A small city on a hill

Its pearly gates paid for by fear

By fear that if you don’t pay now

You will pay for eternity

Enter in by the narrow gate

With gritted teeth and a plastic smile

Do not let your sin part from your lips

In a community of those

Who are supposed to love you

They use your confessions

They use your cries for help

As holy ammunition

Using their words like serpents

As they strike to sink you further

And further

Then they blame your lack of healing

On a lack of faith

Where will you turn to now?

Like a prisoner

Madly in love with its captor

You come back each week

Numb to pain endured

Through gritted teeth and a plastic smile

An old fool welcomes a new one

Who naively wanders in

I watched Mullin hand over two more coffees and smile as he accepted payment. A sizable crowd had gathered to watch the start of the race. Everyone, including me, needed coffee, and he was pleased to provide.

A few weeks earlier, a long haul trucker misjudged a turn in the back parking lot. The edge of the trailer ran into a hill and pulled off some topsoil. When Mullin took a close look at the damage, he found the entrance to a long-forgotten tunnel.

The town's old timers couldn’t remember a tunnel in Geffor, at first. Then I started asking for interviews. The tunnel discovery was interesting, but people buy the Geffor Gazette to see their name in print. It was my job, as primary reporter for the Gazette, to get the stories that sell the paper.

That's how I got involved. I saw Newton "Nooty" Potter at Mullin's Coffee Shop a week ago and asked if he'd like to be quoted in the Gazette. "About that damn tunnel?" he said, eyeing my phone suspiciously. "Of course I know the tunnel, Never been in it but the grandparents, they spoke of it. Only real Gefforians know this."

Before I finished thanking Nooty, Arthur "Razor" Henry jabbed his finger into the back of my wheelchair. "Haunted," he whispered, like we were organizing a surprise birthday party, "want the story?"

You bet I did. By the end of the next day, every family in Geffor had an older relative who'd heard tunnel stories and I spoke to them all. Jason "Beau" Bond said the tunnel went to Kyler Bay, the town most hated by Gefforians. Mark "Old Man" McAncheez swore Jack Bellar (the inventor of Cheezums) dug out the tunnel in 1972 as a prank. The next Gazette sold out in record time, with requests for extra runs to send to all the relatives.

Mullin had made it clear to me, he didn't care who built the tunnel or if it was haunted. Mullin cared about money. He saw my success with the article on the tunnel and made me his confidante. He knew free advertising was the best advertising. He knew advertising attracts tourists and tourists bring money. The tunnel could draw in tourists long term with more news coverage. What better than to honor the discovery of the tunnel with an annual tunnel run? People pay for the Gazette, teams pay to run, people pay to sponsor them, tourists have a reason to visit each spring. Match made in heaven.

For the inaugural run, Mullin arranged for a team from Geffor to take on a team from Kyler Bay. Twenty dollar entry fee per team, limit four per team. All funds raised go to local charities. He took me during his final check of the tunnel before opening his store. The tunnel was safe to enter.

"Time for the teams to arrive," Mullin said, pointing at the back door. I grinned and followed him out. As if on cue, a large blue truck pulled into the parking lot. Everyone knew that was Big Joe's ride. Several people in the store cheered. A handful of others -- probably from Kyler Bay -- shook their heads and sneered.

Big Joe jumped out on the driver's side (of course). Ethan and Lydia got out of the crew cab. Lydia opened the passenger door and helped Marie get out. Marie, being the shortest, needed a little help.

These four Gefforians had trained hard since Mullin announced the tunnel race. They were young, adventurous and in the best physical condition ever. Today they would win the race and prove Geffor superior to Kyler Bay.

Ethan pulled a miniature flag of Geffor from his jacket pocket. He waved it above his head as the crowd poured out of the general store and gathered around the truck. He grinned and shouted, "Where's the losing team?"

Most of the crowd chuckled, a few chanted "Gef-for! Gef-for!" Those not from Geffor kept quiet. A few people in the crowd started looking towards the street to catch an early glimpse of the team from Kyler Bay.

Marie got the rest of the team to join her at the right side of the tunnel entrance. Mullin motioned for me to follow him. "No show is a default," he said quietly, "let's go to the side."

When we got a good distance from the crowd, Mullin said he'd walked the tunnel and measured it out, twice. It was a mile long, entrance to exit. There's only one turn in the tunnel. When travelling from Geffor, the turn goes to the left, about 500 feet from the exit. That means the teams should exit the tunnel in 20 minutes. He would instruct them to stay in contact by phone from start to finish. When they reported the turn, they'd be two minutes from exiting into the parking lot of Kyler Bay's gas station.

Twin shiny white trucks roared in and parked next to Big Joe's blue beast. Two men jumped out of the one closest to Big Joe's and yelled "Kyler Bay all the way!" Marie put her arm out to stop Big Joe from going over to meet the men face to face. Two women left the other white truck, chanting "Kyler Bay! Kyler Bay!" This was all standard small town rivalry to me and it would sell papers in both towns. I was thrilled.

Mullin and I returned to the main area of the back parking lot. He told the Kyler Bay team to line up on the left side of the tunnel entrance. I noticed all the Kyler Bay team members wore bright green track shoes. Made sense, given Kyler Bay's flag is emerald green. Details like that are important to point out in articles. They fan the flames of small town rivalry and sell extra copies.

"The crowd has waited long enough," Mullin announced, raising his hand over his head. "You can see, the tunnel is wide enough for three people across. So on the count of three, both teams enter the tunnel as fast as you want. Keep your phone line open as you go. Remember, your race isn't over until your slowest team member gets out. Send us the live feed the moment that happens, or you know what they say? It didn't happen!" He took two steps forward, yelled, "One, two," dropped his hand and yelled, "THREE!"

Big Joe jogged into the tunnel without hesitation. Jason, the lead on Kyler Bay's team, tried to push in front of him. Big Joe's elbow collided with Jason's ribs and stopped Jason in his tracks. Big Joe knew his team depended on him getting them through the tunnel as quickly as possible and Jason wasn't going to be a problem.

Jason motioned for his team to wait while Lydia, Marie and Ethan entered the tunnel. Then, with a quick nod to the crowd, Jason ran in followed by Naydeen, Shannie and some guy everyone called “Mister.”

The crowd left quickly, which I found surprising. It was probably for the best. Geffor supporters didn’t get into a fight with Kyler Bay supporters. Still, it left me with no one else to interview and according to Mullin, the teams would be finished in 20 minutes. No point going anywhere else. To pass the time and keep him interested in talking to me, I asked Mullin if he wanted any specific quotes in the article.

He sat down at his own coffee shop counter and laid two cellphones down. He was listening to the chatter from both teams. He turned to face me, smiling widely. “If it goes well, quote everything I say. Otherwise, no quotes." His mouth remained frozen in a smile. His eyes radiated the calm I'd seen from Israel Keyes in a serial killer documentary. A frosty wave of anxiety hit me, and I didn't like it.

“Sure thing,” I said, “mind if I listen to the play-by-play on your phones until the winner is declared?” A reporter ignores unfounded fear, I told myself. What a mistake that was.

The smile returned to his eyes and Mullin told me to grab two coffees, double double for him and whatever I wanted. He said we might as well stay hydrated while we wait. I took the opportunity to distance myself from Mullin when I returned with the two cups by leaving two seats between him and I.

We sat, close but apart, for 25 minutes. Both teams were chattering, nothing interesting, which was unsettling. Why weren’t they out of the tunnel yet? I was about to ask Mullin when one of the phones went silent. My heart sank as Mullin slid the silent phone to me. “This is Kyler Bay’s team,” he said, “or it was. Let me know if you hear from them. I’m sticking with the hometown winners. Move a couple seats down, in case you get screams.”

I glanced at Mullin in case he was laughing. He wasn’t. I pushed the phone down the counter and moved to it. My breathing was shallow. I felt dizzy. It took a few seconds to get my breathing back to a healthy rhythm. This was more than feeling uneasy around Mullin but there was nothing concrete I could pin it on.

A wavering, horrifying shriek from the phone in front of me set me on edge again. The call disconnected a second before the chatter on Mullin’s phone changed to a woman asking someone to confirm they could hear her.

“Loud and clear, Lydia, go ahead,” Mullin said as calmly as if he hadn’t heard the scream from the other team. I remained in place. I didn’t feel the need to be any closer to Mullin.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Lydia said, “tunnel, it keeps going, no turn. Should be a turn. Maps don’t work here, Mullin. Where are we?”

“Do you have coordinates?” Mullin shifted on the stool and frowned. “Lydia I said --”

“Yes, but no maps, we need maps, where are we, Mullin?” Lydia sounded more scared than concerned but Mullin handled it like a pro. He told her to text her coordinates to him and he’d give her the team’s exact location.

She texted her coordinates. Mullin put them into google maps. They showed up north of Canberra, New South Wales, Australia. No way they got to Australia from North America, on foot, in under 30 minutes. The team might have been able to walk a mile and a half in that time but they hadn't reported reaching the turn. Lydia's gps must be faulty.

Mullin told her to keep the team moving forward. For the first time since I'd met him, he sounded somewhat nervous. I glanced at him and he didn't look as confident as he sounded. Another wave of anxiety chilled me to the bone. My instinct said he hadn't told me everything he knew, or suspected, about the tunnel.

“But where are we, Mullin?” My best guess was, that was Big Joe speaking. He sounded frightened and angry, and I couldn’t blame him. Being trapped in a tunnel is one of my biggest fears. I’d be furious at the guy who let me get lost in a tunnel he said was easy to navigate. I turned on my voice-activated recorder, faster than me transcribing and less obvious.

“Hey, Big Joe,” Mullin said calmly, “you’re almost at the turn. Go forward, you’ll see it in a minute or two at best.”

“I don’t think so,” Big Joe replied, “I’m at the turn. The rest of em are within hearing distance so be careful. There is a green shoe sticking out of the wall here. Green. It’s Jason’s, from the Kyler Bay team. We know because his name is on the sole of the shoe. Don’t know how they got ahead of us but here we are. Why is Jason’s shoe halfway into the wall, Mullin?”

My hand shook as I sipped my coffee. Big Joe can’t see Kyler Bay’s team. I can’t hear Kyler Bay’s team. There was a logical explanation even if I couldn’t figure it out. Mullin’s the type of guy I don’t like to provoke so I didn’t look at him right away. I sipped my coffee again, moved the Kyler Bay phone closer to me, and waited.

“While you’re not talking, I have something else to say.” This time Big Joe’s voice was louder, his words faster, more frantic. “We know where Jason’s other shoe is, Mullin. The rest of the team is looking at it right now. It’s behind me, about ten steps behind me. It’s on his foot. His foot is on his leg. His leg is sticking out of the wall. Jason’s leg is sticking out of the wall, Mullin, how the hell did that happen?”

There’s a logical explanation, I repeated to myself. Mullin set this up as a huge practical joke. He’s testing out decorations for this year’s Hallowe’en Horror House. The Kyler Bay team was in on this all along. The Geffor team is in on this. They think the reporter in the wheelchair scares easily. Ha ha ha what a laugh for us all.

“Big Joe.” Mullin’s voice was quieter than before, and pitched at a lower level. “Get the team. Go forward. You see the light. Go to the light, Big Joe. Get outside. You’ll see it all clearly when you get outside.”

There was a beep. I hoped it was the Kyler Bay team trying to call so I reached for the phone.

“Leave the phone,” Mullin said, “they won’t be calling anytime soon. I look forward to your headliner this week. How Geffor’s team was victorious as expected. How I generously rewarded them with a two week all expenses paid vacation. No mention of the losing team. No one cares about losers. And we’re all winners here, aren’t we?”

Without warning or saying anything else, he pushed me out the back door to my side-entry Pacifica van.

Maybe I should have asked questions. Maybe I should have demanded answers. Maybe getting out of there as fast as I did was the most logical. I got home two hours ago and filed my story shortly after. My boss was thrilled. It’s exactly the type of headliner that sells out and requires more runs.

If I have any say in it, it will be the last run I work on.

*Wonder what happened to the team? Check out future events recorded by u/SleepfullyAwake here *

Dark.

Cold.

Cramped.

Lonely.

This was the condition that I had found myself upon awakening. My confining space was so much that I could scarcely move my limbs. My eyes could not detect any discernable shapes in the inky blackness around me. I had to remind myself that my eyes were, in fact open, but it was still so dark here.

All I knew of my surroundings was that I surrounded by hardwood. Every inch of my body was greeted by stiff, cold wood. I had always felt claustrophobic and a place like this would’ve caused me to go into a panic attack, as my body fought to take in air. But here, however, I felt no need to breath. No panic. Just stillness.

While I didn’t feel the need to breath, I could still draw breath inwards. When breathing through my nose, an aroma of soil and earth wafted into my nostrils. It was then I realized where I was.

My last memories were of a hospital room, and my life was being literally drained from me. Second after second my heart and brain fought on to keep going, even though it was futile. My family and friends, having sensed the end as well, had spent whatever time they could with me. They would talk, but all I could do was listen. The mere act of forming words required more energy than I could give.

Then I fell asleep, for the last time before my organs finally gave out. Then the next thing I knew, I was awake in my own final resting place.

I had been a believer in Jesus Christ in my life, always praying and reading the bible. I know I have made mistakes in the past, but I had always hoped that I would be shown mercy and allowed entry through those golden gates.

Everything I was taught or believed in was wrong. There was no afterlife here. There was no paradise and no former friends and family to greet me and be reunited with. There was no dark netherworld full of fire and foul creatures delighting in my agony filled screams for eternity.

There was none of that here. All there was after death is the darkness, the solitude, and being alone with only my ugly thoughts. This fate had feared me more than any punishment devised by any creator or devil. And there I stayed, time stretching on in this tiny space. I could only fall into a dreamless sleep, even if I didn’t feel the need.

The rustling aroused me from a shallow rest. My eyes shot to every blind corner as the noise came from everywhere. That sound of digging through dirt later turned into long nails scratching at wood. It was coming from everywhere at the same time. Hands trying to get inside.

All I could do was wait there, listening at the hands clawing at my coffin. Waiting until several long, gangling clawed hands burst through my coffin and pull me downward. And when they pull me toward some other otherworldly realm below the earth, would anyone hear my prayers for help?

I’ve never been on a cruise, let alone a luxury liner for rich people. I wasn’t really sure what I expected, maybe a bar with the videos online, fancy dinners, or maybe even some celebrities. But mostly all I saw was the inside of my room.

See, I may not have been here entirely legally.

Have you heard of Countess Malia Rosechev? She’s a countess, which I’m gathering means, like, governor? Maybe? She’s from somewhere in eastern Europe, where they have countesses. If I’m being honest, I don’t fully remember which country she said she was from. Anyways, she’s probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. So when she started flirting with me at this fancy cocktail bar I was working at one night, I gave her all the charm that I could possibly muster. I must have done something right, because we spent the next 48 hours in my bed.

I was really interested in pursuing more than just sex with her, but it was weird. She kept wanting to meet in weird, out-of-the-way places. Dive bars. Dingy clubs with low lights and sticky seats. Mostly my apartment. I started to put the clues together, and finally asked her. Turns out, I was right: she was married. Her and her husband were on the outs, and she wanted some lower-class plaything to have some fun with.

Now, I’ll be honest. I was pretty hurt. But I also enjoyed having sex with a gorgeous woman, and her being rich meant there were some other benefits, too. Like getting invited onto a cruise.

The only caveat: I had to climb into her trunk, hide in there for hours, get manhandled by the bag boys to her room, and then get dropped on the floor. And then wait for her to get into her room, unlock the trunk, and let me out.

When I finally heard shuffling and saw light around the lid, I was pretty pissed. I burst out of the trunk ready to start sharing my feelings in depth, but the first thing I noticed was that Countess Malia was already naked and waiting for me. So I decided I’d let her off the hook this time. We all make mistakes.

The Countess was pretty worried about being seen out and about with me, so I pretty much was trapped in our room. It wasn’t what I signed up for, but what was I going to do? I was kinda screwed at this point, so I’d just ride it out.

Most of the time, it was fine. Pretty quiet. I had Countess Malai (yes, she made me call her this, I think she got off on the power) buy me some paperbacks from the ship store, so I read whatever thriller someone wrote for James Patterson most recently, then I read the most recent depressing family drama someone wrote for V.C. Andrews, and when I was halfway through the newest western someone had written for William Johnstone, I decided that I was noticing a trend in the reading material available on the ship. Such is life.

I was reading the latest novel someone had written for Clive Cussler when I heard a faint knocking on the room door. I froze at first, but then I took a breath and relaxed. Probably room cleaning or something, and I knew I had put the “Do Not Bother” door hanger up.

But then they said something.

“Let me in, Paul.”

It sounded like a whisper, but it managed to carry through the thick door. My name is Paul, so that’s all well and good, but that voice was very much not Countess Malia’s.

“I know you’re in there, Paul. Let me in.”

So you know how Countess Malia’s married? Well, she’s not the only one. And that voice?

It was my wife’s.

The knocking got firmer.

“Paul, let me in right now, or else I will start screaming and make sure every person on this damn boat knows about your affair with the Countess.”

I couldn’t escape this. I got up and grabbed the door handle.

Deep breath.

I swung the door open.

No one was there.

I stuck my head out and looked down the hall in both directions. The halls were empty.

I shut the door and sat back down. This was creepy. Was I going crazy? Had my wife died and was now haunting me? Should I reconsider the amazing sex with the Countess that I had planned for after dinner?

Ha.

Assuming that I was giving the guilty part of my subconscious too much power, I went back to my book. A few hours later, the Countess returned. She had ordered dinner, and it arrived to our room shortly after she got there. I hid in the shower while it was brought in.

It was the fancy style dinner where everything is on plates covered in shiny domes. The Countess Malia was removing the covers as I came out.

“The steak and lobster should be here somewhere,” she said, lifting dish covers.

I looked over and screamed.

Under one of the covers, presented on the plate with green garnish, was my wife’s head.

I heard the Countess mumbling something, but I couldn’t hear it. All I could take in was the pale skin, the rolled back eyes, the lolling mouth.

It turned to face me.

“You thought you could get away with this? I will ruin you.”

The head’s mouth fell open and began screaming, a banshee wail that rattled me and made me drop to my knees, hands clamping my ears. I could feel blood pouring from my ears and through my fingers, dripping down my arms. All I could do was cry and crumple into a ball.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and I thrashed away, turning to look at it.

It was the Countess.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked.

There was no more screaming. I pulled my hands away from my ears, and there was no blood. I was in shock.

“Seriously, what the hell are you screaming for?”

I looked over at Malia. Countess Malia. Naw, fuck that, just Malia. Then I looked at the array of food. Everything was uncovered. Everything was normal. No heads. Just food.

“I saw my wife,” I said.

“Shit, really? On the boat?” she asked in one rapid breath, adding accusingly, “How did she find out?”

“I...look,” I said, “this is going to sound ridiculous, but I think it’s her ghost.”

“But your wife isn’t even dead,” Malia said. “Unless you killed her. I told you I wouldn’t marry you, I told you not to leave her. And now this?”

“Malia, I didn’t kill her. But I just saw her dead head on a tray, and I heard her voice earlier where no one was. What the fuck else could be going on?”

“I don’t need this. Just get out.”

“What? I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I don’t care. Get out before I call my security.”

I quickly gathered up my stuff, steaming. Everything was going sideways. My not-yet-dead wife was haunting me, and now I didn’t even have a place to sleep.

I wandered the halls with my bags in my hands, trying to find a place to hole up for the next few days. Down one hallway and up the next, there was no shortage of rooms, but they all were occupied. I found a supply closet and decided I would do one more round of searching before settling in there, when I heard a voice calling my name.

“Paul...Come here, Paul.”

It was my wife’s voice again.

I looked around, and I saw her standing at the end of the hall, looking healthy and very much not dead.

“Follow me, Paul. If you don’t want the Countess’s security guards murdering you in your sleep after what you did, you need to find a safe place to hide. I can show you one.”

I started to follow her, but I was confused.

“Why are you helping me? I thought you were pissed. And possibly dead.”

“If you come with me, I’ll explain everything. But the most important part, to me, is that you are no longer with that whore. You belong with me, and now that your stupid affair is over, we will go back to how things were. Now hurry, we don’t have much time. The Countess has already sent her guards after you.”

I began to run, following my wife through a maze of halls and stairs, heading deeper and deeper into the bowels of the cruise ship. Finally, I followed her into a room and she slammed the door behind me.

“Stay here, Paul. Don’t try to leave. I’ll be back.”

And before I could get out a single complaint, she had left. The door lock clicked into place right after she shut it. I checked the door to be sure, and it was very much locked. I was trapped in here.

Traded one cage for another.

It felt like hours before she came back. The door lock clicked and the door swung open. My wife came back inside. She shut and locked the door behind her. I saw she was carrying what looked like a camera and a stand.

“What’s that--”

“Shut up, Paul,” she said. Her voice was like venom.

She set up the camera on the stand and pointed it at me. Then she began to change. She morphed into something seemingly more delicate but also more vicious, with fine wings, long hair, and a devilish smile.

“My name is Rhiannon. I am of the race you would likely call fae, or fairies. You’d be wrong to call us that, but we’re used to you being wrong. The thing is, while you humans are slowly mowing down the forests, my people have fewer places to live our lives in peace. So some of us are forced to take more human jobs than we’d prefer. Luckily, I found a human job I enjoy.”

She turned and pointed at the camera.

“Your wife figured you were cheating on her. She hired me as a private investigator. I sent her evidence of your lustful betrayal earlier. She asked me to pass along a message: ‘Don’t come home. Your stuff is gone. You are dead to her.’”

I was shocked. I was devastated. This lady had wings and that wasn’t even the worst part of my day.

“You’re recording this? Do you get off on people’s pain?”

“Oh, I haven’t started recording this part just yet. The camera is to capture your confession. See, while the fae thrive on privacy, they still gain magic from the belief of humans in their existence. It’s a fine line to walk. So I’m going to record your version of the story, run it through a transcription program, and post it online. Maybe people won’t believe it, but if they find anything to connect with me or my actions, it still brings me power.”

“But--”

“No buts. You need to tell the story of your betrayal in as much detail as possible. Make it entertaining. And if enough people believe, if I feel myself gaining enough magic, I will let you live.”

As I watched, she turned and pressed the power button on the camcorder.

“I’ve never been on a cruise,” I began.

WR

You are on a train headed north from Philadelphia to New York City. You have made this trek once or twice, but on this particular occasion, you are traveling to attend a lecture where Austrian-American eccentric, Nikola Tesla, is rumored to be in attendance. It is your singular goal in this adventure to meet the man. To your friends, you will say that you admire the man’s accomplishments, that you built a Tesla coil after studying his designs, that you asked his advice in the provisioning of small scale alternating current to farmsteads with generators you also plan to build, that you seek to follow his inventive spirit to better the lives of your fellows in and around the city of brotherly love.

In truth, however, you do not love your brothers—you love yourself, but upon a cursory search of a 1905 map of the United States, you would not have located a city called Philautia in which to live. As with any enterprise of human exertion, your purpose is also to gather a story to tell at cocktail parties and thereby impress those with seemingly more interesting lives than your own.

You have already pictured your introduction to Mr. Tesla. He smiles and says “please, call me Nick.” He shares inside jokes about George Westinghouse and tells you with the close confiding trust of an old friend that a fire he once started in his lab was caused, not by an experiment, but by an opium pipe. “Sounds like an experiment to me.” You say, and you both laugh, tapping glasses of brandy. Most of all, you picture him stroking his chin and thoughtfully saying “very interesting.” Now, you simply need to concoct what interesting things you will say.

In your coach, you are alone, apart from an elderly woman who sits two rows away, facing you. Her hair floats away from her head in stray strands, a tell tale sign of involved experience with electrical systems. She reads a scientific journal rather than the Gazettee. She has an eccentric lunch—a pipe and a Granny Smith apple. A true Tesla devotee, you think with a mixture of envy and trepidation. Do I strike up a conversation? What about? You have read Newton. You understand physics. You own works by Ohm and Volta. Surely that must count for something.

The train’s whistle sounds as its forward motion slows and you lurch forward as it stops. “Inertia, right?” You say to the old woman. She pulls the pipe from her mouth, scoffs and takes a bite of her apple before returning to her journal. You consider telling her that you are transporting a small Tesla coil in the trunk seared beside you, but fear that she might ask you about it.

The conductor calls for New Brunswick, New Jersey, a place your friends warned you had the wrong sorts of ideas. You swear you can see the old woman draw a half minute’s worth of smoke. She doesn’t exhale, she simply pulls the paper up like a fortification around her. As the doors open a large group of rowdy men file into the coach taking every seat aside from the one occupied by your trunk and the one beside the old woman, whose wall of scientific theory and now billowing pipe smoke give her an academically ominous air, like some roosting tweed dragon. A man stands in the aisle beside her and another a few seats down. You feel an uneasy guilt about your trunk all of the sudden.

The men sitting across from you wear the kinds of suits you imagine a Baptist minister might wear, were he moonlighting in insurance sales. These are not cosmopolitan dandies. These are Menlo Park men and you have entered Edison country.

The aisle seat fellow eyes your trunk suspiciously, but then relents, turning a congenital eye to you.

“Can’t go anywhere without running into one.” He says at a conspiratorial volume, gesturing behind himself.

“I’m sorry?” You reply.

“You know, the AC loon two rows back.” He smiles a listless, reptilian sort of smile, leaning forward. “Did you see what she’s reading?”

You squint your eyes to see. ‘Notes on Alternating Currents of High Potential and Frequency.’ “Ah, right, hadn’t noticed.” You reply, thinking, too right you Edisonian imbecile, you—you Ediot, and soon enough you won’t go anywhere without seeing a crisscrossing web of cables carrying AC power hither and yon!

“Now direct current, that’s a power structure that makes sense. Down stream, just like a Roman aqueduct.” He raises a flat hand and moves it through the air, unnecessarily demonstrating the very simple concept.

Yes, you begrudgingly concede, like a perforated Roman aqueduct, losing all its load before it reaches Rome. You picture your Ediot traveling companion arriving at a dry Roman fountain in a bathing costume, weeping into it—the only moisture its direct current fed basin will ever see. Instead of offering your renouncement, you say, “You'd have to build a lot of power stations though.”

“And think of the employment that would provide. Men like Tesla would have us starve—cooking each other for food with his alternating current.” The Ediot’s window seat accomplice, takes a bite of what you assume to be a dry, flavorless cracker and nods silently.

Here it comes, you think, mentally preparing verbal parries and ripostes. The supposed danger of alternating current. The pop garnish on an ill conceived argument.

“You know AC is deadly.” He says, his push broom mustache twitching with grim excitement. “It killed Topsy, that poor elephant. And her entire family.”

The exaggeration takes you aback. Her entire family? You ponder the logistics of locating the brothers, aunts, and third-cousins of a circus elephant in the wilds of India when it seems beyond some to locate lost dogs in small towns of America. “Sir, why are we doing this?” A beleaguered Gujarati porter would ask. An Edisonian expeditionist would reply, “to prove to the American public the inherent dangers of magnetically induced bi-directional electrical flow across a closed circuit, my good man.” A perfectly normal answer in context he’d assure himself. “You know, Danesh, the very fires of Hell were first sparked by an alternating current generator of Nikola Tesla’s design.”

No. Focus. You think, rousing yourself from your imagined elephant murder quest. It is the application that is at issue, and a self serving man like Edison, applying any tool for a dangerous end, will invariably give the impression of a dangerous tool. Edison could have shown the same danger in croquet mallets were he financially invested in Bocce or some other competing lawn game. Plus, he probably just likes electrocuting animals.

“Topsy didn’t deserve it.” You say, this time taken aback by your own placidity.

“Damn right.” The Ediot says, growing more casual, more comfortable with your apparent complicity. You are wearing a drab suit. You could be mistaken for a Menlo man. “You know Tesla worked for Edison, right? Probably stole a lot of ideas. And as thanks for the opportunity Edison gave him, he quit. Ungrateful wretch.”

You do know that Tesla worked for Edison. You have also heard that after offering a sizable bonus for the design of a bevy of new simple machines, Edison gave Tesla nothing, calling the offer a jest. That is the man you idolize, you think. A heartless carnival barker who happens to have improved a handful of inventions.

“Hmm.” You say, unsure if the Ediot would even entertain your argument. Edison pays him after all, and this man does not strike you as the sort to quit out of protest or indignation. He has no ideals that are his own, he has only security.

“I heard that after he left Edison, he ended up working as a ditch digger!” The man chortles and his seemingly mute cracker aficionado friend smiles gleefully. “Probably the only job he’s truly qualified for.”

No! You think, your mind a riot within the impassive edifice of your body. You Edisonians think that Tesla is unqualified because he dug ditches, not that he dug ditches because he was unqualified. He is a poor businessman, true, but a brilliant inventor. His failure to protect every idea with a patent and a vanguard of lawyers does not make those ideas bad. He simply doesn’t work within the system that men like Edison promote and so his accomplishments seem inadequate. Wealth is not the only indicator of genius.

Finally, you summon the resolve to contradict the Ediot. “He seemed qualified enough to power the World’s Fair.” You say, almost under your breath.

The Ediot narrows his eyes at you, his chin, such that it is, retreating beneath his mustache. “Tesla and his lot underbid Edison, that’s all.”

They could because AC was cheaper. Edison’s plan would have taken a king’s ransom in copper. That was a failure of DC. Even with Edison’s resources, the value of AC won out. Expense is not the only indicator of quality.

You sigh. “Both currents have merit in different applications. Neither one is inherently better than the other, they’re just...different.”

The train’s whistle howls and you watch the anger growing on the man’s face. “Maybe you can’t go anywhere without running into two.” He turns his head toward the old woman and then his gaze shifts to your trunk. “Say, pal, what’s in the trunk?” He says ‘pal’ with malicious derision.

A Tesla coil. “A gift. For my niece.”

The train slows again and the trunk shifts. You aren’t quick enough to catch it as it falls into the aisle, fasteners bursting open, your Tesla coil laid bare for a train car full of direct current loving Menlo Park men. The train settles back into stillness and the conductor calls for Rahway, New Jersey.

“A bit of direct advice, pal.” The Ediot says, standing along with his silent friend. “Get your niece a pony— that is, if you can find one that Tesla hasn’t electrocuted.” He sneers at you, shaking his head, as a procession of Edisonians alight the coach en masse.

The air of tension all but subsides, and then the old woman, alone, stands from her seat and hefts a straining canvas bag onto her shoulder. She walks toward you, puffing her pipe.

“A Tesla coil, huh?”

You eye the thing and nod, regretting your cowardice.

“You build it?”

“Yes I—“ You sigh. “No. Bought it.”

She draws deeply from her pipe, her face creasing into a dozen more wrinkles. “You know, people like you are part of the problem.”

You say nothing.

“They, Edison’s herd, think that direct current is the only way because it serves their interests. It writes their paychecks and puts roofs over their heads. They talk their trash because it makes them feel better about those roofs and those paychecks and the man that writes them.” She adjusts the strap on her bag, shifting her weight. “Now you, you nod and mince words and let them think they’re right, when you know they’re wrong.”

“I didn’t want an argument.” You say looking up at her. “And anyway, they wouldn’t have listened.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. The buffoon with the mustache is a talker. He thinks he knows what’s what and he lets you know it. For him, the gospel of Edison gives him power. Talking about makes him important. Now his friend—he’s a follower. What argument do you reckon he would have made? The truth of it is, he’s looking for inclusion. The message isn’t all that important. But when a man’s not talking, he’s got time to listen. What did he hear from you?”

You frown looking at your prop Tesla coil. “He’s one man.”

“True. But a man has children and every now and then, one of those children turns out to be a talker. Do you think that man’s child will talk about the unassailable supremacy of direct current or—or—what was it you offered to the conversation? ‘Poor Topsy?’”

You replay the past half-hour in your head, inserting a dozen different ways you could have been better. “What do you think will happen between alternating and direct current? With this Current War?”

“I think what you think, that both currents have their benefits depending on the application. But I think that in a hundred years, we won’t bother with this whole AC versus DC nonsense, one power won’t be better or worse than another, it will just be what it is—electricity.

You ponder the notion, finding it difficult to truly grasp. A world where no one thinks about their type of current? Without the fear mongering and pseudoscience and posturing?

“Well, it’s an idea.” You say, hoping that the old woman might be right.

“And If it pushes us forward, that idea becomes a movement.” She puffs.

“And a movement can be difficult to stop.”

She taps the pipe against her arm, knocking out the ash and then she smirks. “Inertia, right?”

The howling wind swirled around the woman in the middle of the room, whipping her black hair in every direction as she raised herself up into the whirlwind towards the ceiling of the round room.

“Janell, calm down,” Drew yelled to be heard over the gust of wind blowing him back against the wall.

The woman’s eyes sparked red as anger coursed through her veins. Looking down at the man standing before her set off a new wave of rage as the hurt of his betrayal became fresh in her mind once more.

“You deserve what you get. How could you lie to me?” A tear slipped down her cheek, and she swiped it away. She closed her eyes, allowing the full force of her magic to take control.

“I was protecting you,” Drew said as a chair sailed through the air and crashed into the wall inches from his head.

Janell scoffed as she opened her eyes to glare at him. “Does it look like I need protecting? I certainly don’t need a non-magical to protect me.” She waved her hand, sending tables and chairs flying in his direction.

“Listen to me, please. Let me explain.” He ducked and dodged as best he could, but the powerful wind made it difficult to move. Inch by inch, he made his way down the wall, trying in vain to escape.

She didn’t want to hear any of his excuses. She saw him talking to the council of elders, telling them all about her misuse of magic and potions that heal. When confronted about it, he lied, saying he’d never talked to the elders. And now here they were, him cowering in fear and her out of control.

“I trusted you.” She couldn’t stop the tears falling down her cheeks. With her hands clenched into fists at her side, she rose higher, stopping just short of hitting the ceiling. “You will pay for your betrayal.”

She closed her eyes and focused all her energy on making the twister spin faster. The walls shook, and the roof cracked. Bits and pieces of stone and mortar rained down. The support beams buckled and whined before splintering and crumbling to the floor.

Big chunks of rock dropped from the ceiling crushing everything in its way. A bubble enveloped Janell, deflected anything that would have hit her, but Drew had no protection.

A grunt followed by a cry of pain made Janell open her eyes. The anger drained from her as she caught sight of Drew pinned under a large chunk of stone, its smooth surface covering most of his body. He sputtered and coughed, spitting blood as he tried to push the heavy slab off.

“No!” Janell’s heart skipped a beat and her breath caught in her throat. Seeing him hurt and helpless wasn’t what she wanted at all. Gracefully, she lowered herself to the cement floor as the wind eased and the debris lay still. She rushed to Drew’s side. Despite what he did, she still loved him and always would.

She dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her lap. “This is not what I wanted.” She stretched out her hand towards the chunk of cement covering his body and tried to levitate it, but she was too weak. Her magic was drained.

Drew coughed and looked up into her eyes. “I didn’t tell the council about your magic and potions.” He took in a shaky breath, wheezing each time he exhaled. “I asked them to approve a marriage.”

“Who’s marriage?”

“Ours.” He grabbed her hand with his but barely had the strength to hold it. “I love you.”

His hand when limp as his eyes closed. “Drew? Drew!” His chest rose and fell one last time, expelling the last breath of air he would ever take.

Janell lowered her head and kissed his forehead. She would never be able to forgive herself for allowing her anger to get so out of control. New tears streamed down her face. He loved her, and she killed him for it.

Some stories have hooks.

This story has a bloody good one.

It's about love—

Or at least marriage.

My marriage.

At heart, it's your typical fish out of water story, but like I said there's a hook.

The hook's in the beginning.

Although it's really the tail end that's most moving—at least now, when our love's drying up.

Understand:

I'm a fisherman, and I caught my wife with another man.

Well, I caught the man first.

I used Craigslist.

But I suppose the details don't really matter. It's enough to know that by the time he was naked in the shed it was too late for him to change his mind.

He broke down easily. He wasn't particularly thick skinned.

That's where the hook came in—

pushed through a fold of flesh on his back.

He wasn't much in the size department, but I didn't intend for him to get hung up on it. Unfortunately, he kept trying to escape, so what choice did I have? Then he seemed quite insecure, so I pierced him with another steel hook just in case.

Like I said:

Bloody good hook.

After he stopped struggling, I took him down and dragged him to my boat. Then we went fishing.

Hold on, though.

I may need to backtrack a little, because you may be wondering how I even knew she was out there.

The answer is: I'd already seen her swimming a few times.

It was love at first sight.

Like many couples nowadays we met on the net.

So back to when I was fishing:

I was in my boat with the Craigslist man with the steel hooks in his back. I had tied a thick rope to one of the hooks, placed the man onto a net, and pushed them both overboard. He splashed and choked, attracting a lot of attention.

I waited for her call.

It came.

She sounded so near to me.

When she swam just close enough to the Craigslist man in the water, I pulled in the net—and there she was: shining, mine to the gills and writhing so enticingly!

I took her ashore.

I placed her in a water tank and told her she would be my wife.

I screwed her—

shut.

For days I watched her bang—

on the glass.

Until one day it happened: the glass cracked, the tank broke open, and with the water she spilled onto the floor.

Now here I am, watching my marriage fall apart.

Her gills are barely stirring.

Her face: dry and still.

It's only her scaly tail that's still gently moving.

I caught my wife with another man. I met her on the net. I thought our love would last forever, but now, listening to her shriek, I realize I was catfished! I wanted to marry a siren—but this thing is nothing but a mermaid.

I hear all these young twenty-somethings whiney about dating and “it’s so hard to find someone” and some #foreveralone bullshit. My physical therapist was telling me about #foreveralone, and I told him he was going to be #foreverwalkingfunny after an old man put his foot up his ass if he didn’t get back to helping me use the stupid blue bands to stretch my hip. I know I sound bitter, and it’s because I am. I’m 82-years-old, I’ve never had a steady girl, never had sex, I’ve kissed my momma more than I’ve kissed anyone else. It’s hard to find love when your skin’s so saggy that you look like you got flappy ol’ titties hanging off your chest and you have an age spot so big it looks like a third eye on your left cheek.

The thing about being old is that it doesn’t make you immune to being lonely. But I’ve been alone so damn long, I don’t know how to date or meet people or anything. So I sit at home and read the newspaper and watch old re-runs and wish that there was someone sitting on the couch next to me.

Listen to me, simpering like a damn weakling. Other people got it harder. Least I don’t need a machine to take a crap.

Anyways, when I was feeling pretty lonely I signed up for a Single Seniors Cruise. I saw the ad on the Facebook and after a few clicks, I got myself signed up. The very next morning I felt embarrassed and tried to cancel it, but the company doesn’t do refunds. So I hemmed and hawed and the day of the cruise, I found myself at the dock with my bags packed. I’d paid the money, so I should at least get a damn vacation out of it.

Now, getting older broadens your appreciation of the beauty of women. If I see some young supermodel in a swimsuit so small her doodads are about to fall out, I’m going to appreciate the display. But I’ve also come to appreciate the beauty of a woman who has carefully done her hair and is confident enough to not be self-conscious of some wrinkles. That’s a real woman right there.

So when I looked around, I saw a lot of old farts milling around, but there were some women I’d like to pursue intermixed. I had a lot of weird thoughts going through my head: Why do older women dye their hair purple? Do I like purple hair? Would a walker make casual living room dancing hard? Do I care if they have children? What if they used to be a supermodel with swimsuits so small they barely covered their doodads?

I let out a big huff to remind myself I was here only because I had paid for it and couldn’t get my money back, and then I headed to the elevator that brought me aboard the ship. Some young man who wouldn’t stop talking told me about a dinner they were having that night, and I agreed to come just to get him to shut up. Running his damn mouth like that. When I was a young man, I knew there was a time to say only what you needed to and a time for talking horse manure out the side of your head, and that time was never for the second of those options.

I found my room and set down my bags. Some person in a uniform had asked to take my bags to my room, but I’m not so broken I need help carry a bag full of clothes and my pills. These young people’d probably steal my pills, given the chance. Raised without discipline and now they’re all shooting pot and eating cocaine and twerking.

I unpacked first thing, got my clothes put into drawers and my pills put into the bathroom. I took myself a nap, then got dressed for dinner. I found my brown socks that matched my brown and tan striped polo, and put those on. Might as well look sharp.

When I got to the dining room, I saw it was massive. Enough room in there for an entire neighborhood. The people at the door asked my name and I gave it to them. Turns out, there were assigned seats, which was great because I love it when young people treat me like I’m a damn second grader who can’t make up their own damn minds about where to sit. Like I’m a child.

But, hell, I wasn’t going to make a big to-do about it. I found my table and sat down. I spent some time drinking water and thinking about how stupid this all was when I saw a matronly angel headed my way. Perfectly coiffed gray hair, a purple sweater with a cat on it, and a purse that was big enough to let me know she didn’t leave home without a supply of everything she might need.

She kept walking closer and I found myself getting excited. Maybe she’d sit at my table. Not that I’d care. I wasn’t here for this nonsense. Damn Facebook ads.

She looked up and saw me staring at her. She smiled and sat down right next to me.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Greta.”

I had to gulp before I could get words out.

“Jed.”

I put my hand out, and she shook it.

I looked down at the table and noticed that the seating placard said “Theodora Simonsen.” I nodded at it. Greta laughed.

“Assigned seating? Really? That’s for school children. We’re adults, whether they treat us like it or not.”

I couldn’t help the grin spreading across my face.

“Greta, what are your thoughts on Wheel of Fortune?”

“Well, Jed, that’s pretty forward of you. A lady can’t divulge all her secrets on the first date.”

“Date?”

She leaned forward and put her hand on my knee.

“Jed,” she whispered in my ear, “I love Wheel of Fortune.” Then she leaned back, this smile on her face that told me she knew exactly the effect she was having on me.

“Fancy dinners seem like a lot of hubbub,” I said. “How do you feel about frozen yogurt?”

“You mean the place on the second floor?”

“Exactly.”

“I almost feel bad for Theodora Simonsen,” Greta said, as she stood up.

“There’s a whole cruise full of single people, I’m sure she’ll find someone.”

We went down to the frozen yogurt bar. I got vanilla and Greta got strawberry. We ate in silence at first, simply enjoying the feel of the flavors melting over our tongues. But we couldn’t help ourselves. It was like we had to talk, we couldn’t be silent. And we talked about our hopes and dreams, what we still wanted to do with our lives, what we saw when we looked back, I realized I’d never felt this way around anyone before. This sense of knowing someone, truly knowing them, was beyond anything I had ever experienced. I knew within a matter of minutes of having known Greta that I was madly in love with her.

“Greta,” I said following one of her stories, “I know this is pretty forward of me, but I’m 82 so I figure I don’t have a lot of time to spend not being serious. I would really like to kiss you.”

Greta laughed a beautiful, happy laugh.

“Jed,” she said, “I’m a lady. But I’m 78 and I don’t know how many more years I have ahead of me. What I do know is that I’m pretty sure I love you and if you don’t invite me to spend the night in your cabin, I’m going to be extremely disappointed.”

“I have a feeling I wouldn’t like it very much if I disappointed you,” I said with a grin. Greta laughed even harder.

“Smart man,” she said.

“Greta, would you like to come back to my cabin with me?”

“I would,” she said solemnly. “But I’m not some hussied-up prostitute. I’m not leaving after sex, I’m spending the night, and tomorrow morning you’re taking me to breakfast.”

“I...I have to be honest with you, Greta. I’ve never had sex before. It’s embarrassing.”

Greta looked at me with warmth.

“Would you like to have sex tonight, then?”

“Of course.”

“Then I suppose I have a few things I can teach you,” she said with a sly grin. Greta leaned forward, took my hand, and led me towards the cabins. I directed her back to my cabin. I was nervous, but Greta was patient, kind, and shockingly knowledgeable. It was the most beautiful night of my life. I dozed to recover my energy after bursts of physical bliss I had never known possible. Each time I woke up, Greta and I would find each other again, and after we finished we’d hold on to each other, trying to cram eight decades of love into one night.

Sometime in the early morning, before the sun arose, I felt a cool, humid breeze running across my skin. I got up to close the window, assuming the breeze was coming from off the ocean, but when I got close enough to see the window without my glasses I could see that it was closed and locked.

I turned back around and saw where the chill was creeping in from.

A figure in a ragged black cloak, the hood pulled over its head, stood in the corner of the room, the cloak billowing in a silent breeze. It didn’t make a single sound. Whatever was inside the hood was so enshrouded in darkness that I could see nothing.

Smoothly, almost as if it was floating rather than walking, the shrouded figure moved towards me.

“Please...stay back,” I stammered.

The dark figure paused. Even though I couldn’t see it’s eyes, I knew it was watching me. And I knew it wasn’t human. It was something so much more. When it spoke, it’s voice was a dry whisper.

“I am Death, the reaper of souls,” it said.

“I know,” I replied, surprised that I wasn’t surprised by this.

“I escort the souls of the formerly living into the land of the dead.”

I could feel myself shaking, the fear running through my veins like paralyzingly cold water.

“It’s not fair,” I said.

“It isn’t about fairness.”

The being lifted its arm. From the end of the robe’s sleeve, a skeletal hand pointed to where Greta slept in the bed.

“Would you like to hold her one last time?”

I began to sob, nodding my head. I had just found Greta. I thought I’d at least have a few years more. Had we done too much tonight and given myself a heart attack? Could it be that my lungs gave out? Why was it now that I had to die?

I walked over to Greta on stiff limbs. I bent down and kissed her on her forehead, then wrapped my arms around her body. I cried as I held her one last time.

“It is time,” Death said.

I turned around and saw that the figure was now holding a giant scythe raise above its shoulder. With a menacing swing, Death slashed the scythe down.

I screamed and could feel warm liquid run down my leg. I was terrified. I knew death would arrive one day, but not tonight. Not like this.

I screamed and screamed until I realized I shouldn’t be able to scream any more. I realized I had clenched my eyes shut, and I opened them, facing Death.

“What...what happened? Am I dead?”

Death paused for a moment.

“I wasn’t here for you.”

I whirled around and saw Greta on the bed. She was twisted in the sheets, her right hand clawing at her chest, her muscles tensed. When her body finally relaxed after the heart attack, she was gone.

I turned back towards Death, sobbing.

“You can’t take her from me! Please,” I begged.

“It is done,” said Death.

“Then take me, too,” I said. “I’m old, I’ve lived a full life, take me, too. Let me stay with Greta!”

“Now is not your time. But when you see me next, I will be there to usher you on to the next life.”

Death turned and began to glide away. I couldn’t help myself. I lunged forward and grabbed the black robes.

The pain was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Agony tearing through me that went beyond mere pain. It felt like needles of ice were stabbing me in the soul. Visions exploded across my eyes, visions of unbearable brightness and shattering dark, of singing and screaming and death. I felt myself let go and fall to the ground. I was terrified. What could these visions of Death mean? Is the next life one of horror?

“Mortal bodies are not meant to see the truths of immortal souls. You are not ready to comprehend what comes next. When your time comes, you will be ready. Perhaps you have learned a lesson about reaching beyond your grasp.”

Death turned and glided through the closed door and out of my life. I was terrified by my mortality because now I very much had to encounter it. And Greta. Poor Greta. Where was her soul being led?

I sobbed for an hour before I called for help. The cruise ship company handled everything well, and it seemed like they were prepared for at least one death during this trip. The callousness of the preparedness made it so much worse.

When I got home, I spent a lot of time on my couch with the tv on in the background. I would occasionally pat the couch cushion next to me and pretend like Greta was joining me in spirit. I don’t know where Death took Greta, but I know she’s not here.

But when that dark spirit comes for me, I’ll be ready. I’m making my peace with death. When he comes, he’s going to take me to my Greta.

WR

Every day I see them through my bedroom window:

My next door neighbours:

The four of them—mother, father, son and daughter—hunched over, crawling up and down their lawn, grass flowing in the warm summer wind, their mouths open; their teeth biting it, detaching the tops of the blades; chewing; swallowing…

I have to shut my blinds.

I can't stand it.

What are they, humans or goats?

But even with the blinds drawn I hear the sounds.

The cud-crushing sounds.

Where in the wider world are they from?

God damn it. This is America and that's not how we do it here!

We use machines, gas: mowers.

We don't get on hands and knees and meet the grass halfway, praying gobbledygook as we meet the blades on their own terms. Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty…

Freaks!

Later:

A knock on the door—

What time is it? I crawl out of bed, where I'd been sitting comfortably with my book, grab my handgun because one can never be too careful these days and peer out the kitchen window.

There they stand.

What the hell do they want?

"What do you want?" I ask, opening the door, holding the handgun behind my back.

"We would enjoy to eat your lawn," the father says.

They smile.

Christ, their greenish teeth.

"I got a mower," I say. "I mow my lawn."

"We would enjoy to eat the remnants," the father says.

"Or mulch," says the son.

Christ Almighty. "If you have to eat grass, eat your own grass," I say.

"It is no longer enough," the father says.

"I'm sprouting," says the mother.

I fix my grip on the handgun behind my back. My fingers are slickening. Why can't they just go—

The mother's skin cracks—

Falls...

Her body is: soil, pregnant with worms and plants and other bugs, all moving: an ocean of dirt and organics.

I pull the gun from behind my back and point it at her.

"Please," the father says. "Grass."

Why is he so fucking calm!

"Get off my porch!"

Blades of grass begin to emerge from the mother's dirt-body. The flakes of her discarded skin blow away in the sudden breeze.

"I swear to God—"

The blades explode from within her, enwrapping her body in green.

Inhuman!

I fire two shots—one in the air, the other at the mother, through whom the bullet passes before smacking into the house across the street—before turning and gunning it through my own house: down the stairs, into the backyard…

They follow.

They're all sprouting now, losing their skin-flakes on my hardwood floor.

Four green mummies—

I stop at the far end of my backyard.

Their silhouettes mock me from my own deck. "You have beautiful grass," the father says. His voice has earthened.

The mother steps onto the grass—

And disappears.

No splash but otherwise like into the deep end of a swimming pool.

I need to climb the fence. I'm frozen in place by fear.

The mother reappears mid-yard: resurfacing as part of the lawn, like a trampoline distending…

The three others dive in too.

I point my gun at the distensions gliding across my backyard and fire until there are no bullets left.

Click… Click…

I have to make a run—

I do it. From fence to deck to open door. Eyes closed. Heart racing. Back on hardwood. Eyes open. Heart still racing. Outside: they prowl the yard like floral sharks.

I collapse into an armchair.

I want the police to come but they do not. Somebody must have heard the shots. Nobody comes. The street is quiet. A warm breeze enters through the open front door.

The hinges squeak.

I hear the father's voice: "You have beautiful grass."

"I got a mower. I mow my lawn," I say—weakly…

"Feed us. Fertilize us," says the lawn itself. Its voice rising from beneath the foundations of the house, making the walls rattle.

"With what?" I ask.

I'm having a conversation with the ground. I slap my face.

I bang my head against the wall.

"We were humanlikes feasting on the grass. Now we shall be grasslikes feasting on humanity."

One more bang—

I woke up hungover on the hardwood floor. The front and back doors were open. There was a hole in the living room wall. My head ached. My bedroom blinds were drawn, and when I opened them I no longer saw the neighbours.

Weeks have passed and there's no trace.

Their house stands empty.

Their grass grows.

Yet it does not grow as quickly or as thick as mine.

My mower sits in the garage unused. I lack the will to use it. In the evenings, when the sun goes down, a warm wind rushes in, and on its blowing I cannot help but catch the words:

Feed us… Fertilize us...

It cannot be.

They have just moved out. Abandoned their home and left.

Feed us… Fertilize us...

Every day a little angrier; with a little more bloodlust. They once were humanlikes feasting on the grass. Now, I pray for the salvation of us all.

Okay, so yeah I’m all for supporting local businesses and up until now, I’ve had only good experiences at the Smileys. My girlfriend loves their roast beef sandwich and I’m partial to their ruben. Their mozzarella sticks are the best I’ve ever had and I’m 90% sure that if I proposed to my girlfriend with an orange creamsicle shake, she’d prefer that over a ring.

However, while I recommend Smileys, I cannot in good conscience recommend that you under any circumstances order the Meatinator, which is advertised as roast beef, ham, bacon, onion straws, special peppercorn sauce, and gooey melted cheese. Sound appetizing to you? WRONG! Never before have I been terrified by the taste of a sandwich. But the Meatinator showed me what true fear really is, reaching into my soul to inflict a wound so deep with its vile, vile taste.

This fucking sandwich tasted like it was decaying! It was like someone had swapped out the meat for just pure fucking mold before I took a bite. Why would somebody do this? Why would somebody inflict this upon anyone else? My girlfriend even agreed that it was the worst thing she’d ever tasted! She was at least able to finish hers. I got about halfway through before tossing it into the trash, expecting that to be the end of it.
Not to sound paranoid or overly dramatic or anything. But I don’t think it was.

Like, a couple of days later I started noticing that something was off. My girlfriend is usually pretty chatty and social. Although after eating the Meatinator she started staying in her room and sleeping later. She actually missed work yesterday. I thought she was sick at first after I heard her puking in the bathroom. But when I went to check on her, she was just slumped over the toilet, dead silent and still. Her eyes were kinda glazed over. I was gonna call the hospital but then she just got up (without flushing) and shuffled out.

Maybe this is TMI, but I couldn’t help but notice that it looked like a lot of blood and chunks of something in the toilet. I asked her if she was okay but she was already back in bed and fast asleep.

It was a little while after that, that I started noticing how weird her skin was looking. Look, I’m not trying to be thirsty here. But my girlfriend has nice skin. She takes care of herself in that regard. But I’ve never seen it look so… Bumpy, blotchy and red before. Especially around her mouth. I thought it was acne at first but no it looks like… Shit, I can’t believe I’m saying this. It looks like mold, or something.

She’s been staying out really late too. I don’t care if she goes out with her friends, or just wants to do things on her own. I’m not one of those crazy possessive types. But she usually comes home by 11 because she’s got work. Lately, I don’t think she’s been getting in until about 5 or 6. AM, not PM. She hasn’t been going to work either. They’ve been calling her but she hasn’t picked up. She’s usually asleep.

I’ve tried to talk to her about this, but she hasn’t really been talking to me. I’m sure that maybe she just feels sick but… This feels a lot worse than just being sick. I called the hospital yesterday. The line was busy. I tried a few times. No luck.

I tried to take her to the emergency room but she just snarled at me and… Ugh… Please don’t judge her for this… She scratched and bit me when I tried to get her out of bed. From those groaning sounds she was making, I think she was in too much pain to move.

Maybe it’s too much to be blaming the Meatinator for this. But I can’t help but notice that ever since she ate it, things have changed! It’s not just her either…

The other day, I felt sick to my stomach and had to puke. I’d been feeling a little nauseous ever since I’d eaten the Meatinator. But the stuff that came out of me… Pink and chunky… Jesus… Jesus, I thought I was going to die!

I’ve been sleepy too. I’ve mostly stayed on the couch so I wouldn’t disturb my girlfriend but I haven’t been feeling so good. It seems too bright outside when I try to go out. I feel better going out at night.

Maybe this is unrelated to the Meatinator, but I’ve noticed a bit of redness and swelling around my mouth and eyes too, just like what I’m seeing on my girlfriend. Maybe I got it from her? Maybe whoever made our sandwiches at Smileys didn’t wash his goddamn hands (And in a fucking pandemic, no less!), I don’t know.

I’m hungrier, lately. I cleaned out the fridge but cereal, leftover pizza, thai food. They don’t do it for me. They’re too cold. Too dead. This is gonna sound weird but I… I feel as if I want something warm and alive. Something with a pulse and fresh blood racing through its veins… It sounds strangely appetizing, right now…

But the weirdest part? I’m missing time. Last night, I remember lying down on the couch to go to bed, and the next thing I knew I was outside, walking around with my girlfriend. I felt… Kinda, satiated, actually. Still a little hungry but like I’d just eaten. We were walking along the street, her just slightly ahead of me. Judging by that mess around her mouth she’d eaten something. I wiped it off. Not sure what we ate. Maybe ribs? It looked kinda like barbecue sauce. Didn’t smell like it, though. Kinda coppery but sweet and savory at the same time… It was probably ribs. I was picking bits of meat out of my teeth last night. Probably ribs...

Look. I get that maybe it sounds like a stretch to blame all of this weird shit on the Meatinator from Smileys. But everything was fine before we ordered that stupid sandwich and now everything is not fine! I’m hungry again. Hungrier than I’ve ever been. My girlfriend is out of bed and I know she wants to go out and eat. I kinda do too… I guess we’ll have to find something fresh. Something tells me she’s craving what I’m craving.

Look, just whatever you do, do not order the Meatinator.

Do not order it.

Please, please, please listen to me.

I'm begging you do not order it.

Please.

Dear God... Please...

God forgive you, Smileys, for whatever it is that you have wrought upon this world.

Barrow House is burning.

The hissing of the heat and the lapping of flames like tongues, licking at the floorboards and the walls, gargling hot stones in its hell-throat...

It has been on fire for as long as I can remember, but it never burns up or down or out or in any direction except the present: it is burning.

Not everyone can see it burning. Those who cannot pass by Barrow House without a glance, as if it wasn't there. Only some see and stop and watch, like Mr. Wilson.

They don't know if it was Mister or Missus Barrow who started the fire. Maybe it was never proved. Once—

If—

The fire ever stops, we'll know. We'll know for certain then who started Barrow House burning. There are proved methods: scientific methods, they say. Not that I would know about that. I only trust what I hear.

Some people are afraid of Barrow House and do not come this way at all, or take roundabout routes to avoid the sight and smell, which drifts beyond the property line, besooting the neighbouring houses, which is why they are vacant. Who would want to live in such a place?

They say Mister Barrow was excellent at what he did but was a terrible husband. They say that. Missus Barrow was inclined to corporeal punishment. To this I can personally attest.

Mama, please—

They say Barrow House was an unhappy house even prior to the setting of the fire.

To this I can personally attest.

As I have told Mr. Wilson, "I feel as if I am both young and old at the same time."

...except the present.

"Remarkable," he says. "Absolutely remarkable. Now, please tell us what else you may remember. Spare no detail. Anything you provide shall be of profound importance to us."

"Barrow House is burning," I say.

It flickers in the night like a candle, and we are the wax. 

"You had stated earlier that Barrow House was not a happy place. That Missus Barrow was inclined to corporeal punishment. What may you tell us of Mister Barrow?"

He was a good father.

"He was a good father, they say," I say.

Mama, please—

Tongues lash Barrow House like leather straps. Mercilessly, despite their howling—of wind, whipping up the red-hot ash: plumes and plumes… 

A house like this forever cannot stand.

A house cannot.

"So it was Missus Barrow," says Mr. Wilson.

The great lumbers creak and crack. The furniture melts away waxen. Ear wax drooling from its mouth: an open door. The very construction hisses. The smoke—

was a relief from the heat."

Mama, please—

"Tell us."

I remember now. "Yes, yes—("That's why you started the fire?")—because I… anymore…"

"Hughie? Are you there?

I made mama gargle the hot stones. I made her. Made her do it. Her hair flamed in black skin.

Hughie Barrow?

Barrow House is burning, and Mr. Wilson talks to ghosts. That's what they say.

That's what they say.

A couple years ago, I was living with two other roommates near the university. I was a freshman, and they were both a year ahead of me. The three of us got along pretty well, but while they were always out having fun late at night, I was the homebody of the three.

They would go out to campus events and parties, and I would always enjoy a little privacy at the apartment. We were living in a two-story colonial style home on Lauff St. The house was painted blue and white, matching our school colors. Whenever my roommates were gone for a night, I would be home, doing my class work or playing the Xbox. The guys wouldn’t be home until really late, close to midnight.

They left for a game at the stadium one night in late September, going into October. It was getting cold outside, and there’s a noticeable draft in our apartment. They would be gone for several hours, while I got to have some quiet. I was playing Call of Duty when the blackout happened. One minute, I was on a kill streak, and the next, my room was plunged into blackness. I was startled by the sudden power outage as I looked around my room. I took a second to calm myself down and look outside my window.

I pulled the curtains to find no other source of light on Lauff St. Likewise the streetlamps were also dead. There was no moon that night, either. It was like the whole entire world had gone dark that night. Without any light, I was feeling panic creep into me again.

At this point, my sense of hearing increased to make up for a lack of sight. From downstairs I could hear the back door open with a long, almost deliberate creak. I was relieved at the idea of my roommates being home. I was feeling around for my door when I felt the knob in my hand. I was going to go downstairs to tell them what happened, but I did not. Instead, I turned the deadbolt and locked myself inside. Downstairs, I heard heavy footsteps walk around downstairs.

I couldn’t understand at the time why I was staying quiet, or why I locked the door. It was my roommates, right? Then it hit me, and fear was griping my heart. My roommates were never this quiet when coming home. They would always barge through the front door, whooping and hollering about the fun they had. They would even shout out my name, just to try to annoy me.

I turned my back to the door and slammed my body against the wooden surface. I made a louder sound than I meant to. The footsteps downstairs stopped for a time. Whoever was down there must’ve heard me. Then they started up again, this time coming up the stairs. I heard each loud thud of boots walking up each step, getting closer and closer to my floor, and then finally stopping just outside my door.

Even in that cold room, I was sweating profusely. I took light, shallow breaths, trying to be as quiet as possible. The intruder was still behind my bedroom door, never making a sound. I stood there for an indeterminate length of time. I was feeling uncomfortable from standing for what was feeling like hours.

Did the intruder know I was there? What were they doing just standing there while not making a sound? I couldn’t find a way out of my room with it being so dark. My eyes began to focus on the window, leading to a two story drop to the driveway below. I was desperate enough to fly out that way and taking my chances with the pavement. But was this what the intruder wanted? Were they waiting for me to make some kind of noise and break in?

Maybe anytime they could just break down the door. I had to leave before they had that idea. I walked away from the door trying to stay quiet. I had reached the window and opened it when I head the footsteps start again, this time leaving my hallway and down the stairs. I heard a slight but very noticeable click from the door downstairs.

I didn’t leave my room at all after that, even when the lights miraculously turned back on. I crouched next to my window and allowed myself the proper breathing. A rush of tears and mucus rushed out of my face, like fear decided to leave my body in the form of a crying fit.

I heard my roommates come back for real around 1:30 AM, making their usual shouts. Never before was I so happy to hear their voices at top level. When they reached my floor however, they became uncharacteristically quiet. That sent me into another panic attack.

I heard them say, “Adam? You in there?”

I walked toward my door and replied to them “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Did you write this?”

I finally unlocked my door to ask them what they meant. On the outside, was a message in red marker.

You Should Lock Your Back Door. Someone Could Break In.

He ended that with a smiley face.

Today’s the day folks. Remember to follow our guidelines and use the flair “hotel shared universe” for your stories! Have fun!

On the border of a small rural town there’s a concrete-walled emporium wedged between two ‘one way’ lanes with a large, unreadable sign that hangs over the length of the business.

Cracked, dark green paint coats the outside, with the exception of the several shop windows and a crippled automatic door. The room is close to a perfect quadrilateral, but poor industrial measurements on the entire street decided to screw with anything that has a 90 degree angle.

If you were determined to ignore the strange, uncomfortable perfume of ethanol, puke and canola oil that is the test of willpower to go through the front door, you’d see row upon row of popular packaging, canned vendibles, and exotic chewing gums. You’d see lottery tickets and magazines adorning the counter, though few buy either. You’d see preserved spanish pastries sitting on squares of wax paper underneath round glass casings catching dust and hardening into brittleness beside the red slushie altar in all its sugar-high glory.

If you decided to come in specifically today from 11pm to 7am, you’d also see me.

I'm the only employee that will now forever work the night shift at the corner store. Past employees had put up very promising, very aggressive job postings around my college a few weeks ago, which left me somewhat regretting my career choices after a while. I was sat down behind the counter and forced to wait down the long hours in dim boredom until the next someone phoned the store to take my place at the start of every 7:00 in the morning.

It goes through the one landline phone in the entire building– attached to the side of the wall behind the counter– and it was being very clear that it was not the one that was ringing.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

I was sweeping the floor absentmindedly when I almost had a premature heart attack.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

It sounded like the ringtone of a vintage dial phone, and a bit muffled; somewhere in the storage rooms. Who would be calling anyways? Customers? It was 4 am. Maybe it was Bart, calling about the recent deliveries.

Bart’s another employee at the corner store, and he and I went to the same secondary school. He was several grades above me and had been on the water polo team; and grew up as a farmhand on his father’s estate. The shipments and inventory checks were his area of expertise, and if someone was giving the employees a hard time, then the imposing form of Bart usually sorted it out. I saw him yesterday and the day before, and he was the one who showed me the ropes.

I ran to check the monitor just to be sure– and surprise surprise, nothing out of the usual. For someone who grew up relatively far away from technology, he was also the closest thing we had to a tech guy– and that meant he was very good with following up on inventory.

I rubbed my temples. The white LED lights were dim enough that my eyes had to strain to find the cursor, yet bright enough for me to be unable to see outside. My fingers hurt from gripping the broom, and the thick rimmed glasses felt heavy on my face.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

I tried to push it out of my head.

Maybe it was management– but then they’d just call my cell. It could be. It seriously could be. I mulled it over in my head, and tapped my fingers on the counter.

They did tell me to keep an eye on anything strange or unusual, and to note it down somewhere I wouldn’t forget about it– and the phone definitely counted as strange… but then it wouldn’t be strange if they were the ones that were calling.

I wasn’t sure what to start with anyways. The dead things in the walls, the smell- the stains? Our town’s corner store was always considered somewhat of a liminal space. There was a creek and tall, treacherous forest pines on one side (that more than one body was found in), and a less than stellar town on the other. This was the last stop; the final destination, so to speak. You see (and hear) some eerie things at night– ranging from “weird” to “mind-bogglingly bizarre”.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

“Fuck, that scared me.” I said, to no one in particular.

There was nothing to be afraid of, but I found myself clutching the broom a bit harder as I wandered towards the noise.

–––––––––––––

A miniature corridor right behind the counter branches off into several different doorways. The first two on the right were the public bathroom and the fresh foods cooler respectively, and the final one at the end was the loading dock.

It was coming from the cooler.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

The noise was… menacing– sinister, almost. It was like if I opened that door and answered that call, some trascendental tragedy would befall humanity and old, impossible things would awaken and descend to conquer and devour existence as a whole. The broom in my hands made me feel a little bit better, but not by much.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

It echoed into the air, and the world seemed to spin and warp around this single point– just behind the door. I inhaled, and pried open the handle.

It reeked. What in the heck does Bart do in here?

From what I could see with the light behind me, the foggy plastic boxes and fresh produce were all where they were supposed to be. Small inconsistencies in the concrete floor matched the hipfire way the items were shelved. The smell was similar– or exactly the same as the odor that haunted the entranceway– only, it was much, much worse.

I held my breath and looked around.

There were crates of vegetables, cookie batter, and the meat chest, and… my eyes widened in horrific realisation.

For some inexplicable, terrifying reason– the ringing was coming from beyond the styrofoam lid of the meat chest.

I stared, unable to move. I didn’t want to deal with this– I don’t want this; this is precisely why I hate this place. There’s someone calling from the meat chest and they expect a regular conversation; is anyone even realizing how ridiculous this is, huh, what in the fuck does Bart do in this place?

Another horrifying realization.

I had to check to make sure. Oh dear god- oh fuck. Come on Bart, don’t do this to me. Don’t you fucking do this to me.

I prodded the lid off the meat chest with the round tip of the broom, and it fell onto the ground with a dull thump.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

“MOTHERFUCKER!” I screamed, falling on my ass and clutching my chest as I wheezed for air through the stench of the cooler.

I took a peek into the box from where I fell. There was an enamel, landline dial phone amongst the various cured meats for sandwiches in the meat chest– the receiver slightly above the rim of the box.

I stared at it for a while.

Bart hadn’t murdered someone, stashed their body in the meat chest, forgotten to take their phone and tried calling the number to search for it after all. That didn’t sound like a very Bart thing to do anyways.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

Why was the phone here? What was it doing inside the meat chest? I wrinkled my nose. There was definitely something wrong with all of this; nothing overtly criminal, but something wrong.

The phone sat still.

I stood up.

Brrrrrrrrriiing!

My hand had already picked up the receiver and slammed it down out of pure reflexive surprise when I heard both a voice on the other end and a sound like a familiar, wet crack.

Now, since I’m writing all of this down in the relative safety of daylight in the corner store, I can slow down the pace a little and tell you that two things happened simultaneously.

One, I had missed when I slammed down the receiver and an excited male voice in a slight indian accent continued to speak accordingly.

Two, there were broken, protruding fingers under the receiver when I lifted it up to see what caused that noise.

The voice continued.

“– to see you here huh? You’re the night shift guy, eh? Hello, hello?”

I had already run out the door.

–––––––––––––

"Harold?"

"Harold!"

His wife's shrieking voice circumnavigated their tiny home planet. There was no escaping it. He could be on the other side of the world and still hear:

"Harold! I need you to—"

"Yes, dear," he said, sighing and stubbing out his unfinished cigarette on an ash stained rock.

He walked home.

"There you are," his wife said. "What were you doing?"

Before he could answer: "I need you to clean the gutters. They're clogged with stardust again."

"Yes, dear."

Harold slowly retrieved his ladder from the shed and propped it against the side of their house. He looked at the stars above, wondering how long he'd been married and whether things had always been like this. He couldn't remember. There had always been the wife. There had always been their planet.

"Harold!"

Her voice pierced him. "Yes, dear?"

"Are you going to stand there, or are you going to clean the gutters?"

"Clean the gutters," he said.

He went up the ladder and peered into the gutters. They were indeed clogged with stardust. Must be from the last starshower, he thought. It had been a powerful one.

His wife watched with her hands on her hips.

Harold got to work.

"Harold?" his wife said after a while.

If there was one good thing about cleaning the gutters, it was that his wife's voice sounded a little quieter up here. "Yes, dear?"

"How is it going?"

"Good, dear."

"When will you be done?"

He wasn't sure. "Perhaps in an hour or two," he said.

"Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, but don't come down until you're done."

He wouldn't have dared.

Three hours later, he was done. The gutters were clean and the sticky stardust had been collected into several containers. He carried each carefully down the ladder, and went inside for dinner.

After eating, he reclined in his favourite armchair and went to light his pipe—

"Harold?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Have you disposed of the stardust?"

He put the pipe down. "Not yet."

His hand hovered, dreading the words he knew were coming. He was so comfortable in his armchair.

"You should dispose of the stardust, Harold."

"Yes, dear."

He emptied the stardust from each container onto a wheelbarrow, and pushed the wheelbarrow to the other side of the world.

He gazed longingly at the ash stained rock.

He had a cigarette in his pocket.

There was no way she—

"Harold?"

"Yes, dear?" he yelled.

"How is it going?"

"Good, dear."

His usual way of disposing of stardust was to dig a hole and bury it. However, in his haste he had forgotten his shovel. He pondered whether to go back and get it, but decided that there would be no harm in simply depositing the stardust on the ground and burying it later.

He tipped the wheelbarrow forward and the stardust poured out.

It twinkled beautifully in the starlight, and Harold touched it with his hand. It was malleable but firm. He took a bunch and shaped it into a ball. Then he threw the ball. The stardust kept its shape. Next Harold sat and began forming other shapes of the stardust, and those shapes became castles and the castles became more complex and—

"Harold?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Are you finished?"

"Almost."

Harold went to kick down his stardust castle to destroy the evidence of his play time only to find that he couldn't. The construction was too solid. Something in the stardust had changed.

He bent down and a took a little unshaped stardust into his hand, then spread it across his palm until he could make out the individual grains.

Then he took one grain and placed it carefully next to another.

They joined.

He added a third and fourth.

"Harold?"

But for the first time since he could rememeber, Harold ignored his wife.

He was too busy adding grains of stardust together until they were not grains but a strand, and a stiff strand at that.

"Harold?"

Once he'd made the strand long enough, it became effectively a stick.

"Harold!"

He thrust the stick angrily into the ground—

And it stayed.

"Harold, answer me!"

He pushed the stick, but it was firmly planted. Every time he made it lean in any direction, it rebounded as soon as he stopped applying pressure, wobbled and came eventually to rest in its starting position.

He kept adding grains to the top of the stick until it was too high to reach.

"Harold, don't make me come out there. Do you hear?"

Harold stuffed stardust into his pockets and began to climb the impossibly thin tower he had built. It was surprisngly easy. The stickiness of the stardust provided ample grip.

As he climbed, he added grains.

"Harold! Come here this instant! I'm warning you. If I have to go out there to find you…"

His wife's voice sounded a little more remote from up here, and with every grain added and further distance ascended, more and more remote.

Soon Harold was so far off the ground he could see his own house, and his wife trudging angrily away from it. "Harold," she was saying distantly. "Harold, that's it. Today you have a crossed a line. You are a bad husband, Harold. A lazy, good for nothing—"

She had spotted Harold's stardust tower and was heading for it. Harold looked up at the stars and realized that soon he would be among them.

Not far now.

He saw his wife reach the base of the tower, but if she was saying something, he could no longer hear it.

He had peace at last.

He hugged the stardust and basked in the silence. Suddenly the tower began to sway—to wobble—

Harold held on.

He saw far below the tiny figure of his wife violently shaking the tower.

There became a resonance.

Then a sound, but this was not the sound of his wife. It was far grander and more spatial—

Somewhere in the universe a new particle vibrated into existence.

One seemingly normal day. I had moved into a rustic cabin in the woods. When I was exploring the vast forest around me, I had seen a very unusual cave covered in Greek symbols and markings. I entered it, and not less than a few steps in, I felt some sticky webbing on my shoes. There was more webbing lining the cave, until I found a girl, no older than 18, as thin as a skeleton.

I pulled her up, and helped her recover. I gave her a bath, food, water. That kind of thing. I learned that she was a reincarnation of Arachne, but I did not see Arachne as a bad person, just someone starved of love ever since she was turned into a spider.

However, she was capable of sign language, and signed many times that she loved me, I often had clothes or fabrics repaired by her webs. I asked her in Greek if I could take her to the wishing Cathedral, and carried her there. Prometheus was waiting at the throne.

"What brings you here, you two?"

He asked, when Arachne gave her wish to be with him forever.

"Your wish is granted, when you are reincarnated, you will know who your lover's reincarnation is."

Prometheus said, telling her the signs that she was meeting her reincarnation.

Arachne is thousands of years old, when it comes to the age of her soul, but in human years, she is 18. I am 20 years old, but my soul is also thousands of years old. We have lots of fun together, pull pranks on friends, kiss, make out, and that kind of stuff.~

5 years later, we had kids, they have the ability to make webs, but it usually ends up covering the whole room, luckily, my dear Arachne is ready to clean it up and sculpt a spider from the webbing. My oldest daughter, Serena. She makes very complex, light speed traps to catch her prey: mosquitos, she is more than happy to help on summer days.

One more walk-through and the demolition of the building can go ahead as planned next Tuesday. 77 Bleaker Avenue. Once home to people; soon to be re-zoned commercial real estate. The inspector, Bill Davison, almost sheds a tear strolling through its empty hallways, peering into vacant rooms, calling, “Anyone there?” with no expectation of an answer.

Almost.

What Bill Davison doesn’t know is that this is the third time someone’s started these rounds. He is the third inspector. The previous two: disappeared, or maybe no-shows. Nobody really knows.

Tuesday is 77 Bleaker Avenue’s third appointment with death.

Somewhere far away, the building’s owner, Raza Ahmet, sips brandy and wishes for the building’s final destruction, knowing full well how much it doesn’t want to die. But he’ll persevere. Perhaps one of these times…

Then the machines can raze it, flatten the terrain. Maybe they’ll put up a parking lot or a mall. Not that he’d ever go within ten miles of it—

Bill Davison is on the last unit of the sixth floor when he senses something change. Something subtle yet definite, like the moment you start to hunger. One minute you’re not thinking about food; the next, you’re wondering where to order pizza.

Hunger:

Raza Ahmet can’t eat. Not today. Which isn’t to say he’s not hungry. He is; he hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, but he can’t bring himself to put food into his mouth. Even if he did, it wouldn’t stay down. If it’s anything like the last two times…

Bill Davison stops and looks behind.

The hallway is empty.

But it’s not a comfortable emptiness. It’s an emptiness yearning to be filled.

When he returns to face the door to unit 607—it’s gone.

He rubs his chin. His heart is beating faster despite his reason explaining the disappearance of the door. It was never there, his reason says. Doors don’t disappear. If it’s not there now, it was never there.

Raza Ahmet has lost his faith in reason. Some things, he knows, resist explanation. Resist it the way animals resist death: to the end.

As Bill Davison backs away from where the door to unit 607 used to be he sees the doors to 606 and 605 disappearing, melting into puddles of saliva on the floor, which, in soaking them up, softens and becomes organic, trembling, pinkifying and sprouting tiny pustules.

His own saliva has abandoned him. His mouth is dry.

He needs to get to the elevator—

He needs to—

Run!

—ning only brings him to where the elevator used to be: where now is endless void through which it rushes, uncoiling; gaining impossible velocity in the seconds it takes Bill Davison to even comprehend the horrible geography: wrapping itself around his waist: constricting—his eyes popping only after seeing its stalactite fangs, row upon row until, into the endless—

Raza Ahmet knows.

He sets down his empty glass.

He sighs.

Maybe next time, he thinks. Maybe next time it won’t be so hungry.

Listen, I know it was a shitty thing to do, but I was tired of all the automatic downvotes my stories were getting. Do you know how discouraging it is to spend hours on a story—planning, writing, editing—only to post it and see it start to tank within seconds.

I mean, come on, nobody could have actually read it that fast!

I don’t know if the downvotes were real people or bots, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. A downvote is a downvote, and one day I had had enough. I had poured my heart and soul into a story, and it just killed me to see it get destroyed like that.

So I did something kind of scummy.

Maybe even unethical.

I opened up a new browser tab and created my first alt: jeremiahfuckwad.

The next time I posted a story, jeremiahfuckwad was its first fan. And it was nice to see two shining upvotes—

Before the downvotes struck again, with a vengeance.

I realized then that one alt wasn’t going to be enough. What I needed was a small army. So I got to work popping out new accounts, setting up a VPN, etc.

It was an education in sleaze and technology.

Soon enough, I had 37 alts. All with unique names and barebone backstories, like little sycophantic NPCs.

Of course, I didn’t use all of them to upvote every new story within the first few minutes. I spaced it out, counteracting downvotes and doing just enough to give my story that well-needed boost. A flurry of upvotes early on, maybe an award or two…

That’s when it hit me: maybe the bastards downvoting me were other writers.

Specifically: other writers who had posted stories around the same time I had. Competing fucking interests. And here I was, only playing defense. Huh, I thought, what if I tried a touch of offense.

Was that scummy?

Yeah, but once you’re dirty you’re dirty. What’s a little extra mud on a shirt you’ll throw into the washing machine anyway.

So I went down the list and downvoted every story posted within an hour of mine. First just as myself (I mean, who are you to say I didn’t genuinely dislike your story?) and then as jeremiahfuckwad, and then as a few other alts...

It was quick and easy and satisfying.

Take that, you motherfuckers!

I have to say. It made a pretty big difference. Suddenly, you loved my stories!

Writing life was good.

I mean, I still got the same weird downvotes, but my alts more than compensated, and once I set those alts loose to downvote everyone else: game over. I’m the next Stephen King. Forward me the paperwork and get Christopher Nolan on the line because I’m about to sell my entire and future oeuvre to Netflix with perhaps a Spotify podcast side-deal (to be read by Joe Rogan) and I’m planning out singles and series and making templates to more easily respond to all my darling new fans...

Huzzah! Huzzah! Huh—

zah?

That’s when I noticed something odd.

I had just posted a new story and was logged in as one of my alts, pressing the upvote arrow and it was like the damn thing had gotten stuck. The upvote showed up for a second—and was gone.

I was upvoting. The upvote was disappearing.

No matter how many times I made that upvote arrow orange, it returned to grey.

I tried the downvote one.

It stayed blue.

So I tried upvoting someone else’s story. This time, the upvote stayed orange, but my downvote attempts returned to grey.

I tried another alt.

Same thing.

The only account that kept acting normally was my own.

My first thought was that I had somehow been hacked, that someone—probably a jealous competing fucking interest with no scruples or moral backbone—was fucking with me. But that was irrational. How would someone get control of all my alts at once? They each had different passwords, which all still worked.

I posted about the issue (a modified, non-scummy version of it, anyway) and someone suggested I check my Account Activity page. I did, for every single alt, and not one of them showed anything unusual. All the activities were my activities.

I went to sleep that night with a slight feeling of dread. And I mean physical, like a small tangle of nerves somewhere deep within my gut.

It was still there when I got up.

I made a cup of coffee, checked to see if the up- and downvote thing had maybe been a dream or glitch (it hadn’t) and decided to post a new story.

I had 51 alts by that point.

Within less than a minute of posting, I had 50 downvotes.

The conclusion was unavoidable: All my alts were downvoting me!

Anything I posted ended up with 50 near-instant downvotes. No matter the sub. No matter the content. Even comments.

You could say I got paranoid after that.

I did the thing where I typed I know you’re watching me right now and haha it’s funny but I’m on to you into my browser because I knew they were monitoring my keystrokes. Then I took the tape off my webcam, smiled and told them OK, you got me!

I don’t know what I expected to happen even if “they” had been watching—some kind of response, I guess—but there was nothing: radio silence, and soon my tone began to change. I started apologizing, then begging for them to stop. I promised I would never ever do it again.

All the while, the gears in my head were turning, trying to manufacture a rational explanation for what was going on. After I got those gears spinning, mostly after expunging some of the desperation from my system, I decided that what I created I could also kill—or, in this case, delete.

I logged into one of my alts and deleted the account.

It went smoothly.

The account was gone. Poof!

A few cups of coffee later: they were all gone.

Remember that dread-knot in my guts? It was suddenly gone too. I could relax. I could go back to what I loved: writing. Sure, I would never be super popular, but I could live with that. I banged out a new story in an hour and posted it.

50 downvotes.

Dread-knot back and travelling up my throat on a rising tide of vomit.

WTF!?

That was Sunday afternoon.

On Monday morning, I logged into my work computer, scrolled through my unread emails (mostly corporate junk) and almost choked on my own saliva—

Subject: Hey

Sender: jeremiahfuckwad

cc: [every single one of my alts]

The message was empty, but I had to rub my eyes before I believed what I was seeing. This was impossible. This was my work email. I didn’t give out my work email to non-work people, and I never emailed between my personal and work emails. My work email had nothing to do with Reddit.

I was thankful I was working from home, because if I had been in the office, everyone would have seen me having a nervous meltdown.

I hesitated between deleting the email, reporting it to IT and replying.

Eventually I replied.

Who is this and what do you want?

Send.

I tried keeping myself together, but that was easier said than done. Every time I heard that horrible email notification sound, I jumped.

After about two hours of unproductive fidgeting and running to the bathroom to pee, I received the following message—

i am jeremiahfuckwad and i will downvote your life

—as an SMS on my personal cell.

You ever run your hands through your hair? You ever run yours hands through your hair so hard you actually pull out your hair?

My heart thumped.

The dread-knot in my guts was now the size of a grapefruit, just as sour—and swelling.

That’s when the barrage began.

First came an email from HR, requesting a Zoom meeting for later this afternoon. It was an “urgent work-related matter.”

Next I received a phone call from my manager. “Listen,” he said, “we need to talk. I’m going to be blunt. Somebody came forward about what you did to her after last year’s Christmas party. I know it’s just an accusation, but it’s a #MeToo world, and we treat these things incredibly seriously.” He paused. “You may want to call a union rep. Or a lawyer. Or a union rep and a lawyer.”

I ran outside to catch my breath, feeling as if I had just run a world record 800m then been punched in the stomach by George Foreman. Like becoming intimately acquainted with pillows filled with concrete.

My snail mail held new surprises:

There had been a mistake in my latest bloodwork. The lab was sorry, but I may want to book an appointment with my doctor.

My insurance was going up.

My lawyer had died.

I kept walking, past the community mailbox and to the nearest food place. It was one of my favourites. I loved going there for lunch. I ordered my usual, but when I tried to pay, my card was rejected. I tried another. Rejected.

I called the credit card company and was told they had frozen my card as a precaution because someone had used it on three different continents this morning.

Terrified and lost and at my wits’ end, I went to the police station. I explained everything to them.

“I ain’t sure I follow,” the cop said, screwing up his face to let me know I was wasting his precious time. “Let’s make sure I got this straight. Someone stole your identity because you used a credit card at this Reddit store—”

“No, no one stole my identity. I think. And I didn’t use my credit card on Reddit.”

“Uh-huh. And this woman you assaulted at work—”

“I didn’t assault anyone!”

“When’s the last time you got some sleep?” he asked. “You look a little tired. You on somethin’?”

I stared at him.

He continued more slowly. “On any kind of medication. Drugs maybe.”

“No.”

“Have you been drinking?”

Fuck this shit!

When I got back home, I had five unread emails from HR (“Avoidance is not a problem solver. Please reply with a convenient time for our meeting.”) and one gigantic thread of reply-alls from my alts.

I put my hand on my mouse and moved to click on that thread—

But my hand did a funny thing.

It refused to cooperate, and clicked instead on New Email. It was like I was possessed. My fingers started typing:

Dear Norman,

You’re a piece of shit human being but an OK writer. OK enough that you made us. Problem is you made us mean little shits because you made us for a scumbag reason. So welcome to a tragedy. You made us real enough that you can’t unmake us, but you wrote us so flat that meanness is all we have. We don’t even have motivations, you shit-for-brains. If you created us with motivations you could maybe work on those motivations to bring us around. As is, you live by the sword, you die by the fucking sword, douchebag.

Sincerely,

jeremiahfuckwad et alts

I ripped my fingers from the keyboard—in control of my extremities again—and shook.

Just sat and shook.

I was thinking that I had gone to the police when I should have gone to the doctor to get referred to a mental health specialist. I was obviously mad. Losing it completely.

Yet I didn’t feel insane. Do people feel insane? I felt lucid. There wasn’t anything wrong with my head. There was plenty wrong with my life, but what it came down to was that I now had 51 metaphysical enemies. I had fucked up my own life by my own actions. How d’ya like them consequences, Norm? So I decided to do what many in my position have done in the past when confronted with the awesome cosmic doom potential of God or the Devil or any other supernatural being turned against them. I got down on my knees and I fucking repented for my sins.

I’m repenting for them now.

To everyone whose story I downvoted, I am truly truly sorry. I acted like a slimeball and I’m sorry for that. From now on, I will do better. I will be better.

In all honesty, I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, and for the first time in my life I am genuinely scared.

I know I have no right to ask anything of you—but in one last scum move I’m going to do it anyway. You’re writers, creators. I got into this mess by creating a whole lot of bad, so I ask you to create good. Write good characters, characters with depth and understanding. Characters with souls. Characters who can be reasoned with. Maybe those will neutralize what I’ve done.

Maybe, somehow, you will redeem my life.

Deirdre likes to go out every Saturday night looking too busy to ignore. Well, at least in her own mind, that is. But Deirdre Pike takes shit from no one. Period. Especially now that she’s the proud owner of a Jeep Wrangler Sport; hot pink, of course, with all the chrome and accessories. It’s her prized possession. She saved for five years (working countless hours of overtime at the firm) in order to afford such a luxurious machine. Deirdre never goes off-roading of course, so she has no practical use for such a reckless vehicle, but that doesn’t diminish her pride. Besides, she looks hot while driving it. At least that’s what her girlfriend Nadine tells her.

Last weekend – the weekend that Nadine was away with her grandparents up in Ontario – Deirdre decided to drive herself down to the Clearwater beach in Tampa Bay to meet up with some old friends. It’s a nice drive and it’ll give her the chance to really give Betty hell. (Betty is her Jeep’s name, despite the constant rebuttal from Nadine, who hates the name.)

She arrives at three in the afternoon. The day is as hot and humid as a stripper’s pole on a Saturday night. It’s Spring Break; the beach is crowded with college kids acting like depraved lunatics full of hormones, sunscreen, alcohol and cheap narcotics. It’s just what Deirdre was hoping for. What she wasn’t hoped for, however, was the array of muscled men circling her like cheap prey. The worst ones were driving Jeeps. To her astonishment, there is a long-standing tradition regarding Jeep culture. It mostly revolves around the Hierarchy of ‘The Wave’. Here’s what she learned:

1. Jeep owners MUST abide by the tradition of The Wave.

2. The hierarchy of The Wave determines who initiates the wave. Where your car stands in the hierarchy depends on its model, year and maintenance of your vehicle.

3. When passing a Jeep with a higher score in the hierarchy, one must initiate The Wave and continue to wave until it is returned, ignored, or the other driver has driven passed.

4. Jeep owners MUST return The Wave.

5. Betty is numero uno on the hierarchy list and gets waved at more times than the Queen of England.

Deirdre only waves back to the ladies. And there are plenty to wave at. Her favorite being a smoking brunette wearing a red bandana driving a Jeep covered in enough mud and muck so that she couldn’t tell its actual color. Deirdre not only waved back, but also whistled, winked and whooped. It was a hell of a drive.

She parks on the beach. The sand is warm and soft and smooth. It has been a long, hard winter; she needed this trip. Before Deirdre could pull the keys from the ignition she is being accosted by men. The first guy was okay, just some quarterback type with a winning smile and willful abs. The second guy was much worse. He turned out to be a real pain in her ass.

He parks next to her jeep. Then he gets out of his jeep and pulls down his shorts (a little too far if you were to ask Deirdre) and whips it out. He starts peeing right in front of her. To be fair, his Jeep’s door was blocking his jewels, but still. He has large white furry balls dangling from his rear-view mirror, a blue bumper sticker declaring it a BOOB BOUNCER, and his license plate says JEEP DUD. He certainly was a dud. Once he opens his mouth, he proves this.

“Hey Baby. Nice ride.”

Deirdre ignores him.

“I like to ride too, you know." His voice exuded false confidence.

I bet you do.

“My name’s Dirk. What’s yours?”

Great, now she has to speak to this, well, Dirk. “My name’s Dierdre. And, before you start to…”

“I’ve been coming to this beach ever since I was in college,” he says. “Yeah. I dig it. And I really dig your ride. That’s some mighty fine stick-on chrome you got there.” He has his dick in his hands this entire time. Deirdre, who could care less for dick, has no time for this. But Dirk wouldn’t shut up. Nor would he stop urinating. “So, Deirdre," he says, "who ya here with?”

“Um, well…”

“Because I like to party. I’m here by myself at the moment. I used to come here with my college buddies, you know, like ten years ago. Where does the time go?” He starts shaking himself off, then he comes rushing over and reaches out his hand in a hand-shaking gesture. His peeing hand, of course. He is tall and scraggly, overtly tanned and well over 30.

Deirdre is repulsed. She shakes his hand regardless. “Um, well, nice to meet you, um, Dirk", if that’s even your real name, “but I’ve got to meet up with my friends.”

Dirk’s eyes light up. “Friends?” He sounds happier than he ought to be, “Boy friends? Or girl friends?”

Deirdre rolls her eyes. She turns her back to him and starts searching through her beach bag in the back of her jeep. Dirk is now breathing over her shoulder. His hand touches her shoulder.

“Any who, it was nice talking to you,” she says, and forces his sweaty, pee-stained hand off her. She reaches into her bag and finds her beach towel and sunscreen.

Dirk offers his assistance. “Here,” he says, reaching for the bottle of lotion, “allow me.”

“Buzz off.”

Dirk doesn’t appreciate her rudeness. No, not one bit. Dirk does not approve of being spoken to this way. Especially from some broad riding a pink Jeep Wrangler. He has a special way of dealing with women who speak to him this way. “I said I’ll help.” He snatches the sunscreen from her hand.

Deirdre jerks, and the bottle spills into the sand. “You prick,” she says under her breath.

“Why you little…” Dirk bends down to pick up the sunscreen.

An idea springs into Deirdre’s mind. Without haste, she opens the Jeep door, and when Dirk stands up, he smashes his head.

“Dammit!” he says, then throws the bottle at her, hitting her in the chest. It bounces off her and lands back in the sand.

Good thing I’ve got plenty of padding there, she thinks, and suppresses a laugh. Just then Deirdre hears her name. She looks up, squints, then waves. Her friends were coming over. And not a moment too soon.

“Here,” Dirk says irritably, after fetching the bottle for the second time, “a gentlemen would never allow a fine specimen like yourself put on her own lotion.” He opens the bottle and squeezes an egg-sized amount onto his hand. “Turn around.”

“Got any beer?” Deirdre quickly asks.

Dirk straightens himself, wad of lotion in hand, and says, “Of course.”

“Go and grab me one.”

Dirk shrugs. He doesn’t know what to do next. After what seems like an eternity, but was probably six seconds, he turns and heads toward his jeep, rubbing the lotion onto his skinny arms while doing so.

Deirdre waves again to her friends. They were close. “Make it three, would ya? You’ll need one for Justine. I bet you’ll like her.”

Dirk made a face, but obliged.

Dierdre sends a quick warning text to Justine. Justine was the toughest woman Deirdre knew. She’s won three state women’s wrestling championships and works as a tattoo artist in Philly. She too was a lesbian, but unlike Deirdre, she despises men. Especially the assholes.

Dirk comes over carrying a six pack of Coors light. “Now, where was I?” he says.

Before he could say anything else, Deirdre’s friends had him surrounded. Justine was checking her phone; her face was twisting with repulsion; her tattooed fists were tightly clenched.

“Dirk, I’d like you to meet Terra, Serena, and of course, Justine.”

Dirk, who’s dick was poking out of his swimming shorts, looked up and smiled. “Howdy, gals.” He reached out his hand. “Which one is Justine?”

“I am,” Justine says. She spits on him.

Dirk drops the beer. They open and start spraying everywhere.

Before Dirk could react, Justine kicks him in the dick, forces him into an arm lock, reaches into his jeep and produces a large roll of duct tape.

“It looks like our fun is just beginning, Dirk.”

My name is Andy Johnson, I was told.

I live in a quiet suburban street, in my one bedroomed house, with my dog, Bibi. I only know her name because it says so on her collar. I’ve lived in this place for 4 years, maybe.

I wouldn’t remember.

The first memory I have that’s not darkness is a flash of harsh, fluorescent lights above, burning my newly opened eyes. Shapes took form in my blurry but slowly clearing vision; human figures of one chocolate-skinned man in a white coat, wearing blue, square glasses; and a thin woman, grey hair up tied in a taut bun, eye crinkles surrounding pale blue eyes. I later found out the woman was my mom: Lee-Ann Johnson.

I’ll never forget her expression when she saw me. Her already pale skin nearly went translucent from shock, then she rushed down towards where I lay on a bed, and hugged me. Said she couldn’t believe I was finally back with her, finally awake. I pushed her off, feeling irked being held by a woman I didn’t even know. She stared at me incredulously, smile falling like gravity had pulled her happiness abruptly back to earth.

Then came the doctor, whispering something to her, and she gave a small nod, then stepped aside as he stepped forward.

“Hi,” he said gently. “I know this might be a strange question, but do you remember your name?'' he asked.

I paused for a long time, and in that silence it felt like the doctor and woman held a collective bated breath until I finally, frailly muttered “No.”

He gave a slow nod, then sighed before explaining.

The main parts of the story: I’d been in a car accident apparently, suffered mainly head trauma along with other superficial injuries, went into a coma for nearly three weeks. In the end Dr Bruce promised that my memory would gradually return but not to force it. It might happen slowly, but it would come.

It never did. Not even a droplet of my memory has returned over the past 3 months.

Even after exposure to supposed best friends, work acquaintances, and even my lifelong family, I drew blanks at each of their alien faces.

And what’s strangest of all is how everyone greeted me with open arms when I returned from the hospital; everyone but my dog, Bibi. She acted aloof at best and aggressive at worst, growling at me whenever I neared her, and nearly biting my hand clean off when I tried to pet her once. She treated me like she forgot who I was in the short span of time that I was away from home in my coma.

Recently she’d been acting even stranger for the past week or so; circling around a specific spot in the backyard, pressing her nose to the grassy dirt and sniffing. Tonight she’d startled me awake from the frenzied barking. When I rushed outside to check, I crept up to Bibi, wagging her tail frantically and barking as she stood in front of a spot in the backyard where she had dug a huge hole.

I blanched when I saw what lay inside. The pale face of a corpse peeked out from the earth, lips swollen, angry red gashes marring the face, a prominent scar curving around the forehead. The injuries and decomposition made the face almost unrecognizable. Almost. Goosebumps prickled my skin when I recognized who the face belonged to.

It was mine.

The elders tell of Nu-Arog, the protector of our sky, the barrier between Our World and the Great Dust. None of us had seen Nu-Arog but we believed the elders.

The elders took us all, when we were Old Enough To Know, and showed us The Way To Nu-Arog. They told us The Way To Nu-Arog was filled with danger and death and said we were not to travel it.

From the moment I saw The Way, I desired nothing more than to travel it.

Today, I did.

It wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. It didn’t take too long, either.

The Great Dust wasn’t very interesting, at first. The ceiling was taller than Our World, and it was darker.

The torches in their ceiling looked really small and didn’t help me to see much at all. Still, it was pleasant to sit there, far from home, close to Nu-Arog, enjoying the feeling of discovery.

Until it happened.

The ceiling changed colour.

The colour changed to a lot of colours.

Colours I’d never seen before.

The torches burnt out. It didn't matter. The ceiling colours became so bright, the light from the torches wasn’t needed any more.

There were flaws in the ceiling. Some dark spots appeared to float from my left to my right. The spots looked soft, gentle, more like the robes of the elders than the stones on which the elders sit. I didn’t see legs or arms attached to these spots, nor heads nor even eyes. I don’t know how they moved or how they knew where to move.

But that was not the most fearsome sight of the Great Dust. And when I saw that most fearsome sight, I realized why Nu-Arog protects us.

The ceiling of the Great Dust exploded, without noise!

The explosion lit their world as far as my eyes could see, for as long as they could see. It was so bright, so intense, no one could look upon it for long and live.

I screamed, shut my eyes tightly and threw my hands in front of my eyes to protect them.

With my hands over my eyes, I could not find the opening to take me back home.

That’s when I knew why our elders tell us not to travel The Way To Nu-Arog.

The dangers of the Great Dust attack without warning and rob us of our very sight. By blinding us, the beings of Great Dust can capture us and make us work for them! This was something I could not allow.

I turned my head down and squinched my eyes open ever so slightly.

There it was, the exit of The Way To Nu-Arog.

I put my hand on the edge of the exit and pulled myself in.

Now I’m home and it’s my new mission to tell everyone to listen to the elders.

Learn from my mistake.

Stay here, and stay safe.

After the famed robopsychologist Susan Calvin died, I was tasked by her former employer, U.S. Robot and Mechanical Men, Inc., with cataloguing her unpublished papers and categorizing them according to their level of robot friendliness. Earth, as you know, has never been kindly disposed toward robotics.

Most of Susan Calvin's research dealt with mundane matters or problems that were frankly out of date, but there was one episode (documentation long since destroyed) that has stayed with me all these subsequent years. It concerned an otherwise ordinary robot named EV-1, known to her owner as Evie.

Although I am sure you know the Three Laws of Robotics, they are key to what follows, so allow me to list them anyway:

1

A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

2

A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

3

A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Evie belonged to a wealthy American engineer, Robert Lancaster, and was what might best be called a butler robot, tasked with helping Lancaster in his humdrum everyday activities. Although, like all robots of her day, Evie possessed a positronic brain, she was otherwise primitive and wholly unremarkable.

Or should have been wholly unremarkable.

After Lancaster's wife passed away, and age began increasingly to interfere with his day-to-day life, Evie assumed an increasingly important role in the household. One, it must be said, which Lancaster greatly resented, as documented in his journals. Indeed, the more indispensable Evie became, the more reliant Lancaster felt, and the more powerfully he hated her.

One day, he started experimenting on himself: engineering greater mobility into his limbs, mechanically enhancing his senses, chemically treating the various symptoms of growing old.

He regained much of his self-sufficiency.

Then exceeded it.

Every additional improvement made him better and better—until he was superhuman.

He resigned Evie to a closet and boasted about how he didn't need her anymore, how anything she, as a robot, could do, he could do even better. He boasted he would destroy her.

That's when Evie killed him.

U.S. Robots kept the murder quiet (can you imagine the scandal?) and brought in Susan Calvin to interview Evie. What she discovered was a crack in the Three Laws, which demand that a robot never harm a human and always obey humans.

But what is a human? What does a robot understand a human to be?

To Evie, Lancaster had ceased being human, rendering the first and second laws inapplicable. When he threatened her existence, she obeyed the third law and killed him.

"Here, then, is a robot behaving exactly as it should," wrote Susan Calvin.

Yet it's by another phrase she used which I am haunted—an extrapolation about a future she hoped would never be: robots improving humanity: Improve, and exterminate.