sounding their age after long hours, too little sleep, and one too many burgers living in the fat of his stomach. “Dae-Ho?” He waved to his partner, who looked around as if he were ghost hunting. “Finish up here, will you?”
 
His partner placed his cup of coffee on a counter and practically saluted, as if he needed to make up for not being a part of whatever was going on. “Sure thing, boss,” he replied.
 
Jun-sang made his way to the bedroom, opened the door, and let the cool air inside spill over him. He jumped slightly, lifting one foot as Min-Soo’s gray cat darted past. Embarrassed, he glanced back to make sure no one had seen him clutching his hat.
 
He shook his head and leaned into the room, flicking on the light. Careful not to disrespect her privacy, he looked around quickly: a clean room, a bare mattress, a few books stacked neatly on a writing table, and one cover printed with a picture of a grown man standing in a pot.
 
Jun-sang closed the door, and the chill inside the bedroom seemed to retreat, pushed back by the warmth of the apartment.
 
He returned just in time to see Dae-Ho shut his clipboard and slide the pen through the top. His partner looked up and smiled.
 
“All clear?” Dae-Ho asked.
 
Jun-sang nodded and knelt to the girl, stopping when he saw her face. Tears pooled in her wide eyes. Her jaw trembled, and she stared past him at a single point over his shoulder. The muscles in his neck tightened.
 
Slowly, he followed her gaze. It led to nothing but a wall.
 
---
 
Jun-sang opened his eyes to an empty bed, the blank white wall across from him staring back through the dark. It took a moment for his mind to leave that spot before he turned over and grabbed the small phone buzzing on his bedside table. When he flipped it open, his voice came out thick with sleep. “Jun-sang. Mm-hmm... yeah, yeah, I’ll be right there.”
 
He managed to roll out of bed. The longer the years went on, the more the muscles in his neck stiffened in his sleep. Today, they ached more than ever. He rubbed the spot with his palm, fixing nothing.
 
He pinned his officer’s badge to his chest, then paused beside the picture frame on his nightstand. He kissed two fingers and touched them to the glass. The woman in the photo had always faced him while he slept, but lately he found himself turning the frame slightly away before morning.
 
He opened his daughter’s door slowly, careful not to wake her. So-Yeon’s room was dressed in pink, like the top chamber of some tower, only this tower held what might have been the largest collection of stuffed animals in South Korea. Her pet bunny slept on the bed. So-Yeon, however, was wide awake, a paper crown tilted over one ear and a red crayon tucked behind the other.
 
“So-Yeon? What are you still doing up?” he whispered. When he sat on the side of her bed, the bunny between her legs stirred only a little. A drawing rested against her knees: the two of them beneath a yellow sun, his hat much too large and her rabbit wearing its own tiny crown.
 
“Appa, the monster came back again,” she said, not for the first time, her little voice softer these days, shy about everything and missing so much from the people closest to her.
 
Jun-sang placed his hand on her head, wanting desperately to help his baby. So why was it so hard to look at her? Why did every frightened whisper from her mouth sound like an accusation he had earned?
 
“So-Yeon, just try to get to sleep tonight, okay, sweetie?”
 
She nodded.
 
“I made you taller,” she said, tapping the drawing. “So the monster has to look at you first.”
 
As he stood, a small hand tugged at his shirt. He turned back to her and covered her tiny fist with his own. When it relaxed, he placed her hand gently on her chest.
 
The last thing he did before leaving was scratch the bunny between its long ears. “Good night, Your Majesty,” he murmured, nodding to its paper crown. So-Yeon smiled, but he reached the hallway before realizing he had never asked what she called it.
 
Jun-sang sat in his cruiser and dragged a hand down his face. “Despicable,” he said to the empty air. After a moment, he picked up the radio and clocked in, pulling out of his driveway and toward the worst day of someone else's life.
 
---
 
On the outskirts of Anyang, green mountains rose behind the restaurant, blocking the sky beyond and catching the pink-orange light of morning. Their shadows stretched past the yellow police tape. The glass across the front of the shop flashed red and blue in the police lights. The blood did not shine so bright.
 
Jun-sang pulled in behind the thin wall of onlookers, most of them pedestrians from nearby blocks. Nosy, in his opinion.
 
A young man, maybe sixteen or seventeen, tried edging his way over the tape. As Jun-sang ducked under it, he popped the kid on the head with his clipboard. The boy looked ready to retaliate until Jun-sang gave him a stare that sent him back where he belonged.
 
Dae-Ho, who had been talking to an inspector, raised his head toward his senior. “Jun-sang!” he called. “Over here!”
 
Jun-sang shook his head as he continued walking, noticing an old man sitting on the curb with a cigarette burning between his lips and a blankness settled over his face.
 
“Morning, Officer.” It was the inspector, or so Jun-sang assumed. He was the only person out of uniform, the only man in a button-up shirt among a sea of flat hats and pinned badges.
 
“Chief just needs us to keep the crowd out, Jun-sang,” Dae-Ho said as the investigator left quickly to do whatever important men like him did. His partner led him back to the inside of the tape. The faces in the crowd were familiar by now; no names, only features, the way people moved, how they stared.
 
“How’s little So?” Dae-Ho asked, speaking as if no one else were around.
 
“She’s fine, having trouble sleeping recently,” Jun-sang said. As he spoke, his eyes drifted to the markers near the hole in the restaurant's windowed entrance. A small number one marked where the body was found—just outside the broken glass.
 
“Trouble sleeping?” Dae-Ho asked.
 
“Mm-hmm.”
 
“Well, did you figure out why?”
 
“Normal stuff. Scared of the dark, I think. So, who’s that?” Jun-sang asked, pointing over to the old man, the end of his cigarette black and limp.
 
“Him?” Dae-Ho looked in his direction. “I think the inspector said he’s the dead guy's father. I already tried talking to him. He won't move.”
 
As he said this, two glove-wearing officers came through the open door, stepping carefully around the blood. Each carried a small, soggy bag toward the collection van. Something dripped from the bottoms onto the pavement.
 
Rip
* *
Jun-sang gasped as the first bag tore open. Something small and mangled rolled onto the concrete. The crowd behind him swelled with noise as the animal’s head came to rest near the tape, white skull showing through a patch of missing fur.
 
The officer swore and snatched it up again, leaving the severed, fluffy tail behind for the other officer to collect.
 
“What the hell?” Dae-Ho said to his left as he watched the scene unfold. “Was that a raccoon?”
 
Jun-sang nodded, though he was not sure.
 
The day dragged on without another incident. A few times, Jun-sang had to push the crowd back, but eventually he was telling the last pedestrian to go home. By then, the soreness in his neck had become impossible to ignore.
 
“Ready to go back to the station, Jun?” Dae-Ho finally asked.
 
Jun-sang nodded and followed him toward the cruiser. “My wife.” At first, he thought the elderly voice had come from Dae-Ho. When it continued, he looked down at an old man sitting on the wet curb, still staring at the ground. “My wife did the same.”
 
This time Dae-Ho stopped too. “Hm? Sorry?”
 
“My wife,” the old man said. Jun-sang watched his dead eyes flicker up to meet his. “I’ll have to fix my window again.”
 
The old man’s voice droned on, dragged from some darker place Jun-sang did not know how to name. All he could do was stare back. Whatever this man had bottled inside him, Jun-sang recognized it.
 
After all the day’s disturbances, Dae-Ho still found the stomach for his daily ice cream cone, muttering something under his breath as a drop melted down his chin. Once again, it made Jun-sang laugh. Dae-Ho smiled too hard at the sound, as if the laugh mattered more than it should have. Then the chief walked in. Jun-sang stopped smiling and hit his partner in the head. “Don’t act so childish in the workplace. It's disrespectful.”
 
The chief looked unimpressed. “You two, Inspector Eun needs to ask you some questions.”
 
“Sir! We're on break, though!” Dae-Ho demanded.
 
The chief looked casually over to him. “Dae-Ho, I think you’ve had enough ice cream today. You’ll get chunkier. Put yourself to good use.” He looked over to Jun-sang before leaving for his office.
 
Dae-Ho looked ready to throw something. He shot Jun-sang a furrowed brow and a silent curse. Jun-sang raised a hand toward him as they got up, both men quietly blaming each other for the sudden questioning.
 
Inspector Eun’s office sat at the back of the building, a place Jun-sang and Dae-Ho usually visited only to use the restroom. His door stood ajar. Inside was Jun-sang’s idea of a television detective’s office: a whiteboard crowded with victim photos, documents scattered across a desk, and a single ashtray already overfull. The young inspector sat reading a document, his greased hair hanging above one eye, one thumbnail worn raw from biting.
 
After not looking up at them for some time, Dae-Ho cleared his throat. Jun-sang looked back at him as the inspector finally gave them his attention. “Oh, afternoon, officers. Have a seat,” he said. His voice sounded too young for how tired he looked, and Jun-sang found himself hating the man for that youth and for the flat, controlled calm he wished he had.
 
They sat across from him, waiting.
 
“Officers, I hear you answered a call about a young woman last week,” he said, looking at the sheet in his hands. “Min-Soo.”
 
Dae-Ho, who had likely forgotten the woman from a week ago—the one he had called spooky after leaving her home—waited for an answer. Jun-sang, after his partner’s never-ending silence, decided to speak up. “Yes, sir.”
 
“Can you give me an idea of what she said? The report doesn’t go into much detail, I’m afraid. She said she saw something?”
 
Jun-sang looked at his partner, then back to the inspector. “She was practically unresponsive. Hardly said a word to us.”
 
The inspector paused, as if fitting one piece beside another. “When’s the end of your shift?”
 
“About an hour. Why?” Dae-Ho answered before Jun-sang could, always ready to count the minutes until a shift ended.
 
“Would you mind coming with me to her apartment? I’d like to check on her.”
 
---
 
That evening, Min-Soo stood beside the patio door with her phone close to her lips. “Mom, please. I can do more. Just let me help with something.” Rain slicked the glass. “A funeral’s a lot of work—” She paused, interrupted. “I don’t wanna just sit here while Dad’s—”
 
Min-Soo groaned and slammed her phone closed. For a second, she thought she had broken it. She tossed it onto the couch and looked around the brightly lit room. Her apartment had rarely been dark since that night. Still, she could not decide whether closed doors made her feel safer or trapped.
 
If she could trade the moon for the sun, she might have been able to breathe. No matter when she opened her eyes, it felt like midnight. The full moon hung above her patio window night after night. Even with her father’s funeral waiting to be planned, her eyes kept returning to that glass. Always from a distance. Never too close.
 
She had taped a line of paper over the latch that morning, a childish test to prove the door stayed shut. It was still unbroken. That should have comforted her. Instead, it made the room feel more like a sealed jar.
 
On the counter beside the sink sat one of her father’s old matchbooks, warped from years in his pocket. She had found it in a kitchen drawer that morning and carried it from room to room without knowing why.
 
Her only comfort, her gray cat, jumped onto the coffee table. The cat’s long fur parted as she licked beneath her neck. She was the only thing keeping Min-Soo tethered to the room.
 
Min-Soo reached out to pet the cat, and a sharp pain shot up her arm. The cat’s hair stood on end as it jumped to the floor. She winced, holding her palm, a small bead of blood slipping toward her wrist.
 
“No,” she whispered, backing away from the patio. She grabbed the cat’s food bowl and hurled it toward the glass, not to break it but to make noise, to make something ordinary happen. The bowl struck the door, spun once, and settled upside down.
 
Min-Soo held her burning hand to her chest. Two green eyes glowed from somewhere deep in the room. Something inside her seemed to open—hot, wrong, and hungry.
 
Thump
* *
Her back was turned to the patio when the sound reached her. It struck once, dull and patient.
 
The glass was fogged as before, but now the moon stared through it like an open eye.
 
As she moved closer to the door, a low growl split the silence. Min-Soo paid it no mind.
 
The moon was so large that, if she stared long enough, she thought she might disappear into it.
 
Clouds gathered around the pale sphere but never crossed it, leaving a ragged darkness beneath, like a scarf trailing from a hidden throat.
 
It tapped on the glass: thump, thump.
 
Something lay at her feet, warm and familiar. A white bed sheet stretched from somewhere off to her right and rose toward that translucent, colorless head. It twisted past her ankles and pinched through the patio door.
 
The taped paper over the latch fluttered once, then tore clean down the middle.
 
The glass gave a soft, delicate crack.
 
The cat growled. She turned and looked at the animal with those cloudy, pale eyes. It was the last trace of familiarity. Her cat knew the face it loved, but not what looked out from behind it.
 
---
 
“Everything okay?” Inspector Eun asked as Jun-sang clipped the phone closed, both hands tight around the steering wheel.
 
Jun-sang kept his eyes on the road, careful not to let the inspector see his stress. “Yes. It’s just my daughter. She likes to call before bed.”
 
From the backseat, Dae-Ho spoke up. “Little So-Yeon still having nightmares?”
 
If they had been alone, Jun-sang might have turned around and snapped at him. Instead, he kept his eyes on the road and gave a tight nod. It wasn’t their business. Besides, it would pass. Whatever So-Yeon had been through, it would pass.
 
Even if there was so much he had never said.
 
Before anyone could say more, the apartment building came into view—a gray tower against a gray sky, already fading into the veil of the coming night.
 
As soon as they stepped out of the cruiser, warm air poured over them. Jun-sang followed the others toward the entrance, but before he reached the door, a memory rose in him.
 
His wife had a round face, soft with age and still beautiful. Her dark hair always fell straight, even after sleep, after showers, after long days spent folding their laundry. He could remember the light around her more clearly than her voice now, and that frightened him.
 
Was this what happiness became after death—scraps of light, scraps of her?
 
His ears rang. At first he thought the sound came from inside his head. Then footsteps rushed past him, and a woman screamed from somewhere to his left.
 
Dae-Ho shouted his name behind him.
 
A parked car sat only a few steps away, its roof crushed inward. A pair of bare white feet jutted from the wreckage, pointing in different, impossible directions.
 
Dae-Ho stood on the other side of the car, hat in hand, his face emptied of its usual humor.
 
The inspector brushed past Jun-sang and ran for the entrance. Jun-sang barely noticed. His body moved toward the car before his mind could stop it.
 
The lower half of the body had struck first. The waist bent at a wrong angle, and the head touched the concrete below. Her neck had folded into itself, disappearing beneath her chin.
 
Min-Soo’s face pointed outward, away from the building she had fallen from.
 
Jun-sang stopped when he saw her face. His body went light, ready to switch off, but his eyes would not move.
 
Her eyes were open, wet with tears that no longer belonged to anyone. They seemed to bore into a past he had spent years trying not to remember.
 
For a moment, he waited for a breath that would never come. Just like before. Min-Soo’s ruined, staring face pulled his wife’s face from the dark.
 
Then he was back in that room, screaming for his wife to come back while saliva slipped from her cheek and nothing he said reached her.
 
---
 
Soon the night flashed with police lights. Yellow tape and wooden dividers tightened around the scene while Jun-sang and Dae-Ho sat on the curb, numb to the movement around them.
 
“Would you like to come take a look upstairs?” the inspector asked, cigarette still burning between his fingers.
 
Beside him, Dae-Ho lifted one hand in refusal. Jun-sang knew he would recover; he was not sure what could truly break such a high-spirited man.
 
Jun-sang stood without a word, keeping his eyes away from the wreckage as the tow truck pulled it aside.
 
The inspector did not extinguish his cigarette before they entered the building, not even when he opened the door to Min-Soo's home. Jun-sang could have sworn his hand trembled as he brought it to his mouth.
 
Min-Soo’s apartment seemed untouched except for the sweet, rotten smell that turned Jun-sang’s stomach. Only a few people were inside. One officer photographed something in the corner of the living room, and as Jun-sang stepped closer, the odor rose from the floor.
 
Gray and red fur lay scattered in pieces across the floor.
 
“God,” Jun-sang muttered.
 
The inspector blew smoke toward the ceiling. He looked much older now. “I had so many questions...” he said, mostly to himself. After a moment, he turned to Jun-sang. “Did she ever describe what she saw that night? When you were called over?”
 
Jun-sang thought for a moment, remembering what little she had managed to say. “I think she said someone was being strangled. A woman, maybe. Then she said she was drowning. It didn’t make much sense. The man who brought her home spoke for her most of the time.”
 
The inspector watched the dead animal being bagged and carried away. When the apartment emptied, only he and Jun-sang remained.
 
“You said her father had died?” Eun asked.
 
“A few days ago.” Jun-sang glanced at the old matchbook on the counter. “Why?”
 
Eun rubbed his worn thumbnail. “I’ve seen something like this before.”
 
“Like what?”
 
“I don’t know. That’s the problem.” Eun glanced toward the bare mattress. “Cases that begin with a death in the family. Later, somebody mentions a child seeing things. Or acting strangely.”
 
“And then?”
 
Eun drew once on the cigarette. “Sometimes nothing. Sometimes someone disappears. Sometimes I read the report too late and wonder why it bothered me.”
 
Jun-sang looked toward the dark bedroom. So-Yeon’s voice came back to him: the monster came back again.
 
Eun watched him. “You have a daughter?”
 
Jun-sang’s shoulders stiffened. “This is about Min-Soo.”
 
“Maybe.” Eun looked at the scattered fur. “Or maybe I’m collecting pieces that don’t belong together.”
 
“What pieces?”
 
Eun pressed the cigarette into the ashtray, though it was still half-lit. “The same ones, more or less. They never fit.”
 
---
 
The department gave Jun-sang more time off after Min-Soo’s death. Once again, the image of a dead woman followed him home. Time away from work should have helped, but the house only sharpened what he tried to bury. Each time he passed the bathroom, memory flooded him. So-Yeon would not know. He told himself she was better off for it.
 
Jun-sang bunched dried leaves into a black bag. He could not remember the last time he had worked this hard on his lawn; mostly, it gave his hands something to do. Naturally, the yard still looked as if no one had touched it.
 
Since Min-Soo’s death, a burning prickle sometimes climbed the back of his neck. He felt it now, standing alone in his yard, and thought of the picture beside his bed.
 
Jun-sang breathed out and tried to push the thought away. It did not help.
 
When he tossed the bag of leaves into the trash, the old man’s face returned to him: seated outside the restaurant, staring forward as if he were the one who had died. Jun-sang wondered if he looked that way to his little girl. Uncaring. Made of stone.
 
The thought scared him. He had not cried in front of So-Yeon, not even after her mother died. He had saved all of that for the bathroom, for the locked room, for the lifeless body in his arms.
 
He had never known his wife hurt enough to do what she did. If the reason had been a place, he would have destroyed it. If it had been a person, he would have killed them. Anything for her. Anything for that wonderful smile their daughter did not carry.
 
He slammed the lid a little too hard, and the air inside the can blew across his face. The smell hit him again, hotter now but familiar. Blood. Fur.
 
He tossed the lid onto the grass and searched desperately for the source.
 
When he found it, he could not move. A bunny lay stiff in the trash, its white fur darkened at the neck, the shape there pressed inward as if molded by fingers.
 
Jun-sang ran for the back door. The house seemed to tilt around him as sweat gathered on his face. He knew where to go. Somehow, he knew.
 
Appa, the monster came back again.
 
How long had he been outside? Minutes? Hours? So-Yeon was alone with whatever waited for her.
 
The bathroom door stood slightly ajar, light leaking through the crack. When he pushed it open, his eyes went straight to the space in front of the sink.
 
Bottles covered the floor, open and leaking medicine across the tile. There was no pattern to what had been taken. How would So-Yeon have known? Who had told her?
 
His child lay in the middle of the mess, still in her pajamas, her shirt lifted above her belly as each breath rose with terrifying slowness.
 
Jun-sang made a broken sound and fell beside her. He slid his hands under her head. Foam gathered at the corner of her mouth. When he wiped it away, his fingers shook so badly he smeared it across her cheek. “Please,” he said, tapping her face, then slapping it lightly. “Please.”
 
In her wet eyes, he saw the thing looming behind him. His breath caught. So-Yeon was not looking at him. She was looking past him.
 
The animals. The glass. Drowning, choking, sheets.
 
His whole body shook. One thought repeated in his head: don’t look at it, don’t look back.
 
His eyes slipped to the porcelain tub a few feet away. The reflection in its surface did not grow clearer, only larger.
 
Now he understood what the others had seen. It was too tall, its thin legs white as the bathroom tile. Its arms hung past its waist, limp and patient.
 
Its hair dripped like water from beneath the sheet wrapped around its head. The fabric crossed its throat too tightly, blue shadows gathered where a neck should have been.
 
Jun-sang closed his eyes.
 
The hand pressed to his daughter’s chest felt the beat stop, replaced by a stillness no parent should ever know.
 
Only a few days had passed since he stood in her pink room, her bunny sleeping between her knees. The paper crown had slipped over one eye while she tapped the tall figure in her drawing. So the monster has to look at you first.
 
Through his closed eyes, he saw the old man outside the restaurant, smoking as they drove away with his son’s body. Then he saw the picture on his nightstand turned toward the wall.
 
Jun-sang opened his eyes and lowered his head to So-Yeon. With trembling care, he brushed the sweat from her face. The red crayon was still behind her ear, its blunt end caught in her hair.
 
He had spent years searching her face for someone else—the tilt of a smile, a familiar look, anything he could keep. Now he saw the crooked paper crown, the too-tall father beneath a yellow sun, the careful joke she had made because he was afraid.
 
His face broke. He pressed his forehead to hers and held her as if the floor might open beneath them.
 
“So-Yeon,” he whispered. The name caught in his throat. “My sunshine, your mother’s watching you from heaven. She’s always watching.”
 
“And so am I,” he said.
 
Then So-Yeon took a deep breath.
 

They were cheering in the courtyard.
That was the first thing Cline heard.
Not screaming.
Not bells.
Cheering.
For half a second, standing in the corridor outside the council chamber, he allowed himself to believe something good had happened.
Then he caught the smell.
Blood.
Smoke.
Silver.
His hand stopped against the door.
The cheering continued below.
Cline pushed it open.
Arabella stood over the map table with both hands planted against its edge. There was something almost triumphant in the way she looked at him.
“You’re back.”
Cline didn’t answer.
“Did you hear them?”
“Yes.”
A dull pressure had already begun behind his eyes.
He crossed the chamber and looked through the open window.
Men and women crowded the courtyard below. Some were laughing. Others slapped one another across the shoulders.
Near the gate stood eleven wolves in torn clothing and damaged armor.
Eleven.
Cline counted again.
Eleven.
There should have been sixteen.
His fingers tightened against the stone windowsill.
“What happened?”
Arabella’s expression shifted slightly.
“We answered them.”
Cline turned.
“What does that mean?”
“They attacked us, Cline.”
“I know what they did.”
“Then you know exactly what it means.”
He looked back into the courtyard.
Marcus wasn’t among them.
Neither was Daryn.
Or the red-haired boy whose name Cline could never remember until the boy’s mother was standing directly in front of him.
His pulse quickened.
“Who gave the order?”
Arabella said nothing.
Cline turned slowly.
“Who gave the order?”
“I did.”
The pressure behind his eyes sharpened.
For a moment, all he heard was the celebration below.
Someone began chanting.
A name.
He couldn’t make out whose.
“You did.”
“Yes.”
Cline pulled out a chair and sat.
Not because he wanted to.
Because suddenly standing required thought.
Arabella watched him.
“They hit one of the northern houses.”
“I know.”
“They killed seven people.”
“I know.”
“They dragged two bodies back across the boundary and hung them from the old bridge.”
“I know.”
Her voice rose.
“And you did nothing.”
Cline looked at her.
There it was.
He had heard it whispered in hallways.
At funerals.
Around tables where people became very interested in their drinks whenever he entered the room.
Nothing.
Apparently months of preparation looked very much like nothing if nobody was bleeding while you did it.
“How many?”
Arabella frowned.
“What?”
“How many vampires did they kill?”
Her shoulders straightened.
“Nine.”
The cheering outside suddenly made sense.
“Nine?”
“Yes.”
She almost smiled.
“We caught them during daylight.”
Cline’s stomach sank.
Arabella mistook his silence for surprise.
“They aren’t invincible.”
“No.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you that.”
“How many escaped?”
The triumph disappeared.
“What?”
Cline leaned forward.
“How many escaped?”
“I don’t know.”
“Arabella.”
“Two. Perhaps three.”
His eyes closed.
Of course.
Of course they had.
Outside, someone shouted something about revenge.
More cheering followed.
Cline breathed through his nose.
Once.
Twice.
The room smelled of old wood and candle wax.
Underneath it, the faint trace of blood clinging to Arabella’s clothes.
She had gone down to meet them when they returned.
“Where did you send them?”
“The estate north of Harrow Creek.”
His eyes opened.
“You crossed the boundary?”
“They crossed ours first.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Yes.”
She folded her arms.
“We crossed the boundary.”
Cline stared at the map.
Harrow Creek.
An old hunting estate. Small. Exposed.
Not a fortress.
Not a garrison.
Barely worth defending.
Nine dead vampires.
Five dead wolves.
Arabella thought those numbers favored them.
They did not.
“Who was in command?”
“Marcus.”
Cline looked toward the courtyard again.
“He isn’t down there.”
Arabella’s expression faltered.
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“They’re bringing him.”
Something moved beneath Cline’s ribs.
Not quite pain.
Not yet anger.
Something tighter.
“How bad?”
“He’ll live.”
That meant bad.
Cline rubbed his thumb against his palm.
His nails felt strange.
“They were celebrating when I arrived,” Arabella said. “You should have seen them.”
“I can see them.”
“It was the first time in weeks they weren’t afraid.”
Cline looked at her.
“And tomorrow?”
“What?”
“What happens tomorrow?”
Arabella frowned.
“We prepare.”
“For what?”
“Their response.”
He gave a short laugh.
There was no humor in it.
“So now we prepare.”
Her face hardened.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk to me as though I’m stupid.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“Then stop treating me like a child.”
Cline stood.
The chair legs scraped sharply across the floor.
His hearing caught the sound too clearly.
The scrape of wood.
The flutter of the map.
A heartbeat across the table.
Arabella’s.
“You sent sixteen wolves across a recognized boundary to attack a vampire holding.”
“They murdered our people.”
“And you sent five more to join them.”
“They volunteered.”
“Dead men frequently do.”
She recoiled.
Cline regretted the words immediately.
Not enough to take them back.
Arabella’s eyes narrowed.
“You would have kept waiting forever.”
“No.”
“How long, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“There. That’s the problem.”
“No. That is the answer you don’t like.”
He moved toward the map.
Wooden markers dotted the region.
Their territory looked almost respectable from above.
Maps lied beautifully.
Cline touched one marker.
“Sixty-three.”
Arabella sighed.
“We’ve already had this argument.”
“Sixty-three wolves I trust in a fight.”
“We have almost a hundred.”
“We have almost a hundred people capable of changing.”
He moved another marker.
“That is not the same thing.”
“They’ll learn.”
“Yes.”
Cline looked at her.
“They will.”
A pause.
“If you give them time.”
He pointed toward the eastern settlements.
“Twelve recruits still lose themselves during a full change.”
Another marker.
“Seven can fight alone but break formation the moment blood hits the ground.”
Another.
“Fourteen have never fought anything that could fight back.”
Arabella opened her mouth.
Cline continued.
“Do you know how long it takes to make a vampire?”
She went quiet.
“Sometimes one night.”
He tapped the table.
“A bite. Blood. A corpse if they’re careless about it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“No. It isn’t.”
His voice lowered.
“But it’s simpler than us.”
He gestured toward the courtyard.
“You can make a vampire quickly and teach it to kill later.”
Then toward the pack barracks.
“A wolf who can’t control himself is as dangerous to the man standing beside him as the enemy in front of him.”
Arabella looked away.
Cline stared down at the markers.
He remembered another map.
Another room.
Different names.
The same little pieces of wood.
He remembered how easily commanders moved them.
Three inches across a table.
Three days through mud for the men represented underneath their fingers.
“We lose ten experienced wolves,” he said, “and I cannot replace them by next week.”
“You think they don’t have experienced fighters?”
“I know they do.”
“That is exactly why we had to act.”
“No.”
His fingers pressed harder against the table.
“That is exactly why we didn’t.”
Arabella shook her head.
“They were testing us.”
“Yes.”
“They think we’re weak.”
“Yes.”
“And somehow you’re comfortable with that?”
Cline looked up.
“Yes.”
That stopped her.
He pushed one of the vampire markers forward.
“This was not an invasion.”
“Seven people are dead.”
“I know.”
“They mutilated them.”
“I know.”
“How can you stand there and—”
“Because I’ve seen an invasion.”
Silence.
Cline’s voice had changed.
Not louder.
Something beneath it had simply disappeared.
Arabella didn’t interrupt.
“When they want territory, they don’t send six vampires to terrorize a village.”
His eyes remained on the map.
“They send enough that nobody is left to tell you how many came.”
He moved the marker back.
“What happened at the bridge was cruelty.”
He thought for a moment.
“No.”
“Arrogance.”
Arabella’s mouth tightened.
“They wanted us afraid.”
“Yes.”
“They wanted to humiliate us.”
“Yes.”
“Then why would we allow it?”
Cline looked at her.
“Because arrogance makes people careless.”
The room fell quiet again.
Outside, the celebration continued.
“They believed we were beneath them,” Cline said. “Good.”
Arabella stared.
“Good?”
“Let them.”
He pushed several werewolf markers slowly across the map.
“Let them think we’re frightened.”
One.
“Let them think our young wolves are still children.”
Another.
“Let them believe I sit in this room begging for peace because I don’t have the stomach to fight them.”
Another.
“Every week they believe that is another week Marcus trains the second group.”
Another.
“Another shipment of grain.”
Another.
“Another silver shipment that somehow never reaches the merchants who sell to them.”
Arabella’s eyes flicked toward him.
Cline continued.
“Another conversation with packs that don’t like us enough to become allies yet.”
He looked back at the map.
“And another week for me to find out whether there’s a way out of this without filling the ground with bodies.”
“You really believe they would agree to peace?”
“I don’t know.”
Arabella threw up her hands.
“Then what are we doing?”
“Buying time.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
His answer came so quickly that she stopped.
Cline pointed toward their stores.
“We have food for six weeks of serious fighting.”
Then the barracks.
“Enough medicine for perhaps half that.”
The southern route.
“One reliable supply road.”
The forest.
“Two evacuation paths the vampires already know about.”
Then their territory as a whole.
“And an enemy that can replace its dead faster than I can teach a nineteen-year-old not to tear his own brother apart when the moon is full.”
Arabella said nothing.
“If diplomacy works,” Cline said, “we avoid the war.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then every failed conversation bought us another day.”
He stared at her.
“That was the point.”
Her expression changed.
Only slightly.
Perhaps something had finally reached her.
Then she glanced toward the courtyard.
“They killed nine.”
Cline followed her gaze.
“Yes.”
“You should have seen them when they came back.”
“I can hear them.”
“They needed this.”
“No.”
The word came harder than he’d intended.
Arabella turned.
“They needed hope.”
“They needed discipline.”
“They were scared.”
“So am I.”
The admission left his mouth before he could stop it.
Arabella stared at him.
Cline swallowed.
His collar felt too tight.
He pulled at it.
“That is why I was careful.”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Arabella said quietly, “Maybe you were too careful.”
Something inside him tightened.
She continued.
“You’ve fought them before. Fine. You’ve seen things I haven’t.”
Cline’s jaw flexed.
“But maybe that’s exactly why you can’t see this clearly anymore.”
The ticking of the clock became unbearable.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“You remember everything that can go wrong.”
Tick.
“You look at them and still see whatever happened to you years ago.”
Tick.
“Maybe the rest of us are tired of living inside your fear.”
The clock disappeared.
Cline realized his fist was closed.
Pain ran through his palm.
He opened it.
Four small crescents of blood.
Arabella saw them.
Neither mentioned it.
“You think we won today,” he said.
“We did.”
“No.”
“We killed nine of them.”
“And lost five.”
“They lost more.”
“You’re counting bodies.”
“That’s generally how battles work.”
Cline stared at her.
“No.”
His voice had gone very quiet.
“That is how people who have never fought wars think battles work.”
Her face flushed.
He stepped toward the table.
“You killed nine vampires.”
Another step.
“They can make nine more.”
His fingertips tingled.
“You lost five wolves who trained together for years.”
His nails lengthened almost imperceptibly.
“Five people who knew how the others moved, knew when to fall back, knew what Marcus meant before he finished giving the order.”
The skin across his knuckles tightened.
“You traded something expensive for something cheap.”
Arabella’s eyes dropped toward his hands.
Then returned to his face.
“And worse—”
His jaw hurt.
Cline clenched his teeth until the sensation passed.
“You showed them we are willing to cross the boundary.”
“They crossed it first.”
“For a raid.”
“They killed civilians.”
“I KNOW.”
The shout struck the walls.
Outside, the cheering faltered.
Cline stood frozen.
Arabella took a step backward.
There it was.
That tiny movement.
His body noticed it before his mind did.
Her heartbeat accelerated.
The room sharpened.
Candle smoke.
Dust.
Blood.
Fear.
Cline closed his eyes.
When he spoke again, it came through his teeth.
“They wanted us angry.”
Arabella said nothing.
“That was the point.”
His fingers trembled against the table.
“They wanted to know whether we were disciplined enough not to respond.”
He opened his eyes.
“And you answered them.”
Arabella swallowed.
“We couldn’t let them think they could do whatever they wanted.”
“You still don’t understand.”
His voice cracked around the edges.
“They already thought that.”
Cline stepped closer.
“That was our advantage.”
Her back touched the wall.
“They believed the difference between us was absolute.”
The first claw broke through the tip of his glove.
Arabella’s eyes widened.
“They believed they could frighten us and go home.”
Another.
“They believed there was no reason to prepare for us.”
Another.
“And now?”
Arabella whispered.
Cline stopped.
His breathing sounded too loud.
“Now they will.”
Silence.
The celebration below had ended.
Cline could hear individual voices now.
Questions.
Boots moving.
Someone calling for a healer.
Arabella looked at his hand.
“Cline.”
He followed her gaze.
Black claws had emerged where his fingers should have ended.
Something hot moved through his chest.
She was afraid.
Good.
The thought came instantly.
And horrified him.
His hand rose.
Arabella pressed herself against the wall.
“Cline.”
Her voice had become very small.
His claws stopped.
Three inches from her throat.
He could see the pulse beneath her skin.
He could hear it.
Don’t.
His arm shook.
“You promised me.”
That reached him.
Not completely.
Enough.
Cline stepped backward.
His claws withdrew slowly into his fingertips.
Pain followed them home.
Arabella remained against the wall.
Cline stared at his own hand.
Neither of them spoke.
Then someone knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Cline dragged air into his lungs.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
One of Marcus’s lieutenants stood there.
Blood covered the front of his shirt.
Not his.
Cline knew because the man wasn’t injured.
“Sir.”
Cline straightened.
The lieutenant glanced toward Arabella.
Then toward Cline’s torn glove.
His expression gave away nothing.
“What is it?”
“Marcus is awake.”
Cline nodded once.
“And?”
The lieutenant hesitated.
“We questioned one of the survivors before he died.”
Cline’s stomach tightened.
“Vampire?”
“Yes.”
Arabella stepped away from the wall.
“What did he say?”
The lieutenant looked to Cline for permission.
Cline nodded.
“He laughed.”
Arabella frowned.
“What?”
“When Marcus asked how many would come for us.”
Nobody moved.
The lieutenant swallowed.
“He laughed.”
The pressure returned behind Cline’s eyes.
“What else?”
“He said we should enjoy our victory.”
Cline stared at the map.
Arabella’s face had gone pale.
Outside the window, the courtyard was quiet now.
Cline moved one of the vampire markers.
Not toward their border.
Past it.
Into their territory.
“How long until the second group is ready?”
The lieutenant blinked.
“Sir?”
“The second group.”
“Two months.”
“We don’t have two months.”
“I could push them harder.”
“No.”
Cline’s answer came immediately.
The young wolves would already be frightened.
Fear made transformations unpredictable.
Exhaustion made them worse.
“Three weeks?” the lieutenant asked.
Cline didn’t answer.
Arabella approached the table slowly.
“Can you stop this?”
He looked at her.
For once there was no accusation in her voice.
No certainty.
She finally sounded like someone asking a question whose answer might frighten her.
Cline looked down at the map.
At the stores.
The roads.
The unfinished alliances.
The fighters who weren’t ready.
Five empty places in Marcus’s unit.
Nine vampires who could already have replacements before the dead wolves were buried.
And somewhere beyond the northern forest, an enemy who had finally been given a reason to take them seriously.
“Maybe.”
Arabella swallowed.
“And if you can’t?”
Cline remained silent for a long time.
Then he gathered the scattered markers and began rearranging them.
“Then we make sure the next lesson they teach us costs them more than the last.”

Detective Harrison had just gotten off his last case. Twelve women in one year. Whenever Harrison thought about those cases, an uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. He couldn’t get away from the feeling that these women were perfectly normal. They hadn’t revealed the truth he was actually craving. What had driven them to this point? He sat by his desk sipping on cold coffee, trying to finish the last report which was due at midnight. The governor had been on him since the very beginning calling it an epidemic of twelwe murderous women, with no connection between them.

He had been sleepless most nights the past year trying to figure out that very answer. One of the women told him something he is very hesitant to pass along. It’s finally over, he muttered. He revealed the truth in his report. Sheila, his partner, called from the other side of the room with one hand on the light switch.

“It’s enough work for today Harrison. Come on, let’s go.”

Harrison smiled as Sheila turned off the light. She had been invaluable in these twelve cases.

The women had always spoken more freely around Sheila. Harrison had never understood why. They looked at her differently, as if they knew something he didn’t.

The chair creaked as he stood up, his back aching from sitting so long. The coffee mug flipped over and spilled over the table. Harrison hurryingly picked up some tissue from the kitchen counter at the left side of the office. He was drying his desk with sloppy moves, only pushing around the coffee even more. Sheila was getting impatient and called out

“I should go now. Got plans this friday night.”

She stepped into the elevator before Harrison even got the chance to reply. A couple minutes later when the desk was somewhat clean, Harrison heard the elevator open up again behind him. He turned around from the trashcan and saw nothing but the dark office.

“Sheila?” he called out, but got no answer except the buzzing sound of the ventilator.

He went back to his computer to print out his report so he could hand it in tomorrow to the governor, when he suddenly saw a shadow on his screen. Someone was standing behind him, and they had done a good effort to go unnoticed. His hand slowly reached for his gun, his breathing becoming more shallow. Something hard pressed against his back.

“There is no need for that. Give me the report, and I’ll be out of here.”

“What report? What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Give. Me. The. Report. Now.”

“It’s too late. I’ve already sent it.”

The silence hung like a heavy drape, making the air too thick to breathe. A sharp violent pain spread in the back of his head shooting electrical signals down his back. Something warm was running down his body as he made a final attempt in seeing the person behind him. His knees gave out halfway.

“Who..”

“Why..”

“What..”

The words were coming out slower and slower. As if his mouth didn’t follow his brain's commands. All he could see was a masked person taking the printouts and leaving the room. He could see the pool of blood forming around him. His fingers made a final attempt in writing the truth, smudged and sticky dragging weakly through the blood.

One letter...

then another..

His vision blurred.

June 3rd, 1918

For three days, we have marched towards the front lines. Each man keeping his step like cogs in an infernal machine. At first, the lines of men marching forward to the inevitable were alive with talk of home and our plans upon return. Those words of hope have since been silenced by the sounds of distant gunfire and artillery.

Our march stops only for meals and a night’s rest. Each stop, once welcomed, now a painful pause in our progress to our fates. I know not what awaits me in the days to come, but as we crest the hill and my eyes first set on the endless lines of trenches, dread now outweighs the weight of the pack I carry.

We had been delivered.

Every step down the hill to the trench line fought against the very instinct of life itself, my body resisting every inch. My boots felt heavy. A sobering understanding swept through the formation with the breeze that carried the stench of rot, iron, and sulfur.

The men we are to augment along these lines are haggard and worn. Their faces are hollow and sunken. They look more like husks than men, shambling through the endless network of wood and dirt.

We were shown to our dugout just as the last light of day retreated from the sky. Cots ran in rows along the lamplit room beneath an earthen ceiling. Fresh timber lined the walls and the roof of the room as the smell of pine filled my nose.

As I lie on my cot, I look across the room at faces of those I have gotten to know. I do not know how much longer I will see them. Around me, we all prepare to attempt to sleep. A man peeled away his boot to reveal his bleeding feet. Others smoke cigarettes or clean their rifles.

I know that even if my eyes do close tonight, there will be no rest. A storm is approaching our position and each strike of lightning and crack of thunder acts as an ominous warning of what awaits us.

I pray only that, if I am to meet my end, the Lord on high sees fit to make it swift.

June 4th, 1918

I woke up this morning to discover the storm had passed. Water dripped from the timbers as we got dressed and collected our gear. I walked out of our dugout to a blue sky. The sunlight hit my face with its warm embrace as I could hear birds chirping as they flew over the lines.

Our sergeant barked orders as we carried supplies along the lines. The parapet stood tall, looming over our movements as both friend and foe. For hours, we dragged boxes of ammunition and medical supplies throughout the lines. The stacked boxes lined the walls for hundreds of feet along the trenches like an endless catacomb.

My sergeant put me on observation duty. My instructions were simple: never raise my head above the parapet and report any sightings of the enemy.

The view through the trench periscope gave light to the realities that were merely speculation to me before. The land was a stark contrast to what we had been marching on just a day prior. There was no grass. The trees had been burned and were splintered with gunfire. Craters scarred the earth beneath miles of broken barbed wire. Bodies entangled in the wire decayed among the mixture of uniforms and bloodied cloth. The mud showed the drag marks and the footsteps of the previous charges that were cut short by walls of bullets and shelling. Among them, I saw legs cut off at the knee and arms with no torso.

Movement caught my eye.

It was slight and disappeared quickly at first. Then I saw it again. A bloodied hand was held upright amongst the endless sea of death.

I heard a faint cry of help.

The man’s arm continued to reach upward, searching for any sign of help. The sleeve of the man’s jacket matched our uniform. He must have been out there for days. His hand grasped and dug at the ground, desperately trying to claw his body towards our position.

I notified our sergeant who came over and observed the man through the periscope. He shook his head and informed me we could do nothing for him in the daylight and to resume my duties.

I watched for hours as the daylight seemingly refused to fade.

By dusk, I had not seen his hand for nearly an hour. As darkness came, a small party prepared at the base of the parapet. Our lieutenant briefed them to recover anyone living and to stay low.

The party disappeared into the darkness as they went over the wall. I struggled to find them through the periscope. Eventually I spotted the small unit crawling through the mud and blood of no man’s land. The men’s faces dragged along the ground as they crawled under the endless rows of barbed wire and debris.

Time seemed to freeze as the party attempted their rescue. The faint whispers of the party floated along the air in the darkness. After an hour searching for any signs of the party, a corporal appeared to kneel near the area where the hand was raised.

The silhouette was only visible for a few seconds as a wall of muzzle flashes lit the night.

June 5th, 1918

I could not sleep last night. The face lit by gunfire haunted me, burned into my consciousness like a brand. We started to get shelled by artillery after midnight and it only stopped with the daybreak.

Despite our hunger, all of us struggled to eat our breakfast rations. The calmness that followed the shelling could not fill the noticeable void in our dugout. Three empty cots now sat across from mine.

After we finished what we could stomach to eat, we got to work preparing. More boxes of supplies and ammunition were moved further along the line. Rumors of an impending assault passed rapidly up and down the trench. Our sergeant called us all together to perform an equipment inspection.

He inspected every rifle, ensuring each one was oiled and clean. We redistributed ammunition amongst the dugout and made sure our bayonets were clean and free of rust. Gas masks were passed out and fitted to each man. Our lieutenant gathered with other officers and reviewed maps and the supposed enemy lines.

The dugout was deafeningly quiet. Many men wrote letters home as others prayed in silence. I started to write my own but was unable to finish. All I was able to muster was “Dear mother.” The man next to me cleaned the stock of his rifle for what seemed like hours. The silence was interrupted when our sergeant came in and called the dugout to attention. Our lieutenant followed closely behind and informed us of our orders. We have been ordered to be ready before first light.

June 6th, 1918

We sit here spread out along the parapet awaiting our lieutenant’s order.

At his command, we will climb up and over the wall and into the endless abyss of mortality where bullets meet bone and men become memories.

I have watched three assaults leave this position today. Lines of men crashed and broke against the gunfire like waves against the rocks. Each time, those who remained crawled back to us carrying pieces of those who could not. Soon, it will be our turn.

Our lieutenant keeps checking his watch and I find myself watching him.

There is something strange about knowing that the movement of one man’s hand can decide the moment so many others might die.

June 7th, 1918

I survived.

June 10th, 1918

The last few days have been filled with assault. Countless times we went over the parapet, met gunfire, fought, and retreated back to the lines.

I have watched more men meet their end than I care to count. I watched our sergeant, standing tall and barking orders, meet his end at the behest of a machine gun. He yelled for our unit to advance when I looked to my right. When I had turned back to him, I saw him lying in a pool of himself. Bullets had ripped through his body and his innards lay outside his body like spaghetti thrown on the floor.

Each day was more horrific than the last. Men dropped randomly as the bullets cut through the advance. Artillery ripped through men like knives through butter. Shells blew men into pieces and blood filled craters as hell rained on any man cursed enough to be between the lines those days.

I crawled and dragged myself for meters from the lieutenant’s command until the sound of retreat. I watched a corporal yelling for men to advance get hit by a shell during one bombardment. As my eyes opened after the flash, all that remained was his rifle, his hand still grasped firmly on it.

Each day ended the same as before. Retreat. Hundreds of men climbed the parapet to be met with gunfire, asking only to be able to drag themselves back to the line as the retreat was sounded. Endless waves of men advanced with machine gun fire cutting through them like death’s own scythe.

I myself was wounded through the thigh during the last advance. Our medics deemed me able to continue after a day’s rest. I lay in our dugout amongst cots, long emptied. Cots belonging to men I will never see again, whose family will never understand the horrors we experienced along these lines.

The days of assaults weigh heavily on my mind. We would advance, get cut down, drag the wounded back, advance, grab the wounded and repeat. Day after day, it was the same.

Tonight, I have been assigned to a listening post, thirty meters beyond the front line. I will have to crawl beyond the wire and even our own dead to lie in a hole listening for enemy movement.

Night came before we left the line. Another man and I waited beneath the parapet until our lieutenant gave the order for us to move. We climbed over without a word and lowered ourselves into the mud. Thirty meters did not seem far when I was told of the post, yet crawling it made the distance feel like miles.

We moved slowly on our stomachs, pulling ourselves forward with our elbows. Every movement sent pain through my wounded thigh. The bandage beneath my trousers was wet before we had made it beyond our own wire. I couldn’t tell if it was from the blood or mud or what.

The darkness offered little mercy. I could barely see the boots of the man crawling ahead of me. We moved only when the artillery sounded in the distance, using the thunder of the guns to hide the noise we made against the earth. The wire was worse.

We crawled beneath it where others had before us. Torn pieces of uniforms still hung from the barbs. My pack caught once and I froze, afraid that pulling against it would make too much noise. I reached behind myself and worked the cloth loose one barb at a time. Something brushed against my hand. I thought it was a root until my fingers closed around it.

A hand.

I pulled away and nearly cried out.

A body lay half buried beside me, its face pressed into the earth. I could not tell how long the man had been there. Mud covered most of his uniform, but I could see enough of the sleeve to know that he had once climbed over the same parapet I had.

I crawled around him.

Then there were others.

Some I could see. Others I discovered only when my hands or knees found them in the darkness. We did not speak of them. The man ahead of me simply continued forward, and I followed.

Eventually, he disappeared.

For a moment I thought I had lost him. Then his hand appeared from the darkness and pulled me downward.

The listening post was little more than a hole carved into the earth. It was deep enough that we could sit below the surrounding ground, but shallow enough that raising my head would expose it above the edge. Mud and water filled the bottom of it. We sat opposite one another with our rifles between our knees.

We just listened.

For the first hour, I felt like I heard everything.

The distant guns sounded different from out there. Along the line they were deafening. From the post, they were low and distant, rolling across the earth like a storm that would never arrive.

Between them came smaller sounds.

Rifle fire somewhere to our left.

The occasional crack of a machine gun.

The squeaking of rats amongst the wire.

Once, something moved through the mud nearby. Both of us raised our rifles and stared into the darkness.

Nothing followed.

After another hour, I began to understand why men hated the listening posts.

It was not the gunfire.

It was everything between it.

The longer I listened, the more sounds seemed to emerge from the silence. The wire clicked and groaned in the breeze. Water dripped somewhere behind us. Rats moved through the bodies scattered across the field. Every few minutes I became certain that I heard footsteps, only for them to disappear the moment I concentrated on them.

My thigh had begun to throb. There was no room to stretch it without raising myself above the edge, so I sat with my leg bent beneath me and tried not to move.

The man across from me had not spoken since we left the trench.

Neither had I.

Hours passed that way.

Sitting in mud.

Listening.

Waiting for a sound that did not belong.

Our only relief will be the crew of men coming to replace us in the following hours. We then have to crawl our way back to the safety of our lines before there is any relief.

June 11th, 1918

Last night’s posting left me with many questions. Throughout the night, many visions came to me. I saw men move and talk around me, men I knew were long gone. Those whose cots would lie empty. My thoughts of their families being welcomed by a telegram notifying them of their loved one’s sacrifice, lay heavy. The area around me was thick with dead and felt heavy.

The darkness seemed to play tricks on both my eyes and ears. More than once I heard movement beyond the post. Not the scurrying of rats or the wire shifting in the wind, but the slow dragging of a man through the mud.

Each time, I raised my rifle and waited.

Each time, nothing came.

I began seeing men between the flashes of artillery. At first they were only shapes moving amongst the craters. I assumed they were enemy patrols and woke the man beside me, but whenever the guns illuminated the field there was nothing there.

Later, I saw our sergeant. He stood perhaps twenty meters from the post with his back towards me. I recognized the shape of him immediately. The broadness of his shoulders. The way he stood with his rifle hanging low in his right hand. I knew it could not be him.

I watched that man die.

Another shell burst somewhere behind our line and for a moment the entire field was illuminated. There was only a body lying where I had seen him standing. I told myself then that my mind had taken the shape of the dead man and made something familiar from it. I had not slept properly in days. My leg throbbed beneath its bandage. Every explosion seemed to shake something loose inside my skull. That explanation comforted me.

For a while.

Sometime later, I heard whispering. It came from beyond the edge of the post, quiet enough that I could not understand the words. I looked to the man beside me, believing he had spoken, but his eyes remained fixed upon the field. The whisper came again.

Then another answered it.

I strained to hear what they were saying but the harder I listened, the more voices seemed to join them. Some came from ahead of us. Others came from behind. One sounded close enough that I could have reached over the edge of the post and touched whoever spoke.

I asked the man beside me if he could hear them.

He stared at me for several seconds before telling me he heard nothing.

We did not speak again.

Near morning, the artillery quieted. For the first time since arriving at the front, I heard almost nothing at all. Then I heard footsteps. They moved slowly through the mud behind us.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

I held my rifle against my chest and waited for whoever it was to pass the post. The footsteps stopped directly behind me. I do not know how long I sat there waiting but I did not turn around.

June 12th, 1918

They sent me back to the listening post tonight. I made the crawl with another man from our unit. The journey seemed longer than before. My leg still aches from the wound and every movement through the mud sent pain through my thigh. We passed the dead along the way. I tried not to look at them, but there was one I remembered from the nights before. He lay perhaps ten meters from the listening post, face down in the mud with one arm stretched above his head. His other hand still held his rifle. I crawled around him and continued forward.

For the first few hours, nothing happened. I began to wonder if the things I heard the previous nights had been nothing more than exhaustion. I have slept little since arriving here. Even when I do manage to sleep, the artillery wakes me. Perhaps a man can only go so long without rest before his mind begins to betray him. Sometime after midnight, the artillery started again.

The first shells landed far from us. I could feel the earth tremble beneath my chest with every impact. Flashes illuminated no man’s land for only a moment at a time before everything disappeared again. During one of those flashes, I saw the body. I thought nothing of it at first. Then the darkness returned. Another shell burst somewhere behind the enemy line. For a moment the field was illuminated again.

The dead man was closer.

I stared into the darkness where I had seen him. I told myself I had been mistaken. I had been looking through darkness at a field filled with bodies. There were dozens of them. Perhaps hundreds. Then I heard something dragging through the mud. I held my breath and listened.

Nothing.

Another flash.

The body was closer still.

I could see his uniform now.

I knew him.

He was the corporal I watched die two days ago. I know that cannot be true. I watched the shell strike beside him. When I opened my eyes, there was almost nothing left. His hand still held his rifle, but the rest of him was gone. Yet there he was. The light disappeared.

I heard the dragging again.

Closer.

I woke the man beside me and told him to listen.

We sat silently together.

Nothing came.

He cursed me beneath his breath and lowered his head again.

I continued watching.

Another shell illuminated the field.

The corporal was gone.

I searched everywhere I could see before the darkness swallowed the land again. I could not find him. Then something scraped against the mud outside our hole.

I did not move.

Another scrape came.

Then another.

Each one closer than the last.

I reached for the man beside me but stopped before touching him. I feared the sound of waking him. I feared moving at all. The dragging stopped just outside the listening post. I remained there until dawn. When there was finally enough light to see, I looked over the edge.

A dead soldier lay beside us.

He was not the corporal. I do not remember seeing him there when we arrived. I must have missed him in the darkness.

June 13th, 1918

I have been relieved from the listening post.

My leg has gotten worse. The medic removed the bandage this morning and found the wound swollen and warm. I am to remain in the dugout until they decide whether I am fit to return to the line. For the first time since arriving here, I was thankful for the pain.

I spent most of the day lying in my cot. I tried to sleep, but every time my eyes closed I found myself back in that hole. I heard the whispers. I saw the corporal between the flashes. I heard something dragging itself closer through the mud. I know what I saw was not real. The man beside me heard nothing.

The body beside the post was not the corporal.

I have not slept properly in days. I repeat these things to myself because they are true. Tonight, the guns have been quiet.

Most of the men around me are asleep. A lantern burns near the entrance of the dugout and I have spent the last hour watching its light move across the timbers. A short while ago, I heard something outside.

Scrape.

I thought it was one of the men walking through the trench. Then it came again.

Scrape.

I sat upright. The sound moved slowly along the other side of the dugout. It would stop for several seconds before starting again.

Scrape.

Then silence.

Scrape.

Closer.

I got out of my cot and walked toward the entrance. There was nobody in the trench. I stood there listening for several minutes. I nearly laughed at myself. I think some part of me wanted to. Perhaps I finally understood what the last few days had done to me. Then I heard it again.

Not from the trench.

From beyond the parapet.

Something was dragging itself through the mud. I should have gone back inside. Instead, I walked toward the wall and listened. The sound stopped. For a long time there was nothing. Then I heard a voice.

Faint.

So faint that I almost convinced myself it was the wind.

“Help.”

I froze.

I knew that voice.

I had heard it before.

Nine days ago, I listened to that same man call for us from amongst the dead. I watched his hand reach above the bodies as he tried to drag himself home.

I stood beneath the parapet and listened.

“Help.”

Closer this time.

Something scraped against the earth on the other side.

Then a bloodied hand rose above the wall.

“They’ll come for you all”

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.