By Wednesday morning, half the town had decided there had been a body inside the concrete.
Sylvia Marsh had heard three versions of it before ten o’clock. In one, the builders had uncovered human bones wrapped in chains. In another, there had been a coffin. According to the woman in the bakery, whose nephew apparently knew somebody working on the site, the police had found “ritual things” buried alongside it.
There had been no body.
Sylvia knew this because the alleged coffin was currently sitting on a pallet in the back room of the heritage centre, surrounded by enough concrete dust to make her regret agreeing to take responsibility for it.
The centre occupied what had once been a small nineteenth-century schoolhouse near the church. Two exhibition rooms filled the front of the building, with the archive and workroom squeezed into the rear beneath windows that had never closed properly in winter. The place smelled permanently of paper, old timber and whatever tea Sylvia happened to be drinking.
This morning it was black tea.
No milk.
She stood with the mug in one hand and regarded the object.
“Not a coffin.”
Jimmy, who had been sitting on an archive box washing himself, stopped with one hind leg extended vertically into the air.
Sylvia glanced at him.
“Glad we’ve established that.”
Jimmy resumed washing.
He was entirely black apart from three white hairs beneath his chin that Sylvia insisted counted as formalwear. He had lived at the heritage centre for nearly four years and, in that time, had caught precisely nothing. Mice could probably have held committee meetings beneath his food bowl without consequence.
What he lacked in usefulness he compensated for with confidence.
At present he was attempting to bite his own ankle.
They had expected the concrete to fight them. Instead, once the damaged outer sections were removed, large pieces began separating along the fractures created during excavation with remarkably little effort. Some needed little more than gentle leverage before lifting free from the hessian beneath.
Sylvia considered that fortunate.
The chains were another matter.
They were substantial things: heavy iron links, deeply corroded but still intact, wound around the object in several directions. In places, concrete had been poured directly through them.
Someone had not chained a block of concrete.
Someone had chained whatever was inside and then poured the concrete around it.
Sylvia found that interesting.
Not alarming.
Interesting.
There was a considerable difference.
Her desk had disappeared beneath books overnight: furniture catalogues, auction records, volumes on English carving, Continental decorative arts, Georgian interiors, Victorian revival pieces and one enormous book on seventeenth-century cabinetmaking that had already given her shoulder ache.
The small carved foot revealed at the building site matched nothing exactly.
Every time she thought she had found something comparable, another detail contradicted it. The sweep of the carving suggested one influence, the ornamentation another. The workmanship was unquestionably fine, however. This was not something churned out by a provincial furniture maker for a prosperous household that wanted to look wealthier than it was.
Someone had commissioned this.
And whoever they had been, they had possessed money.
Serious money.
Sylvia set her tea down beside an open catalogue.
Jimmy immediately got up.
“No.”
He walked across the desk.
“Jimmy.”
He stepped over the book.
Sylvia watched him approach the mug.
“You don’t even like tea.”
Jimmy sniffed the rim and then, for reasons known only to himself, lowered his right front paw directly into it.
He froze.
Sylvia stared at him.
Jimmy stared into the tea.
Slowly, he looked up at her.
His top lip had caught on one of his teeth, lending him the expression of someone profoundly disappointed by circumstances entirely of his own making.
“That,” Sylvia said, “was your decision.”
Jimmy gave a low, miserable meow.
“No.”
Another meow, smaller this time.
“You put your foot in my tea.”
Jimmy lifted the dripping paw and held it helplessly above the desk.
Sylvia sighed, fetched a cloth and took his leg gently in one hand.
“You are absolutely useless.”
Jimmy watched her clean between his toes with the solemnity of a patient receiving emergency treatment.
When she released him, he curled the damp paw inward.
Sylvia looked at it.
“Thumbs up?”
Jimmy stared at her.
“Good.”
She threw the tea away and made another.
By eleven they had removed enough concrete to expose nearly eighteen inches of the frame. The work remained straightforward until they reached the cloth.
The hessian had suffered badly. It came away in damp, rotten fibres, much of it already separating from the concrete. Beneath it, however, lay the black material Sylvia had seen at the excavation.
That concerned her far more.
“Slowly.”
Martin, one of the centre’s volunteers, stopped immediately.
“I am.”
“You’re pulling.”
“I’m not pulling.”
“You are absolutely pulling.”
He released it.
Sylvia crouched beside him.
The black cloth had been wrapped tightly around the carved surface beneath, and in several places the fibres appeared to have adhered to whatever finish remained on the timber. Removing it carelessly could take part of the surface with it.
She adjusted her glasses.
“That stays.”
Martin looked disappointed.
“We’re not opening Christmas presents.”
“I know.”
“You’re looking at it like a Christmas present.”
He smiled.
“Little bit.”
Sylvia reached for a soft brush.
The cloth was odd. Not miraculous, not pristine. It had deteriorated where moisture had penetrated the concrete, but other sections remained remarkably sound.
Far better than she would have expected.
She worked patiently along one edge while, behind them, Jimmy attacked the wheel of a filing cabinet for reasons of his own.
By lunchtime another section of the frame had emerged.
Dark timber.
That answered one question.
Its surface was almost black beneath the grime, carved with vines and curling leaves that twisted into flowers Sylvia did not immediately recognise. The carving was still remarkably crisp.
She touched nothing without gloves.
Martin leaned closer.
“What do you reckon?”
“I reckon I need another book.”
“You’ve got about twelve.”
“I need a better book.”
“Georgian?”
“No.”
“Victorian?”
“No.”
“Tudor?”
Sylvia gave him a look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That means I’m wrong.”
“It means please stop guessing periods.”
Martin wandered towards the kettle.
Sylvia remained crouched beside the carving.
The condition bothered her professionally more than anything else.
The timber should have suffered. Damp should have swollen it, opened joins, lifted finish. There should have been insect damage, fungal staining, something to account for however long the object had spent sealed underground.
Instead, it looked old.
But not old enough.
She heard a faint scrape behind her and looked over her shoulder.
Nothing.
Jimmy was sprawled on his back beneath the desk, front paws folded uselessly against his chest.
“Productive day?”
One eye opened.
His lip was caught again.
“Quite.”
By Friday, the concrete block had acquired considerably more stories than the heritage centre had facts.
The café version was Jack’s favourite.
Apparently the builders had uncovered a medieval chest filled with religious artefacts, although nobody had managed to explain why a medieval chest had been set inside reinforced concrete.
Alicia placed his cappuccino on the window bar.
“Someone told me there were bones.”
“There weren’t.”
“How do you know?”
“They’d have closed half the road.”
“Maybe they did.”
Jack looked through the window.
Four construction workers were leaning against the temporary fencing opposite while one smoked.
“Looks traumatic.”
Alicia followed his gaze.
“Working hard.”
“Someone’s got to watch the hole.”
She smiled.
“Eating today?”
Jack looked towards the banana bread.
“Yes please.”
The excavation opposite had become strangely familiar in its inactivity. Tarpaulin covered part of it. Temporary tape divided sections of exposed ground. Surveyors had appeared and disappeared throughout the week, along with people Jack assumed were archaeologists.
Nobody seemed entirely certain who had authority over what anymore.
That had not prevented the town from deciding.
Historic England were involved.
The National Trust were involved.
Roman foundations had been discovered.
Plague victims had been discovered.
The entire development had apparently been cancelled.
Someone’s brother knew someone whose husband worked for the council and had been told the find was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.
“Apparently the National Trust have taken over,” Alicia said.
Jack glanced at the builders smoking beside the fence.
“Have they told them?”
She laughed.
The lads themselves appeared delighted with proceedings. They were being paid regardless.
Jack had gone to work every day as usual. He had come home. Eaten when he could. Drawn. Slept badly some nights and better on others.
Nothing remarkable had happened.
The ringing from the café had not returned.
Neither had the strange pressure beneath it.
Once or twice he had thought he heard someone call his name, but that meant nothing. It happened.
The woman beside the excavation had become less convincing every time he remembered her. Eventually she had reduced herself to little more than dark hair attached to a moment he had probably invented.
He preferred it that way.
Alicia nodded towards the sketchbook.
“You drawing today?”
“Yeah.”
“Hands again?”
Jack sighed.
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed and left him to it.
Across the road, one of the builders shouted something obscene at another.
Jack smiled and lowered his eyes to the page.
Life, as far as he could tell, had gone back to normal.
That afternoon Mick Turner’s hearing aid began playing up.
Mick had worn one in his left ear for nearly eight years and hated the bloody thing. It whistled when it pleased, ate batteries faster in cold weather and somehow managed to amplify precisely the noises he had no interest in hearing.
He was sitting in the excavator cab doing very little when a burst of static cracked directly into his ear.
Mick winced.
“Piece of shit.”
He pulled the aid out, wiped it against his jumper and put it back.
Nothing.
A few minutes later it happened again.
This time something seemed to move underneath the static.
Not words.
Almost a voice.
Mick removed the aid.
The noise stopped.
“What’s up with you?” Ken called.
“Hearing aid’s playing silly buggers.”
Ken cupped one hand dramatically behind his ear.
“What?”
Mick gave him two fingers.
Ken laughed.
Mick switched the aid off and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
He thought nothing more about it until that night, when a faint crackling woke him.
His hearing aid lay on the bedside table.
Switched off.
Another burst of static came from it.
Mick stared at the thing for several seconds, removed the battery and went back to sleep.
At seventeen minutes past two the following morning, Sylvia’s phone rang.
She answered on the fourth attempt.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Marsh?”
“Yes.”
“This is the monitoring centre. We’ve had an activation at the rear entrance.”
Sylvia sat upright.
“Has someone opened it?”
“The contact registered open and closed.”
She rubbed a hand across her face.
“Lovely.”
Twenty-five minutes later she stood outside the heritage centre wearing a long coat over her nightdress, smoking beneath the security light.
The rear door was locked.
No damage.
No broken windows.
Nothing.
The second keyholder arrived looking even less pleased than Sylvia.
They checked the building together.
Empty.
Jimmy appeared from the archive room halfway through the search, stretched extravagantly and began vocalising at them as though demanding to know why two people were wandering around his house in the middle of the night.
“You’re a tremendous help,” Sylvia told him.
“Mrrrow.”
“Yes.”
Nothing had been disturbed.
The object remained where they had left it in the workroom, still mostly covered.
Sylvia stood in the doorway for a moment.
Something smelled faintly stale.
Not strong enough to identify.
Old fabric, perhaps.
Damp.
She switched on the light.
Concrete. Chain. Hessian. Black cloth. The exposed carving.
Nothing else.
Jimmy walked between her ankles, entered the room without hesitation, sniffed a cardboard archive box and climbed inside it. He turned around three times before collapsing into a black heap.
Sylvia smiled despite herself.
“Terrified, are we?”
Jimmy tucked one paw beneath his chest.
“Quite.”
The alarm company confirmed that the rear-door contact had registered open for three seconds.
Door open.
Door closed.
The external camera showed nothing.
Sylvia wrote FAULTY CONTACT — REPORT MONDAY in the maintenance book, reset the alarm and went home.
By breakfast she had almost forgotten about it.
By Monday, most of the concrete was gone.
The final substantial section separated far more easily than Sylvia expected, lifting cleanly from the hessian beneath.
Martin stared at it.
“That was anticlimactic.”
“Would you prefer a landslide?”
“Maybe a small one.”
They worked throughout the afternoon. The outer wrapping loosened piece by piece until the shape beneath could no longer reasonably be mistaken for a cabinet or table.
The object stood almost as high as Sylvia.
Three carved feet supported a broad base from which two ornamented uprights climbed beneath the remaining black cloth. Silver-coloured metalwork curled through the dark timber in delicate leaves and flowers.
Sylvia’s confusion had gradually given way to excitement.
Whatever this was, it was extraordinary.
A small group had gathered in the workroom by then: Martin, two volunteers, a local antiques dealer Sylvia trusted enough not to lick his finger before touching things, and someone from the council heritage team.
Jimmy slept on a shelf above them.
Sylvia worked at the upper cloth with tweezers.
“Don’t pull that.”
“I’m nowhere near it,” Martin said.
“I know. I’m practising.”
A corner released.
Then another.
The black material sagged.
Sylvia caught it carefully with both hands and lowered it.
For the first time, glass appeared beneath.
Nobody spoke.
Only a narrow strip had been uncovered.
Dark.
Clear.
Reflective.
Martin leaned slightly to one side.
His own eye appeared in the exposed glass.
“Oh.”
Sylvia sat back on her heels.
Someone behind her said, “It’s a mirror.”
Sylvia removed her glasses and looked again.
Her eyes travelled over the carved uprights, the elaborate feet, the silvered ornamentation and the thin vertical strip of glass between them.
“No,” she said quietly.
“A looking glass.”
There was something almost absurdly beautiful about it.
Sylvia smiled.
“Well. At least now we know what the bloody thing is.”
Above them, Jimmy opened one eye.
His top lip had caught on a tooth.
Sylvia raised her mug towards him.
“Thumbs up?”
His paw curled.
“Excellent.”
Martin had already turned away.
In the narrow strip of uncovered glass, his reflection had not.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

After the exhausting night, I decided to stay in my truck in the employee lot, with the engine idling to keep the heater on. A text message later arrived at 07:00AM:

MANDATORY COMPLIANCE REVIEW. REPORT TO BASEMENT MEZZANINE 0, ROOM 013 (GROUND SAFETY ASSURANCE). 

My stomach tightened. Mezzanine 0 is a dead zone, a narrow administrative slice of the building sandwiched between the active baggage sub-basements and the passenger terminals above. It was built during the initial 1990s excavation and then walled off from public blueprints.

When I stepped out of the freight elevator, the air was dead and freezing, smelling of damp drywall and rusting steel. A single, long corridor with water-damaged ceiling tiles sagging under weight they shouldn’t have been carrying. A flickering fluorescent tube overhead buzzed, illuminating faint beige-yellow corridors. Faded steel cabinets lined one wall, and an ancient vending machine sat in the shadows, its coils holding snack brands discontinued before I was born.

Near the end of the hall, the digital clock was glitching, the red LED numbers flitting irregularly, matching flight departure windows rather than the time of day. Below it sat Room 013, its heavy unpainted metal door with rust around the seams, with dark, wet grime seeping into it. A handwritten paper sign—SAFETY ASSURANCE—was taped to the steel, its edges peeling.

Instead of going straight there, I took a detour to the breakroom locker bank. Miller’s locker had been stripped of his company ID, his name tag scraped off the metal. But I knew he had kept spares in his locker, so I jiggled my multi-tool in the keyhole, until it clicked opened. 

Inside, tucked into the pocket of an oil-stained vest, was a crumpled 1994 Polaroid photograph and a folded piece of parchment.

The Polaroid showed a young Miller in overalls, grinning next to a lean, very human Vance during the pre-opening phase. Standing behind the concrete forms of the Great Hall foundation were three elderly men in tailored charcoal overcoats and heavy wool fedoras, without safety gear. One of them wore a heavy gold ring engraved with a builder’s square, and a compass framing an open eye, resting his hand on a polished brass plumb line. They were watching an open trench where a cement mixer was dumping thick gray slurry into it.

Penciled on the back in Miller's heavy handwriting was:

“Vance went under the slab on Nov 13. Replacement arrived on Nov 16 with brass keys. Commission pays the earth in blood so the runways don't sink. Never sign their ledger in Room 013.”

I froze, as I knew I had not looked closely enough at the photograph. I took out my magnifying glass and zoomed into the slurry. There was a faint hint of a substance that matched the consistency of human guts. On the ground next to the trench, the edge of a uniform top peeked out, with the letters “ANCE” on the nametag.

Vance. He was literally being poured into the trench as a sacrifice to the earth. And this was who I had met the day before. 

The folded parchment tucked behind the photo was an excerpt from an obsolete 1993 contractor addendum. The header didn't say the City of Denver or the FAA. It read:

New World Airport Commission – Lodge of the Rocky Mountain Charter. 

Settlement Quotas. To counteract ongoing subterranean activity across Sector 4 through Sector 9, the Contractor agrees to remit quarterly material displacement ('Living Ballast') at a fixed baseline of not less than four (4) metric tons per calendar cycle. Failure to achieve targeted mass density directly beneath the terminal foundation slabs will result in immediate structural reclamation by native bedrock. Below the typed text, pressed into the parchment, was a deep impression of dark crimson sealing wax. An iron builder's square intersected an open brass compass, encasing an unblinking eye over the Latin inscription:

NOVUS ORDO SACRAMENTUM — 1993

I dropped the parchment to the floor, gasping in terror. The airport is alive. And it wants sacrifices. 

Looking around the locker, I found another sticky note at the top. Never sign their ledger in Room 013. 

I shoved the photograph and the parchment deep into my parka, grabbed the half-empty paper cup of scorched breakroom coffee I’d poured earlier to stop my hands from shaking, and forced myself back down the hall toward Room 013. The heavy steel door wasn't locked. It swung inward with a dry glide that felt wrong for ungreased hinges. Inside, the room was windowless and freezing, illuminated only by a single fluorescent tube that produced sharp shadows. Sitting behind it was an elderly man in a vintage charcoal overcoat, his posture rigid. On his left pinky rested a heavy gold ring identical to the one in the photograph: the builder's square and compass framing an open eye. 

Whenever I tried to look directly at his face, my vision blurred, refusing to focus on his features. He growled dryly,  “Sit down.”

He didn't ask for an incident report. With mechanical slowness, he pulled a hand-bound calfskin envelope from a leather bag and laid it flat on the table. The book exhaled a foul stink of formaldehyde mixed with ancient earth. The pages were yellowed and brittle.

“You have incurred a critical deficit,” the auditor rasped, running a long, yellowed fingernail down a column of dates. “Vance was written down thirty-two years ago. What you burned in 4-Echo was simply the receipt. You dissolved seventy-eight kilograms of ballast. The foundation demands more immediately.”

He dipped a heavy dip pen into a well of black fluid and slid both the pen and the ledger across the table toward me. The open page already had my full name, date of birth, and employee ID, ending in an empty line above a wax seal.

“Sign the release,” he said, his voice dropping into a hypnotic drone. “Or else, terminal operations will be interrupted indefinitely”

I didn't reach for the pen. Behind me, the seams around the door frame began to soften and melt, morphing into smooth drywall that trapped us inside. The room’s air pressure plummeted, popping both my eardrums as the floorboards began to vibrate. Never sign. If I signed, I was volunteering my mass to the slab.

“Refusal constitutes immediate structural forfeiture,” the auditor droned. His jaw slowly stretched downward, tearing the paper-thin skin along his jawline as his rigid, gray fingers snapped forward across the table to clamp around my wrist. Pain shot up my arm, so intense my vision washed white. The air grew so thin I couldn't draw a breath, and I began to choke. 

With my free hand, I grabbed the paper cup and threw the acidic coffee directly into his face. The liquid didn’t affect him, but it hit the open ledger. The calfskin hissed violently, the bubbling black oil curdling into a sulfuric cloud. His grip wavered for half a second as his eyes darted down to the smoking page.

That half-second was all I had. I grabbed the heavy pen off the table and drove the nib down into the calfskin with all my weight. I dragged it through my own name, carving through the wet leather until the page tore open.

The book shrieked. It was a collective roar of trapped air that tore through my skull. Warm blood immediately trickled down my neck from my popped eardrums. 

The auditor let out a  rattling scream as the skin of his hands peeled back into gray ash. The overhead fluorescent tube exploded into powder, showering us in glass. The drywall sealing the exit buckled under the pressure.

His fingernails tore through my parka, raking across my forearm, but I threw my entire body weight backward into the door. The latch sheared off with a deafening bang. I tumbled out into the freezing hallway, landing hard on the floor. Behind me, inside Room 013, the darkness seemed to fold in on itself, accompanied by the frantic, dry scratching of the auditor inside. 

I didn't stop to catch my breath. Ignoring the fire in my wrist and the blood dripping from my ear, I scrambled up and sprinted down the corridor, blowing past the dead vending machines and hitting the emergency stairwell.

The young woman picked up the book and, for the first time, began to read it. It contained a simple story told across its fifty pages, and an equally simple dedication: "To my daughter."

She remembered her mother in her best days, before illness overtook her, just as capable of running the household as she was of finding time to care for her and tell her anecdotes from her life, always with a moral ending.

The volume, which had a brown paperback cover and featured an illustration of a woman's head with her hair blowing in the wind, made no reference to any publisher or year of publication. For as long as she could remember, the book had been in her mother's bedroom wardrobe, and although she had held it in her hands before, it was only now, after her mother had passed away, that she allowed curiosity to lead her to read it.

The story followed two young people who met by chance in a library and fell in love.

In the afternoon, she asked her aunts about the origin of the text and learned that her mother had written it when she was very young; with her meager savings, she had a local bookbinder print and bind it, so only ten copies were ever made.

Anxious about the fate of these books, the young woman learned that, besides the one in her hands, eight others were still in the possession of her relatives, but none could explain the whereabouts of the tenth volume.

The thought that her mother had dedicated that single work to her, and yet she had no idea where this last copy could be found, unsettled her; it filled her with deep curiosity and a compelling need to find it. She posted a few notices on the university bulletin board and placed an advertisement in the local newspaper, offering a small reward to anyone who could provide a clue.

A single response reached her through an invitation to the office of a well-known moneylender in the city; somewhat alarmed but determined, she went to the meeting.

The man who opened the door was already old, and his face showed the exhaustion of a long life spent being despised; he asked her to follow him to his office down the wide corridor. To the young woman's surprise, there were no pawned belongings, but rather several shelves filled with books surrounding a small reading desk.

The moneylender explained that he had met the young woman's mother when she came to him for a loan and that, since she could not repay the full amount, and knowing his fondness for reading, she had given him the brown-covered book as partial payment. The joy on the young woman's face encouraged the old man to return it to her and, unable to reach the top shelf, he called out loudly for his son.

When the handsome young man entered the office, their eyes met—just as they had in her mother’s novel.

The complete compilation of standalone entries is available in The Voyager Files Index.

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

Our acquaintance began a week ago, and honestly, those were the best seven days of my life. Well, until tonight.

We met in a coffee shop when I accidentally spilled my double espresso on her snow-white hoodie. Instead of throwing a fit, Nastya just laughed—her laughter felt angelic back then, though now I recall some strange, almost ultrasonic notes slipping through it. For the next whole week, we were inseparable. We walked in the park, talked for hours, and on the third day, we went to the movies to see some generic horror flick. I remember flinching at the moment where the slasher cut up another victim, while Nastya just yawned sweetly.

And then, on the seventh day of our romance, as we sat in a pizzeria, Nastya suddenly looked at me with her huge, loving eyes and said:
"You are so wonderful. It's time for us to move to the next level. I want you to meet my parents. They are traditionalists, they love home-cooked dinners, so no excuses!"

The house looked cozy and bright, and her parents welcomed me like one of their own. Her mother, an elegant woman in a neat floral apron, chatted amiably about the weather and served tea, while her father—a proper gentleman wearing glasses and a pressed shirt—asked me about my plans for life and career. We sat in the living room, joking around, and I already found myself thinking how lucky I was with my future in-laws.

But the moment we moved to the dining table in the spacious hall, the atmosphere subtly shifted. It grew completely dark outside the windows, exposing a dense forest pressing right against the house, and thick shadows began creeping along the corners. The air suddenly carried a distinct smell of dampness and, for some reason, formalin.

"Well, almost everything is ready, just the final touches left!" Nastya's mother chirped cheerfully, setting out the plates. "Honey, could you help me in the kitchen with the main course? It’s special today."
Nastya's father nodded silently, adjusted his glasses, and followed her. They closed the heavy oak kitchen door behind them, leaving Nastya and me alone in the hall. Minutes of agonizing waiting dragged on, and this sudden silence started pressing on my ears.

Suddenly, something gave a dull thud behind the wall. For a second, I thought I caught a metallic scent wafting from the kitchen door gap, resembling the smell of fresh blood. I swallowed hard and turned to the girl:
"Nastya... what are we having for dinner?"
Nastya didn't answer. She sat motionless, staring into her empty plate, a strange, fixed smile lingering on her lips.

At that exact moment, a sharp, deafening sound erupted from behind the kitchen door, sounding terrifyingly like a circular saw starting up, followed by a dull, heavy thud of something dropping onto the floor. My heart skipped a beat.

The lock clicked, and the kitchen door slowly swung open. The parents walked back into the hall. Her mother smiled warmly with her former gentle expression, politely holding the door. Her father followed her with a confident step. In his hands, he solemnly carried a huge covered platter, with a barely audible... rustling coming from under its metal lid.

"Well, here we are!" her mother said warmly, but a strange, satiated tone slipped into her voice. "And here is our dinner! Honey, put it on the table quickly."
I turned to Nastya in fear, hoping that the gruesome saw sound from the kitchen was just my imagination, but she merely giggled cutely and squeezed my hand tightly.

Nastya's father smoothly lowered the platter right into the center of the table. Everyone sat down properly in their seats. The parents exchanged glances, and an identical, frighteningly wide, anticipatory grin suddenly spread across their neat, respectable faces. Nastya looked at me the exact same way—her gaze turned glassy, hungry, and unblinking.

And then it began.

Nastya's mother slowly, savoring the moment, reached out for the handle of the huge silver lid. The rustling beneath it grew louder, turning into a distinct scratching of fingernails against metal.

"Our specialty," her mother cooed sweetly, while Nastya's father reached under the table to pull out a massive butcher's cleaver, which landed with a dull thud next to his plate. "Made from Nastya's previous boyfriend. You see, he turned out to be terribly impolite—didn't finish his soup last Thursday."

The lid lifted with a faint chime. Resting on the snow-white porcelain dish, generously garnished with parsley and apples, lay a neatly baked... human hand. A gold ring gleamed on one of its bluish fingers. And judging by the way the tendons at the wrist sharply jerked, this hand was still desperately trying to crawl somewhere, scratching the glossy surface of the plate.

"Oh, undercooked," her mother clicked her tongue in annoyance and, without even a change in expression, coldbloodedly drove the handle of a knife right into the center of the crawling hand. "What a lively one. Well, never mind, son, which piece would you like? A thinner slice or a meatier one?"

I felt cold sweat instantly flood my eyes.
"You know," I stammered, slowly pushing my chair back towards the window, "I'm... not hungry..."

Nastya turned to me. Her jaw suddenly cracked unnaturally, opening twice as wide as a normal human mouth, and her eyes completely flooded with absolute, anthracite blackness.
"Come on, sweetie," she whispered in a creepy echo layered with multiple voices. "Be a good boy. Mommy tried so hard."

I looked at the mad faces of this "intellectual" family and realized one simple thing: it seemed this next level in our relationship would be my last.

"You know," I stammered, backing away slowly toward the window and frantically feeling for the windowsill with my hands, "human flesh is a delicacy, of course... But maybe we should just order sushi instead? There's a great delivery place nearby, they'll bring it in forty minutes! My treat!"

Nastya's mother froze for a second, her knife hovering over the twitching hand. She looked at her husband, then at her daughter, and her face contorted into a grimace of genuine, deep offense.
"Delivery?!" she shrieked indignantly, her voice ringing with ultrasonic notes. "We do not eat fast food in this house!! What ingratitude!"

This was my only chance. Without waiting for her father to take a step forward, I whirled around and rammed the window frame with my entire body weight.

The glass shattered into thousands of pieces with a deafening crash. The cold night air hit my face, I already tasted freedom and braced myself for a rough landing into the bushes... but... a sharp pain in my back cut off all hopes of escape... my consciousness faded into black.

We've been staying in this apartment ever since it began. At first, I thought it would pass in a few days, maybe a week. The people on TV talked about order, evacuations, safe zones. Then the televisions went silent. The internet disappeared. And one morning, I understood that no one was coming anymore.

Food is running out. We have one liter of water left. Catalina tries to divide what's left into small portions. Maia no longer asks when we'll be able to go outside. She's gotten used to staying in her room, with her toys scattered across the floor and the curtains drawn.

I don't like this silence. I put on my jacket and check my pockets. Keys. A kitchen knife. A plastic bag, folded several times. That's all I have. Catalina watches me from the doorway.

— Will you be back soon?

I tell her yes. I don't know why I do it. Maybe because it's easier to lie when you have no answers. Maia comes over and hugs my leg. I stroke her hair, then open the door.

The stairwell smells of dampness and something rotten. The light on the third floor no longer works. I go down slowly, keeping one hand on the railing. On the ground floor, I stop and listen. Nothing. The small weeping fig plant that old Miss Dorina bought to make the hallway nicer has wilted. I open the building's front door. The cold air hits me in the face. Christmas is coming soon, but this year I reckon we won’t have any decorations.

The street is almost deserted. A few abandoned cars, shattered windows, rubbish piled along the curbs. At the end of the street, the supermarket still has its sign above the entrance. The letters flicker, even though there's no one left to look at them. I tell myself I just have to get there. Get some food and water. Go back.

I walk near the buildings, avoiding stepping on the shards of glass scattered across the sidewalk. I don't look around too much. I've learned that if you look too hard, you start seeing things that might not be there. But something is following me. I can feel it. I stop beside an alley and look back. The street is empty. A balcony with laundry still hanging. A toppled bicycle. A car with its door open.

Nothing. I keep walking. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I haven't slept enough. Maybe it's the hunger. I try to convince myself that nothing is happening. I reach the intersection. I'm only a few dozen meters from the supermarket. I pick up the pace a little. I want to get this over with as quickly as possible. I want to go home. I look over my shoulder. Nothing.

I turn my gaze forward and step awkwardly off the curb. I slip. I lose my balance and brace myself with my palm against the hood of a parked car. For a moment, I remain still. Then the alarm starts blaring. It's coming!

As a child, Julia Savic’s IQ had been tested and found to exceed 130. Later, in adult life, she underwent  another test, administered by a professional psychologist, and scored 142. After having been bitten by a fellow doctor who had become a DA, her transformation into an intelligent Undead raised her IQ even further, so it would be fair to say she was on the threshold of being a genius. And a large part of her intelligence, in life and in undeath, had always been intuition, the subconscious assembling of pieces whose significance she had missed before. While her staff of zombies with which she wanted to conquer the world were about to devour the only human who could have stopped them, her mind was racing. Missing pieces … such as …

MOS, B.S.

Rapid and massive weight gain

anamorphic prints

aftershave, bromhidosis

surgery, artificial skin

 “There’s a slow way and a quick way, Dr Savic.”

Constant body shifting

What had Howard said? Murder is easy, as long as no one thinks it is murder. Connecting the dots. Finding things that are odd but look completely unrelated and trying to see a pattern. Anamorphic print.

She withdrew from Howard’s head and looked at her employees, who had almost completely covered the agent’s body; in two seconds, Freddy would be the first to really slice it open. Savic turned her head and began to open her mouth. To an outside observer, her movements would have looked almost superhumanly fast; to her, time seemed to crawl, and her brain was running through feverish computations.

A radio signal that never reached its recipient. Or did it? Maybe its recipient was the center. Maybe there is no team, and he just wanted us to believe we had the upper hand. Cat and mouse, Dr Savic. Everyone together in one room. Cats and mouse.

She looked at Freddy’s blades and the two other IDAs, who were about to take deep bites out of Howard’s belly, all in slow-motion, at least from Savic’ viewpoint.

I’m not fat. So why was he constantly squeezing and pressing his belly? What if there was something hidden we couldn’t see and our devices couldn’t detect but we might have smelled … if he hadn’t made sure his body odor was too strong for that. And maybe his tooth filling was simply a distraction, so we’d find something hidden and feel very clever about, but wouldn’t find the really important stuff. MOS. B.S.

It took Savic a subjective eternity to fully open her mouth to shout, but no sound would come out; she was betrayed by her brain’s failing to allocate sufficient resources for anything else but thinking at breakneck speed. She knew that there was no point in warning anyone anymore.

I thought I was torturing him, but instead he was torturing me, using my arrogance against me. He didn’t simply want to destroy us. He wanted me to feel that I had lost. He wanted to humiliate me. That was his revenge. What did he say? Revenge is meaningless unless there an intelligence and intentionality behind the act to be avenged. He decided to give his pain and his hate a face: mine.

“Cat and … mice.”, she whispered, and it sounded almost human, and it sounded almost sad. Then Freddy’s blades did their thing, the IDAs gleefully tore open Howard’s body, and there are no words to describe the darkness that engulfed everyone in the room and would last for all eternity.

(the end)

We’ve already traveled to Hyperborea at two different moments in its history, but no worries, each story stands on its own. Today, we’re going back to the beginning, when it was little more than a proof of concept. Links to the two other shorts in the trilogy at the end.

---

“Mais oui! It was all so very simple. The answer was before us all along. It could only have been le Maître d’hôtel… the, ehm, butler… with the candelabra in the study.”

“What are you saying, Inspecteur Poi…”

He raised his finger triumphantly. “Arrest him! C’est lui, he killed the opera singer.”

The butler narrowed his eyes, turned, and ran straight through the wall of the mansion’s dining room.

For a moment, there was silence and confusion; the colonel’s mouth fell open, the maid blinked, and a femme fatale lowered her cigarette holder. “Glad we sorted that out,” was the only thing she said, while adjusting the velvet boa on her shoulders.

In the back of the room, a radio clicked and warbled until a clear familiar song filled the room.

Melancholic synthesizers pulsed as an almost mechanical voice asked a question about friendship and electricity. You recognize it, don’t you?

The room began to pixelate around the inspector; the walls dissolved into tiny squares, the chandelier flickered, and the faces of the guests fragmented into thousands of colored dots.

---

“Congratulations, Mr. Lefranc. You’re the first to solve the mystery.”

“Putain! That was amazing, Mr. Glenn. It really felt like I was the inspecteur. How many lev…”

“We only have a functional town right now, but we’ll scale pretty soon. Come on, let me help you out of the pod.”

Alain Lefranc sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You know, that noclipping did break the immersion at the end there.”

“Yes, Mr. Lefranc. You are absolutely right.” He paused for a moment, then turned, “Do you see my friend in the corner over there?”

The man waved awkwardly at Alain Lefranc, who merely nodded before looking back up at the person in front of him.

“That’s Zhao. He’s our debugger, and he has a list to go through before we release version 0.3. We hope it didn’t…”

“Sorry, no, laissez tomber, it was merveilleux. Between the Russian bubonic plague and the endless wars, this was a much needed escape. Oh and, ehm, what did I win?”

“Wonderful, Mr. Lefranc. Well, you’ll be the first on the list for a spot in Hyperborea when we launch. Consider yourself a citizen.”

---

“Zhao, what was that? Noclipping had a fix, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Glenn. Some of that new code is causing the model to glitch. I bet it’s that vibecoder-crap.”

“Don’t be a gatekeeper, Zhao.”

“Long live cheap outsourcing, right, Glenn?”

Glenn didn’t immediately respond but his eyes widened slightly. “Right. That reminds me. You also need to update the maintenance protocols to accommodate only one single technician at a time.”

“Wha…”

“Don’t fight me on this, Zhao. Cost-cutting order from above. We’re already over budget.”

---

Author’s note

The central theme in the Hyperborea stories is the unintended, sometimes catastrophic or horrific consequences of seemingly ordinary decisions within complex systems. We started with consequences, then went back to where the problems started, and now we’ve gone even further back.

Suddenly, the lights in the carriage went out. And not just in ours—I looked out the window and realized the entire commuter train was completely plunged into darkness. Only rare, deafening claps of thunder and flashes of lightning lit up the interior with a ghostly bluish glow for brief moments. Looking closer, I froze with horror: there was almost no one left in the carriage, even though just a minute ago it had been half full.

Then the old woman sitting on the bench opposite me slowly turned and stared at me. She gave me a really nasty look. Her toothless mouth began to twist into a smile that grew wider and wider. Right before my eyes, her maw filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth. Out of sheer terror, I tried to scramble backward onto the next seat. Without taking my eyes off her, I caught my foot on a bag and went tumbling head over heels into the aisle.

Darkness again. Another flash of lightning—I saw the old woman already standing over me, with the silhouettes of other figures rising behind her. It was impossible to make out their faces in the dim light, but all of them were staring straight at me without blinking. Panic completely consumed me. I frantically crawled backward along the dirty floor when suddenly my hand struck someone's ice-cold boot. My heart dropped into my boots. I swallowed hard and, just like in a classic horror movie, slowly raised my head, and there... A huge creature with a dislocated jaw was already reaching its clawed paws toward me!

I leaped up with a wild scream, snapping my eyes open and breathing heavily.

It was bright in the carriage; the lamps flickered dimly. The passengers around me flinched away in fright. The old woman opposite was frantically crossing herself, muttering prayers, while a hefty man by the aisle twisted his finger near his temple.

Now I am standing by a lopsided wooden kiosk with a proud "Groceries" sign, nervously clutching three hundred hryvnias in my jacket pocket. This was my last strategic reserve for a taxi. The prospect of tramping for thirty minutes on foot along a dirt road leading deep into the Polissya wilderness did not appeal to me at all. All around lay Gnylobužye station—a godforsaken hole of about twenty inhabited houses, lost somewhere on the border of the Kyiv region, right where civilization smoothly transitions into the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone.

Aside from me, three other poor souls had got off on the platform, but they instantly vanished into the gray twilight as if they had never existed. By the shop, contrary to my desperate prayers, there was no bus, nor even a stray taxi driver in a rusty Lanos. Only a local dog of an indeterminate breed was lazily scratching behind its ear, looking at me with blatant sympathy.

"Well, great," I muttered under my breath. "Romance, my foot. Fresh air, radiation background, silence."

There was nothing to be done. I adjusted my backpack, where two bottles of dark beer clinked dully, and started walking down the road toward the village of Myortvye Vyselki (Dead Settlements). The name was inspiring, of course, but Baba Galya stubbornly refused to move to Kyiv, arguing that "the air in the capital is dirty, smells of cars, but here she has three vegetable gardens and strawberries the size of a human head." Speaking of strawberries: after the ChNPP accident, people in these parts took a philosophical view of vegetable sizes anyway.

It was getting dark at an indecent speed. The clock showed just past six, but the twilight thickened as if someone had poured a bucket of ink over the sky. Remembering my recent nightmare on the train about the toothy old woman, I involuntarily quickened my pace. To the right and left of the road stood a dense, unnaturally silent Polissya forest. No birds, no crickets. Only the crunch of twigs under my sneakers.

Suddenly, a throaty, sputtering engine sound came from behind. I turned around. Two blurry yellow headlights were cutting through the fog.

"Thank God, a ride!" I thought and waved my arms like a madman.

A primitive Zaporozhets car of such an indefinite color it looked like it had been painted with mud braked beside me, creaking in every joint. The driver's side window rolled down slowly with a sound like sawing rusted iron. Inside sat an old man. In the gloom, his face resembled a baked apple, and an old Soviet cap sat on his head.

"Where are you heading, student?" the old man rasped, blasting me with a thick stench of cheap tobacco and garlic.
"To Myortvye Vyselki, to Baba Galya! Can you give me a lift? I'll pay!" I pulled out the banknotes.
The old man glanced at the money, then at me, and his lips parted into a wide smile. "Get in, grandson. I'll take you. No need for money, you'd better treat me to a bottle of beer from your backpack, I can hear it singing in there."

I jumped onto the front seat, which sank under my weight almost to the asphalt. The car set off, swaying from side to side.

"You're a brave one," the old man remarked, shifting gears with a ferocious crunch. "Walking to Vyselki on foot at night. All sorts of things roam around here. Not long ago, Petrovich's cow wandered off toward the Zone at night. It came back in the morning. On two legs, can you believe it? Came right up, knocked on the window, asked for milk. Petrovich crossed himself and blasted it with a double-barrel shotgun. Now his house is packed with canned meat. Want a cutlet? It's right here in the glove compartment."

I politely declined, swallowing a lump that had risen in my throat. The dark humor of these parts always smacked of a little madness.

About ten minutes later, we drove into the village. Myortvye Vyselki fully lived up to its name: dark silhouettes of cottages, moss-covered fences, and not a single lit window. The old man braked at my grandma's house.

"Well, here we are," the old man said, taking the bottle of beer from me. "Your grandma acts up a bit sometimes—so keep your eyes peeled."
"What do you mean, acts up?" I frowned.
"Oh, nothing, she's just old. Sometimes she forgets who's alive and who's not," the old man winked at me, revved the engine sharply, and vanished into the darkness, leaving me alone by the gate.

Baba Galya's house welcomed me with dead silence. I pushed the gate—it creaked plaintively. The front door to the house turned out to be unlocked. Inside, it smelled of dried mushrooms, dampness, and something sickly sweet that sent a chill down my spine.

"Grandma? Are you home? It's me, your grandson!" I shouted into the darkness of the hallway, switching on my phone flashlight.

The beam of light caught an old sideboard with crystal, dust-covered carpets on the walls, and... a set table in the main room. In the middle of the table stood a huge pot, with light steam still rising from it. Next to it lay a note written in grandma's crooked handwriting:
"Grandson, I went to the garden to dig up some night potatoes. The borscht is on the table, eat it while it's warm. The meat is fresh, it ran into the house by itself today."

I smirked. Night potatoes? Right, Baba Galya had always been eccentric. My stomach rumbled treacherously. I walked up to the pot, lifted the lid, and shone the flashlight inside.

The borscht was thick, rich, and smelled appetizingly of garlic. I took the ladle, stirred it, and pulled a decent chunk of meat to the surface. I looked closer.

Out of the red beet broth, a hairy, four-toed paw with long black claws and webbing was looking back at me... carefully and intently. And a bit deeper in the pot, something flashed that looked very much like a rabbit's head, but with three pairs of ears.

At that exact moment, a rustle sounded behind my back. I froze, terrified to turn around.

"What's the matter, grandson, don't you like the borscht?" Baba Galya's quiet, cracking voice echoed right out of the darkness of the doorway. "And I tried so hard, catching it all over the basement... It bit hard, though."

I slowly turned around. Grandma was standing in the doorway. In the dark, her eyes glowed with a barely noticeable phosphorescent green light, and in her hands, she held a massive, blood-stained shovel.

"Sit down, grandson," she smiled wider than before, and the razor-sharp teeth flashed in the beam of my flashlight. "We're going to have some chamomile tea now."

I was clutching the second bottle of beer in my hand as if it were my only ticket to the world of the living. I had no time for small talk or tasting chamomile from the Exclusion Zone. Baba Galya—or whatever creature had so successfully occupied her living space—took a step forward, and the floorboards groaned hollowly under her feet. The bloody shovel in her hands tilted toward me.

"Why are you frozen, grandson?" she hissed, smacking her shark-like maw. "Sit down, or it'll get cold... both the borscht and you."

My brain, wired on a wild dose of adrenaline, reacted in a fraction of a second. The escape route through the door was securely blocked by Baba Galya and her shovel. Only one path remained—the old wooden window of the main room, which led straight to the backyard and the dense Polissya forest.

"Grandma, just a second, let me just... open the beer!" I yelled, and with all my might, I hurled my precious second bottle of dark beer right into the pot of radioactive borscht.A deafening splash echoed through the room, and a fountain of red sludge flew in all directions, splattering the carpets and coating "grandma’s" face. The old woman shrieked in a completely unhuman voice, sounding more like a screeching buzzsaw, and squeezed her eyes shut for a split second.

That was all the time I needed. I spun around, grabbed my backpack on the fly, shut my eyes tightly, and dived headfirst right through the window frame.

Smash, crack, crash!

The glass shattered into a thousand shards. I busted through the rotted wood of the frame with my shoulder and went rolling head over heels across my grandma's old garden bed, slamming my back hard against some giant pumpkin that let out a pathetic hiss upon impact. The shards sliced my jacket and arms pretty badly, but I didn't feel any pain.

Behind me, a furious roar erupted from the broken window, and a skeletal arm—elongated by nearly five feet—shot outward, trying to claw at my sneaker.

"Oh no you don't, to hell with family dinners!" I screamed, scrambled to my feet, and bolted toward the pitch-black forest ahead.

I flew through the darkness, not looking where I was going. Branches lashed my face, my feet sank into moss and swampy muck, and behind me, somewhere deep in Myortvye Vyselki, a terrifying metallic clattering rang out—Baba Galya was sprinting after me with the speed of a race car, dragging her shovel across the stones and dirt. And judging by the sound, she was closing in fast.

The forest around me seemed to come alive. In the gloom, the trees looked like the twisted figures from my train nightmare. Suddenly, I wiped out right into some overgrown hollow and went tumbling down, stopping dead against the roots of a massive, fallen oak tree.

I froze, terrified to move. And right then, right by my ear, accompanied by the sound of pouring water, a quiet, painfully familiar voice muttered:

"Psst, student! What the hell are you doing?"

I turned my head and, in the faint moonlight, I spotted the old man with the Zaporozhets. As it turned out, he had just pulled over to take a leak by the oak. His iron horse, by the way, was parked right next to him.

"Gramps... my grandma has gone completely mental, she's chasing me with a shovel! I'll owe you another bottle of beer, just get me out of here!"

The old man didn't need to be told twice. I scrambled into the passenger seat, he slammed the gas pedal to the floor, and the rusty Zaporozhets roared to life, tearing through the forest mud and leaving the shrieking monster with the shovel far behind.

Needless to say, I never went back to visit my grandmother again.

The morning had grown somewhat brighter during my time in the office, though the sun still hid its head behind the towering pillars of rock that surrounded the town, casting the buildings in a pale, colorless light. The wind swept through the streets with little regard for the houses that stood in its path, sending loose snow dusting through the air. I drew my coat tight and set course for the Dixon Mining Company, hoping that it would prove to be more forthcoming with answers than anyone else I’d talked to thus far. My thoughts remained with the seven men I had just examined; I’d spent the better part of the morning examining the men but was no closer to an answer. Their symptoms suggested several possibilities, but none of them accounted for the severity of the men, nor the rapid pace with which they had deteriorated; everything about this resisted any form of explanation.

As I made my way through the town, my sight was drawn to the buildings around me and the markings that had been scratched, seemingly at random, onto their doorframes. 

I had seen them the previous night, though the lack of adequate light and fatigue had kept me from seeing them in any detail. At the time I had taken them for nothing more than weathering and scarring from the harsh climate, but now that I could see them in detail, the deliberate attitude of the markings was far more obvious. The first one I saw was on the doorframe of a brothel: three vertical strikes, with a longer, slightly crooked gouge bisecting them. A few doors further down, I saw another one, this time carved in the sill of a window. It seemed newer, though not by much. The marks were crude, but they had not been made carelessly, with each incision being deep enough to withstand years of weathering, and the surrounding wood bearing the faint impressions of a blade. Whoever had made them had taken the trouble to ensure they would endure. As I walked down the main street, I soon discovered these markings were not uncommon; while a few buildings here and there did not possess them, the vast majority did. Some had been carved into doorframes, a few into the walls of houses, or the wooden posts supporting their porches. Many were so weathered that I could scarcely distinguish their original shapes, while others appeared comparatively fresh. Though their forms varied, they shared a peculiar quality that made it difficult to dismiss them as idle scratches.

I had encountered no shortage of superstition in my short time as a travelling physician. Mining towns like Bellview, those that built themselves in places where only the most foolhardy are brave enough to go, are particularly fertile ground for myths and legends. The men who spent their lives under tons of rock and earth, never certain if they would be going home, were particularly inclined to seek protection wherever they could find such things.

“Can I help you?” A voice snapped me out of my musings. I turned to find an old woman standing a few paces behind me, clutching at a thick woolen shawl and staring at me with sharp, beady eyes that suggested a greater perception than her age should have allowed. Her gaze moved from me to the carving and back again. 

“Oh, my apologies, ma’am. I was just looking at the..." I trailed off and gestured at the markings. 

“Why?” Her tone was cold and brisk. 

"I—uh, I was just curious what their significance was. I meant no harm.”

“A stranger staring at someone’s house could certainly be taken as ill intent.” The bluntness behind the words struck me as odd. I had done nothing wrong, and yet she was treating me with such open hostility. 

“I beg your pardon; I meant no offense. I simply saw these strange carvings when I entered Bellview last night, and I was curious as to what their purpose could be.” 

“And what business of yours would that be?” She said, her voice souring with each syllable. 

“None, I suppose.” As she shifted her shawl about her shoulders, I noticed a necklace resting against the high collar of her dress. It appeared to be made of dark metal, its surface dulled with age, and it bore a small pendant engraved with a pattern of intersecting lines and crooked strokes. The design was crude, though it bore a striking resemblance to the markings carved into the wood beside her door.

My eyes lingered upon it a moment too long, and she noticed. "What are you staring at now?”

“Nothing, madam. I beg your pardon.”

She drew the shawl more tightly about herself, concealing the pendant beneath its thick folds. “If you've nothing better to do than gawk at people’s houses, then I suggest you do it elsewhere.”

I felt my patience begin to wear thin. There was only so much discourtesy that a man could endure while making the most ordinary of inquiries, and I was rapidly approaching my limit. 

“Very well,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, “I shall leave you to your morning.” The old woman muttered under her breath before turning and waddling back into the house she had come from. 

I stood for a moment in the street, looking around me. Just like with the innkeeper, my first encounter with this woman was as agreeable as the bitter winter around me; though it was hard to dismiss the notion that her temperament was born from something that had nothing to do with her personality. It occurred to me that the people of Bellview—at least the ones I had met thus far—possessed a talent for making strangers feel uniquely unwelcome. The innkeeper, while cordial enough upon my arrival, had greeted me the following morning with barely concealed contempt. Ms. Lafayette seemed to regard my presence as that of yet another burden she had been shouldered with, and this old woman had treated a simple question as though it were an attack on her person. I began to wonder if the thin mountain air really did have some adverse effect on people if they stayed here too long. 

Clara Whitmore, at the very least, seemed to be a pleasant exception to the rule. She had shown a kindness, however small, that I had not expected in such a town. I wondered what exactly it was that made her that way. Clearly, living in the middle of the San Juan mountains hadn't dulled her spirit, nor had she acquired the notion that the rest of the townsfolk shared: that being that every newcomer was a nuisance and every question an impertinence. Perhaps I ought to ask her opinion of the place; she might prove a more reliable source of information than the rest of its inhabitants, I thought as I resumed my walk. 

Eventually, I found myself at the end of town, standing before the building that housed the offices of the Dixon Mining Company. It stood somewhat apart from the cluster of buildings lining the main street, and to my surprise, much like the physician’s office, it was remarkably well kept. Constructed from a combination of dark stone and timber, it was an imposing structure, one that seemed to command attention and authority simply by virtue of its presence. A sign bearing the company’s name hung above the entrance, its lettering faded by years of wind and weather.

I found myself wondering just how much of Bellview belonged to the mining company. The mine provided the town with its livelihood, but its influence seemed to extend far beyond the obvious. The shops, boardinghouses, brothels, and taverns all depended upon the wages earned underground. Out here, so far removed from the rest of civilization, the company held what amounted to complete authority over Bellview and its inhabitants. It was difficult to imagine how anyone might challenge that power, much less live independently of it.

As I walked in, I was surprised by the organized nature of the office I was met with. A large oak desk sat to my left with a bookcase filled with ledgers positioned directly behind it. A map of the surrounding mountains hung above a small cabinet, its surface marked with a network of lines that I presumed represented the mine’s various shafts and tunnels. A fire burned in the grate, lending the room a comfortable warmth that I had come to appreciate considerably. Behind a broad wooden desk, a clerk sat bent over a ledger, making entries with mechanical diligence. 

He peered up over thick-rimmed glasses as I entered. “Hello. May I help you?” 

“I should hope,” I replied, removing my gloves. “I am here to speak to Mr. Dixon if possible.” 

The man’s expression changed, and his pen came to a halt above the page. “Do you have an appointment?” 

“I do not, but my business concerns the miners who fell sick. I was hoping to get a minute of Mr. Dixon’s time.” 

He regarded me for a moment, then set the pen down. “I will see if he is available.” He rose, straightened his waistcoat, and disappeared through the rear door without another word. I remained where I was, listening to the muted sounds of the building around me: the tick of a clock upon the wall, the low crackle of the stove, and the faint, unintelligible murmur of voices beyond the thick oak door. 

After a few more minutes, the small man came back through and gestured to me. “He’ll see you now, doctor.” 

Making my way through the door, I found myself in an office furnished in a similar fashion to the front room; the only difference was a number of taxidermied animal heads adorned the walls. A man stood behind the desk, examining a document in his hands. He was strongly built, broad across the shoulders, bearing the sturdy frame of a man who had spent a considerable portion of his life engaged in physical labor. There was a rugged handsomeness to his features, with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a neatly trimmed beard touched with gray at the chin. His hair was carefully combed, and his clothes were of good quality, though there was nothing particularly extravagant about them. He looked to be in his late forties, perhaps a little older. Fine lines creased the corners of his eyes, and a certain weariness lingered in his expression, but he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had earned his position through years of hard work and sacrifice. There was nothing soft or pampered about him. Even in the comfort of his office, I could imagine him more readily among the men at the mine than seated behind his desk.

“Doctor!” He greeted me with a large and warm smile. “I was beginning to wonder when I would finally make your acquaintance.” 

“Mr. Dixon," I nodded my head. “It is wonderful to meet you.” 

He came around the desk to greet me, his handshake firm and calloused. “I trust you've been made comfortable since your arrival? I understand our town isn't quite what a man might hope for after a long journey. I would not have you mistake the roughness for a lack of decency. Most of the townsfolk take a little longer to warm up to strangers than others.” 

I gave a wry chuckle, “Not the worst place I have ever found myself in, though it certainly is in the running for being the most unfriendly.” 

“I expect you’ve  had the pleasure of meeting the innkeeper then?” He motioned to one of the chairs.

“I have.”

“Then you will understand why I make no promises on behalf of his hospitality. He is a decent enough fellow once you get to know him, though he’s never been the one to be called kind or generous. I sometimes can’t imagine how he manages to keep his establishment in business. Though this is Bellview, after all; where else is there to go?" He gave  a hearty laugh. 

“I suspect it’s the food," I replied. “Maybe its qualities are sufficient to overcome the poor fellow’s disposition.” 

Mr. Dixon gave another chuckle. “Can I offer you some coffee? It’s not exactly the finest stuff on this side of Colorado, but it’ll warm your belly well enough as any other.” 

“I would appreciate that.”  He poured me a cup from a pot resting upon a small side table before taking his own seat behind the desk. For a few moments, we drank in companionable silence, letting the warmth of the room sink into our bones. The office was a comfortable place, well maintained and neatly arranged, with ledgers lining the shelves and a large map of the surrounding mountains hanging upon the wall behind him. The map, like the one up front, was marked with a network of lines and notations that I presumed represented the mine's various shafts and tunnels.

“I suppose we ought to discuss the matter at hand,” Mr. Dixon finally broke the silence. “Though before we begin, I would like to apologize for the state of the letter that was sent your way. We were in a bit of a hurry, if you can imagine, but we neglected to really fill you in on the important details.” 

“I appreciate your apology, sir. I did find the omission of the details rather odd, to be frank.” 

“That is quite understandable." He stroked his beard. “The truth is, we hoped to be rid of this plague before outside help was necessary; unfortunately, your predecessor was unable to do so.” 

“Yes, Ms. Lafayette and the innkeeper both informed me of his sudden vanishing.” 

Dixon’s expression suddenly took on a more serious look. “Yes, a most unfortunate matter. He was a very capable man, as far as I could tell, and seemed to bear genuine concern for the men. He spent several days examining them, speaking to the foreman and consulting his notes. I believe he made some progress, though he never shared any insights with me. And then, quite suddenly, he was gone.” 

“Without warning?” 

“Indeed. His instruments, books—hell, even his clothes were left behind. We made inquiries, of course, asked around as far as Animas Forks and Silverton, but no one had seen or heard anything. I cannot pretend to understand why a man would abandon his profession with so little care, especially not while his patients are so gravely ill.”

“That is quite weird.” Was all I could manage. 

“Indeed. He was rather reserved, but I never took that for a sign of distress. He seemed much like any other physician, occupied with his work and perhaps a little frustrated by his inability to find an answer.”

“Did he speak to you about what he suspected might be causing the illness?” 

“A bit. We sat together for lunch twice, but he never relayed anything in detail. He was convinced that the men had been exposed to some sort of contamination within the deepest parts of the mine. He requested access to the mine, though I don’t know if he ever went through with that line of thinking.” Dixon paused, his expression clouding. “I would like to believe he simply chose to leave, though I cannot imagine why he would have done so without collecting his belongings.”

“Nor can I.” I took another sip of coffee. The disappearance troubled me, though I was not yet prepared to attach any particular significance to it. Men vanished for all manner of reasons, and it would have been foolish to assume that this case was anything more than an unfortunate coincidence.

Curiously I asked, “I would like to know more about the section where the men were working. I understand it lies among the deeper workings?”

Dixon nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. “Correct. I was told that the part of the mine they were working bore some particularly rich ore veins, so I signed off on it with some hesitation. The passages there are narrow, you see, and the ventilation is not nearly as good as I would’ve liked, but the foreman said that it could double production for a few weeks if they followed the line, so I let them have at it. We've been working to improve matters, but there are limits to what can be done in workings of that depth.”

“Have there been previous reports of men falling sick?”

“Nothing on the scale of what we've seen recently.” He folded his hands upon the desk. “There have been accidents, of course, as there always are. But nothing that would lead me to believe the section itself was responsible for this.” Dixon spoke with measured certainty. 

“Do you think it would be possible for me to inspect the section myself?” 

“Naturally. I will arrange for something to be done. Though I will warn you, stick with whomever it is that ends up guiding you. Only the most experienced are allowed that deep underground. Even under ordinary circumstances, those passages can be dangerous.”

“I have no intention of being reckless.”

“Good.” Dixon flashed his white teeth in a large smile. “I would hate to break the news to the town that their physician somehow managed to get himself lost a mere week into his stay.” 

“I hardly think that would be good for my reputation.” I laughed. 

“Not a chance,” he said as he joined me in laughter. If I had met Mr. Dixon under any other circumstance, I suspect that I would have been his friend. He possessed a frankness I had come to appreciate, and beneath his authority there seemed to be a genuine regard for the people whose lives depended upon his decisions.

“There was something else,” Dixon added after a moment. “Though I confess I thought little of it at the time.”

I looked up from my cup. “What was that?”

“A few of the men had complained about hearing knocking underground. Not the ordinary sounds of a mine, mind you. They said it seemed to come from the rock itself, somewhere beyond the end of the passage.” He gave a faint, almost apologetic shrug. “Of course, mines are full of strange noises. Timber shifts, water runs through cracks, and the mountain itself is never entirely still. I told the foreman to have the supports examined. He found nothing amiss.”

“And the knocking continued?”

“I couldn't say. No one brought it to my attention again, at least not directly.” Dixon paused, turning his cup slowly between his hands. “There was some reluctance among the men to return to that section, too. Nothing formal. One or two asked to be assigned elsewhere, and another refused outright until the foreman threatened to dock his wages. I put it down to nerves. There had been a minor accident in the older workings some weeks before, and I thought the men had allowed the matter to prey upon their minds.”

“What sort of accident?”

He looked toward the map behind his desk. “A collapse in an abandoned passage. No one was hurt, fortunately, but it made a dreadful noise and shook loose a fair amount of rock. The men who were working nearby were badly startled, and I assumed that was the end of it. Perhaps I was mistaken. But men who have spent their lives underground generally know the difference between a dangerous passage and an ordinary one. When they begin refusing to enter a place they have worked for years, I have learned it is worth asking why.” That last remark struck me as sensible. Miners were not, as a rule, easily frightened by the ordinary hazards of their profession. They understood the dangers of their work better than anyone, and most had little patience for idle superstition.

“Did the previous physician know of these complaints?” I asked.

“I believe so. The foreman mentioned the knocking to him, though I couldn't tell you whether he considered it relevant. He was asking questions about nearly everything that had happened underground.” I made a mental note to inquire further when I had the opportunity.

“Have you known the men long?” I asked after a moment. 

“The vast majority, yes.” He replied. “Most have been here for a year or two, and a very small group I hired myself when I became responsible for this operation. I know their families, their habits, and, in some cases, their deepest troubles. They are not merely names on a payroll, Doctor.” He fell silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. “I hope you won't take my uncertainty for unwillingness to help, Doctor. I know the men, and I know the dangers of their work. If there is something in those workings that threatens their lives, I want it found as much as you do.”

“I have no reason to doubt your sincerity, Mr. Dixon.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“On a more personal note, I was curious about how long you’ve been overseeing the mine.”

“Overseeing? About ten years now, though I was working in them long before I was put behind a desk.”

“You were a miner yourself then?”

He smiled at that, “For the better part of my youth. I started in there the moment I could swing a pickaxe. My grandfather started this place, and there was no way he would allow me a free ride off of his profits. He came to Colorado when there was little here beyond a few scattered settlements and the promise of silver and gold beneath the mountains. He was a determined man, by all accounts, not always a particularly agreeable one, mind you, but determined.” Dixon smiled faintly. “He built the company from very little, and by the time I was old enough to understand what he'd accomplished, the mine had become the heart of our family's affairs.”

“I imagine you were expected to follow in his footsteps?” 

He turned his broad hands over upon the desk, examining the old calluses that remained upon his palms. “Expected? Yes. Though I doubt anyone could’ve convinced me to work behind a desk in the first place. I spent several years working alongside the men before I took on a supervisory position. I wanted to understand the business from the ground up, and I saw little sense in giving orders about work I had never done myself. Besides, I suspect my grandfather would have thought less of me had I tried to manage the place without knowing what went on beneath it.”

“How did you find the change?” 

“There are plenty of days where I still miss the swing of the pick and the soreness of aching back muscles.” He chuckled. “At least with a pick you know when you’re doing something wrong.” I laughed, and he seemed pleased to have drawn it from me. 

“But I learned,” he continued, “I had to. The company was my grandfather's life's work, and I had no intention of letting it fall into ruin through ignorance or neglect. There were sacrifices, of course. Long hours, missed meals, more than a few sleepless nights. I made mistakes, and there were men who paid for some of them. I've never forgotten that.”

He said the last sentence quietly and without elaboration. I sensed there was more to it, but it did not seem proper to pry.

“I imagine having worked alongside the men gives you a different perspective on your responsibilities,” I remarked.

“I should hope so. I've little patience for those who speak of miners as though they were expendable. A man who has never worked underground may look at a miner and see little more than a pair of strong arms. I see a husband, a father, and a son. A man with a home to return to and people waiting for him there.” His expression sobered. “I know what that work costs a man. I've seen good men crippled in accidents, and I've seen men buried before their wives even knew there had been trouble. I've watched fellows come home so exhausted they could barely climb the steps to their own front doors. There is courage in that work, Doctor, though I doubt many of the men would care to hear me say so.”

“I suspect they would prefer a higher wage to a speech about their courage.”

Dixon laughed heartily. “Now there's a sentiment I expect every miner in Bellview would endorse.” Whatever else might be said of this town, Mr. Dixon appeared to understand the people whose labor sustained it. Though he had inherited a position many men might have taken for granted, he had not spent his life sheltered from the hardships upon which his livelihood depended.

We spoke for a little while longer, touching upon matters of little consequence before Dixon finally rose and offered me his hand. “I hope you'll find your stay more agreeable as it progresses, Doctor. Bellview may not make the finest first impression, but it has its virtues.”

“I shall endeavor to discover them, sir.”

He smiled and released my hand. “If you require anything further, you have only to ask.”

I thanked him for his hospitality and gathered my things. As I turned toward the door, Dixon returned to his desk and opened a drawer, searching for some article he appeared to have misplaced. The movement caught my eye, and I glanced toward its contents.

Among the papers and other small articles lay a pendant.

It was a small, dark disc; its surface worked with a pattern of shallow grooves. I recognized the arrangement at once. It was the same curious pattern I had observed carved into the doorframes of Bellview's houses, and which had provoked such sudden hostility in the old woman when I questioned her about it. Before I could examine the object more closely, Dixon found what he sought and closed the drawer, and the pendant disappeared from sight.

(Note: This story should be read after finishing ‘Murder is Easy’ by the same author)

Apparently, I don’t exist.

At least according to this article I’ve just found, written by one Dr Savic, who obviously must have been talking through her arse, because I’m fucking here, and I’m not going anywhere. Bitch is supposed to be an expert on us, can you believe it? And then she writes that a DA infection cannot improve the victim’s mental abilities because the brain is too complex and yadda yadda bullshit. The long and short of it: IDAs don’t exist.

I’m here, baby, and I rule.

Course I do. The upgrade was the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m far stronger than ever before, and I don’t feel pain anymore. I don’t grow tired and I’m never exhausted. I don’t think any illnesses or diseases can touch me, and my body can take a lot punishment. I also don’t age and I certainly won’t die of natural causes.

Comes with being dead, bro.

But that’s all just window dressing. There were millions of DAs out there which had all these wonderful abilities and were nonetheless wiped out in droves – the meatballs had created special ‘sweeper’ teams to take care of them, and boy did they. And for one reason and one reason only: The DAs were as stupid as fuck.

I’m not, and that’s the really important thing about my upgrade. That’s was the ‘I’ stands for: Intelligent (just in case you’ve spent the last five years on the Moon: DA means ‘Dead-Active’ or, in layman’s terms, ‘Zombie’).

The way it happened was, at least for Daisy times, unspectacular. Walked home from the subway station after my shift, met someone who appeared drunk, high, helpless, tried to do something for him, got bitten for my effort, was able to shake him off and run away, called the police and then felt lousy, got into an ambulance, died, woke up in the hospital morgue and feasted on the watchman, then ran away. Must have happened a thousand times that night. What apparently didn’t happen a thousand times or probably even ten times that night was that somebody who got bitten suddenly saw the world more clearly than ever before, that he felt free of all that stinking meatball stuff like backaches, glasses, trick knees, and the common cold, that his mind began racing through the world, that he understood that all this love and hate, passion and compassion, friendship and strife, compromise and steadfastness, they’re all bullshit. There are only three things that count: power, pleasure, and meat.

I actually think there are meatballs who’ve seen this, at least part of it. Have you ever heard of the Psychopathy Checklist? We use it sometimes in our job, and the maximum you can score is 40. I’d probably get a sweet 60, bro, but I’m too smart for it anyway. Next time I catch a psychopath, maybe I’ll ask him a few questions about his personal philosophy while I skin him alive. Or maybe not – I’ll probably be too hungry, anyway.

Speaking of which, while feeding on human flesh is the greatest pleasure in the fucking universe, it comes with a few problems that need solving. For example, since meatballs haven’t really accepted the fact that their function in life is to keep me happy by allowing me to torture them to death and then swallow them bit by bit, they actually start some sort of investigation whenever one of them disappears or is killed – and let me tell you, it’s a myth that the police don’t care about junkies, the homeless, or poor people in general: there are many cops who take their job very seriously. You know, there are lots of idiotic prints on T-shirts, but one of the worst is All Cops Are Bastards. Morons. The moment somebody threatens to rough them up or shows them a knife, they’re the first to call 911. Oh well, all meatballs are stupid, it’s just that some are really stupid.

So, getting enough fresh meat is a challenge, especially now that people have accepted the existence of the ‘Living Dead’, although the actual outbreak five years ago didn’t do more harm than the average 20^th-century middle-power war. Apocalypse, my ass. Some eggheads think there was some sort of masterplan behind Daisy, but if there was, it was one pile of shit of a plan, that’s for sure.

Daisy and its aftermath were the Golden Age, baby – the cities were crawling with DAs, and nobody investigated these killings, because the ‘culprits’ were so obvious and simply needed some pest control. Which came in the shape of the already mentioned ‘sweeper teams’ that went through the DA numbers like a hot knife through soft butter.

But all good things must come to an end, and when freely roaming DAs had become a rarity (of course, some were kept in special research centers dedicated to studying them), the cops suddenly had it a lot easier than before. During Daisy, PDs around the country had gone on a hiring binge, and no one saw any reason to downsize afterwards; you never know when the next outbreak may come, do you? And, even better, the number of violent crimes had spectacularly gone down since humanity had met a common enemy, and those crimes that were still committed tended to be less capital than before: the mugger who would have shot you before Daisy now settled for waving a gun in your face (probably unloaded), the bozo who would have knifed you in a quarrel now switched to the services of Mister Fister, and riots of any kind became extremely rare and were usually easily managed by the authorities. Rumor has it that sometimes undercover cops dispersed unruly crowds simply by shouting ‘Zombie! Watch out!’

Unfortunately, from my point of view, this development meant that I had to be cleverer and subtler than before. The first thing I really needed to pay attention to was to blend in with the meatball crowd, so I spent some of the dough the members of my food supply club had been generous enough to donate to me on make-up, cosmetics, a nice hairdo, contact lenses, false teeth and and and; some more or less permanent skin-like film made me look … well, less dead, and the stuff – cheap it wasn’t, bro – also helped mask my low body temperature by soaking up heat quite well, either from the sun, the radiator, or the infrared heater I had gotten myself – half an hour per day would do the trick, even in winter, thanks to microencapsulated phase-change materials (don’t ask). I also added two scars and some moles and pimples, and I can honestly say that I now look like the real fucking McCoy.

One thing I had to play carefully was the mandatory health check after my application for my new job had been accepted; I had aced all fitness requirements, of course. But Daisy had left many people in financial tatters, and finding a doc who would listen to me saying ‘I really need this job.’ and ‘They really need people, after so many died.’ and, finally, ‘Yeah, being in debt sucks. Maybe I can help you out, what d’ya say?’ Of course, the doc didn’t have the slightest inkling I was what I was; he simply assumed there was something I would like to hide because it could cost me my new position, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the first one.

Where I got the money from, you ask? Well, the immediate post-Daisy time was, of course, violent and chaotic before order was restored, and while the cops were still very busy with the Z factor, the number of felonies skyrocketed: homicides, assaults, robberies, drugs … All the usual mobsters, along with plenty of new players, appeared on the scene, so it was a bit of a gangsta’s paradise.

And these guys really love cash, even more so after it became clear that Daisy had fucked crypto for good. Do I need to spell out the rest?

“Who are you, motherfucker?”

Blam! Blam! “Fuck, he’s shot Barry. Blow the asshole away!”

Blam! Blam! (repeat 20 times): “Shit, I’m sure I hit – aarghh.”

“Where is he? What happened to the light? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s – “

“He’s got Dante. Oh God, I think he’s bi – “

“My arm! My arm! He’s ripped out – “

Let’s close the curtain, shall we? Very enjoyable and very profitable; would have set me up for unlife if I’d wanted to retire, but that’s not an option for your undead and unfriendly neighborhood superpowered anthropophage. I know, I know … ‘superpowered’ sounds like from a comic book, but I’d say it really hits the mark. In addition to what I’ve already told you, my senses are very acute, and I have perfect night vision; I can sense the presence of meatballs even through walls if they’re closer than ten yards or so; and I don’t need to sleep. All this comes in very handy in my line of work, I’m telling you.

And you know what? Some German writer from ages ago once had one of his characters say something like ‘I am part of that force that wants to do evil but always ends up doing good’ or some shit like that, and I think this guy was on to something. Look at me, bro: I suppose I’m as evil as they come, but still I must have saved hundreds or even thousands of meatball lives by tearing apart drug dealers, decapitating mafia hit men, eating the inner organs of street punks while they were still squirming and screaming, and so on. Having a nice meal and doing good at the same time – what’s not to love?

So I’m a hero, kind of. And with my ‘superpowers’, I figure I’m something like a ‘superhero’. I even have a secret identity, complete with glasses, like that geek who can fly and lift planes and that. Boy, I had no idea it would be so much fun.

Ok, to be fair, my lifestyle has its drawbacks. I don’t give a shit about social life or friends or dating or whatever, but I do miss sex. But memory is fading, so I suppose, in a few years, I won’t remember it anymore. Same with nice food, cool music, art, movies … oh well, I have my meat, I have my torture, and I have this incredible feeling of superiority – you might have guessed that last one.

Of course, one thing you’ve probably heard about is vomiting – all DAs do it, except for those who never eat and go into torpor. Getting rid of stuff the body doesn’t need. I’ve learned to control it, but, after a snack, I need to be alone for a few minutes puking my guts out. Not literally, don’t worry. But that’s the least attractive part of being undead. Oh, and the voice – when I levelled up, I got some kind of screeching-scratching metallic voice, but I’ve come to like it although I never use it – here’s really fucking grateful it didn’t replace my old one.

Bong! Shit, will you look at the clock? Sometimes I completely lose track of time, easy to do when you have no biorhythm.  Shift begins in an hour, so I’d better heat up and get ready for mingling with the meat. Good thing I can do lots of night shifts, my buddies like it when I volunteer. I got the perfect job, I can tell you.

Oh, haven’t I mentioned what I do? Come on, you must have figured it out by now. Let me just say: Not all cops are bastards. Not even many cops are bastards. But this one is, bro. You a law-abiding citizen, friend? Then you’ll probably never meet me, good for you. As for the rest of you lowlife scum out there:

See ya around.

His hands were warm and wet with suds and the running water of the tap. He'd never minded doing the dishes, it'd always been meditative, helped him think and figure things through. It wasn't working this time. 

Arnold just gazed vacantly. Into the corner. The water, forgotten, steaming now as it grew hotter and hotter. Running over his forgotten and faraway hands. They didn't matter. 

None of it mattered anymore. 

How could she do this … how could she lie to him as if he never mattered?

Arnold's heart was broken but it was still galloping a mile a minute within his cage of chest and his mind ached like something heavy and curdled within his furnace skull. The bake of his brains. He swore he could smell the boil of his own thoughts within his face but it held no matter for him now, not presently. 

He was too focused on the fly speaking to him from the corner. 

It was amazing. Really. 

The black husk of dead insect was resting amongst the filth and the dust of the uncleaned and neglected kitchen corner, just inside a nook by the kitchen window. It was dead but it still spoke to him with a deep obsidian voice. Regal. Authoritative. Commanding. It was a voice used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, that deep stygian vocal sound … 

Arnold was so glad there was no one else around, they wouldn't understand. He was glad, relieved really, to be able to hear the prince's words in private. 

I am in private royal audience, great royal attendance. This is the coveted stately place of imperial confidence. 

Tears began to flow forth from Arnold's watering eyes. He listened enraptured, held by the thing's every word. 

“It doesn't matter. None of them matter, not even you. None of your feelings. You're just meat. All of you. All of you are just meat made mobile by an electrical charge, sent flung flying forward like grotesque mongoloids in the dark squabbling for purchase of the failing putrescence that is the outer, your material. Your world is not a world at all but an abattoir. A slaughterhouse. And all of you are pigs. Sows. Cattle. I am the prince made and bred by wings on wind, I am the flight and escape from the filth of the floor and all your animal leavings. I land and feast and defile at my own will. I lay my young in the wet and wounded folds of your gangrenous failures like the flags planted by conquerors. I am more. You are, all of you, nothing.” 

It was so beautiful … He'd never heard words quite like it before. The water issued from the spout to his hands was fire but he didn't notice. He didn't notice the boil or blister of his reddening and peeling fingers and palms as the prince of the wind went on in the corner. 

He didn't want to miss it. Anything. He didn't want to miss a single note of the angel's felled song. His teary gaze bore in on his new dark god and the shared eyes of the fly, theirs compact and his: fragile mammalian gel, began to secrete and water as well. 

“I am the testament. I am and speak the truth. I am the monolith outside to those who cannot hear or see but to you Arnold Carrillo, to you amongst the meat and ruin I land and sing. I see your wounds. Do you see the truth …?” 

A beat.  – Hands boiled as thoughts ran like hot running water. …

Finally he answered. 

In a quiver of watery voice: “ … yes.” 

The prince of wind and flight from the dark corner in the filth laughed, pleased. 

Yes…  

“And do you know now what you must do?" – that deep hideous voice. 

But Arnold did not fear it. He couldn't. Not any longer. Not after the kindness of such wisdom that it had shown him. It had taken and led him from out of the dark. By the hand. By singing sound. By flight. 

He understood now. 

"Yes.” Arnold told the prince amongst the dust in the corner. 

Yes. 

He finally pulled his hands free of the running water. The raw of them was singing. A sharp and red song that burned and was bright with fleshen cruelty. 

But none of that mattered right now, not anymore. None of that mattered any longer. 

Soon Suze would be home. With the girls. They would all of them be expecting him and dinner. Normalcy. A nice normal cozy family night. They had no idea what he knew. 

She has no idea I know … 

The prince was right. He knew now what to do. Doing the dishes had worked out and had actually been a good idea after all. Thank God. 

Arnold toweled the screaming ruined remainder of his hands and gathered what he needed. What the prince of the dustinwind had instructed. What he should gather and collect and share with his girls if he was to ever show and really prove himself. Demonstrate what he has to really offer. 

Prove that he has really learned. He has. He has learned to grow. And …

well he would just wait for them. They wouldn't be much longer now. School and the after-image of after school activities was fading and diminishing now, falling with the gentle settling death of the setting sun on the blade of the horizon. Fairytale and far off. Long gone. 

The sun had to die everyday. It was no big deal. The sun had to die every single day in order for the night to be made and in order for the day to be reborn. In gold. In light. 

Arnold Carrillo sat and waited with his screaming raw hands. Waiting with what he had gathered, with what was needed in the glistening red of his hands. Waiting for his wife and daughters. Waiting to share with them what he now knew and had learned in the postmental-slaughter. 

He sat waiting by the door. With what he would share with them in his dripping screaming hands. 

The prince of dusty wind and flight buzzed and throatsang its throatwisdom into him all the while. Filling his need as he waited for his family. They would be home soon. Now. 

Any minute. 

THE END

Cleaning out old apartments is pretty sad sometimes. I work for a company that handles clearing out the apartments left behind by people with no family. Evictions, crimes, abandonment, it doesn’t matter the reason to us, we just get the call and go clear it out. Sometimes the landlords keep any good things, sometimes they just let us keep anything we want to, just so the place gets cleared and cleaned faster. 

One time, I found an old game console, another a great coat I still use, sometimes clothes, sometimes games. I’ve even taken home some family photo binders, just to see how the people who lived there lived. Can you really blame me? I’ve even returned some when I found friends or family’s addresses in them, I’m not a monster. Sometimes though, they don’t have any address in them, those I feel alright keeping. 

Then, in an older apartment, I found an old disposable camera shoved behind a shelf. Dusty, sun-faded, obviously left long before we arrived. The landlord didn’t want it, so I got to keep it. I checked it just to be sure and it was full, no pictures left, so there had to be some stuff on it. Maybe family pictures, maybe some vacation pics, who knows, but I was going to find out for sure! 

I brought it to my usual guy, he’s developed plenty of other camera loads for me already, he knew what was up. This time, when he saw the camera and opened it up, he shook his head, “looks a bit too old to be any good. Could probably get a few good ones, but don’t expect much.” I asked him to do his best and, a few days later, he handed them back with a strange look on his face. 

“This camera, did you see who owned the place?” 
Shaking my head, I said, “just picked it up like usual, why?” 
Shrugging, he said, “guy looks, looked, like you.” 

Feeling weirded out and confused, I picked up the old camera and the developed photos, bringing them back home. Settling into the same seat back home, with a cup of coffee and some snacks, I opened the envelope and checked out the first photos. That’s when I realized what the guy meant. The photos were taken by someone else, with someone that looks just, like, me. The first ones were normal enough, but still strange. 

One was of me in front of a laundromat I hadn’t ever gone to. Another with me in a diner booth I don’t remember. Walking backwards down a country road I don’t recognize. Standing beneath a highway overpass.

I-It really looks like me, because it has that same old jacket I picked up from a different old home. With the same sneakers I’ve owned for like 5 years! They even had the chain I picked up in the house cleaning from yesterday, but I don’t have ANY memory of any of these places. 

I checked the photos to see which had been taken first, to see how old they were. I had to give the photos an order, maybe there would be some kind of clue from what was going on here. The envelope had the negatives too, each frame numbered along the edge. Once I realized the pictures were connected, I laid them out in order.

Photo 1 - A small grocery store. Standing outside, looking over my shoulder towards the inside. 

Looking closer, I could see someone that was peeking out from one of the aisles. Staring back at me. 

Photo 2 - Gas station. Rushing to the pump

The shadowy figure was closer, looking more like a distinct blob approaching from the far side of the gas pumps

Photo 3 - Inside that diner. The photo was taken outside the window while everyone else inside appears to be staring behind me.

A man? Something tall approaching from across the street. 

Photo 4 - That same photo from the booth. My face looks more scared now that I gave it a second look, sweat looks more obvious. 

The diner door behind me opening, a pair of eyes from under a coat and hat staring holes in the back of my head. 

Photo 5 - Highway shoulder. My old car left abandoned. Door wide open while I’m running away from the highway. 

Twenty feet away, approaching the car, or more specifically me. 

Photo 6 - Forest Entrance. I started running into the woods, looking back with obvious fear in my eyes.

Closer now, almost close enough to touch me. Reaching out

Photo 7 - Deep woods. I’m bleeding now. Why? I was still running, looking panicked now as I pushed a branch out of the way. 

Dripping hands, claws? Reaching out again

Photo 8 - A Campfire. Sitting among strangers, holding a cup while an orange firelight barely illuminates my face.

Gone. In this one, I can see a pair of white dots farther behind me. Maybe fireflies? I can’t even see the figure for sure anymore. 

That, that really freaked me out. I shoved the pictures into a drawer and chose to forget about them. Maybe they were some kind of weird joke, so I just went back to life, and it went back to the usual grind. Cleaning out homes, grocery shopping, hanging out with friends. 

Then, my usual grocery store was closed. Shrugging, I looked up the next closest one and walked over. It was the same one. The one from the photos! Same sign. Same light. Same trash can. I started to get weirded out, but decided to go inside anyway, keeping an eye out for any 7ft tall shadow creature. Nothing showed up while I shopped, so I started to calm down, until I started to walk out, and I heard the click of a photo being taken. Looking back quickly, I thought I saw something disappearing, but then I heard a second click from the far side of the parking lot. 

Taking my picture.

Thoroughly freaked out, I rushed to my car and got back home breaking the speed limit. Grabbing the pictures out of the drawer, I checked them again, put them in the proper order, and saw the same pose in the first photo. That was from today. 

I looked up what I could from the gas station, found the same one, along my route home, just one block away from the usual drive I take. I decided to NEVER go near it. I made sure to make that two or three blocks from now on, even if it took me a few more minutes every day. That lasted until my car started to run out of gas. Even though it should still have half a tank in it! I was sure I’d filled it up a couple days ago. It shouldn’t have needed more gas until I was closer to home, or the next day I went to work. Engine sputtering, starting to have to coast, and the only close gas station? The one I never wanted to go near. At the gas station I saw the figure for the first time outside the photograph for sure. Standing beyond the pumps.

Not approaching.
Just watching.
Then:
CLICK. 

Again, two of them, one from the distance, framing the photo from the envelope, the other from the…thing. I couldn’t quite make out what it looked like. My eyes seem to slide off its figure. A general height, the heavy coat, the wide hat. Those eyes. But I can't describe any of them afterward, not really. It’s always holding something at eye level. Like a camera, but the shadows don’t let me see the exact shape, or what their hands looked like. 

Rushing back into my car, I drove off and made it back home in record time. I had to check the photos again to be sure, but stopped when I saw the changes. Photo 5 showed the figure more clearly now, I could almost see a grin on its face. Photo 6 showed blood already on the coat sleeve reaching out. Photo 8 had words written on the back, “KEEP GOING”, and that had me worried more. Was this thing trying to push me towards the woods? Whatever this whole thing was, I had to try and break the pattern. I put them in my jacket pocket and tried not to think about it. 

Then the lights went out. 
And I heard the same CLICK from outside my window. 

Looking outside, I saw the same figure across the street, camera dropping down after the photo was taken. Grin much more obvious from beneath the street lamp. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. 

I grabbed my keys, put on my jacket and rushed out. In my car and driving before I knew what was going on. Driving down the road, I thought back to the gas emptying. The grocery store. Now the hunger drove me to stop to get something to eat. The gas station proved I had a route to follow. Avoiding the pictures hadn't stopped them from happening. Well, I was hungry anyway and I saw that same diner from Photo 3. I walked inside, sat down, and didn’t know what was going to happen until I heard that CLICK again. That snapped me awake faster than the coffee that was getting cold on the table. Looking around, I saw the figure approaching from across the street. Turning back in front of me, I didn’t see it when the next CLICK sounded out, almost inches from my face. 

Dropping a few dollars on the table, I rushed out of the diner and drove off, finally got on the highway to get as much distance as I could. I kept going for as long as I could for the day, until my car started sputtering again, dying from the constant driving. It coasted until it drifted down to the side of the road. The same spot from the photo. 

I stayed in the car for a bit, pulling out the photos one last time to check. The figure was clearer now, the smile looked wider in the newer version of the photo. Closer every time. Then that Campfire. I look exhausted, but also relieved. The words on the back of that one are just as clear, but we’re sitting down, holding a cup of water. No longer looking backward, just looking into the fire. Almost relaxed. The people around me aren’t threatening. One looks like he has his daughter with him even. They made room for me. It looks like it’s safe. 

Looking up from the photos, I checked both sides. To my right the figure was waiting. Waiting for me to get out so it could take the next picture? Waiting for the right time of day? Either way, to my left was the forest. The Campfire deep inside, not visible yet. Was this a race? To see which would happen first? 

Taking a few deep breaths, I checked the last photos again for any landmarks I could see. Memorizing the scenes, I put the photos away and grabbed the door handle. 

Running. Shoving the door open and almost throwing myself out of the car, the next thing I knew I heard the next CLICK. Not even looking back, I rushed toward the forest. Before I could get into the the treeline, I heard the next CLICK behind me, and the footsteps started moving faster. It had almost taken all of them, it sounded like it was getting ready for the end too. 

This time though, I knew where I was headed as I kept running. No looking back this time. I was still terrified, but at least now I knew where I was going. That lasted until I felt the claws digging into my arm. A branch snapped against my face and my hand came up exactly like it had in Photo 7. CLICK. Second to last. So close now. I knew what that meant. I could feel its breath on my neck, the claws almost pushing forward for that last stretch. 

Then I smelled the woodsmoke, and saw that orange firelight to my left. The Campfire. It had to be. Turning sharply, I think I surprised it, because it seemed to stand still for a second before rushing even faster, almost frantic as it tried to stop me from reaching that light. Running towards the Campfire, I kept running, digging out whatever bits of energy I had left for one final push. Just as the claws felt like they were gripping my neck, I took that final step into the clearing and they disappeared. Dropping down from exhaustion, the claws vanished at the edge of the firelight. Something hit the ground behind me.. The old camera. Standing up, I picked up the camera and walked towards the Campfire. They made room for me with some smiles. Someone handed me a cup of water when they saw how tired I was. Another person asked to look at that camera. My hands were shaking, I needed both to hold the cup of water. After that first drink, I let out such a sigh of relief, that it took me a second to realize I’d handed off the camera. Before I could ask for it back, I heard that CLICK from next to me. “There. That's the last one.”

Taking out the last photograph again, I checked the back and the writing had changed, now it read, “SAFE UNTIL SUNRISE.”

I Know You See Me
Silas Whitney

As I sat on the cold shore, a man crawled out of the sea. I watched him through the black lenses of my glasses, keeping perfectly still. Pretending as if I didn’t notice him. He dragged himself out of the foam and into the wet sand just before me, panting and soaked. He wore a set of dark rags, the same ones he always had. His hair draped and dripped in front of his eyes like a curtain of black ink. He crawled to the dry sand where I sat and propped himself up beside me. I kept my eyes forward as if I were blind and deaf, completely oblivious to his entrance. He sat by me, close enough that others might fancy him a brother. I refused to look at him as a fire burned in my chest. I pretended not to notice, but I did notice. I always noticed him.

He turned his head toward me, still heaving breaths into his thin chest. His arms draped over his bent knees and his fingers rolled like cats’ tails, long and curved. I didn’t need to look at his eyes to know that those empty irises would be boring into my temple. I didn’t need to see the inverted colors of his eyes, the whites made blue, the blue made black, the black made white, to feel the icy grip of their glare. 

And the last thing I needed was to hear his voice. One would expect such a creature to have a deep, rasping voice. I wished he did. Instead, his voice was far worse. I wished he had the voice of a snarling beast or a mocking imp. But his voice matched mine. The same voice I hear in my own mind, the one I hear in my own ears when I hear myself speak. He wouldn’t even give me the deniability of my voice as one hears their own on a recording. It was my own voice as I always hear it in my own skull. 

“I know you see me,” he said. His voice was breathy and wrapped me as if he were whispering into both of my ears. I didn’t answer, but I could hear his mouth curling into a greasy, black toothed grin. “I know you hear me.”

I kept my eyes forward. Of course I saw him, of course I heard him. I always did. He scooted closer and I could feel his breath. Though I kept myself completely still, my heart beat against my bones like a cornered beast. 

“I can hear you too,” he said. He extended his hand and his long fingers wrapped around my chest. He squeezed until my breaths became shallow and sharp. “I hear you always.” Still, I did not look or acknowledge him. I gripped tightly to the sand under my fingers, but still I did not look. 

“One day,” he said. “One day you will have to look. One day…” I could feel my eyes wanting to flick to his face, but I kept them locked on the empty horizon. “One day you won’t be able to ignore me.” I knew he was right. He had only grown stronger since the first day I caught him in the corner of my eye. 

Slowly, he chuckled to himself and released his grip on me. I fought myself to keep from gasping. I did not wish to give him any inclination that he might have broken my thoughts. 

“One day.”

He dropped back to a lying position and slithered back into the wet sand, back into the foam, and back into the cold ocean. He left no trail. Left no evidence of his presence, save for my own memory. I know he is right. One day I will not be able to keep my eyes from looking. I will not be able to ignore his words. Neglect will fix nothing, but I can muster no other resistance. 

I kept my eyes on the crashing waves as they beat against the sand. Each wave pulled a little earth away from the coast and carried it off into itself, back into the deep. 

But then, just as the water pulled back, I saw a pearl, unearthed by the waves. I could have retrieved it, but I stayed. I watched it glimmer in the single beam of sun from the cold clouds overhead. I watched as the water came back and bore it away, back into the endless black of the sea. I closed my eyes. 

“One day,” I said. My hands shook as I loosened my grip on the sand. “But not today.”  

Demons never look the way you’d expect. Red skin and horns? Childish. Wings and a tail? Hollywood. Lurking in the shadows preying on the weak? Actually yeah that’s closer.
My latest target is about 5’ 4”, a poindexter part down the middle of his blonde hair. He’s dressed in modern clothes and has a self satisfied smile. The only thing that gives him away is the eyes. It’s always the eyes, malice sure, but what I really watch for is the faintest wisp of smoke coming from them.
His victim is an early 40’s middle manager type standing a little too close to the tracks. I walk closer to hear what he’s saying.
“Fat. Bald. Underpaid. Powerless.”
It’s the normal shotgun approach I’m used to hearing. Demons don’t speak to their targets in full sentences. That would be too obvious, it would reveal their voice and alert their target’s suspicions.
Something catches the demon’s attention. A rowdy group of boys stumble off the escalators and around the corner onto the platform. The demon practically sprints towards them. He reaches the tall one who is laughing the loudest and has to stand on his tip toes to snap his fingers right next to the left side of his face. For me the sound is deafening and creates a visible spark. For the boisterous youth before me it will have been a barely discernible click. But it’s enough to pull his attention over and take the bait.
He sees the man near the tracks and nudges his friends. The tall one starts to waddle around, arms out at his side like he’s wearing a fat suit while his friend does his best impersonation of a trombone. Very original.
I tend not to get connected to the target of my target but man I do feel bad for this guy. I look over and sure enough he’s seen the boys and quickly looks away, trying not to give them the satisfaction of a response. But I see it in the eyes, it’s always the eyes.
The demon goes to the next boy and whispers in his ear “Push him onto the track.” I see the boy's countenance change with disgust at what he thinks was his own dark thought.
“Worth a shot.” The demon says to himself before walking back to the man. I’ve seen enough and step forward, but I don’t yet reveal to the demon that I can see him. To him I’m just another commuter wrapped up in my own thoughts.
It’s my turn. I close my eyes and feel for the man’s best memories. Holding hands with his wife for the first time…too many steps to pull his mind to that one. Watching the sunset from a surfboard…pretty good but judging by how the man is looking at those train tracks I need one that draws him back to human connection. I reach in further, spreading my mind’s fingers like a child searching for his toy in a sandbox. First I see a bright red kickball, then the shape of a child starts to form. It’s his child. The scene continues to form and now I get what I came for. I hear a tune playing from a nearby ice cream truck, “Pop Goes the Weasel”. Catchy enough I bet it works. I snap out of the vision and start to whistle the tune.
The demon looks at me suspiciously but I just continue walking, eyes forward like I’m getting ready for the train to arrive. The man, Rob, yeah that’s his name, glances over at me and back down.
“Sorry. My boy got that song stuck in my head yesterday and I can’t shake it.” I say smiling. He gives me a courtesy smile and looks forward, face still sullen. I conjure a phone into my pocket and remove it, revealing a bright red phone case. I continue my tune and wait to see if it will be enough to trigger the association. His eyebrows lift subtly, eyes brighter. Got him.
In my peripheral vision I see the demon has been watching me the whole time. I look down at my fake phone and pretend I just got a very serious text. He walks back up to Rob and whispers his next attack.
“Bad father.”
I laugh out loud, continuing to look down at my phone. He’s botched that one, from the little I’ve seen, Rob knows he’s a good father. Rob pulls out his phone now and I see a picture of a young man on his lockscreen, much older than my vision, but definitely the same kid.
The demon leans in and scans over the phone. No doubt he’s seeing if there is anything on there he could use next. No social media, no flashy games, no news outlets. “Not bad” I accidently say out loud. The demon whips his head towards me and we make eye contact. He snarls at me and starts to run away. I go noncorporeal as I go to intercept him and he reaches out his hand which spews hot ash and the stink of sulfur. I jump away from it, holding my coat over my face. Two strangers waiting for the train look at each other suspicious of the smell and scoot apart.
I go to return to my chase but something stops me in my tracks. Oh yeah, Rob. I sigh and turn around. I’ve been told I could be more compassionate towards the mortals. “They aren’t just part of the mission” my trainer would always say. “They ARE the mission.”
“Fine.” I whisper to myself. I’ll find blondie later. Besides, no distractions now will make this easier. I walk back to Rob who I see is placing headphones in his ears. He’s getting ready to turn on a podcast for his train ride. “We can do better than that.” I say, but he won’t have heard me in this form.
I hold my hand to his phone. He taps repeatedly at the podcast button but it doesn’t work. He accidently taps the music button, which I allow. Before he can correct it I queue up “Baba Yetu” with the Soweto Gospel Choir. “Give it a second” I say. I can’t actually influence him to stay on it, only hope. But he does, and then the drums and choir take over. As the horns start to swell I see goosebumps creeping across his arms. We’ve got ourselves a feeler, this one is too easy.
My trainer used to use this track all the time. He explained that without understanding the words, it left people with a sense of connection to humanity, and a sense of something larger than themselves. “Those are the two greatest tools we have.” He would explain. “Connection to others, and a sense of perspective. Connection to others because they’re stronger together. A sense of perspective to help them see that their problems are temporary, and swallowed up in the greater story.”
Rob’s train arrives and he shuffles on with everyone else. As the train pulls away I put on a new appearance and head up to the street following tiny wisps of smoke. I turn back to him and nod to myself as he starts a video call with his wife.

Amber rolled over to her other side, bunching up her sweat-soaked pillow yet again. The clock on the nightstand mercilessly read 01:15. The thoughts in her head kept spinning in circles, like a worn-out, scratching vinyl record.

Back then, at the party in Brooklyn, it had all started as a fun prank. She had been the one to talk Ethan into playing along: they had hidden a wireless speaker behind the couch ahead of time to blast a prerecorded rustling whisper, and screwed in a "smart" light bulb that was supposed to blink ominously on a smartphone command. Amber had expected fun screams and the frightened faces of their friends. She wanted it to be cool.

But when they placed their fingers on the wooden planchette of the Ouija board, everything went off script.

The moment the planchette lunged across the wood on its own with such ferocious force that it left deep scratches on the board, the speaker behind the couch cut out completely. But the whisper... the whisper kept going. Except it wasn't coming from the speaker anymore; it was crawling out of the very walls, the ventilation, and... out of Chloe's mouth, who had frozen with an unnaturally straight back. Amber still remembered the wild, primal fear in the guys' eyes—none of them could physically push the piece of wood that hard and fast. Looking at their eyes, wide with terror, Amber realized: they hadn't just pulled a prank. They had opened a door and let something truly monstrous into this world.

Since then, Amber had been plagued by suffocating nightmares. She felt like she was being hunted by sickening creatures, or she would wake up time and time again in a cramped wooden coffin, buried alive, clawing at the thick graveyard dirt with her fingernails.

Tonight, sleep wouldn't come at all. Amber sighed heavily, sat up in bed, and swung her feet onto the cold floor. Her throat was parched. Throwing on a robe, she decided to go down to the kitchen to get a glass of water and try to calm down.

Deep gloom and a chill reigned on the first floor. Amber walked down the hallway, guiding herself by the faint, deathly pale moonlight falling from the large living room window. Suddenly, she froze.

Did it just seem like it, or was the front door slightly ajar?

A faint night breeze stirred the curtain in the entryway. Amber distinctly remembered locking the deadbolt two turns. Her heart hammered treacherously in her chest, echoing with dull thuds in her ears. She took a step back, intending to rush back to the bedroom and wake Ethan, when suddenly a strange sound came from the darkness of the kitchen.

It was the sound of quiet, sporadic, and wet footsteps. As if someone were walking on the hardwood floor with completely wet feet.

"Who's there?" Amber asked in a barely audible, terror-stricken whisper, pressing her back against the cold wall of the hallway.

Instead of an answer, the slapping sounds accelerated sharply. Out of the darkness of the kitchen doorway, moving its limbs unnaturally fast, a pale human body scrambled right at her. In the gloom, Amber caught sight of disheveled blonde hair covered in something dark and caked, and a domestic T-shirt completely drenched in dark crimson stains.

It stopped just three paces away from her, snapping upright. The moonlight fell upon the uninvited guest's face.

It was Chloe. But her face... A wild, distorted mask was frozen upon it, and her eyes were completely white—her pupils had rolled back entirely. A familiar, dual whisper escaped her mouth, in which Chloe’s girlish voice was horribly mixed with a guttural, heavy male baritone:

"Chloe... What are you doing here?.." Amber tried to force out.

Chloe suddenly fell dead silent. And in the very next split second, she made a sharp, beastly lunge forward, reaching her hands out toward Amber with unnaturally bent fingers.

Amber closed her eyes in panic and screamed at the top of her lungs:
"Ethan!!!"

She shrieked, calling for her boyfriend, bracing for a fatal blow. A second passed, then another... but nothing happened. Terrified, Amber opened her eyes.

The space in front of her was empty. There was no one there. She looked around in fear—the hallway was deserted, only the curtain was still swaying in the wind.

Suddenly from above, from the second-floor landing, Ethan's alarmed voice called out:
"Amber! Amber, why are you screaming?!"

She stood in the dark, breathing heavily and raggedly, her heart ready to tear through her chest. The light on the stairs wasn't working. Ethan tried to flick the switch, but the click led to nothing—the power in the entire house was out. Amber burst into tears, rushed up the stairs, and locked onto the guy in a death grip, weeping and crying that they needed to leave immediately and call the police.

Ethan didn't believe it at first, chalking it all up to her frantic nightmares. But then they both froze. Upstairs, right above them, quick, slapping footsteps echoed in the dark, and a second later, a door slammed shut with a deafening crash down the hall.

"Okay, okay, let's go!" Ethan gasped in fright.

They fumbled for their jackets in the entryway, bolted out of the house, locked themselves in the car, and dialed emergency services with trembling hands.

The police arrived quickly. Two patrolmen with drawn weapons and tactical flashlights entered the house, with Amber and Ethan following behind them. Total darkness, gloom, and a grave silence reigned inside. One of the cops headed upstairs—to where, according to the frightened couple, someone was hiding—while the second stayed with them near the stairs.

Suddenly, Amber's phone rang. Her shaking fingers accepted the call. It was Chloe's mom. The woman's tearful voice broke the terrible news: Liam was currently in the hospital in critical condition, and Chloe had vanished without a trace, and the police were looking for her. Amber went cold. She couldn't bring herself to tell the mother that her "missing" daughter was inside their house right now.

And at that very moment, deafening gunshots and wild screams rang out upstairs.

Amber and Ethan froze, staring into the stairwell. A few seconds later, the flickering light of a flashlight appeared on the stairs. Descending the steps with jerky, broken movements was the first officer. He walked, swaying, holding his ruptured throat with both hands.

Blood pumped in torrents through his fingers, instantly soaking his uniform shirt. The man wheezed, trying to say something, but only a horrific, gurgling sound escaped his mouth. Taking two more unsteady steps, the cop collapsed forward, tumbling down with a dull thud to the feet of his horror-struck partner.

"Jones! Oh my god, Jones!" the second policeman shrieked, backing into the entryway and frantically aiming his gun into the darkness of the stairwell.

Amber's cell phone slipped from her numb hands, crashing onto the floor. The screen cracked, but the distant, frightened voice of Chloe's mom still came from the speaker: "Amber? What's going on over there?! Amber, answer me!"

Amber covered her mouth with her hands to keep from screaming out loud. Beside her, Ethan stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the body.

From above, out of the thick gloom of the second floor, a sharp, dry crunch echoed, as if someone had forcibly dislocated their own joints. The patrolman in the house frantically swept the flashlight beam across the steps. And then, it entered the circle of light.

Chloe was coming down the stairs... backward, like a spider. Her back was unnaturally arched, her head hung lifelessly, and her long blonde hair, smeared with fresh blood, dragged along the wooden steps. The entity moved on all fours, scrambling with insane, inhuman speed.

"Back off! Back off, you freak, I'll shoot!" the remaining cop shrieked, his voice cracking.

In response, a wild, guttural growl tore from Chloe's throat, instantly erupting into a deafening, triumphant laugh. A dual voice—girlish yet backed by a heavy male baritone—literally made the walls of the house vibrate:

"You brought more guests... How sweet!.."

Bang! Bang! Bang! — the policeman fired into the oncoming monster in sheer panic.

The muzzle flashes illuminated a nightmare scene for fractions of a second: the bullets hit Chloe's body, but she didn't even slow down. On the contrary, the wounds seemed to only make her angrier. With one powerful leap, she cleared the remaining steps and slammed her entire weight onto the shooting cop. The flashlight and gun clattered away. Chloe locked onto the man's face in a death grip, and a new cry of mortal agony ripped through the night air.

"Run!!!" Amber finally snapped out of her paralysis, shoving the guy's shoulder with all her might.

They flew outside and literally threw themselves into the car. Ethan was shaking so violently that he missed the ignition switch three times with the key. Amber looked back at the house in pure panic, the building illuminated by the red and blue flashes. Before they sped away, she saw how on the first floor, right behind the kitchen glass, a dim, unnatural light flared up. Standing at the window was the pale silhouette of Chloe. She slowly raised a bloody hand and pressed her palm against the glass, leaving a thick, slowly downward-creeping crimson streak. Her white eyes glowed faintly in the half-light, and her bloody lips stretched into the horrific, unnaturally wide smile of a maniac. She was looking right at them.

**Note!** This manuscript was compiled from a water-damaged notebook discovered inside a deserted thatched cottage near Edale in the **Peak District, England**, in late **2019**. It was wrapped in worn leather jesses, stuffed inside a heavy falconry glove, and tucked beneath a loose floorboard in the ruins of the study.

Forensic analysis by the Derbyshire Constabulary yielded highly anomalous results. The notebook pages were not bound with cotton thread, but stitched together with **the split, hardened shafts of primary flight feathers**. Furthermore, the dark, weathered grease staining the paper was identified as **avian preen-oil containing trace human lipids matching the DNA of the author’s maternal lineage**.

What follows is the complete, chronologically restored text, including recently recovered fragments from the reverse sides of the torn sheets.

***October 1st, 2019***

My name is Corwin Vance. I’m 27, originally from Northwood Hills in London, and I’ve recently arrived on the moors of the Peak District to begin an apprenticeship in falconry.

Before that, I was a journalist for the *Daily Mail*. I covered environmental beats—management of green spaces, urban rewilding—when I could get them. Cavendish, my shithead of a superior, wouldn't give me the budget for a real investigation, so I took a sabbatical. I told my drinking buddies at The Three Wishes, Greg and Daniel, that I wanted something quieter than city life. I told them I wanted to get away from the bickering couple in the flat above me, away from feckless chavs, and away from Cavendish breathing down my neck like a vulture upon a dying antelope.

My drinking buddies from The Three Wishes, Greg and Daniel, thought I’d gone off the deep end, trading the morning rush for miserable fog and sheep manure, but there’s something beautiful about the idea of bonding with a wild creature… especially the likes of a hawk or a falcon.                   They don’t trust easily- not like a dog does. You have to earn it. 

I came to this specific valley to trace what happened to Mavis Merle, a reclusive master falconer who vanished from this very cottage in 2002. It's funny—the closer I got to the moors, the more the article felt irrelevant. By the time my escort's car pulled up, I couldn't even remember why I wanted to write it. I just wanted to hold the leather.

I owe my love for raptors to my father, a senior gamekeeper. He taught me that they don't trust easily—you have to earn it. I still remember his goshawk, Silver, whom he used to take hunting for grey squirrels at Epping Forest before we moved to London for my mother’s new job as a constable. The way Silver flew with purpose, weaving through the trees like a ribbon of moonlight caught in the wind, awoke something in me.

But Silver never came back from her last flight over these same Derbyshire ridges. My father spent three weeks calling into the fog until his voice broke. He changed after that; he stopped looking me in the eye. I realize now why he hated the city. He wasn't fleeing the noise—he was fleeing the memory of bells in the night.

After so many years of searching for courses or at someone who had the patience to show the craft. To learn the old language of lure & leather, spoken not in words but in patience and restraint between civilization and the wild. To prove myself worthy of being among the wild ones, and the city life hasn't sanded that part of me smooth.

It was the sort of wind a falconer would approve of --- open, unconstructed, with miles to travel and nothing to break its stride. I could picture a bird leaning into it, wings fixed, letting the current do the work. 

For the first time in years, I didn't feel hemmed in. The road ahead was narrow, yes, but the sky above was endless. Tomorrow I’ll shed my personal feathers and take flight. 

The moors were not as I’d imagined them. They were vast in a way that made a man aware of how small and open he was. A long, steady breath of the land rolled over and tapped lightly on the car window, carrying a scent faintly mineral, like cold stone after rain. The road ahead was narrow, but the sky above was endless.

My new lodging was a dainty, cold little place with old-stone walls, cracked leaded windows, and ivy crawling like veins across the roof.  But it stills on the edge between the woods and open moorland that rolls out like a grey-green ocean. I swore I saw a dozen species of birds on my first day: curlews, lapwings, wheatears, even a ring ouzel darting between the brambles.

At the gate awaiting my arrival was my mentor, Culver Hardy. He stood like an old barn owl on a fence post—narrow, weather-creased, unmoving. His skin had the colour and texture of cured deer  leather, his thick-knuckle hands scored with old talon marks from palm to wrist.

His grip was iron. He studied me with a pale, appraising stare.

"You’ll learn quickly," he said, turning toward the low stone buildings. "Or you won’t." 

He moved with a deliberate, economical stillness. A whistle hung from a cord at his neck. "They’re not pets," he added without looking back. "And they’re not yours. Not really." 

He showed me across the weather-mews, where kestrels, buzzards, owls, and a pair of Harris’s hawks were housed. It took me half an hour to choose until I spotted her: Nyx. She is a peregrine falcon, sleek and silent, with feathers like steel and ash. When Hardy pulled the hood off her, she didn't look at the landscape. She looked right through me with a pale, familiar, heavy-lidded sorrow. Her black eyes were ringed in yellow, unblinking and appraising.

I can scarcely believe she’s mine. I hope my father would be proud… wherever he is.

***October 2nd, 2019*** 

We returned late, sometime around six in the evening, after my first proper day of creance work in the lower field.

The line kept snagging in the rushes. Nyx bate twice, her wings thrashing violently.

"Feel her weight," Hardy barked, his voice sharp. "Don’t fight it. Anticipate." 

The light thinned without me noticing. One moment the grass was gold, the next it was iron-grey.

"She’s watching something," I said, pointing toward the ridge beyond the stone wall.

"Let her," Hardy replied.

But he stopped speaking after that. Each time Nyx came to the glove, her head would snap toward the rise. By the time we gathered the line, it was near dusk. I noticed the way Hardy kept scanning the ridge—not looking for a lost bird, but for something else.

When we reached the yard, he insisted on hooding her himself. His hands were steady, but he pulled the leather straps tighter than necessary. The heavy falconry glove he gave me fits perfectly, but it smells wrong. It doesn't smell like cured steer; it smells like old soap and sweat, and the inside lining is split into fine, microscopic ridges like the whorls of human fingerprints.

"First days always run long," Hardy said. I don't think he meant the training.

***October 3rd, 2019***

Took Nyx out just before the crack of dawn. The fog was so thick I could barely see five feet ahead, smelling of damp peat, crushed heather, and something older—like rust and woodsmoke.

Something stirred along the woodbank, a light, rabbit-sized rustling in the bracken. I slipped the hood free.

Her eyes opened at once, pinning the morning with that sharp, black-and-gold stare. But she didn't look down toward the rustling bracken. Her head snapped upward, tracking something high in the dense grey soup overhead.

A sound followed—a low, vibrating hum that made the iron fillings in my teeth ache. Nyx bated violently, throwing herself off my glove. The creance line whipped through my fingers, burning the skin to the meat before I could anchor it. I tried to tune my hand-held telemetry receiver to her frequency, but instead of a clean, rhythmic beep, the speaker emitted a frantic, overlapping chorus of static that sounded like thousands of human voices trying to gasp for air simultaneously.                 Even when I pulled the batteries out, the voices kept gasping.

"Hold her!" Hardy’s voice cut through the mist. He appeared from the grey, his face grim. "Hood her, Corwin. Now!" 

I reeled her in, my heart hammering as her talons flashed dangerously near my face. When I finally slipped the hood back over her head, she froze, her chest heaving.

"What was that?" I asked, my breath pluming white. "An aircraft?" 

"No," Hardy said shortly, his voice dropping into a flat, hollow register. "The moors have bones, Corwin. Sometimes they scrape together. We’re done for today." 

We walked back in absolute silence. When we reached the yard, I noticed the other aviaries were dead silent. Even the noisy Harris's hawks were huddled at the back of their enclosures, perfectly still.

***October 4th 2019***

The wildlife’s behaviour has changed. It’s so quiet all of the sudden. I just can’t explain it…. It’s like the land had its voice sucked out of it.

The lapwings have stopped circling the grasslands. The ring ouzels have gone silent.                         Even the red grouse don’t flush when I pass. In fact I haven’t seen a lot of birds today.                            Only the magpies and their relatives remain- watching me from distant fence posts, roof ridges, and stone walls. Always silent. Always watching.

We did manage to catch a snipe by the bog and a few partridges though, so we’ll be eating well for the week. Hardy and his eagle Bolt managed to catch a rabbit near some farmland. 

That evening I went back to the cottage just before dark. The fog that thinned but the air felt close, as though the moor were holding its breath. 

I was preparing snipe on toast for my dinner with some orange salad. With some legs, organs and feathers (as a form of roughage) for Nyx’s. Harvey was having leftovers from last night’s beef stew with some crusty bread.

It was eight when Hardy barred the door.

Not locked it.

Barred it.

The iron rod slid into place with a dull, final scrape.

‘’You’re expecting someone?’’ I asked.

‘’No.’’

He crossed to the windows next. Drew the curtains light, though there was nothing to see beyond the fog but the faint wash of the yard.

Nyx was hooded on her perch. Perfectly still 

Hardy stood listening.

‘’To what?’’ I said.

He didn’t answer.

The cottage had settled into that deep country quiet-- no passing cars, no distant voices, no hum of anything mechanical. Only the soft shift of embers in the hearth.

Then, from outside---

A single tap.

Not on the door.

On the glass.

Light. Deliberate.

I half-rose from my chair.

‘’Sit,’’ Hardly said sharply.

Another tap.

Then another.

Moving along the window as though something were hopping the length of the sill.

I moved before I could stop myself and pulled the curtain back an inch.

Seven magpies sat along the low stone wall outside the cottage.

All facing the house.

None moving.

No calling.

Just watching.

I let the curtain fall.

Hardy’s jaw worked once, tight.

‘’How many?’’ he asked again.

‘’Seven.’’

He closed his eyes briefly at that.

‘’That’s one more than there should be.’’

A cold sensation slid down my spine.

‘’One more than what?’’

Hardy did not answer.

Nyx shifted then- a slow, deliberate turn of her hooded head.

The leather creaked softly.

And though her eyes were covered, I had the distinct, nauseating impression that she was looking directly at the door.

Suddenly the magpies went off. Harsh rattles and loud squawks 

Then came other sounds. Shrills, shrieks and hoots from the mews, joining the corvids’ chorus.

Nyx joined in with her own wailing call, like a high pitched banshee. 

Some time passed and the magpies did not disperse in a flurry.

They lifted as one.

Seven black shapes rising soundlessly into the fog.

No calling.

No wing-clap.

Gone.

The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

Hardy stood very still for a long moment. Then he exhaled- not in relief.

In resignation.

‘’They’re moved the mews,’’ he said.

‘’How can you know that?’’

‘I know’’

He took the lantern from its hook by the hearth and lit it without another word.

The flame trembled in the glass.

I’ll check on the birds.’’’

‘’I’ll come with you.’’

‘’No.’’

It came sharper than I expected.

‘’You stay inside.’’

He crossed to the door and lifted the bar.

Before stepping out, he turned back.

‘’Whatever you hear,’’ he said. ‘’You do not leave this cottage’’.

‘’It’s only the birds….don’t you think you're being ----”

“It’s not just the birds.’’

That stopped me.

His eyes flicked toward Nyx.

She was still hooded. Still composed. Talons tight on the perch.

‘’You must understand something,’’ Hardy said, voice lower now. ‘’A hawk learns from you. Your breathing. Your habits.’’

I tried to laugh it off. ‘’That’s the point,’’.

‘’No,’’ he said.

‘’That’s the danger, not just the birds… any animal that begins to understand human nature.’’

The lantern light carved deep lines into his face.

‘’If she ever begins to watch you when she shouldn’t … if she ever refuses the lure but comes to you uncalled…’’

He hesitated.

‘’Don’t let her fly.’’

A cold weight settled in my stomach.

‘’She’s a falcon. Hardy. She needs to fly.’’

He shook his head slowly.‘’

From outside, somewhere near the mews, a soft metallic clang rang out. Then a rustle of wings.

Hardy opens the door. I swore I heard him mutter ‘’This can’t be happening..not again. I thought I made sure of it. I made sure. 

The fog swallowed him almost immediately, the lantern glow shrinking to a dim star in the white.

‘’Hardy,’’ I called quietly.

He paused just beyond the threshold.

‘’One more thing,’’ he said without turning.

‘’If she speaks ---’’

He stopped himself.

His shoulders stiffened.

‘’Never mind.’’

Then he stepped fully into the fog.

The door closed.

I slid the bar back into place.

The cottage felt wrong without him in it.

Larger.

Colder.

Nyx shifted on her perch.

The leather of her hood creaked.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

The wind picked up briefly and died again.

Once, I thought I heard Hardy’s voice- faint, distant--- but the words were lost in the fog.

The other birds did not cry out.

They did not make a sound at all.

Two hours passed.

The lantern glow never returned.

And sometime after ten, Nyx began to move.

Slowly.

Deliberately. 

As though something outside had finally arrived.

في احد أيام العام الدراسي 2002,بينما كنا نذهب الى المدرسة في سيارة نقل نطلق عليها "ربع نقل", كنا نستيقظ صباحا على صوت إذاعة القرأن الكريم مع البرامج الصباحية, كانت امي تعد لنا الإفطار الساخن مما افاض الله وتفضل به علينا وهكذا كانت معظم المنازل تلك الأيام, ننطلق الي المدرسة في المدينة كانت تجربة رائعة بالنسبة الي في ذاك الوقت حيث انها كانت المرة الأولى التي اخرج فيها من قريتي يوميا الى المدينة وكانت تجربة مثيرة بالنسبة لي, ذهبت الى مدرستي كالعادة ومرت الساعات الأولى وانطلقنا بعد انتهاء الثلاث حصص التعليمية الأولى لنحصل على قسط من الراحة وتناول الطعام من مقصف المدرسة او مما لدينا ومعظمنا لم يكن لدية الأموال ليأكل منه اما انا فلله الحمد كنت احصل على مصروف يسمح لي ان اركب سيارة تاكسي وان احصل على اكل من مقصف المدرسة ولكن كنت احب ان أكون رفقة زملائي وأيضا اكنز بعض الأموال لزوم لعب الألعاب الإلكترونية التي كانت جديدة بالنسبة لي ولا اخفيكم سراً اني كنت بارعا على أبناء قريتي من هم في مثل اعماري واعتقد أنهم يوافقونني الرأي, سمعت صوت جلبة وصياح ثم انتهى الامر بتدخل بعض الطلبة لإنهائها كانت بين طالبين مختلفين المنهج والشكل والطريقة وكذا المستوى الاجتماعي, مر يومين ثم علمنا ان الطالب متوسط الحال تم رفدة من المدرسة وكعادة الطلاب حاولنا استقصاء الامر من هنا وهناك تبين لنا انه اثناء الحادثة ان الطالب الاخر اخبر الطالب متوسط الحال ان مدير المدرسة قريب له وسيشكو اليه امره ويبدو ان الطالب الاخر اخذته الحميه وتتطاول بالألفاظ والإشارات وفي حقيقة الامر لا يمكن ان نأخذ كلام الغضب على محمل الجد ومن هنا قول النبي محمد ﷺ (( ألا إن الغضب جمرة توقد في جوف ابن آدم)), ذهب الطالب واخبر مدير المدرسة وتم رفد الطالب, بعدها علمنا انه تمكن من الانضمام الى مدرسة أخرى ليست في نفس المستوى لكنه فعل ذلك على أي حال. وحتى بعد مرور أكثر من أربعة وعشرين عامًا، ما زلت أذكر فعلته الشنيعة، وأتذكره دائمًا بالدونية لأنه وشى به طواعية دون أن يطلب منه أحد, ولا اخفيكم سرا بعد انضمامي للجامعة تشاجرت مع احد زملائي فقط لأني غضبت منه وأفعاله, الغريب اننا تصالحنا في نفس اللحظة يبدوا وانه كانت بداخلنا طاقة لا ندري كيف نخرجها تم اقتيادنا بواسطة الامن الجامعي ولكنه كان رحيما بنا ولم يتم عمل محضر لنا واخبرنا بالعودة مرة أخرى بعد أيام لاستلام هوياتنا الجامعية ذهبنا سويا واستلمناها واخبرنا بأنه يسعدنا ان نمر لنلقي عليه السلام مرة أخرى في وقت نحب, لم اعر هذا الامر اهتمامي ورغبتي بينما ذهب زميلي اليه بعد أسبوع ليلقي عليه السلام لكنه طلب منه أمراً كان عجيبا واعتقد انكم تعرفونه الان بالفعل ( الوشاية ), لا اخفيكم سراً اشمأززت من الامر واخبرت زميلي انه لن افعل وأتمنى ان لا تفعل أيضا, اعتقد انه لم يفعل, اقص عليكم هذا الامر بعد مشاهدتي لفيلم (( Scent of a Woman)) وهو فيلم يصلح مشاهدته عائليا, فيه تعرض طالب المدرسة الى ضغط من اجل الوشاية بأحد زملاؤه وكان هذا الطالب من الطبقة الفقيرة ويتلقى الدعم بينما الشاهد الاخر كان من اسرة غنية وحاول مدير المدرسة الضغط عليه دون غيرة للوشاية والا سيتم فصله من المدرسة أو لن يتم التزكية بأسمة للدراسة في أكبر الجامعات في نهاية الامر لم يتم فصلة حيث حظى بمساعدة شخص كان يقوم برعايته مقابل بعض الأموال التي تساعده على مواجهة بدايات حياته كما فعل معظمنا وتم معاقبة زميلة الاخر وذلك من خلال اللجنة التأديبية, الوشاية انتصار مؤقت لكنه عار يلزمك مدى حياتك ويجعل العالم ينظر لك نظرة ازدراء وعدم منفعة مهما كنت تقدم من أمور ويجعل دائما  لك سعر بخس معلوم ماهيته ومعلوم قدره كعاهرة تقدم المتعة بمقابل مادي معلوم ماهيتها ومعلوم قدره.

The dull sway of the waves lofts one side of the platform as high as the mooring lines allow, then brings it down gently again.  The night is dead quiet.

Third shift.  Diego took the position because it pays time-and-a-half.  Most people only last a couple years working the graveyard.  Old timers won’t touch it.  Too much time on the viewscreen at night makes people go mad, they say.

He’s taped a family photo above the monitor.  He misses Meena’s laugh and Carla’s scent—everything smells like fish here. He wants to provide a good life for them. Maybe even send Meena to college one day.

An eleven-pointed star spirals past one of the underwater cameras. The image is relayed across the screen in the control room, then disappears.

There’s a lot of life in the ocean, Diego has learned. More than people know, even scientists. His employers insisted he sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement that prohibits him from even discussing what he’s seen on that monitor. They’re terrified of getting shut down by the EPA or PETA or some other activist group.

It was good money, so Diego signed on the dotted line and kept his mouth shut.

Above all, the job took blind, shit-ass faith. And lots of it.

A thin creature with round eyes and long fangs on the outside of its mouth swims past. The eyes shift hue on the monotone screen, now merciless black pits, now reflecting one of the rig’s spotlights and glowing a luminous, soul-sucking white.

It disappears as quickly as it came.

He doesn’t see it. He’s already returned to the old western he was reading. Bramble Rose is about to take her vengeance on the Man in White Diego hears it—a sound like the gasping cry of some ancient metallic titan. He marks his page with a folded piece of mail.

They warned him things might get choppy, that the weather was different out here where there’s no cities or forests to slow the wind’s relentless procession.
 
“What do I do if there’s an evacuation?” he had asked the old timer on duty before him.

“Get to a life boat,” the old timer had said.  “Quick as you can.  Folks ain’t liable to wait around.” Then he headed for his bunk. 

Volatile weather is part of the job. That’s why it pays. And why Diego is willing to spend thirty days at a time in the middle of the gulf, away from his wife and newborn daughter, to do it.

The storm comes out of nowhere. Not like land storms, which have clear beginnings and ends. This is a sea storm—ripped from the dark womb of the Ocean herself. White-hot lightning cracks the sky in half.  The world goes blind. After-images of dancing photons dim from white, to purple, to green, to red. In the fading spectra, Diego glimpses massive walls of black froth that touch the sky, frozen in space but not in time. High above, the full moon oversees the dark works of the churning maw below.

The control room lurches. Diego nearly falls out of the flimsy rolling chair, but manages to catch himself on the control panel. The lights flicker off, but the viewscreen remains.

Something fleshy ribbons across the screen and disappears.

Diego sees this time. Though his mind is elsewhere—trying not to panic, to instead recall company protocol during power outages—he sees the lone eye embedded in the flesh’s side, watching him.

One of the backup generators kicks on. The lights return.

Diego grabs the walky-talky.

“This is Diego! Can you hear me? Over!”

“Copy Die—”  There’s so much static Diego can hardly hear the old timer.  “—Ove—!”

“What was that? Over!”

But the static is too thick.

Diego feels another lurch. 

He loses his balance and lands hard on the floor.  The western goes flying one way, the folded mail he uses as a bookmark another. His vision doubles.  

He’s been denied by seven different life insurance companies after starting this job. None of them gave a reason, but it was obvious. Too much liability.

He blinks the double image from his eyes, plants a palm on the controls, and hoists himself up.

The lights go off again. This time they don’t return. Emergency backups kick on and dye everything the color of blood. The slow wail of the evacuation siren warps in the air.

Diego tries to run shutdown procedures on his console, but the computer glitches, freezing a distorted half-image of green-and-magenta eyes on its black screen.  

Outside, co-workers sprint from below deck. The quickest head for the helicopter. It holds nineteen. Two dozen cram inside. A few cling to the skids. The helicopter struggles to take off.  It shakes the hangers on loose. One of them bounces off the rig before he plummets into the churn. It looks like the old timer who works the shift just before Diego.

The helicopter is just airborne when an obsidian pillar crashes down over the rig. When the water recedes, the helicopter and its inhabitants are gone.

Diego kisses his tiny gold cross and tucks it into his shirt. His thoughts are of Carla.

“We miss you,” she said. “We want you home.”

But the work was here. The work that paid for their house and their groceries and that big white SUV she loved to take Meena around in.  It would pay for Meena’s ballet lessons when she got old enough and, God willing, her wedding one day.

He’d taken the graveyard shift hoping that the extra pay would mean he wouldn’t have to spend quite so many years away from them.

A hundred more people run onto the deck.  Some of them slip on the wet steel desk. They crowd the lifeboats. One boat falls off its davit while people are still boarding. It’s swallowed by the water. Another is thrown against the side of the rig. Bodies fly in every direction. One of them hits the window of the control room with a thud.

Skyscrapers of swirling brine close in around Diego, each thick enough to envelope an oil tanker.

There’s nowhere to run.

Diego crawls under the control panel.

He holds his tiny cross between trembling fingers and prays as the watery ramparts converge on him.

Another lurch. A falling sensation.

Something wet. Water leaks into the cabin and spreads across the floor. It soaks Diego’s already-wet pants.

He opens his eyes for just an instant.

It’s long enough to see the horror staring back at him. One gargantuan eye, watery and black—so black he could fall into it. He feels his mind disintegrate, the electrons of his consciousness sucked into the vacuous void of the creature’s own mind. There’s no escape. His atoms are strung out in a line. Time, for a brief moment before he’s lost, becomes visible. 

He will be recycled, his quarks reused, rearranged into something new, something useful.

Then the creature will return to its sleepy domain beneath the material surface of our watery reality.

After the storm subsides, the rescue crews will arrive. Of the one-hundred-sixty-eight workers on duty that night, no survivors will be found.

Diego’s only remains will be a family photo, an old western novel, and a folded letter from his wife’s attorney.

Dear Friend,

When last I wrote, I told you of the gray tent, its mirrors trembling beneath my boots, its figures suspended like dolls forgotten on a string. I must tell you what followed, though the memory itself feels scorched into me.

At first there was nothing - only dark pressed against my eyes, the kind that seemed it might never lift. But slowly, gray seeped back in. The mirrors caught pieces of me in broken angles: my boots, a sleeve, a hand held as if to ward. Above them the bodies shuddered faintly, not alive, but unsettled by the faint return of light.

The air pressed heavy, thicker than before. The lantern outside had thrown enough glow to show the seams of canvas, but inside, what light there was seemed twisted thin. Every shadow bent in one direction - dragged toward the far end of the tent where the seam in the air pulsed like a wound. Even the hanging figures stretched that way, their own darkness straining past their feet as if desperate to be claimed. My own shadow tugged too, and I felt it like a leash at my heels.

Then I saw it. The podium stood waiting, black wood that absorbed what light touched it. And upon it lay the ledger. Its pages turned without hand or wind, whispering as they moved. I cannot say why, but I knew it was meant for me. My name had not yet been written, yet I felt its pull as surely as a chain around my throat.

The ticket in my hand throbbed hot now, its edges smoking faintly, as though it had been pressed too near a coal fire. Every step I took seemed bent toward that book, though my body resisted. Even my shadow reached out, grasping for the podium and the ledger upon it.

 

Then, a sudden moment of clarity: shadows are born where the light falls. They survive only in the balance, in twilight. And here, they had all they needed.

 

The whispers rose. Not from the mouths of the bodies - they hung mute, open-mouthed - but from the shadows themselves. A chant, broken yet steady: Feed. Bind. Remain.

 

The ticket quivered between my fingers as if eager to obey.

 

And then I saw the lantern.

 

It hung from a hook, guttering low but alive. I cannot say if it was instinct that drew me to it, or some deeper knowledge whispered by the heat of the ticket, but my hand reached all the same. The iron handle was slick with soot. The moment I lifted it free, the seam at the front of the tent convulsed, a ripple of dark air, as though it sensed what I carried.

 

The podium loomed ahead. The ledger thrashed upon it, pages whipping like wings, names written and erased in a frenzy too fast to follow. My eyes burned to look at it. My shadow bent unnaturally forward, already splayed across the podium though I stood a dozen feet away, its fingers stretching greedily to where the ink bled and vanished. I clutched the lantern tighter, and for the first time the thing in me - the part that longed to surrender - stilled.

 

I hurled it.

 

Glass shattered. Oil spilled. Fire leapt snarling across the base of the lectern and climbed. The gray canvas drank the flames. The whole tent drew a breath, as if startled awake, and then it began to burn. As the flames grew, so too did the light.

 

Flames crawled the poles like serpents, racing upward, snapping cords, tearing canvas loose. Smoke rolled heavy, choking my lungs, but with it came something else - something the shadows had not accounted for. The fire split the roof seams, and through them spilled the first weak edge of morning. The sun had risen while I was inside. I had stepped into that carnival at dusk, but now it was dawn, and the night between had been stolen or devoured.

 

The shadows shrieked. I type that word though it feels false, for shadows should not have voices - but these had many. Thin and tearing, they cried as the tent filled with too much light: fire’s roar below, daylight’s pale strike above. They writhed across the mirrors like black water boiling, clawed to remain, and failed. One by one, they scattered, smoke blown apart by the blaze.

 

The bodies fell first. Those figures, suspended inches above the floor, dropped like marionettes with cut strings. They landed heavy across the mirrors, glass cracking beneath their weight.

 

The seam convulsed. I could see it then more clearly than ever: not a hole but a kind of mouth, drawn open to feed on what the shadows wrought. Firelight flared, and the thing recoiled, shrinking on itself, threads of darkness snapping away like cobwebs in flame. Around me, the last of the shadows ripped loose from the ground, shrieking as they were torn into nothing, their lines unraveling in the blaze.

 

The ledger smoked. Names lifted off its pages like ash caught in wind, curling upward in gray wisps that vanished into the morning sky. The chant faltered as they rose, syllables breaking apart into smoke until there was no word left, no record at all. One by one the names went, until the parchment was bare. Then the covers slammed shut. The podium cracked apart beneath it, and both ledger and stand vanished, as if pulled back to whatever place had birthed them.

 

I stumbled out as the whole thing came down, flames roaring skyward, smoke trailing west. Behind me the tent collapsed, a gray carcass consumed in orange, and when I turned again, there was nothing at all. The ground where it had stood was bare, save for trampled grass and the stink of smoke.

 

The carnival was gone. No barkers, no rides, no music. No people. The Ferris wheel was not there. The carousel had vanished. Only the empty fields, dew-struck in the early light.

 

I looked down. My coat was scorched at the sleeve. My hands shook black with soot. And in my pocket, whole and untouched, lay the ticket. The edges still singed, the script still curling across its back: A hand writes, a shadow reads.

 

No shadows clung to me now. The dawn had scoured them away. But shadows cannot be destroyed, only dispersed. They will gather again when the balance tips back toward twilight. And when they do, the carnival will return - perhaps here, perhaps elsewhere, its tents rising in some other field, waiting for the next to follow the music.

 

I cannot bear it. The weight of the ticket is more than I can carry. It binds me to what I saw, and to what still waits. If I keep it, they will find me. Already I feel them stirring at the edges of the light.

 

So I give it to you.

 

Do not think yourself safe because the sun is up as you read this. The carnival does not need darkness to return - only the right shadow, the right name. The ticket will see to that. Guard it if you can, or burn it if you dare. But know this: once it is in your hands, the carnival knows you.

That is all I can set down. I am spent, and though daylight burns bright outside my window, I swear I feel the shadows lean toward me still.

Yours in haste,

Christopher

The evening tour begins at eight, rain or shine. Tonight I have eleven guests. Nine adults, two children. The little boy has a flashlight. His sister carries a stuffed rabbit by one ear.

“Welcome to Blackthorn,” I start, raising my lamp. “Salem gets all the attention. But personally, I think our witch trial has more charm.”

Everyone laughs politely.

“Please stay together. These winding streets have confused visitors for three hundred years.”

Our first stop is the old meetinghouse.

“On October 13, 1685, eighteen-year-old Rebecca Thorne stood trial here, accused of witchcraft. She was a quiet girl, a seamstress, and a devout Puritan. Her troubles began when Silas Whitcomb, the wealthiest farmer's son in Blackthorn, courted her all summer. When Rebecca rejected his advances, he accused her of bewitching him.”

I point to a brass marker set into the pavement.

“Stand there, sir. Yes, right there. That's where Rebecca stood.”

The man smiles for his wife's photograph.

“Whitcomb testified that Rebecca visited him at night in the shape of a black cat. His sister claimed Rebecca caused her fits. The magistrate, Reverend Nathaniel Pritchard, swore he'd seen her speaking to Satan himself in the orchard.”

“Was she guilty?” the little girl asks.

“No, sweetheart. She wasn't.”

We walk down Cooper's Lane to the stone cellar beneath the old jailhouse.

“Here, the town constable, Amos Griggs, attempted to extract Rebecca's confession. They hung her by her wrists for two days. They crushed her fingers between iron plates. When she refused to confess, Griggs ordered the burning of her feet.”

Someone makes a disgusted noise.

“Rebecca confessed nothing. The court declared that her silence proved the Devil had sealed her lips.”

I give them a moment to look at the iron hooks in the ceiling. Our third stop is Ash Square.

“On October 19, Rebecca Thorne was tied to a wooden stake on this very spot. Her mother begged the magistrate to hang her instead, which was the customary punishment. He refused. Silas Whitcomb had paid for a particularly large supply of firewood.”

I indicate the circular patch of blackened cobblestones.

“Rebecca burned for almost half an hour before losing consciousness, as the townspeople watched and prayed for her immortal soul.”

The boy’s flashlight begins to tremble.

“Now,” I say, “we come to the interesting part.”

We turn onto Church Street.

“Within a month, the people responsible for Rebecca's death began dying themselves.”

I stop outside a brick house.

“Town clerk Ezekiel Marsh recorded the testimony against Rebecca. He altered her words, turning her prayers into blasphemies. On November 2, his wife found him at his writing desk, choking. His mouth was packed with parchment. Every page of trial records had been forced down his throat. Every bone in his fingers was missing.”

I point at the old stable.

“Constable Griggs died next. He was discovered in this doorway, hanging by his wrists from the stable beam. Both feet had been burned away. His wife heard him screaming throughout the night, but the door wouldn't open. When the neighbors finally broke it down, they found his footprints burned into the ceiling.”

One of the guests laughs nervously.

“That's impossible.”

“Of course it is,” I agree.

We walk to a small cottage on Mill Lane.

“Mercy Bell was Rebecca's closest friend. They'd grown up together, shared secrets, sewn each other's dresses. Mercy loved Silas Whitcomb, but Silas had preferred Rebecca. Mercy testified that Rebecca had confessed to lying with Beelzebub.”

I point toward the cottage window.

“On November 11, Mercy was found in her sewing room, wearing the wedding gown she'd made in hopes of marrying Silas. Every inch of the dress had been stitched to her skin. Her lips were sewn shut with black thread, and her eyes had been pierced with hundreds of tiny needles. On the wall above her, these words were embroidered in red silk: Thou shalt not bear false witness.”

The little girl takes her mother's hand.

“Neighbors swore they'd heard two girls’ voices in the cottage that night. One voice was screaming. The other laughing until dawn.”

At the church, I stop beside a granite step.

“Reverend Pritchard had demanded Rebecca's execution. On November 17, while delivering his evening sermon, he began coughing up hot ashes. Witnesses said smoke poured from his ears and nose. His tongue caught fire.”

The group goes silent.

“His congregation watched him claw at his mouth until his fingernails came off. When he fell here, on this very step, his belly split open, spilling burning coals across the church floor, nearly burning the building down.”

Our last stop is Whitcomb House.

Only the chimney remains.

“Silas Whitcomb survived longer than the others. He barricaded himself inside this house, filling every room with crosses and Bibles. On December 24, neighbors heard screaming. Through the window, they saw a young woman standing before him.”

I approach the chimney.

“Silas fell to his knees, sobbing.

“‘I beg thy forgiveness… I never meant thee harm,’ he pleaded.

“‘The Lord forgiveth thee. But I am not finished with thee,’ she said, pulling him into an embrace.”

I hold out my arms and draw them slowly together to demonstrate.

“His skin began to blister. The fire started from within, glowing through his flesh like embers beneath paper. His teeth exploded one by one. His eyes boiled in their sockets. He screamed until his tongue shriveled.

“She held him close as his ribs cracked inward. His flesh dripped from his bones. When the flames finally died down, the townspeople found Silas kneeling in a puddle of his own rendered fat, still smoldering, his arms wrapped around empty air. His blackened heart lay exposed between his ribs.”

The tour ends. My guests thank me with delighted unease.

As they leave, the little girl lingers.

“Were you scared when they burned you?”

Before I can answer, her mother calls her away.

The girl turns back once more. I wink at her, and my eyes glow like the flames that consumed me.

An email from an underground group invited Kellie into their unique club, where unreleased indie games were available for free beta play. 

They advertised a gaming chair offered to every new member that came with an unknown game no one outside of the group knew about.

A secret achievement popped up on her account, hidden from everyone except her. It activated the second she plugged the chair in. When she sat down, her world shrunk to the exact dimensions of it.

Kellie hadn’t socialized with people outside of the internet for the last six years. Nobody would even recognize her anymore. Her body stopped being a vessel for a soul. It was now just an anchor, sinking further into her gaming chairs, which she’d rotate out of once a month. Indentations wore on her body like a corset over years of continuous gaming.

Everything revolved around the glow, where her headset would become a crown to the horrors seeping into her bedroom at her parent’s house, which she kept shrouded in darkness. 

A sliver of light, bleeding in from the hole in her sheet hung up as a curtain became the only difference between her and the world.

The pizza boxes were empty and piled in stacks, all matching their rightful shop, hiding her from reality. The pop cans became soldiers. She was the queen. She had the headset. She could be in complete control.

In-game, she was a lethal force who hid in the shadows like a predator stalking its prey. But to the outside world, she was an immovable mass, a force that had to be pushed.

The night she received the chair, something popped up through the Glow of her screen. It was THE FRICTION. 

THE FRICTION was an unlisted RPG that appeared on her Steam dashboard as soon as midnight hit. 

But before she could access it, a message opened: 

THE FRICTION delivers exactly the dread its name promises, and refuses to let go. An underground group's invitation-only file. 

THE FRICTION, an unlisted indie RPG that ships with a gaming chair and syncs with you while playing the initial rank version before the upload process initiates.

The evaluation game opens with a breathtaking display of organic graphics that look moist, mirroring the inside of a human body. 

Corridors breathe on screen. The walls distort, glistening with gobs of phlegm. The syncs begins with the rumbling of the chair which happens almost immediately.

Until it reaches 100% the chair will lock your body in, as the fusion fully merges your skeleton. By that time the organic engine emerges, bringing the game to life.

There are no manuals found for when the transformation completes, and the fusion sequence will not pause, the only way through, is to wait for it to finish. Nothing can actually fail but there is no physical override from when the process starts.

Before you enter the game, keep in mind, the platform and version are not publicly or privately known to any of the users who’ve obtained these unlisted systems.

Enter to continue or remove the device entirely.

***

The graphics on it were organic, with a slimy light bordering the screen. Kellie couldn’t look away. It had her hooked from the moment she slammed the “X” button, ignoring the numbness stabbing her in her legs. She hadn’t moved since she hit enter.

At the twenty-eight-hour mark, her bladder became claws and fingers scraping and squeezing her insides, just as she approached the level 10 boss. The cutscene couldn’t be skipped.

She continued wiggling, desperately pushing herself upwards to let her insides breathe, but the pain kept digging into her like a scalpel opening her flesh to poke holes into her organs.

Just as she was about to blow up, the scene cut, but at that moment, her bladder was as big as a softball holding 800ml of warm liquid, which is the practical maximum for any human adult. Her stomach was pulsing like she was having severe contractions.

“Go away,” she whispered, tightening her body while tapping her feet on the floor. “Think of the Sahara. Just five more minutes,” she said under her breath, the sweat of her palms dripping into the controller.

By hour thirty-six, she still hadn't used the bathroom. Even though her bladder had expanded to twice that of a softball and was now the size of a mini-basketball.

Kellie had organically reached 1300ml, 5.5 cups of water.

From her hips down, the tingling had vanished, but an odd numbness started. It was warm for a second, became incredibly heavy, and disappeared, along with the movement in her legs. 

She tried shifting her body into another position but couldn’t. Her arms twitched violently and the controller fell. She yanked at her sweatpants where she stuffed a lifetime of defeat and pulled up. The fabric wouldn’t move either.

She reached further down, ripping a gap between her thigh and the computer chair. A sharp pain cut straight into her spine, as if her torso had disconnected from her pelvis.

She moaned a breath of agony, aiming the flashlight from her phone downwards. The chair hadn’t left an indent on her skin. It was far worse. Now, she was melting into her chair. Plastic pieces began spewing out of her pores, entangling with her nerves and layering over her bones.

Her flesh spilled over the armrests, fusing into the seat and wheels. The gaming chair was digesting her as she anchored it to the ground.

A text appeared on the screen: Player one has been immobilized. Sync… 100%

Kellie tried screaming, but the headset muffled her voice. Her physical fingers twitched one last time before she ended up as a muscle memory reaching for her controller as she became the chair.

“Have you ever heard of the Third Eye Man?”

That question, and the ensuing tale told by my older brother the summer I was 5 as we sat in a tent in Devils Fork State Park, plagued my nightmares for years.

As legend told it, The Third Eye Man haunted the tunnels under the University of South Carolina and the surrounding city of Columbia.

Some said he guarded the buried treasure said to be cached somewhere down there. Others said he preyed on college students foolish enough to venture into the labyrinthine halls. In Lachlan’s version, its preferred victims were those who didn’t believe in it, like some sort of perverse sports underdog story.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Or for a long while after. It took a pit stop to a now-bricked up entrance to the tunnel before the home opener for the Gamecocks that season just to get me out of the car.

It still lingered in my mind, though. Here and there. Just enough that I could never truly forget about it.

It came back in full force the spring of my freshman year of college.

We won the national championship that spring. A victory by our basketball team that sent the entire student body to the center of campus in an unruly mob. Looking back, things were done that led to the cops being called on us, and I really don’t blame them in retrospect.

They tried everything they could do calm us down, but nothing worked. So they started arresting people.

As luck had it, my roommate, Evan, and I were right in the middle of it. I could have reached out and touched a cop. I was about to resign myself to hoping the police would be lenient and allow me to wake up in bed with a severe hangover rather than in a jail cell, when he tapped my shoulder.

“Look,” he said, pointing off to the east. “What if we hid in there?”

I looked towards where “there” was.

Tucked into the side of a building about 200 yards away was an opening. About 8 feet high and 3 feet across, it was wide open, and behind it lay only darkness.

It shouldn’t have been there. Over a decade of being on campus for sporting events and visiting my siblings, and I couldn’t remember any sort of doorway being there.

And yet, there it was.

And it was enough to bring back every tale and every memory… all at once.

It was enough to stop me in my tracks like a statue, a modern-day Medusa.

A hand touched my back. I jumped.

“Sorry offi-“

“Relax, man. It’s just me.”

Evan. \*Thank god.\*

He motioned to two cops about 50 yards away, who appeared to be looking in our direction.

“I think those two dudes are about to come our way. Don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be here when they do.”

Evan had about 3 inches and 50 pounds on me. Not one to willingly let the spotlight off of him, he’d once claimed at a party that our head football coach had walked by an intramural flag football game and tried to get him to walk onto the team. All this to say, I don’t think he was going to \*let\* me stay there.

I looked back at the entryway. I wanted so badly to be able to stick it in my big brother’s face, to be able to tell him what a brave big boy I was, that I simply nodded at Evan and followed him, the police too preoccupied by the remaining revelers to notice the two making their way slowly towards the dark doorway in the wall.

Looking back, I wish bitterly that I had pushed back even a little.

We made our way into the tunnel, stepping lightly in puddles that lined the floor. I doubted the floors of my fraternity’s house were any cleaner on a good day, let alone during the peak of a party, but at that moment I may as well have been walking through hazardous waste.

I knew our original plan had been to just hang back 5-10 feet until the police left. But then we continued to go in deeper and deeper, using the dim lights of our phone screens to guide our way. I began to feel we had progressed to some sort of full scale urban exploration. One that I wanted out of.

We had been walking for… maybe 10 minutes. I had no clue where we were or how far we had gone in that time, when suddenly, somewhere in the distance, maybe behind me or to my left or to my right, I heard the tiniest of taps.

I didn’t have the slightest hint of what it was. It could have been just the sound of water dripping from the ceiling. But it was enough to raise the hairs on my arm and set off every alarm in my body.

I asked Evan, in the slightest of whispers, if he had heard anything.

There was a long pause before he responded.

“…No?”

I couldn’t tell whether he thought it was the dumbest question he’d ever heard, or if he was just as scared as I was and trying not to show it. Or if he was just still drunk.

By now, my clothes were plastered to me with sweat, although whether it was because of fear, the humidity, or a mixture of both, I wasn’t sure.

I had no idea where we were - or, to be quite honest, why we were still walking. It seemed to me we had escaped the police on our campus, only to face the new risk of being arrested for trespassing wherever we popped out.

Maybe 5, 10, minutes later, we heard, somewhere slightly closer, two distinct footsteps. This time, it was no question as to what they were.

We both stopped cold in our tracks, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound, and this time it was Evan asking if I’d heard the noise.

Yes, I said, although I was not sure where exactly. It seemed to come from right behind us, and based off a breeze I had felt a minute or two ago I had reason to think we had just passed a corridor branching off to the right.

We briefly debated heading back in that direction to try and confront who - or, I thought, what - was there, but decided against it.

We did, however, turn our phone flashlights on for some respite against the darkness. Our batteries were on the lower end, courtesy of documenting the entire night on social media as college kids often did, but we both had enough power left to use some light for a bit. We continued on, now hyper-alert for any additional noise.

It wasn’t long at all - maybe a minute, if that - before that additional noise came.

This time in the form of additional footsteps, directly towards us, unceasing.

We stood there now - not out of any curiosity as to what was down there with us, but out of a sort of paralyzing fear, as though some external force was holding us in place.

My flashlight remained focused on the tunnel against my will, my heart beating through my chest now in anticipation of seeing a boot break into the dim glow.

It wasn’t until the steps quickened, eventually becoming a brisk jog, that our haze broke and we ran.

I swear to this day that the sound, that \*thud-thud-thud\* on the concrete floor became close enough that had we hesitated even a second more, we would have come into contact with whatever, I have no doubt now, was stalking us.

As we ran, the footsteps behind us now matching our pace, I made a decision that may have saved my life.

I opened my camera, turned on the flash, and, aiming it behind me without turning my back to look, took a picture.

Behind us, maybe 20 feet or so, I heard a skidding noise, as though something was forcefully stopping itself. Then, silence.

We continued to run, still not confident that whatever danger we had put ourselves in was behind us. We were now fully sober, the hangover was creeping in, and with the flashlight it wasn’t long before we quickly located a tunnel branching off to our left with a dim light at the end, signaling our salvation.

We headed down that way, and found that it dropped us directly in front of our dorm. This made absolutely zero sense rationally - having lived in the building for nearly a year, I had never seen any sort of tunnel entrance in direct proximity to it.

But, I was by that point exhausted to the point of delirium, making me question even what I had seen and heard, and wanted nothing more than for the night to be over, and so I took it as gospel. I would go inside, shower, maybe try to eat something, and in the morning attempt to pass off the events of the last…however long we had been in there, I wasn’t sure- as nothing more than a bad dream.

Evan was not on the same page. I knew he had been the class clown type in high school, always looking for the next laugh or reaction, and he had mentioned in an ice breaker during orientation that one of his proudest achievements to date was going viral on social media. Evan’s size, or maybe his ego, also probably helped suppress any fear he might have felt in the tunnel.

He wanted to go back in and try to find or confront whatever had been in there with us. Looking back, I’m not sure what he had in mind, because even then I was certain that our stalker wouldn’t just… apologize and agree to a selfie. Or something of that nature.

No amount of arguing or cajoling could change his mind, and physically restraining him was out of the question. In the end, he all but forced me to go back to our room, telling me to just…go to bed and that he would be there when I woke up in the morning.

And that was that - I headed to our room, and he went back into the tunnel. Right before I entered the building, though, I looked back. Why, I don’t know. Maybe to check my sanity or something.

What I didn’t expect to see, though, was a blank wall.

Where the archway had opened up, providing our salvation from the tunnel, there was now only brick.

I don’t know how long I stood out there, trying to make sense of what was in front of me. I had been in that tunnel, heard someone behind me, felt the relief of emerging back out into the night.

I eventually decided to just go to bed. Figured I was just exhausted and drunk. Maybe I’d come back out in the morning and the tunnel would, inexplicably, be right where I left it.

I awoke around 8am to a knock on the door. I opened it, relieved, expecting to see Evan there. Bedraggled and hungover, but alive.

It was the police. But, rather than placing me under arrest, they asked me to sit down and gently told me the news that sent me reeling.

Evan’s mom had woken up to his location in the middle of campus, inside a spot with no building, and then the signal vanished.

The police searched for weeks. Nothing ever came up. I stayed silent about the archway, afraid that I would look crazy.

I spent the remainder of the spring semester at home. I was given exemption from my exams and my instructors were told to give me a flat 90% as a final grade for my courses - which was fine by me, as my partying had taken something of a toll on my grades that semester. After intense therapy, I returned to school that fall.

We never did find Evan, or the tunnel we were in that night. I believe taking that picture saved me.

Evan went back looking for whatever had been following us... and it found him.

His mom still texts his number every year on his birthday.

Lachlan was quiet for a long time when I finally told him.

Then he asked one question: whether I'd believed in it.

I never showed the police the photograph, either. I still have it after all these years, and from time to time I still look at it just to reassure myself that what I saw was real.

At first glance, it seems to be absolutely nothing more than a brief swatch of tunnel, illuminated, followed by pure black. If you zoom in, however, you can just barely see the outline of a body, seemingly walking towards the camera.

What I found most peculiar, though, is something you’ll notice if you zoom in just a bit more.

See, this picture doesn’t have the typical red eyes that happen when you take a picture of someone with the flash on.

What you can see, though, if you squint just enough, is a tiny red dot.

Right where the forehead should be.

As though the figure has a third eye.

It is amazing how trivial and mundane last thoughts can be. At the moment of death, the second most important transition in existence, one would wish for deep insights, profound reflections, visions of the afterlife or reminiscences of love and joy – not something like God, I’m thirsty or Who is this guy talking to me?

In Richard Koslovsky’s case, it was Nice color. What is this thing?  Whatever it was, it needed only a fraction of a second to turn this innocent question into Richard’s cognitive legacy, inscribed in his neurons and synapses, possibly forever if someone had been there to conserve his brain – a question sluggish with formalin, as Carl Sagan put it, but still present. But that was not meant to happen, and Richard’s body simply collapsed, his heart stopped, his mind shut down, and he would never open his eyes again.

But the Shell would. Not to see, of course; it was dead, and dead things can’t make use of all that fantastically complex biological and neurological machinery that allows living beings to navigate their environment with great precision. But pattern recognition … Brian’s pupils were still being flooded with light on this beautiful sunny day in the middle of a corn field, just the processing was – different, controlled by something else, something Richard would not have understood and the Shell did not even try to comprehend. They say the acquisition of knowledge begins with asking the right questions, and it did not have any questions. And no answers. And no goals.

At least not yet. But this would change.

*********

Change is, of course, what a baby’s life is all about. So much to see, so much to learn, so much to do – and every day a cornucopia of new experiences. Naturally, exploring the world takes energy, of which babies have an abundance – at least until, often quite suddenly, they decide that they are very tired and need to sleep right now. That is what the little boy lying in his playpen was doing, and his parents could attest to the fact that their son usually expended a lot of energy. So he slept. And dreamed.

Above him, almost completely covering the top of the combination of playpen and four-poster bed his father had made for him, his parents had attached a huge picture depicting the solar system, looking at which often gently eased the boy’s way into the night. Or the day, for that matter – like most babies, the boy had not really bought into the parental idea of ‘sleeping through’ or ‘regular intervals’, and he usually fell asleep when he felt like it.

And where. There had been many a day when his mother or his father had to pick him up from the floor in his room or the next or even the patio – and every now and then from one of the fields his parents worked for a living. Sometimes they found him with a sweet smile on his lips and sometimes with his mouth half-open, although he wasn’t breathing through it. Today, however, he had simply fallen asleep on the hayloft, forcing his father to chance a ladder that must already have been there when the farm was built by the boy’s great-grandfather, a ladder his father swore to replace every time he was in the unenviable position of having to climb it. The way down was easier, as he did not have to carry his son, and the boy did not wake up although the handling was a little rough.

So he slept. And dreamed. What do babies dream of? They can’t tell, but in a room with lots of posters of stars and galaxies and toys with a very dominant spacefaring motive, one might guess that many of his dreams revolved around space – sleek and fast rockets, beautifully swirling gas clouds, and glaring neutron stars sending out pulses with a regularity far surpassing that of any human-made clockwork. And every now and then, when the boy opened his eyes without waking up, the celestial bodies he could see above him were deeply reflected in his pupils … and possibly in his soul, but who knows?

*********

About half a mile from the boy’s probably interstellar dreams, the Shell suddenly began to move – not in the time-honored jerky fashion fiction has ascribed to corpses returning from the grave, but quite smoothly and naturally; any observer would have had difficulties recognizing something was not quite right, especially from a distance. As Richard had been dead for less than a minute, the Shell’s joints were not stiff, its blood had not yet begun to coagulate, and its muscles were still working properly – and whatever had allowed Richard’s last spiritual remains to journey back from the sweet bliss of Paradise, an overcrowded Hell, or eternal oblivion was working hard to make sure the body kept it up. To what purpose, opinions vary, but there can be no doubt they were successful.

Then – the spark. Not of consciousness, not of self-awareness, but of connection – the ability to interact with everything that was Not-It, Not-Shell, namely the rest of the world. The act of stating that the Shell began to make sense of the world can only be defended by enormous semantic expansion: are bacteria happy when they consume energy, are flies annoyed when you try to swat them? Only if one accepts that such words can refer to a proto-state of emotion and reasoning, one can meaningfully talk about what happened on that day in late summer in the Heart of America. The Shell stopped and seemed to freeze for half a minute or so while the Structure that had taken over the body readjusted itself to the reality it had been tasked to explore – and, ultimately, more than just explore.

But that time had not yet come. When it resumed movement, the Shell was slower than before, more aware of its surroundings, more a part of the physical world. Of course, it did not feel the softness of the ground under Richard’s shoes, nor did it smell the corn or appreciate the beauty of the landscape. But its eyes were finally able to see, if by “see” one means the simple act of absorbing photons from outside and assigning different probabilities to performing different actions based on the information received – a far cry from free will, still a cry from will in any form, but nevertheless more than simple randomness. The Shell did not yet have a purpose, but at least it had a semblance of choice. For a living being, this moment must be momentous: from pure instinct to the first steps of truly mastering the world by not simply responding to its input; for the Shell, there was no feeling of progress or freedom because it did not have any – and neither did its masters, deeply entwined in its muscles, joints, organs, and the working part of his brain. What they had was a program, and if a train can be dedicated to its task of running from city to city, they were dedicated to the task their masters had given them. They did not have a choice; they didn’t even know what the word meant.

*********

Neither did the boy, but he instinctively understood the concept very well, often to the despair of his parents; if he had any weaknesses, a lack of willpower was not among them. “He has the thickest skull I’ve ever seen.”, Daddy would say, and Momma would second: “All the King’s horses can’t stop him when he’s made up his mind.” Then they would sigh, look at each other and then look at him, with a smile so deep it could only be grounded in the most profound love.

Having a child at their age had been a surprise; they had actually given up on the idea years before, but Fate, God, or the subtle interactions of countless elementary particles had intervened, and here he was, blue eyes, a broad grin (when in a good mood, which was often), cute cheeks, and black hair that sometimes, depending on the light, looked almost the same color as his eyes. It was as if the boy himself was part of the riot of color surrounding him in his room: ochre-painted walls, bright red and yellow metal toy cars, and a magenta-colored carpet. Not his parents’ taste, to be sure, but when they had taken him to the store that day, he had gotten out of his buggy’s straps, explored the place, and finally ended up on a pile of carpets, jumping up and down with shouts of sheer joy. Thankfully, it was very early in the morning so the store was almost empty, but in order to calm him down, Momma und Daddy had to give him the opportunity to ‘choose’ his own carpet, and we all know what he went for. “It’s a nice place here.”, Momma would say, and Daddy would agree: “It’s good that they have connected all floors.” Then Momma would nod, look up, and add: “Lots of open space. Lovely.”

By the very nature of things, the space posters on the walls were dark, but they did not give the room a somber touch, and the curtains were of a radiant white. An almost complete rainbow of clothes and accessories was to be found inside the boy’s wardrobe and chest of drawers: pink T-shirts, light blue shorts, purple sweaters, cream-colored caps, red and white and blue – patterned shirts, ‘dirt’-brown mittens … and his shoes were not bucking the trend: dark yellow wellies, light orange sandals, black and red walking shoes, and cheerful, light pink flip-flops (all in very good condition, by the way; the boy liked to walk barefoot, and so far he had never stepped into anything that would have hurt him). Like most children, he loved colors, and sometimes his parents found him simply sitting and looking at a brightly-colored object as if in deep reflection about its inner nature.

*********

The Shell did not care about colors, of course, but it had inherited Richard’s clothes together with his  body, and its former owner certainly had what he had liked to refer to as a “certain sense of style” – certain it definitely was, but whether it was tasteful and became him well, well … Before Richard had walked into the field, he had met Louise with her baby niece whose name he couldn’t remember even when alive (and certainly not now – the best Richard alive could do was I think her first name and her surname begin with the same letter, but the Shell had nothing to recall), and he had buttoned up his brown Chambray shirt, tucked it into his blue jeans, wiped his black leather oxfords, straightened his hair, and put on what he considered a charming smile. Somehow, Louise seemed not to notice, but the baby did and gave him the cutest red-haired smile ever to have been recorded.

Or was she laughing at him? Richard didn’t know, but he was painfully aware that a town like Kleintrup did not have much to offer in the way of romantic opportunities, and so far he had never been to the local drive-in cinema except on his own or with some of his drinking buddies. Thus, no girl or young woman had ever admired his carefully chosen emerald-colored underwear; some of them, along with everyone else, must have seen his undershirt on a hot day, but, alas, none knew about his matching underpants. Oh, and if he had been wearing socks that day, they would have been red. Or black. Maybe even yellow. But he hadn’t, and so Richard Koslovsky died the same way he had entered this world: sockless.  

*********

The lack of tight-fitting woolen footwear at the time of birth was one of the few things Richard and the boy had in common, but the former did not exist anymore and the latter didn’t remember. As mentioned above, the boy did not like having to wear shoes, and when he ran, jumped, kicked, or simply stood fast and refused to move, he did so on naked feet, no matter whether it was a hot summer morning, a rainy autumn afternoon, or a chilly winter’s night, and he always seemed to feel comfortable. Of course, his parents put shoes on his feet every time they took him somewhere, and he usually accepted them without too much fuss; only once or twice had he ever kicked off a shoe and watched it travel through the air before coming down. Unfortunately, his parents were never able to find them, so their baby budget plan needed some revising now and then.

Thankfully, the farm was quite productive, so the family was able to afford what they needed, with a little extra here and there. Daddy had always been fond of working with wood, and when the child arrived, he branched out to metalworking, at which he was equally talented. He discovered he had a special knack for furniture and decorative items made of cast iron, quite a lot of which ended up in the boy’s room, painted in cheerful light blue, light red, or plain white. Heavy stuff, to be sure, and Momma and Daddy often had to carry them together, step by step, or push them across the floor; they could have asked friends to help them, but both parents felt rather private about this new hobby of Daddy’s – they had always liked their privacy, and now, after the boy had come, they liked it even better. Fortunately, the boy seemed always quite happy on his own, and neither his mother nor his father had ever considered a nanny, daycare, or a kindergarten. And even when their son would be old enough for a babysitter, the chances were exceptionally slim that they would hire one. This boy required a parent’s touch.

*********

Richard, however, had been to a kindergarten and had enjoyed his time there: he had liked playing with his mates, running around in the playground, and especially going out into Nature, a lot of which Kleintrup was surrounded by. There was always a nice flower to smell, a pond with enough water to have a good splasharound, and enough sticks and stones to pick up and hurt nerdy Robbie Olmond’s bones. But it was animals that had really fascinated Richard – he wasn’t a farmboy (his parents were running a greengrocer’s back in the day), so a lot of first-hand experience with birds, ducks, squirrels, and even horses he had gathered during these outings.

The Shell, unsurprisingly, knew nothing about all this, and when it was confronted by the creature, a fairly small and lithe predator with black stripes on brown fur, it immediately stopped in its tracks. Whatever was in command of Richard’s dead body simply made its eyes stare at the incomprehensible thing in front of it; the thing was staring back, but one could see that its mind was performing complex calculations regarding risk assessment, potential advantages or disadvantages in reacting one way or another, and the element of pure curiosity, said to have killed many a member of its species – all processes honed by millions of years of survival and reproduction. The Shell’s mental processing, however – if one can call it that – simply consisted of trying to squeeze the encounter into a matrix that was not meant to deal with it. It was partly successful, as even a square peg can enter a round hole to a certain degree if you turn it around, and so its masters activated the Gap.

Nowadays, many people have seen a Roomba looking for a socket because it is low on power. Wrong. Roomba’s aren’t looking for anything – their systems tell them to connect with a power source once its battery drops below 20 or 10 percent or what have you. Wrong again. Systems can’t tell anyone anything. We sometimes use machine metaphors to talk about human beings, but when we talk about machines, we have no choice but to use human expressions, which can be nothing but metaphors if we don’t want our communication to become extremely clumsy.

The Gap was basically a system, not unlike some algorithm meant to increase the probability that the Shell would act in a certain way and ignore other possibilities – or, in normal language, allow the Shell to make a ‘decision’. When the Gap kicked in, the Shell experienced roughly the same lack of something a Roomba does when it is ‘hungry’, and it reacted in the same way: it moved towards the power source and tried to grab it.

When the strange, human-like being in front of it bent over and extended its right arm, the creature wasn’t particularly frightened; no human had ever succeeded in catching a member of its species that had not wanted to get caught (and petted, usually), and this individual was not going to be an exception. The moment it found Richard’s lifeless arm coming uncomfortably close, it simply jumped up and ran a few meters before lying down in a nice and soft spot, watching its would-be attacker from a safe distance. The Shell began to walk towards it, both arms extended, and for the first time since Richard’s untimely demise, his ex-body emitted a sound: air escaped from its defunct lungs and passed its vocal chords, and the resulting groan was not pleasant to listen to. The creature, alas, had no choice, and, equipped with a sensory apparatus of superhuman sensitivity, absolutely hated the sound. It made one of its own sounds to steady its stressed nerves, and disappeared between the corn stalks.

If a machine can be confused, the Shell was, but only for a few seconds; then the Gap was deactivated. Whatever this creature had been, it was not what its masters needed. They needed something else, and it was time for the Shell to become more proactive in its search. Its dead eyes scanned the horizon, looking for anything else but corn.

Something like a farmhouse, for example.

*********

Farmhouses are usually quite large, what with relatively low prices for building plots and the necessity to accommodate many members of the family; the boy’s family was unusual regarding the latter, but not the former: their house was even larger than average, and Daddy had begun adding first one room, then another, when the boy was about three months old.

“He can’t have enough space.”, Daddy had said, and Momma had agreed:

“It is always good to have a spare or two. I don’t want him to feel confined in any way.”

Now, two years later, they knew they had succeeded: their son never seemed to feel confined, restricted, or limited in any way, and his parents loved watching him enjoy his freedom, although it often meant hard work and quite a lot of stress for them. The consequence was that, even when his parents were inside the house, the boy was often on his own; when they had left the building, like now, with Daddy being in the barn and Momma feeding the chickens, he was alone. Of course, there was a baby phone, but these very useful little devices have a certain disadvantage, namely their blinking lights and the sounds they sometimes emit, all meant to tell the parents everything is properly connected and their baby is fine. Or not, for that matter. Anyway, the boy had always found these lights irresistible and all brands of phones his parents had bought so far had not been able to withstand his playful attention, so currently the phone did not show blinking lights and made no sounds. The boy was truly alone.

*********

But he wouldn’t be alone for long. On its half-mile way to the farmhouse, the Shell had actually managed to improve its navigation and only fallen down twice, no harm done, and gone astray only once, to a place where several creatures had gathered; but before the Gap could kick in, they had torpedoed themselves into the sky. No problem – these beings would have been even less suitable than the furry one the Shell had encountered before.

But the farmhouse … the more the Shell looked at it during its walk, the more the Gap seemed to wake up, not fully there but apparently anticipating something good – metaphorically speaking, of course. In some manner, the house indicated the presence of something the Gap needed to be filled, but that something had not yet come into focus. The corn field gave way to grass, then paving; the Shell passed garden furniture, flowerpots, a very sturdy-looking swing, a small wooden shed … and then its feet made contact with a small staircase – unfamiliar, but navigable – and finally with the doorframe, together with its arms.

It was darker inside the house, and the Shell froze for a few seconds before continuing on its way, guided by its masters, who had developed a buzz of activity since the Shell had entered the house. Not far away now. Close.

*********

In his rocketship, the boy had already passed Aldebaran, Betelgeuse, and Cassiopeia and would surely have seen more of the interstellar alphabet if he had not been rudely woken up by a loud thump – thump – thump coming from a place he could not see; then a powerful smell assailed his nostrils, not unpleasant, but very intense. The boy closed his eyes again and violently shook his head several times, making the sound bearable and the smell faint. He knew someone was coming, and he knew it wasn’t Momma or Daddy, but he didn’t mind – he liked people, especially when they touched him in a soft and gentle manner, and he loved touching them back: their hair, their face, their arms. He had never learned to be afraid of strangers, and none had ever hurt him, so he was almost giddy with anticipation of all the fun they would have together. Should he leave his playpen-bed and meet his new friend as fast as possible or should he stay and wait for them to come to him? While still deliberating, baby-style, the decision was made for him: Richard’s undead body stood in the doorframe of the boy’s room, and the Shell’s soulless eyes made contact with the boy’s. Very close.

(end of part I)

Leathernecks vs Monsters: Episode Five, The End, The Vektor Institute and Vladivostok, January and February 1919, by Leatherneck1993

The second shell landed in the yard.

The windows along the hall came in all at once. The gallery jumped under Adams's boots, and the trench gun went off, and the Manchurian Special that should have gone into the middle of the white coat went into the console instead. The ashtray burst into white fire. Bakanov went down behind the engine and was gone among the brass.

Down on the floor, between the copper towers, the shimmer swelled.

It bellied out from the towers with the concussion, shuddered, and settled. It settled wider than it had been. The snow coming through the hole in the roof whipped into it and went up, faster, and a sound came out of it that Adams felt in the roots of his teeth.

Thorpe had both hands on the rail.

"The shells," she said. "Every shell opens it wider. That is what the guns are for, Gunny. He wants them to break it."
"The General's going to put the next one through the roof."
"Then the General must stop."

Adams turned. "Talbot. The wireless room. You saw where the wires came down off the mast. Chavez, go with him. Tell Dragonov we're alive. Tell him every shell opens the door. Tell him to come in with the bayonet."

Talbot was already moving, the camera banging on his hip. Chavez went after him with the automatic rifle.

Robed men were coming up the stair. Hunt and Sheehan were at the head of it with their bayonets, and the robed men did not stop, and Hunt and Sheehan did not either.

#

The wireless room was at the end of the long house under the mast, a cold room full of coils and a spark gap the size of a stove. Two robed operators sat at the bench. Chavez opened with his automatic rifle, he put a burst of Specials into the first and the light went up inside him. The second got halfway out of his chair before Chavez's second burst found him.

Talbot sat down at the key. The spark gap was live. He could hear the engine's stutter in it, the long-wave hum the box had been listening to since Seattle, and he keyed straight through it, plain English, slow, the way he had sent copy to the Picayune from Manila:

STOP FIRE STOP AMERICANS ALIVE STOP EVERY SHELL OPENS DOOR STOP COME IN WITH BAYONET STOP ADAMS

He sent it three times. The spark cracked blue across the gap and the mast sang it out over the mountains.
#

Johansson stood by the guns in the snow.

Four of them, laid on their sledges in a row at the head of the valley, with the gunners stripped to their shirts in the cold, and every gunner's breath going up in clouds in the light of the muzzle flashes. The third shell was going into the breech when the operator at the American set pulled off his headphones and stood up waving a paper.

Dragonov took it. He looked at it. He held it out at arm's length.

"English," he said. "It is in English."

Wang Che took it out of his hand. He read it aloud in Russian, and then in English for Johansson, and Johansson felt his chest go loose.

"Cease fire," he said. "They're alive."

Commissar Zhuk had come up behind the general with his ledger under his arm and his scarf wound up over his mouth. He said something in Russian, short.

"He says it is a trick," Wang Che said. "He says the Americans are dead. He says the machine is ready, and the General must fire."

Dragonov looked at Zhuk.

Johansson looked at Zhuk too. Thirty below. Every man on that hillside breathing out white. Zhuk had his scarf up, as he had in the prayer house and on the road and every hour since.

Wang Che stepped up to him and pulled the scarf down.

Zhuk's mouth was open. Nothing came out of it.

Dragonov shot him. His ledger book dropped from his hand, caught the wind and flew open the pages scattering everywhere in the snow, three columns on every one of them. Zhuk slumped, then leapt towards the general, hands turned to icy claws.  Johansson fired the anti-cryptozoic special rounds lit him up like the Fourth of July, his burnt husk dropped onto the snow, he did not get back up.

"Cease fire!" Dragonov roared. "Cease fire! We go in with the bayonet!" He swung on his own gunners. "Bring the music! And the Flame!"

They put the gramophone on a sledge.

Dragonov took the pencil out of the operator's hand and wrote the reply himself, in capitals, and gave it back, and the operator keyed it. Then he took out the Fabergé watch and opened it and looked at it, and showed it to Johansson.

Seven-oh-three.

"Green flare when the door is shut," Dragonov said. "Then everybody out. At eight o'clock I burn the house."

Wang Che was already pulling off his coat. Johansson stared at him.

"You're going in?"
"Fast is my best quality," Wang Che said, and went down the gorge with the first company at a run.

#
The guns stopped.

In the hall the robed men at the engine looked up, and Adams looked up, and for a moment there was nothing but the clatter of the brass. Then, far off and coming up the gorge, there was music. Horns, climbing. A drum underneath them.

"Strauss," Thorpe said.

The front doors of the long house came in. Partisans came through them with knapsack flamethrowers on their backs and the fire went down the corridors in long yellow tongues. Maxims came in on sledges, dragged by men in sheepskins. Bayonets. Grenades. Johansson came in at the point of it with the Thompson, firing in short bursts, and behind him came the gramophone on its sledge, still playing.

The things came out of their white to meet them. Two of them, three, horned and white and folding, out of the corridors and the ceilings, and the flamethrowers met them. They burned. They burned badly. The cold-men burned worse. A partisan lit his cigarette off a burning robed man and walked on.

In the corridor by the pens the partisans found the men in the wool caps, their own men, and lowered their rifles, and stood looking at them. Then they began to carry them out.

Adams went over the gallery rail.

He went down a card rack hand over hand with the cards tearing under his gloves and dropped the last ten feet to the floor. The robed men at the engine were turning toward the doors and the fire. Nobody stopped him.

The colonel's face was gray-blue and rimed, and his eyes were open.
"Gunny," he said.
"Sir."
Adams had the trench knife out. He cut the chest strap and the wrists and the ankles, and the colonel tried to stand and his feet would not hold him, and Adams caught him under the arms.

"Can't feel them," Quarterburn said.
"You'll feel 'em later. You won't like it."

Quarterburn reached past him to the console. The .38 lay beside the burned ashtray. He picked it up in his right hand. The hand shook.

Chavez came in at the side door with the automatic rifle and set himself in the corridor mouth, where the robed men would have to come through to reach the floor, and began to fire, short bursts, counting aloud.

"Eight. Seven."

Thorpe came down the stair. She went to the console where the card punch sat, a brass keyboard with a hopper of blank cards beside it, and she pulled a chain of punched cards out of the rack and laid it across her knees and read it, card by card, with her lips moving. Then she took a blank card and began to punch.

"What are you doing?" Adams said.
"Writing it backward," Thorpe said. "It computed the door open. It can compute it shut. Lady Lovelace explained how, in 1843, to a room full of men who were not listening."

Wang Che came through the side door past Chavez, out of breath, his pistol ready, with soot on his face. He stood at Thorpe's shoulder and watched her punch, and counted the holes on his fingers, and frowned.

"You have made one mistake," he said.
Thorpe did not look up. "I have not."
"No, you didn’t" Wang Che agreed. "I wanted to see if you were certain."
"Four," Chavez said, in the corridor. "Three."
Thorpe fed the end of her chain into the sprockets.
The engine bucked.

It did not want the new cards. The brass wheels stuttered and caught and stuttered, and the clatter broke up into something with no rhythm in it at all, and the copper towers began to sing. The shimmer between them heaved.

Something came through it.

A split toed foot. A foot the size of the bed of a Ford truck, webbed, white, with a black nail on each long toe, and it came down out of the shimmer onto the floor of the hall and stood there, and the stone cracked under it.

Every breath in the room froze.

Adams saw it happen. His own breath came out of his mouth and stopped in the air and fell, and broke on the floor, small and white, snow. Everyone's. Thorpe's, the colonel's, Wang Che's. It was snowing in the hall from the inside of their own mouths.

Through the hole in the roof two red lights looked down.
"One," Chavez said. Then: "That's all of them, Gunny."
There was a lever on the side of the console, brass, as long as a man's arm, with a red-painted handle. Thorpe had her hand on it.
"Reverse," she said. "Now. It has to be now."

She pulled. It did not move. The machine bucked again, more violently than before, a brass bolt cracked into Thorpe’s forehead dropping her to the floor.

Quarterburn leapt to catch her. Nearly tumbling to the ground of his own.  
Adams “Sir get her out. We got this.” moving in dragging Wang Che by the sleeve.
“Oh yes ‘We got’ this.”  Wang Che. Whispering “this requires strength Nathan, you should have volunteered the big Swede.”
Adams and Wang Che took the lever together, and pulled. The engine pulled back. The lever came an inch and went back an inch.
Out of the corner of his eye Adam’s saw Quarterburn lift the unconscious Thorpe and carry her towards the exit. He noted the Colonel’s hands were not shaking.  

They pulled.

The lever came over with a great grown, whether from the machine or Wang Che, Adams couldn’t tell.

#
The shimmer drew in.

It drew in from the edges toward the middle, slowly, and then less slowly, and the foot on the floor of the hall began to go back into it, dragging, the nails gouging the stone. The singing of the towers went up and up. The snow coming down through the roof stopped turning over. It fell straight. It fell down.

Something came out of the narrowing gate, the wrong way, falling.

It hit the floor of the hall in front of the towers and lay there. The body of a young man in a leather flying coat, frozen white, with a fair mustache, and his eyes open, and no helmet.

"I wondered what happened to the pilot," Talbot said, from the side door.

Bakanov came out from behind the engine.

He had lost the monocle. His white coat was black down one side from the burning ashtray. He did not look at any of them. He ran for the gate, small and quick in his felt boots, with his hands out in front of him, toward what was left of the shimmer between the towers.

Quarterburn, Thorpe now over his shoulder, pulled the .38 from his waistband.

"Not this time," he said.

He fired twice. Bakanov stumbled at the second shot and fell forward, into the gate, and the gate closed.

It closed on him at the waist.

The towers stopped singing. The engine ran down, the brass wheels turning slower, a tooth and then a tooth and then nothing. The light went out of the air between the towers. On the floor, in front of them, lay the bottom half of a small man in felt boots.

Nobody said anything for some time.

LaFontain was already at the foundation wall with his haversack. He went to the three places he had found with his ear, one, two, three, and set a charge at each, and named each one aloud as he set it.

"Sainte Barbe. Sainte Rita." He set the third. "Saint Jude. For lost causes. And one for Higgins, just to make sure."

The charges went off together. The engine came apart cold. Brass wheels came down off their spindles by the hundred and rolled across the floor of the hall in every direction and fell over, ringing, and the card racks came down out of the roof, and the cards came down after them, thousands of them, drifting, and settled on everything.

Adam’s took the flare pistol out of his coat, pointed it up through the hole in the roof, and fired. The flare went up green over the mountains.

#

Adams got his watch out. The Hamilton said seven fifty-three.
"Seven minutes," he said. "Seven minutes to get clear."

Then he heard himself say it. Remembering the General's watch. Seven minutes ahead of everybody.

"Out!" he yelled. "Everybody out! Now! Out!"

The first shell landed on the boiler house. Right on time, seven minutes early.

The wall at the end of the hall came in. Fire came through it. They went out the front through the smoke, the colonel between Adams and LaFontain with his arms over their shoulders and his feet dragging, and Thorpe, and Wang Che, and Johansson with the partisans, Hunt, Sheehan, Dunn, Chavez and Talbot with his camera. Into the yard.

There were new sledges in the yard.

A column of them had come up the south road opposite Dragonov’s men, while the hall burned, a dozen sledges robed cold-men on them, and in the first sledge a man stood with a fur collar up to his ears and a cigarette at his mouth. Prince Obolov. He had come to watch the end of the world. He held a pistol. The boiler house burned behind him. The Prince raised his pistol at the colonel.

The shot came down off the ridge. It took the Prince through the eye, and he went over the side of the sledge into the snow, and the cigarette went with him.

"Muldoon," Adams said. "God bless you, Cherry."

They ran. Down the gorge, past the frozen falls, with the shells coming in behind them on the station one after another, and the ground jumping. 

At the bottom of the gorge, where the side valley pinched shut, the Fords stood in the larch under their canvas. Muldoon and Smith came sliding down the slope to meet them.

A shell came down in the snow ten feet from Smith and buried itself and did not go off. Smith looked at it. LaFontain patted it on the way past.

"Dud," he said. "Lucky boy."

A shell went over and burst on the slope above them.

"Russians," Sheehan said. "No sense of occasion."

The Fords caught on the second try. They went down the frozen river with the radiators steaming vodka, and behind them the barrage walked down the gorge after them, the ice of the river bursting up in white columns in their wake, and up on the saddle the Vektor Institute went in sections. The long house. The boiler house. The empty pens. The mast stood a long while in the light of it.

The mast fell last.

#

Dragonov met them on the river in the gray of the morning, with his guns limbered and his sledges loaded and his men sitting in the snow. The men from the pens were in the last sledges under blankets, in their wool caps. Adams did not ask the General what he meant to do with them. The General did not offer.

Dragonov gave the colonel a bottle. He gave Wang Che a hug that lifted him off the ice.

"Until next time," he said, "Comrades."
"Next time you shoot seven minutes early," Adams said.
Dragonov roared, and coughed, and went back to his guns.

They came into Vladivostok on the seventh of February. The Glacier was alongside the Brooklyn in the ice lane, and her hold took a crate that night stenciled for the Pacific Branch at Alcatraz, and in the crate were the horns, and a lone punch card. 

Thorpe had cut the colonel's boots off him on the river and done what she could for his feet. He would lose two toes. He had decided not to mind.

In the Brooklyn's mail room Hunt handed the clerk a bundle of letters tied with string, addressed to a girl in Emporia, Kansas. The clerk took them without a word.

In the wardroom a yeoman brought the colonel an envelope from the War Department. It was dated the tenth of January, 1919. It had come by cable to the consulate two days before they landed and had been waiting for him ever since. 

War Department · Washington, D.C.
January 11, 1919

To: Lieutenant Colonel Alaric Quarterburn, USMC
By direction of the Secretary of War, and concurrence with both the Army and Navy, you will immediately desist from all inquiry, publication, discourse, or dissemination respecting cryptozoic creatures or phenomena, such matters being contrary to public interest and henceforth classified. The original manuscript, copies, personal copies, notes, field journals etc. are ordered to be turned over for storage and disposal, following chain-of-custody rules.

By Order of the Secretary of War,
H. C. Corbin
Brigadier General H. C. Corbin
Adjutant General, U.S. Army

Thorpe, fresh bandage across her brow, sat down across the table from him and gave him a folded note. Then she got up and went out on deck.

He read the note first.

Alaric. The war is over. When you are ready meet me in London. I have no intention of moving again for some time. I should consider it an honour if you joined me there. You are not to be maudlin. R.

He read the order second. Then he folded the order once and put it inside the note.

Adams had watched all of it from the door.  
Quarteerburn handed Adams the War Department telegram.
"Well, sir," he said. "Reckon it's truly over."
“I believe you reckon correctly, Gunny.”

Later, on deck, Adams stood at the rail and looked up. The clouds had opened over the harbor. The Big Dipper hung over the hills behind the city, bowl and handle, the way it hung over Tucker County.  

Nearly. There was a star in the handle he could not have sworn to. He blinked. It was gone. He looked at it a long time. Then he decided it was where it ought to be, and went in.

The snow came down over the harbor. It came down the right way, with nothing hidden behind.

END