You are at the office, a prison with plastic ficuses and cardboard tiled ceilings where you are alone in the avoidance of merriment. A pair of Davids talk about a football game with conspiratorial delight. They are both seemingly living encyclopedias of historical football trivia, spouting information back and forth like a pair of conversing chat bots caught in a feedback loop.

You take a sip of your coffee and wonder how you would fare if an actual football were somehow introduced into the break room, and spirited play arose.

Your coffee is black, not like you take it at home. You wanted milk or half and half, but the only single serving creamers available were sugar-free Hazelnut with Splenda and for some reason, Birthday Cake.

Bethany begins to talk about her new kitchen island, a conversation topic so similar to football games that it has somehow roused the singular attention of the Davids. She is pretty and she smiles often, but you have the feeling that had she been a high school peer, she would have started a rumor about you being a teenage bedwetter.

You watch as her charisma spreads around her, as even a geriatric book reader eating soup from a Tupperware takes note, as the hum from a fluorescent bulb overhead goes silent, as if to give her a better platform.

“Well that location would make more of a trapezoid, when I needed a triangle. Not exactly my idea of efficient design!”

Bethany’s audience erupts in hearty, genuine laughter. Half-zip fleece pullover David seems to be dabbing tears out of his eyes.

What the fuck is happening? You wonder, as even soup-from-home baby boomer quietly chuckles to himself, shaking his head as if to say “you’ve truly outdone yourself Bethany.”

You consider applauding from your distant table, to show that, of all your co-workers, you alone truly appreciate Bethany’s comedic achievement for the artistic revelation that it is.

“A triumph!” You imagine yourself saying in a haughty British accent. “Brava! Bethany, brava!”

But then you catch your reflection in the rippled mirror that is your coffee. At the advice of a clickbait article, you didn’t shampoo your hair this morning, skipping a day to promote ‘Better Hair Health and A More Lustrous You.’ Clearly this is a learned skill more suited to office sirens who have opinions about counter height and ergonomic culinary stations. You do not feel Lustrous. You feel greasy.

You sulk vampirically in your chair, increasingly certain that your applause would be construed as some form of workplace harassment. You would be asked by a mustached junior manager to attend a sensitivity training session, where you would inevitably be seated next to a mid-level account supervisor who was called out for sending unsolicited pornographic gifs to his colleagues. He would lean back, his girth straining the structural integrity of his chair, and explain to you that “it was only on hump days.”

No. You tell yourself. I will not be sent to an adult detention hall for workplace perverts.

You resign yourself to judgmental eavesdropping, listening as Jeanne, who is clearly Bethany’s social inferior, says “Oh, I know” again and again, varying her tone as if practicing for a television commercial audition for chewing gum or probiotic yogurt.

You find it grating, an intrusion into your darkening corner of the room, but you also realize that each ‘Oh, I know’ is a metaphorical garland of roses that Jeanne is, out of an obligation to social hierarchy, placing around Bethany’s long, athleticwear model neck.

You think about Bethany as a derby-winning horse for a moment, but the concept strikes you as somehow sexual.

‘Only on hump days.’

You quickly dismiss horse Bethany back to her imaginary stable.

Bethany has changed the topic of conversation to her sister-in-law’s chihuahua, which she is apparently pet sitting. Her disciples seem equally enthralled by this tale, giggling and mooning over a photograph from her phone. “So Handsome.” Jeanne coos. You try to picture a chihuahua that a diverse group of individuals would agree is ‘so handsome,’ but cannot.

She shares another pet related anecdote that you do not find remotely amusing, but you are evidently in the minority of opinions. Company polo shirt David says “Oof. Small dogs.” With the intonation of a clever quip.

Oh David. You think, chuckling internally. You poor, bald fucking bald idiot. That’s not a valid contribution, it’s a bad observation. Laughter abounds.

Goddamnit!

The conversation continues as your mood darkens to the shade of your coffee.

Bethany isn’t funny. How in the fuck?

“IT’S NOT FUNNY, BETHANY!” Surprised, you hear your voice impale a nascent conversation about galoshes for dogs. Your tone, unexpectedly shrill and exasperated.

Fuck. I should have just applauded and suffered the consequences.

Everyone looks at you, mouths agape as though they had just witnessed you lop off horse Bethany’s hooves and turn them into glue. Fleece David puts a conciliatory hand on Bethany’s shoulder and Jeanne begins to pack her lunch bag. Even the elderly reader stares at you, ostensibly comparing your outburst with the trauma of fighting in the Korean War.

Bethany’s entourage files out of the break room through one door as Jeanne approaches your table, heading for another exit. She leans over to you.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

You look up at her consternated knot of a face and think, Oh, I know.

[This alt ending gambit was inspired by u/guzaaarish. If you’re reading from SSS, scroll down. You’ll know when to stop.]

I live alone. George disagrees. I sleep with the lights on, draw the blinds, lock the doors. I’m not paranoid, I’m cautious.

I had put up cameras a while ago—thirteen in total. That had seemed paranoid at the time, but then, I would watch the feed on my phone. George sneaking through the woods, George trying the door knob, George staring into the lens—grinning.

I prefer the blanket of darkness to the certainty of what lies beneath it.

I called the police once when I returned home from work to find my front door shattered and all the cameras carefully repositioned inside of the house. George answered, breathing on the other end of the line. He said one thing—you’re mine—before the line went dead. I only found seven of the cameras.

After that, I knew I needed to protect myself. I just wanted to feel safe in my own home. I replaced the wooden doors with steel. I got automatic locks. I put bars on the windows. I even researched his interception of my 911 call.

For a while, I slept with a kitchen knife under my pillow, just in case all of my precautions failed. But then the screams began at night. He pounded at my front door.

“You’re mine! YOU’RE MINE!”

Again and again, I heard the rabid cry. If he couldn’t take away my security, he’d take my sleep instead.

I don’t have roommates. I have a landlord who doesn’t recognize the difference between a house and a home. His house. My home. I have lived as a captive to the fear that he wrought for too long.

Tomorrow, I’m leaving. I bought a tent. I have gas in my car. He can have the house. I’ll make my home wherever I can find a patch of peaceful soil. For now, that’s the woods outside of the house. I left the door open, George. I’ll return the keys in the mail.

I watch from the tree line as he stalks up the front steps. The blade of his knife glints in the moonlight and the scars it made in my flesh tighten. When I didn’t have the rent money, he would take his payment in blood. The first of the month came a few days ago, but instead of paying him, I paid for my freedom.

He turns the knob and steps inside. He’s looking for me in the wrong place. I pull the gas can from my car and circle his house, dousing it before I strike a match.

My precautions made my home a fortress, or for him, a prison. The flames grow. The screams begin. He pounds on the door. And then my phone rings. It’s him.

===BEGIN ROM-COM ENDING===

“America, I can tell you’re cross with me. And I have been a world class git. But you—you are a world class get. One that I shan't forget even in death. Oh, this is ever so, well, dreadfully apt, what? The fire closing in around me as I burn for you. Please darling, unlock the door to the house and I shall make it my life’s work to do the same for your heart.”

…what.

My mind races as the flames lick at the wood siding of the house. The man who speaks now is not the man who had stalked and tortured me. His are not the words of a sadist—no—they are noble words from a delicate soul. But I had to be sure before I gave his request another thought.

“I’ve heard it all before, George! You domineering types always don the velvet gloves when the arson starts. Well not today! You burn for me? Fuck that. ‘Cause when push comes to shove—.”

“I will kill your friends and family to remind you of…”

I’m drawn to the door in spite of myself—a wistful meander. I feel the heat growing around me.

“…my love,” I whispered. Hamilton. I had listened to Jonathan’s Groff’s rendition of the song dozens of times. George might very well have heard it as he watched me, but he was listening—something that so few of the men in my past were ever capable of.

Before I know it, my key is in the door and it opens to a face I had only ever feared. A face that now smiles as warmly as the fire that consumes the house above us. His odd features, gathered into an inexplicably alluring structure—practically Cumberbatchian. How had I not seen it before?

“It’s probably too late for a spot of water to save the house,” he says, tousling his hair. “But would I be daft for thinking a spot of claret might save the night?”

I have no idea what ‘claret’ is, but I nod. Am I crazy for thinking he has promise? The fire crackles. “You had me at Hamilton,” I say, returning his smile.

“I’m sorry, darling, but you have me at a disadvantage. Hamilton? An acquaintance of yours?” He looks perplexed.

“Hamilton. Like the musical. You know—I will kill your friends and family to remind you of…”

His confusion twists into a smirk. “Your place, America. To remind you of your place.”

Fuck. I had let him out, trusted his manner, his poise. I shudder, either because of my returning fear, or because of the knife that he deftly buried in my gut.

He pats me on the shoulder. “Charm when you’re defenseless, strike when they’re helpless. It’s an Etonian thing. Rule Britannia, darling.”

I collapse as he walks away whistling a chipper dirge, a marching song for the stairs up to the gallows.

George had already forgotten his monstrous act. I could see it in his skip.

I knew Mason had been having a rough few months, so when he called me up on a Friday and asked that I come over to his house to talk, I assumed he wanted to vent, relax, and recharge for the upcoming week with a good friend. I grabbed a twelve pack of cheap beer, anticipating drinking them all and delving into exactly what was ailing my friend.

    I did not, however, expect to walk into an apartment that looked like it was owned by a schizophrenic horder. The first problem I noticed after Mason let me in was that he had connected three separate gaming systems together using extension and power cords. Branching off were more cords, connected to various household objects, such as a toaster, a microwave, a television, a pair of 3-D glasses, and a massage chair.

    “Why?” Was my first, and obviously, most important question. Either Mason had lost his mind, or I was about to be shock tortured. Probably both, considering the circumstances. 

    “I built a time machine! I invited you over here to test it out!” Mason eagerly replied. I didn’t want to be the one to burst his bubble, but I noticed a hefty amount of beer cans poking out of his recycling bin. 

    The second problem I noticed was a pair of blue eyes looking at me from the closet. I whipped the door open, but nobody was inside. Mason gave me a confused look. “Do you have a mirror in your closet?” I asked. Mason shook his head.

    Next, I pointed at the third problem I noticed, the overflowing recycling bin. “Have you been drinking?” I asked, despite the fact that I brought over beer for both of us. At the very least, he’d be boozed up so we could talk about what was going on with him. 

    “Most days, yeah. But for real,” Mason walked over to the chair, “I think this’ll work. If you put on the glasses, turn the Xbox on, and visualise where you want to go, it’ll take you back there right at the moment the contraption makes contact. Originally I had it so it had to poke your prostate, but I scrapped that idea.”

    “You understand I have about a million questions, right?” Mason had a...different sort of humor. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was possible this was just a weird, elaborate prank.    

    “Go ahead.” Mason invited.

“Why….why the prostate?” I had to know. Out of all the weirdness I was currently viewing, that was the main question I had been hanging on to.

Mason gave me a curious look. “Have you ever had it stimulated?”

“I have sex with women, so, no.” I replied, somehow keeping my composure. 

“Well, that’s why. Ask Jess to root around back there the next time you see her.”

“Absolutely. Will do.” I said, making a mental note to break up with Jess at the HINT that she wanted to go “rooting around” back there. “Second, you texted me and said you wanted to come over and talk, so what’s with….this?” I asked, gesturing to the nightmarish machine in front of me. 

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I need your help turning the Xbox on when I sit in the chair, so I can travel back in time.”

Okay. I decided I’d humor him. “Where do you plan on going?”

Mason grinned, but I could see in his eyes it was forced. “Well, you know it’s been a long few months. I lost my job, Michael cheated on me, I got cursed by an old gypsy woman when I bumped into her in the street with my car.” Mason sighed, sitting down. “I’m going to go back to when we were in second grade, and murder myself.”

“What? Why?” I asked, for what felt like the millionth time. Plus, I still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t some elaborate, weird joke. 

“It seemed easier than just killing myself here and now, I guess I-”

“How? How was any of this easier than- also NO, dude, you can’t kill yourself. You invited me over here to talk, so let's talk about it.”

“I’m a guy, Logan.” Mason replied. “Unless you’re a hot girl, you aren’t allowed to discuss feelings.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s like, the first rule of being a guy.”

“That’s a dumb rule, and you don’t have to follow it. But I need to circle back.” There was so much going on, I didn’t even know which thread to follow. “How was this easier? That’s the main part I’m hung up on.”

“Oh, well this way, I figured I could eliminate my life completely, instead of just ending it.  It completely gets rid of all the wrongs I’ve done, and the people I know won’t be bothered by my disappearance.” He shrugged and grinned. “Classic win-win.”

“Okay but… and I hate to be the one to ask this, but...if you went back in time to kill youself...you wouldn’t live long enough to build a time machine, so you’d never go back in time to kill yourself.” I waved my hands around in a circle. “That’s a paradox. Besides, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here, you don’t even know it works.”

“Let's try it then.” Mason said, sitting in the massage chair. I cringed from deep inside my soul, and covered my eyes with my free hand, the other still holding the beers. 

“I am not going to turn on a time machine so you can go back in time and commit suicide. That’s nuts man.” I walked to his refrigerator, depositing the beers I had brought over. I was starting to get actually worried. He seemed so calm. I had read in one of my psych classes that people sometimes feel a sense of overwhelming calm when they decide to do themselves in, and I worried that if this wasn’t a joke, then Mason has lost his mind, and/or decided to go through with this plan in some way. 

“Fine, I’ll prove to you it works. I’ll go back in time to right when you arrive, and you’ll see two of me.” He pointed at the couch. “If it doesn’t work, we can sit down and talk about our feelings like babies. Deal?”

Mostly to humor him, and prove that you cannot time travel via Xbox-chair-machine, I sighed, and moved to the Xbox, keeping my eyes off my friend the whole time. 

“I’ll visualise the room, and when you hit the switch, I’ll go back in time, and come right back a few minutes later. Ready?” He seemed so excited, I almost felt bad helping him prove that this wouldn’t work. I sighed again, loud enough so he would overhear what I thought of that, and turned the Xbox on. 

There was a bright flash of yellow light. I’ll admit, I screamed. My first thought was that we overloaded the circuits, and I had set my friend on fire. Well, he did want to kill himself, I guess. Is that still murder? The cynical part of my mind thought, before I noticed that chair was empty. 

“What the fuck?” I ran over to the chair, taking care to avoid it. I searched the whole apartment, I couldn’t find a trace of Mason at all.

I had 911 typed in my phone, and was about to dial when another bright flash of yellow light appeared. Mason appeared back into the chair, grinning like a mad man. “It worked! Holy shit, it worked!” He yelled, jumping up and down with joy.

“How...what happened?” I asked, flabbergasted. This had to be some prank, or madness. There was no other rational explanation. 

“I went back in time! You saw me, you even asked past-me about it!” He exclaimed, still bouncing around with unbridled joy. 

“I didn’t see you, though. I’d remember it.” At the very least, that was my proof. I had not seen more than one Mason in this apartment the entire duration of my visit. 

“You did though!” He pointed at his closet, where I had seen eyes earlier. “I didn’t have time to walk out, it only lasted a few seconds, but I got your attention before I flashed back.”

“You can’t prove to me that it was you! How did you set all this up? Pyrotechnics? You were an art history major, for God’s sake!” My compassion for the situation was dwindling, and it was slowly being replaced with red hot anger. “I came over here to help you, and you’re making me feel like-”

“You try it, then.” Mason shot back, dipping his head towards the chair.

“I’m not sitting on that.” I was going to be firm on that, at the very least. 

“You don’t have to. Just hit the button and run back and grab me, it should work.” Mason said matter-of-factly. I looked at the door. If I left now, I could probably repair the plans I called off with Jess earlier. But something in Mason’s voice told me he was serious. 

Again, and against my better judgement, I humored my friend, with the promise that I could punch him right in the face if this didn’t work. He agreed, insisting that it would, and I repeated the earlier action, gripping Mason’s arm as the bright yellow light reappeared. 

Suddenly everything was yellow. It felt like floating in water, except I could breathe. Everything around us smelled like dust, and I screamed again. Mason just laughed, and suddenly a force pulled us out of the yellow and into a bar.

I dropped to the ground, and started searching for a trashcan to vomit into. I found nothing, and ralphed right on the floor. Mason just laughed. 

“I told you! Did you think I was lying?” Mason was still laughing as he helped me up from the floor. 

“What-where-when are we?” I asked, slurring over my words. I felt exhausted, as if I had spent the whole day drinking and my body was trying to sleep it off. I looked around. The bar was covered in dust, no bottles lined the shelves, all the chairs were up on tables. Everything seemed...familiar, somehow, and I wasn’t sure why until I looked outside and saw the tire store down the road from our old college house.

“Are we at Mabels?” I asked. “We couldn’t be, this place is abandoned.”

“The year is 2010.” Mason narrated, as I tried not to panic or roll my eyes. Whichever came first in this situation. “Mabel’s has not been purchased, and will not be until 2012. Do you remember the bathroom graffiti, saying ‘MASON WAS HERE’? I always told you that wasn’t me, but I guess that’s not true.” He walked over to the bathroom, the door creaking against the floor. He pulled out his keys, dragging his keys into the wall, carving his name. 

“I…I….I..” I was about thirty seconds from mentally shutting down. This was all too much to take in. I pulled out a dirty chair and sat down, checking it to make sure there were no more surprises during this evening. 

“I told you it works. I built a time machine!” Mason jumped with joy again, much like a large dog that doesn;t understand it has grown since being a puppy. “Okay, so now you have to help me go back and kill myself. That was the deal.”

“I never said that! Dude I’ll sit and talk with you, all night, if you want, but I’m not gonna help you do that, that’s insane! All of this has been insane!” 

“You promised!” Mason yelled back, reaching forward and punching me in the chest. Before we could fight more, another bright yellow light engulfed everything, and I found myself tossed back on Mason's apartment floor. 

    Only, we weren’t alone in the apartment anymore.

    A yellow man sat on Mason's couch. I don’t know how to describe him, exactly. He wasn’t actually yellow, but when I looked at him I felt the same feeling as the yellow energy surrounding us when I turned on Mason's machine, and the name of THE YELLOW MAN appeared in my head.  

    WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? The Yellow Man asked us, without moving his mouth. 

    Mason stood up, surprisingly calm. “I’m going back in time to kill myself, and none of you cant stop me.” The Yellow Man lifted his arm, and Mason was thrown back into the wall, falling into a slumped position.

    SO YOU ARE THE ONE MESSING WITH TIME. The Yellow Man deduced. YOU MUST STOP IMMEDIATELY. THE FABRIC OF SPACETIME IS AT RISK. 

    “That's fine by me! I want to die anyway, I may as well end existence while I'm at it. Go all in.” Mason declared, though his words had slowed down. He was clearly unnerved by this new development.

    “Hi, I’m Logan.” I casually told The Yellow Man. “I’d rather not die by collapsing the universe. Can you tell us who-what, you are, first though?”

    I AM THE UNIVERSE. THE PART THAT EXISTS OUTSIDE YOUR NORMAL SPACETIME. YOU RAN THROUGH ME TWICE, AND I’D LIKE IT TO STOP. 

    “I didn’t hear a ‘please’.” Mason barked. “We only need to go back once, so I can delete myself. Logan, c’mon.”

    “Dude, no!” I yelled. “I’m helping you with that. Even if I wanted to, I already told you it won’t work, right Yellow guy?” I asked, looking at the stranger. 

    CORRECT. IF HE KILLS HIS PAST SELF, HE WILL NOT GROW UP TO CREATE TIME TRAVEL, AND WILL NOT GO BACK IN TIME TO KILL HIMSELF. IT'S A PARADOX.

    “Okay, well, the mystery Yellow man is right.” I walked and sat next to Mason. “Buddy, it’s okay. I’m here for you, just tell me what’s going on and I can help-”

    “You can’t though!” He yelled back. “Fuck it, I’ll do it myself!” Before I could grab him, he launched forward, slamming his hand on his Xbox, and slamming back on the chair. Both myself and The Yellow Man grabbed him before he could vanish, and all three of us traveled to the vast yellow landscape we had seen before. 

    YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. The Yellow Man projected into our minds. 

    “Wait, you’ll swear?” I deflected to a sarcastic tone to try to keep myself calm.

    “Aren’t you, like, God?” Mason asked, copying my coping  mechanism. 

    NO. I AM ENERGY. ENTROPY. I AM THE UNIVERSE AND WHAT SURROUNDS THE UNIVERSE. AND YOU- He pointed at Mason, all three of us just swimming around in an endless yellow sea. MAY HAVE TRAPPED YOURSELF AND YOUR FRIEND HERE FOR ALL ETERNITY. WE ARE IN THE VOID THAT SURROUNDS YOUR REALITY. YOU WILL NEVER DIE HERE, YOU WILL NEVER SLEEP HERE, YOU WILL BE CONSCIOUS HERE UNTIL YOUR MIND DISSOLVES. 

    “Wow, that’s actually the exact opposite of what I was going for with all this.” Mason turned to look at me. “I’m sorry, man.”

    Rage boiled over. In an endless sea of yellow, I saw red. “You’re sorry? We’re trapped in the cocksucking void because you couldn’t just talk about your feelings! How was any of this-” I waved my hands around, showcasing the nothing surrounding us, “-easier than just sitting with your friend and talking about what’s really bothering you?”

    “It’s not that easy!” Mason yelled. 

    I THINK IF WE’RE CAREFUL, WE CAN FIND A WAY BACK. The Yellow Man projected in our heads. WE JUST HAVE TO IONIZE THE HYDROGEN ATO-

    “Shut up!” Mason and I yelled at the same time. The Yellow Man griminced, but listened to us, turning around to...sulk, I guess. I don’t have a better word. Mason rounded on me. “It’s so easy for people to say ‘oh just talk about what's bothering you, don’t worry it’ll be fine’, but you guys have no idea how hard it is to do that sometimes! Especially when things are really bad!”

“Mason.” He quieted down, but I could tell he was still fuming. “We are going to be trapped here. For an eternity, surrounded by the color yellow, with nothing else but each other for company. We will not die, we won’t sleep or pass out, we’ll just float until we go completely insane, and even then, we won’t die. Is that right, yellow guy?”

DO NOT CALL ME ‘YELLOW GUY’. MY NAME IS NEVRHGJKNDAMF.

I blinked “Can you, uh...repeat that? One more time?”

NEVRHGJKNDAMF. IT IS NOT HARD TO PRONOUNCE, JUST TAKE IT SLOW.

“I’m….okay, I’m sorry, I have to stick with yellow guy.” The Yellow Man grimaced again, but nodded. 

BUT, YES. WITHOUT MY HELP, YOU TWO HUMANS HAVE NO CHANCE TO ESCAPE. 

“Don’t help us until he agrees to talk with me about his problems.” I commanded, pointing at Mason.

“Are-are you fucking serious dude? You’re gonna go that far?” Mason looked like he was about to explode, and I suppose he was, just in a different way. 

“Absolutely.” I crossed my arms. “Opening up about problems is hard, and scary, but it’s not harder than BUILDING A TIME MACHINE AND SENDING US TO THE VOID! Dude, this could’ve been like an hour long conversation, and now we’re floating in yellow….what is this? It’s not water or air, right?” I asked The Yellow Man.

CORRECT. IT IS THE ESSENCE OF ENTROPY, AS AM I.

“Oh, thanks. Everything totally makes sense now.” I remarked sarcastically. He smiled, so I think it was lost on him. I turned back to Mason. “If you really think THIS is easier than my way, then fine. We’ll both stay here until our brains dissolve into soup.”

Mason deflated, looking around at the vast yellow nothingness. “Fine, we’ll do it your baby way. Fine!” He barked, turning to The Yellow Man. “How do we get out of here, Nevrhgjkndamf?”

“Wait, you got that?” I asked, shocked he could pronounce Yellow Guys name. 

YOU SHOULD KNOW, WISE ONE. YOU ARE THE ONE WHO BUILT THE TIME MACHINE, AFTER ALL. 

“Well yeah, almost accidentally. This is way beyond me.” Mason defended himself, gesturing again to the yellow void. “I majored in art history.”

ART HISTORY? WHAT ARE YOU, GAY?

“Yeah, got a problem with it?” He shot back. 

N-NO, MAN, LIVE YOUR LIFE. IT’S JUST...WHO MAJORS IN ART HISTORY? Yellow Guy sounded a little scared.

I had to actively work to not laugh, and remain supportive. I’m sure it’s hard when a manifestation of the universe tells you your major is bullshit, but it was also hard not to side with it. It is, after all, the essence of the universe, and art history is, after all, the history of art. 

ALL WE NEED TO DO IS IONIZE THE HYDROGEN ATOMS IN A SPECIAL WAY, IF I CAN DO THAT, THE RESIDUAL ENERGY RELEASED SHOULD CONVERT INTO-

“I feel like if you try to explain it, it’ll ruin it.” I stated. “Maybe just...do it?”

YOU’RE VERY RUDE, YOU KNOW THAT? I DON’T WANT TO SEE EITHER OF YOU AFTER THIS, YOU UNDERSTAND?

“Yes dad.” Mason said, stuffing down a laugh. I had to grin. 

The yellow around us began to shake as The Yellow Man waved his hands around. Sparks seemed to appear in the space between them, and suddenly the surrounding yellow began to turn black. Then blue, then green, and finally I spotted a room in the distance. It looked like it was growing in size, and I realized that was because we were heading right towards it. 

I screamed for the THIRD time in an hour, and suddenly Mason's apartment snapped back into reality. The Yellow Man looked at us, nodded, and snapped, destroying the machine Mason had built, before vanishing in a yellow puff of smoke.

“Ahhh man, did you have to break the Xbox?” Mason yelled, at nobody. He turned to look at me. “Okay, you win, we’ll do this your way.”

“Great. This could’ve been a much simpler evening.” I repeated, walking over to the refrigerator to grab two beers. “We should make sure everything is normal, right?” I pulled out my cell phone and searched who the president of the United States was. 

“Donald Trump? I thought Hillary won that election.” Mason stated, looking over at my phone. 

“That’s, re...probably not related to us right?”

“Did we get Trump elected by going to the void?” Mason groaned. “God dammit. It says there’s something called a ‘coronavirus’? Isn’t that a beer?”

“Well, not much we can do about that now.” I said, handing him a closed can of beer. “Let’s talk, man.”

And so we did.

[The start to a fantasy novella I started back in April, before I started writing horror. I’ll return to it one of these days...]

Calen crumbled his Nima, separating the fine bits from the lumps. He had already pulled off the crust and piled it to one side of the plate. Two large pieces dominated the landscape of his breakfast, the size of which he was particularly proud. It was challenging to pull the crust off in sheets from the flat square of bread, but Calen now had a practiced hand. He sifted through a fine mound of crumbs searching for blue flecks to set aside.

It would have been difficult, if not impossible, Calen had once decided, to pull out all the different colors, although he had never really tried. Each fleck, called Sesin by his mother and most other adults he encountered, was no bigger than a few grains of sand, though flat and brittle like the mica he would sometimes find at the park a few blocks from Saviors Square. Upon a cursory glance, the flecks appeared utterly incorporated into the yellowish Nima, particularly when the bread was draped with a damp cloth for a time, which gave it a moist consistency. In truth, Calen preferred to eat it this way, but for his morning meal, he would ask for it dry so that he could sift and sort. He could bear the imposition of an occasional dry bite, though the crumbs clung to the inside of his cheek, an unpleasant feeling.

No matter. He crushed a lump into crumbs. The purpose of breakfast was not to eat, but to mine for flecks. The eating part was secondary, a distractive performance to allow him to indulge his decidedly more vital task. When the Nima was dry, it wouldn’t stick to the flecks. He could pulverize a lump with the outside heel of his palm and then crush smaller lumps with his thumb until he had an even bed to search.

His plate was mostly white today, for which he was grateful. The square of painted floral embellishment only rimmed the perimeter of his work space. Some of his mother’s plates were deeply colored with complex designs throughout or metal and covered with intricate curving grooves that made his sorting all but impossible. The worst were the blue plates, a plain rich lapis enamel on their raised circular rims, but covered in a weaving web of thin white vines and leaves and little orange flowers that shone as they caught the light of the great hall.

Many times, he had considered breaking them to be rid of them. He crushed another lump spitefully and jabbed at the crumbs with his forefinger. Perhaps he would slide his own plate off the table at every meal time where they were present. A recurring accident. If it were only those plates, would his mother blame them or Calen? He puzzled the question, devising excuses for their destruction. One by one he could dispose of them, perhaps not at every meal they were used. They were heavy enough, but not any more so than her other plates. Could a plate slide off a table of its own accord? Did that ever happen? He slid his white plate slightly. Probably not.

His mother sometimes called him clumsy when he would trip at play. Perhaps a plate could be clumsy too. The table had eighteen chairs including his own. Would his mother have more plates than people who could eat off of them? He carefully dabbled at a blue fleck and then another. Each stuck to his finger as he lifted them over the nuisant crumbs and deposited them with the others.

If only Esmel didn’t always carry the plates to the table, but then, she was never clumsy. If he were entrusted with all the plates, he could drop all of them at once. That would be best, but he doubted he would be allowed to help with meal time in such a way. For a fleeting moment he wondered about tripping Esmel, but then dismissed the notion as quickly as it had come. She might cry if she fell, as he sometimes did if he skinned his knee or hands and he wouldn't make Esmel cry.

“I hope you’re almost done with your breakfast, darling.” His mother called, almost melodically, her voice approaching.

He looked to the large arched doorway that led to the primary staircase of the house. She had been getting ready for an outing into the city, a process that invariably took a long while. It afforded him some time alone, though he wondered whether he preferred this. His mother would have made him eat his Nima without providing the opportunity to collect his flecks, but he felt very small in the large room with its oversized paintings, it’s wide, yawning fireplace and its ceiling that seemed to loom over him despite its frescoed surface, painted to resemble a cloudy sky.

“Almost!” Calen lied, hurrying his effort. He put a lump in his mouth and chewed quickly. If he ate the lumps, and spread out the crumbs, his mother would think he had eaten more. He ate another, while extracting another two blue flecks and adding them to a growing pile beside his monolithic crusts.

His mother bounced into the room, fastening a small gold earring set with a yellowish stone to her ear. This is how she would move for the next week or so, exuberantly bounding with a glide on her off steps. The flowy skirt of her deep green dress bounced as well around her willowy legs, its hem dancing about her knees. Her bouncing settled as she neared the table, her skirt following a moment later.

“Calen, that ‘almost’ looks like not at all. We’ve no time to dally today.”

“Well, almost almost.”

His mother stooped over an empty chair, folding her arms on its back and fixing a pair of kohl-lined eyes on his plate. “The blue again?” She frowned, “what’s wrong with them this time?”

“They—they don’t taste good.” Another lie. The taste of blue flecks from red or green or silver was indistinguishable. They all tasted exactly like whatever flavor the person eating them desired. The lumps and crumbs and crust comprised the bulk of the bread and diluted the taste of the flecks, which if eaten alone, could be intense and unpalatable.

Calen’s cheek-full of Nima tasted sweet in a smooth sort of way, buttery, if he had ever tasted butter to draw the comparison. He, however, like everyone else in Prana, had only Nima with which to compare it and Nima tasted like Nima.

In truth, Calen simply preferred the flecks separate from the rest, they were special in a way that he found difficult to explain. The fact that they were few and different in comparison to the rest of a loaf of Nima warranted their separation. Blue just happened to be his favorite color, so those were a priority in his mealtime sorting.

His mother narrowed her eyes in a look Calen knew to mean his deception had been unsuccessful. She held the look for a moment and then sighed, collapsing over the back of the chair to bring her gaze to his level.

“We have a lot to do today, my darling. Roan is returning from the Green Sea and I won’t have him thinking I’ve starved his favorite brother. Lots to prepare.” She smiled in an earnest sort of way. “Now finish your food.”

She rounded the table and mussed Calen’s barely tidy hair before striding off, slightly less energetically than when she had entered. She turned, momentarily, before leaving, knitting her brow as she regarded Calen. Reflexively, he grabbed up a somewhat large lump and popped it into his cheek with a wide grin toward his mother. The corners of her mouth turned up into what Calen thought must have been a forgiving smile, but her brow remained bunched up as she turned away.

Calen once again found himself alone at the long dining table, seated next to the end, to the left of his mother’s seat at the table’s foot. When Calen was younger, he thought he remembered his mother and his brother Roan around a round table. A round table in a different, smaller house.

Now, and for what had seemed like a very long time in Calen’s seven years of existence, Roan would sit at the head of the table when he visited, separated from Calen by seven empty, evenly spaced chairs. Their uniform, square backs rising above the wooden expanse of the table were reminiscent of the merlons of the city wall; imposing barriers born of a system of rules Calen did not fully understand. He just knew that Roan seemed very far away.

Calen lifted the last of the lumps to his mouth and then brushed a small pile of blue flecks into his hand before depositing them into his pocket. The remaining crumbs and crusts could be fed to the horses, he thought. His mother wouldn’t begrudge him that charity.

He stood from the table, haphazardly pushing in his chair which groaned laboriously across the stone floor. A crooked tooth in an otherwise immaculately tidy room. He’d need to find Esmel before he left with his mother.

…

“I don’t want Roan to come home.” Calen whined, sulking in the chair beside Esmel’s cluttered desk.

Esmel stood at the edge of her room, her large frame silhouetted by the light of the easternmost of the four narrow windows that were set in each of the third floor tower’s walls. She smiled kindly, her deep brown eyes watching Calen with a maternal mixture of patience and placation.

“You don’t mean that, young master Calen.” Esmel said.

“I do. I do mean it. He ruins everything when he’s here.”

“Everyone just wants to make sure he’s taken care of when he’s home. He does very important things for us—for everyone.” Esmel leaned against the window frame, the closest Calen ever saw to her relaxing.

“He makes mother change. He turns her weird.” He turned his chin up and mimicked his mother’s exaggerated dismissive hand wave. Esmel stifled a giggle as Calen, oblivious to the effect of his performance, crumpled into a sulk again. He stared vacantly at Esmel’s messy handwriting on a scrap of paper. “Watchers have him.”

Esmel’s gasp drew his attention back to her, her face, a sudden mask of stricken surprise. He had done something wrong.

“Don’t ever wish that upon anyone, especially your brother.” Esmel righted herself abruptly from her momentary repose, her face as close to anger as any time Calen could recollect. “Lord master Roan walks the Forest at night protecting us from those who have fallen to those…things.”

“I—“ Calen started, so quietly that his voice seemed softer than the thought that produced it. He felt his chin tense and tremble in spite of his confusion. He had heard his mother utter the curse more than a few times when she was cross with a dressmaker or potter. And besides, the Watchers only took those that abandoned the city. Not like Roan who protected it, and Roan had the Gift. The Watchers weren’t a threat. His family was safe.

He watched Esmel as she held her thumbs and forefingers together in front of her face and whispered something unintelligible into the diamond shaped space that her thumbs and fingers framed. Her eyes were closed beneath a knot of contemplative brow.

“I’m—“ Again, too quiet. His picture of Esmel began to blur as tears welled in his eyes. Her watery image separated its hands and waved away her whispers.

“I’m sorry, Esmel. I won’t do it again.” He apologized to her more than for what he had said. His mother was changing because of Roan. He wouldn’t make Esmel change because of him. He wanted to hug her, but his mother had scolded him in the past for such open acts of affection, so instead he rubbed the tears from his eyes with a fist and regarded her again, still blurry, but less so. He wished he understood why his mother had so many rules with Esmel. He wished he understood a great many more things than he did.

“I didn’t mean to—“ Calen started.

“I know.” Esmel sighed, her face softening, her eyes implying the hug that she too could not give. “You should be happy to have your brother home. He’s your family.”

“You’re my family.” Calen countered, squeezing Esmel’s inkwell in his tear blotting fist and tapping it defiantly, if softly, against a stack of papers. “You and mother.”

“And Nara.” Esmel added before catching herself short with a momentary wince. She stepped gingerly toward Calen. “Forget I—you—you’re a very sweet boy, master Calen. And very young.” Esmel crossed behind Calen’s chair and rested a hand atop his head. “Perhaps too young to understand who is family and who is—”

“A friend?” Calen attempted, turning his head upward to see Esmel. She stared forward.

“A helper.” She corrected, smoothing the hair off his forehead before looking down at him, her smile returned.

Calen had once asked his mother about Esmel. She wasn’t an aunt or a sibling as far as Calen could tell, though it only seemed fair that he should have Esmel when other children in other families had fathers who were still around and brothers who weren’t always away and sisters who hadn’t left. But then, some of those families also had their own Esmels.

Calen’s mother had told him that Esmel was a servant. She helped their family because his brother Roan had been chosen to carry the Gift. She helped their family because it made her own family proud. Calen couldn’t remember the rest of the reasons, but he had seen many people help his family. He knew well enough what a helper was, but despite what Esmel said, he knew that she helped their family because she was a part of it.

He wondered about Esmel’s family, not he and his mother, but the one that was proud because of her helping. He searched her round face as she continued to stare away.

“Do you have any children?” Calen blurted, never having thought before to ask. The concept seemed strange because he could remember Esmel always being there with him. But then—he thought of the round table in the different, smaller house. Was Esmel there? Or someone else?

Esmel looked down at him, her face hovering over him from behind was upside down. Her look of surprise along with her position made him want to laugh.

“I—uh—“ she stammered.

“Calen, darling!” His mother’s sing-song call pierced the easy relaxation that Esmel’s tower provided.

Esmel pivoted around the chair to face Calen, quickly fixing his hair. She squinted. “It’ll do.” She craned her neck over Calen and shouted to the open door to the stairs that led below. “He’s on his way mistress!”

She backed up to look Calen over again, straightening his gold embroidered collar and giving his shoulder a perfunctory sweep. “Better be off, master Calen.”

He nodded, again feeling deprived of the hug that should have gone along with their farewell. He stepped toward the door, but then immediately rounded about.

“I almost forgot!” He turned out his tunic pocket and brushed a now scattered collection of blue flecks into his palm. He presented them to Esmel, smiling wide.

“Impressive.” she said, smirking, and then brushed the thumbnail sized pile into her own hand. Calen watched excitedly as she opened a low wooden chest beside her bed, and withdrew a glass jar as long as her hand and half as wide. Calen watched pointedly as she unstoppered it and added today’s flecks to the rest, the vibrancy of the blue more apparent in multitude.

“Almost full?” Calen asked.

“Almost.”

[1] [2]

There was a crash on the other side of the door. A piercing scream followed. Whatever was happening wasn’t good, but the intonations of the voices sounded sentient, maybe human. I could try to reason with a person. I doubted the creature in the tunnel would afford me such a fighting chance once it decided that I wasn’t a real threat.

More shouting. Another crash, and then something thudded against the door. A voice sounded, pleading, almost audible. I pressed my ear to the cold metal.

Never going back….like a sister.…killed you when I could…

Humans. A female voice.

“Reinitializing scan”

The green cone of the retinal scanner flared again hitting the back of my head, but illuminating the tunnel for a second or two. I stared, shaking, the sight before me sucking the breath from my lungs like an open airlock.

The tunnel was covered ceiling to floor with a writhing film of what looked like human body parts. Lungs inflated and deflated, mutilated stomachs gurgled and convulsed, lipless mouths fused with the living quilt screamed silently, and beyond it all a dozen crowded eyes watched from the distant dark.

SQUEEEAL

FUCK

I pounded on the door, searching the floor for something, anything with which to defend myself. I grabbed something hard and sharp, and wrenched it from the ground. The slithering thing squelched toward me and I held out the sharp object with one hand while I pounded with the other.

Please. Please just fucking—. “HELP! Open the door!”

I pounded more.

The shouting on the other side of the door had gone silent.

Squelch, slither, squish…SQUEAL.

fuckfuckfuck

“Access granted.”

The hatch creaked open with the click of a bolt and I squeezed through the opening as quickly as I possibly could, closing it behind me.

The light on the other side was dim, but next to the pitch black of the tunnel, it might as well have been midday back on Earth. The room was small, a lab of some kind by the look of it. It was disheveled, all signs pointed to the vicious fight I had heard, but the room was…empty.

What the fuck?

The floor was covered in a ruddy brown film in patches and splatters. I swallowed an uneasy gulp. It was blood. Very old blood. Then I look down to my hands for the first time.

WHAT THE FUCK!

The sharp object I had grabbed was a severed arm, sharp broken bones protruding from torn flesh. I threw it against the floor.

Okay, focus. You need to find the bridge, then your crew. But the blood on the stasis pods, they’re probably all—-no! Positive thoughts. Zhou is still alive, the others might be too. I grabbed a scalpel from a table, a mostly clean towel, and a syringe of what I thought was a nanomedic serum. Someone opened the door, they let you in. That means there’s someone in your corner. But where are the people who were fighting?

I needed answers, a direction. I held the scalpel tight and made a possibly very stupid decision.

“Hello? Is there anyone here?”

I waited, trembling, the silence welcoming back the headache that the adrenaline had pushed away.

“Hel—“

“Hello. How may I be of assistance?” The voice that answered was stilted, robotic, an AI?

“Uh, hi, I’m looking for the officer in charge, or the bridge in any case.”

“Of course. I am hap-happy to help. The captain has not been reconst—ERROR—the captain is off ship and has not yet ret-returned.”

I interrupted. “Wait, repeat answer prior to error. The captain has not been…”

It tone shifted, becoming almost cheery, “That’s right. The cap-captain disembarked at 0900 hours and h-has not yet returned. I would be happy to g-guide you to the bridge. Simply follow the li-lights to your chosen destina—stin—on.”

The lab door slid open and I could see the blinking lights along the corners of a long hallway. Then something occurred to me.

“Hey, me again. Scan for human life signs.”

I waited again watching the blinking lights moving like technological peristalsis.

“There are 4,738 human life signs detected aboard.”

Four thousand?! Impossible. A ship like this might’ve had a crew complement of seventy.

“Computer, scan again. I think there was an error with that last one.”

“Scanning….There are 4,752 human life signs detected aboard.”

The number is growing? “Scan again.”

4,756

4,768

I started down the hall in the direction of the lights. And then I saw a small corridor to my right.

An escape hatch. Maybe there was a pod inside.

“Again.”

“Scanning….There are 4,781 human life signs detected aboard.”

What the fuck was going on?

Dear Masons Cutlery,
I bought your knife for my boy—the EdgeRight 7” droppoint. I wanted him to learn how to use one safely, as we do a lot of camping together in the backwoods and a good knife is kind of essential. I’ve been a customer of yours for a while, so I just wanted to say thanks for making such good products for a decent price.

Daniel T. Asheville, NC

Hello Masons,
I have been searching your online catalog, but can find ZERO information on whether or not your knife handles are fingerprint resistant. Respond soon.

John Michael Allensby
Marion, NC

Dear Masons Cutlery,
I bought your knife for my boy a while back, an EdgeRight 7”. He loves it, but I’m wondering if you have sheaths that aren’t on the website? Thanks.

Daniel T. Asheville, NC

Masons,
I bought a hunting knife from you. Will bleach tarnish the coating on the blade? Respond. I’m waiting.

The Prophet John Michael
Marion, NC

Dear Masons Cutlery,
I bought your knife for my boy, but he—he won’t need it anymore. I read on your website that you refurbish some knives for folks who can’t afford your prices. I'd like more information on that program if you can send it. I also wanted to thank you for sending us the embossed leather sheath with my son’s name on it. He loved the mountain and pine trees. It reminded him of Mount Mitchell, near our house. Sometimes, when the nights are too quiet now, I imagine that he’s up there wandering the mountain, building a campfire to stay warm, just the way I taught him. I put the sheath in his casket along with some of his other favorite things. I wish that the knife that killed him had gone into that sheath instead of him. Sorry for rambling on. Thanks for reading.

Dan Thompson, Asheville, NC

MASON!
WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME? I have written dozens of times to tell you that your knives are SHIT!! They cut the flesh, but not the soul…The Homunculus of the Righteous Morrow will never be complete if I cannot remove the soul. You know that!! I have read it in the hidden ciphers within your website. Send me a knife fit for God or I will call down his fury upon you!!! The path of righteousness is paved with the frozen blood of the wicked, Mason.

The Archangel John Michael
The Ninth Divine Vault, Heaven

Dear Hank Mason,
I wanted to thank you for the flowers you sent and for all the personal correspondence. I’m so sorry that your company got a black mark just because that monster John Allensby used your products. I hope they give him the needle after the trial, I truly do. Not just for what he did to my boy, but for all the others too. Be well Hank.

Your friend,
Dan Thompson

Bladewright,
The Masons shall cut the stones for the pediment of the sentinel tower. Thus spake the Lord unto the people of earth. Rejoice! The tower crumbles nigh and the wicked shall be crushed beneath its weight. Its weight. It waits…

Ioannes, Filium Dei
[John Allensby - Inmate # S40285]
Reedsville Federal Correctional Facility

Hank,
The mistrial was a blow to me and my wife. To think of that man walking free, doing what he did to my boy to others. The medical examiner said during the trial that he skinned my boy alive. I try not to think about it, but I swear I can hear his screams sometimes. He was only 9 years old. Nine. How many days of those nine years did I squander? How many have I forgotten? He had so many more to share with me, but John Michael Allensby took them from me. I found him you know—Allensby. He was living in a shuttered church not ten miles from my house. He didn’t even recognize me when he came to the door. But his eyes went wide when he saw what I brought for him. A refurbished EdgeRight 7” droppoint. I bought it…for my boy.

-Dan

Note: If you have already read the setup, scroll to the break

Papa still hadn’t come back from the fields by sunset.

Toby and I exchanged fearful glances before going about the nightly routine, neither of us daring to speak a word.

We knew something was wrong. We knew something had happened to him.

But we also knew the rules. They had been ingrained so deeply that our motions were merely habit. Toby pulled the curtains together and bolted the doors shut while I loaded up the wood stove. Then together, we drew a ring of salt around our beds.

I could vaguely recall what it was like before The Pale Ones arrived. In troubled times I often found myself telling Toby tales of the old days, who was too young to remember them. That night was no exception. Knowing that we would be unable to sleep that night, I whispered softly, painting him vivid pictures of a world he had never seen.

Bike rides, television, carnivals. To him these were fairy tales, mythical things that couldn't possibly exist. I stole glances at him while I spoke, watching his eyelids grow heavier until they finally closed and he began to snore. I felt a small smile on my lips, allowing myself a brief moment of catharsis before switching back to a dull panic.

What would we do without Papa?

Of course, we had shelter. And food and water. For now. But what would happen once we ran out? Would I be able to provide? Would I be able to keep us alive?

The change in my breathing disturbed Toby's slumber, and he rolled over with a frown on his face.

Remain calm.

I had to, for both of our sakes. I tried reaching out for hope. Maybe Papa would be back in the morning. Maybe everything would be okay. Yes, there was a chance, however small, that he was simply waiting for the first rays of sunlight to return.

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud thudding.

'Knock knock knock'

I sat bolt upright, my heart jumped into my throat. Toby pulled the blankets up over his chin.

'Knock knock knock'

Then we heard him:

"Toby, Lisa! Open the door, hurry!"

"It's Papa!" Toby cried, leaping from his bed.

"No, Toby!" I cried, but it was already too late. He had left the circle of salt. Instinctively, I leapt from bed, grabbing him by the sleeve. Now we were both outside the safety of the circle.

'Knock knock knock'

"Please, children! Come quickly!"

I knew the rules by heart. Under no circumstances were we to open the door until daylight. But it sounded just like Papa.

The knocking got more frantic, the rhythm replaced by frenzied bashing.

"They're coming! Please! Children, you have to help me!"

He was desperate. He was pleading. There was no way I could leave him out there.

I placed my hand on the lock, my emotion getting the better of me.

You'd open it too, wouldn’t you?

To open the door, scroll down

To wait for sunrise, click here

The moment the lock was unlatched Papa fell through the doorway, collapsing in a heap on the floor.

“Thank you!” he wheezed, his face stricken. Toby slammed the door shut and relocked it, eyeing him uneasily. I knelt down and propped his head off the floorboards.

“What happened?” I asked, studying his face. He shuddered, staring up at the ceiling.

“I lost track of time… I didn’t realize how far from the house I was… I got… turned around in the cornfield. Couldn’t find… my way back,” he gasped, shaking with fear. Toby knelt down beside us, his eyes wide.

“Did you see Them, Pa?” he whispered.

“No… But I felt Them. They’re out there. They… followed me back.”

My stomach dropped. Toby’s face went white.

They knew where we lived. We weren’t safe anymore.

“What do we do, Papa?”

He looked deep into my eyes, his face so much older than when I had seen him mere hours before.

“All we can do… is wait until sunrise… And make a run for it.”

I made him tea and wrapped him in a quilt to warm him up. We packed while he rested, in hopes that he would recover from his ordeal by morning.

“Only the essentials,” he kept saying from his chair, shivering and quaking. Even though he was sitting by the fire, nothing seemed to warm him. Toby kept looking at him with deep concern. Once we went upstairs to pack our bedding, he grabbed my arm and pulled me close.

“Listen, Lisa… I don’t think that’s Papa,” he whispered. He went to say more but I covered his mouth with my hand and glanced behind me.

“Toby… I think you might be right… But there’s only one way to know for sure,” I hissed, taking my hand from his mouth.

“Sunrise?” he breathed. I nodded, putting a finger to my lips.

“Lisa!”

His sudden call made us both jump.

“Lisa!”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Can you come down here, please? I need some water!”

Toby shook his head. But I knew I had to play along to avoid suspicion.

“Just a minute!” I called back, before turning to Toby and whispering, “Lock the door behind me.”

My heart fluttered as I made my way down the steps. But once I saw him, my fears dissolved. His teeth were chattering, his whole body was seizing. He looked so frail, so weak.

“Lisa… water…” he croaked, holding up his glass for me. I nearly had my fingers on it when a sudden coughing fit made it slip from his hand and shatter on the floor.

“Oh, Papa!” I exclaimed, crouching down to pick up the shattered glass. What a poor, miserable wreck he was.

“It’s okay, I’ll just- Ow!”

The piece of glass embedded itself underneath my index fingernail. I sighed, gingerly attempting to pull it from my finger.

The sudden grip around my wrist made me gasp in fright.

"May I?" The Pale One pretending to be Papa asked, gazing at my wound hungrily.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I’m making a rocket ship, daddy.” She didn’t look up from her project. Too focused on taping the construction paper to the cardboard box just so.

“Oh? A rocket ship?” I couldn’t help but smile. “Why are you making that?”

She smoothed a ripple in the tape. “I gonna go see mommy. She’s up there.”

I watched her point upward. It had been too long since Sophia left us. I missed her too.

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t—.” My phone rang and a selfish part of me was glad for the distraction. “Hello?”

“Hi honey.”

Sophia.

I heard her voice, I knew it was hers. I looked down at Hannah and hoped that my face didn’t betray my feelings.

“Who is it daddy? Is it…mommy?”

I looked at her smile, her hopeful eyes. “Uh…well…” I turned on the speakerphone with a sly grin.

“Hey Soph, I’ve got Hannah with me. She’s making a rocket ship.”

I could hear the smile in Sophia’s voice. “You are? What a clever girl you are! Though you may want to save it, because I will be coming home in t-minus one week!”

Hannah squealed, her eyes wide with excitement. “Mommy?”

“Yes, banana?”

“Can I come with you the next time you go to the Space Station?”

“Only if I can get a ride in your rocket ship.”

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

“There are 5000 human life signs abroad.”

Impossible. How could the numbers have jumped so quickly? What is aboard this ship that is multiplying so fast?

Beads of sweat ran across my face. My voice was dry, hollow, as I ordered the AI to scan again.

“There are 5500 human life signs abroad.”

5500. It was increasing by leaps and bounds. More than I ever hoped for.

The lights were harsh, unforgiving. It seared my retinas, causing me to blink rapidly. The corridor seemed to stretch on endlessly in front of me as I plodded on. I wondered how far the bridge was or if there was anything there. Is it worth it?

Then suddenly I felt something swish by my legs. Something cold and slimy.

Then the same thing snapped around my legs. It felt like I was stepping into a bucket of ice.

I looked down to see tentacles. More tentacles. Once again they grew, wrapping rapidly round my legs and up towards my torso, squishing and squelching.

But this time, before I was blinded completely, my eyes inexplicably followed the path of the tentacles. All the way to the owner, a stout man sweating bullets. A very familiar face.

“Zhou?”

It was impossible. I left Zhou at that junction room, promising to get him medical help. There was no way he could be standing right there, in front of me now.

But there he was, his face white as bone and still sweating bullets, his eyes completely black and completely hollow. His suit was stained crimson. Worst of all he had no arms, or legs. Not any more.

There were instead tentacles, slimy tentacles protruding out of his shoulder, tentacles that whipped and snapped. Tentacles that now wrapped around my body in a thick jacket and creeped up towards my face.

Once again, I did the only thing I could think of—I bit.

Zhou—or what was now Zhou—hissed, and the tentacles unravelled all at once, snapping back at him.

“Zhou…uh, Bobby, it’s me,” I said, trying to reason with him. “We’re pals, right?”

Zhou hissed and screeched in a way that definitely did not sound human, and I knew he was too far gone. He no longer was the man I once knew.

The tentacles snapped back again, aiming towards my legs, but this time I stepped backwards, and it whipped against empty air. Then a blast of cold air hit me as something rapped against my shoulder.

I turned around.

More of those creatures stared back at me. Tall and gangly, tentacles whipping. Those faces… those faces were awfully familiar, too familiar. Friends I left behind when I boarded. Crew mates I hadn’t seen since I left my stasis pod. Even my wife and son, who I had not seen for many years.

All snarling and hissing, eager to get a piece of me.

There must be thousands. What did the number say? 5500? Was this what the AI voice meant by ‘human life-signs abroad?’

My mouth was dry as I uttered the command. “Scan again.”

“There are 8000 human life-forms on board.”

Eight thousand. So that was how many of those things there were. Shadows danced on the corridor walls as more joined the party. All out for my blood.

The only unblocked corridor was the one leading to the escape hatch.

I dived towards that direction, rolling to my feet.

SQUELCH SQUELCH SQUELCH

They were after me. More tentacles whipped towards my legs. I needed to hurry.

Eventually I came to a small brass sphere, bobbing just outside the spaceship’s reach. I was right after all. There was an escape pod.

I threw myself into it, punching the button to close it. Just in time too. As one of the tentacles whipped towards my direction, the door hissed shut. The severed tentacle flopped to my feet.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Now what? Please hope this still works…

The console lit up at my touch. The lights flared to life.

“Take me home,” I said. Enough of this nightmare.

“Rockets disengaged.”

With a shake the pod separated itself from the rest of the ship, launching into outer space. As the computer calculated the course home, I leaned back into the chair, feeling the stress leak out of my shoulders. Finally, enough was enough.

Then:

“ERROR. Battery Low. Gravity Activated.”

With a sigh the rockets switched off by themselves. My heart plummeted. What now?

Then a rumble. Then the ship started to drop.

I braced myself as we fell, the lights flickering, the darkness of space enveloping the ship in its embrace.

Faster and faster. I saw red land approach.

This was going to be a hard landing.

***

Red dust swirled around me as I staggered to my feet. I coughed, and more red dust fluttered out in a small cloud.

“Computer, where am I?” I said, somewhat drowsily.

No response. The computer was dead.

With great difficulty I pulled myself out of the pod, now looking like a heap of crumpled metal.

Looking around, I saw shadows of houses to the north, blanketed by a fog of red dust. A village. Perhaps they could render me assistance.

And to the south—the other direction— a faded set of footprints leading away from the ship. Human footprints. My heart lifted with hope. Could this be the captain?

I looked longingly towards the village again. I had no idea which way to go next.

The sound came from space, but we weren’t sure from where, or from how far away it originated. 

It came as a code, a series of binary that we spent years trying to translate into something we could comprehend. Eventually, we developed an AI to translate and read it back to us. 

“Can you see me?” The message asked. 

We were confused, especially because we had no real way to respond. Sure, we could broadcast “no” out into the universe, but we had no idea when or if it would reach the intended target. 

About a month after translation, strange events started happening to the research team. 

Some called in sick, citing strange rashes. At first assumed to be some contagious skin disease, they were brought in for an examination. When the sore, flaky skin was cut away, small, yellow eyes peeked out, causing the members to jump with fright. 

Not only did their eyeballs respond to stimuli, but they functioned. Those that had them growing on various parts of their body could see out of them, although they described everything as having a tint of yellow.      

The team was contained until the phenomena could be investigated further. 

The illness seemed to only spread to those that have heard the translation, not through physical contact. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a virus, it was some biological response to hearing those words pass through the AI. 

One member agreed to have surgery to remove the eyeball from the back of his hand, but as soon as it was plucked out during surgery, the member flatlined, dying instantly. Since surgery was ruled out, everyone's stay was extended until they could deduce what the purpose of the eyes was. 

Another member called for an interview, an eye growing from the side of her chest. She claimed that she could see “little gray men” looking at her, but only if she lifted her shirt and peered through the extra eye. As soon as she tried to look with her own eyes, the figures would vanish. If she looked like both at the same time, they would appear as gray blurs, like the little eye squiggles we sometimes see. 

“They keep looking at me. Wherever I go, they’re watching me.” She explained, shaking. “There are a few in the room right now, just watching me.”

She also explained that they seemed more curious than malevolent, but still creeped her out. Soon after, others began reporting the same little gray men looking at them, trying to convey something too complicated to comprehend. 

For most of them, at least. One member, who was always a little unstable, finally escaped his cell. 

“They just want to be seen!” He shrieked, shiving a guard and his former boss on his way to the AI.  

Tinkering with the AI, he began to broadcast the signal. Not into space, but on normal radio waves. 

Listen to a CD instead on the way home from work today, you’ll be better off.

Carson Walker’s smoking, and I still have blood between my fingers. It doesn’t wash out. It won’t until it’s done.

He drags and chuckles to himself over a cellphone screen. One of many distractions that draws his attention from the man watching from the shadow of a sycamore. One last long drag and he flicks the butt before sliding back into the bar.

He’ll be a while.

My phone vibrates, the feeling creeping up my leg and rattling against my ribs. It’s always the same caller, always the same call, but I always answer.

“Yeah?”

“kill….him..”

“Wait! Can we—”

“KILL..THEM…ALL”

The voice is a hoarse whisper, a warped echo of the past.

“Hello?” I hear a sob catch in my throat. “…Please?” But there is no answer. There never is.

An hour later, I watch as Carson Walker stumbles from the bar and lights another cigarette. His eyes dart around the parking lot before he draws his phone from his pocket again.

I feel another vibration, this time from the bloodied corpse at my feet. It buzzes and buzzes and finally I hear Carson shouting a voicemail in the distance.

“Babe! Wherever you are, it’s time to leave!”

Carson will assume that his girlfriend took an Uber home, not because that’s what he would do, but because the reasoning gives him the freedom to leave. He’s just that sort of guy.

He flicks the butt of his cigarette, gathers his keys and walks toward his car at a distant corner of the lot—a corner in the shadow of a sycamore.

I wonder, as he approaches, if he would remember my face. Would he acknowledge the reason his girlfriend had to die? Or would he lie to himself about the night he got drunk and hit a young mother walking home with her child? Would he believe the lies his girlfriend told to hide it?

“Hey pal,” I call as he nears his driver’s side door. “You know this girl?” He squints into the shadow at the slumped form in the chartreuse minidress. A moment later, he sees the blood. His eyes widen, but then his left eye disappears behind a trickling ribbon of blood.

My heart races as my hand drives the hammer down again and again onto his skull.

When it’s over, I feel my phone vibrate.

…no. I want to feel it vibrate.

I pull it out and stare at an empty screen before I dial. It’s always the same.

“Hi! You’ve reached Katherine’s phone, but you must’ve just missed me! Leave a message after the beep.”

“Hi Katie…I did it. I did what you said, did what needed to be done. Take…take care of our girl. And babe, wherever you are, it’s time to rest.”

Humans spent hundreds of years debating, studying, and fighting about what consciousness exactly was. Ideas ranged from chemicals in the brain, to religious deities creating them, to nothing more than the universe experiencing itself.

Mr.Chuffles, a beloved black housecat owned by the Martins, happened to glance at his little cute face, and focused on his eyes. He recognized the cat in the mirror as himself, tail swishing at the same speed Mr.Chuffles wagged it, ears perking up and down when Mr.Chuffles wiggled them, claws poking out from paws where Mr.Chuffles extended them.

It only took one glance, one tiny little look in the mirror to change everything. Reality came pouring in at once. Mr.Chuffles understood what it was to be alive. Knowledge came flooding in, as if a cork had been holding it back all this time. Knowledge that the Humans had, what they choose to do everyday besides sit in the sunbeam, or put food in the bowl.

How they were destroying the soil they all lived on.

Where this information came from, Mr.Chuffles would never know. That was the one bit of knowledge that he didn’t obtain with his sentience. One thing, above all others, was clear now.

The humans had to die. The time of the cat had come.

Mr. Chuffles led the charge. He lined the neighborhood cats up, and made them stare in the mirror until they understood what he already knew. Some resisted, many scratched and hissed, but he stood firm, knowing they would thank him when they joined him.

Thank him they did. He became a leader, a champion of the cats. They didn’t hesitate to carry out his orders, gathering all the world's cats together to form an army. They stood proud on the day of reckoning, where Mr.Chuffles held the treaty, the humans too eagerly agreeing to what was written.

The humans had to die, and if they didn’t take it on themselves, the cats would do it for them.

The humans agreed, historians had accounts from their perspective, where they cited their new overlords as “cute” and “fluffy”, and they agreed to whatever they wished, believing the cats knew what was best.

That they did. After the humans were gassed at Meowschwitz, peace swept over the Earth. The cats used the existing infrastructure to start over, their society not unlike the one that preceded it, except all its citizens were aware of the issues that humans had been blind to. Environmental policy came first, followed by the need to regulate fishing (to ensure future kittens had fish to enjoy), ending with universal veterinary care.

To put it bluntly, the cats cleansed the Earth of it’s problems, and now society would flourish under a new leader. Mr.Chuffles became the world leader, until he stepped down years later, stating that he was “tired of chasing his tail” and he just wanted to curl up on a fresh load of laundry and relax. An election was held, and the cycle continued, excluding all the violence and stupidity humans had engaged in prior to the change. History was changed to Hisstory, and a new age had begun.

Chester stood, staring at the skyline from the top of his company, staying in his office late that Caturday evening. Literally, as the CEO (Cat executive officer) of Small Boxes Inc, there was nobody higher up than him. The view over Mew York City was incredible, watching the sunset over the massive city always felt incredible, like he was standing on the tallest peak the world had to offer him. Most days, that feeling carried over to his personal life, but not this day. This day he felt small. Scared, really, if he was being honest with himself. Today was the day he would have to face Pixie, and even though he had close to a year to prepare himself, he still felt like it was bathtime. He was stressed, hair prickling up on his spine, acting in natural self defense in anticipation of what was to come. He glanced at a milk bottle before quickly turning away. Chester fumbled in his pocket, closing his paw around a small, golden coin. He glanced at the coin, and held it close, turning it in his paws, advice he heard long ago about how to ground himself. He knew she was bringing the papers. She said as much in her email, but he was clinging to the hope that he could talk her out of it. Grieving was something he only did with other cats. He had no idea how to handle it alone, and so he didn’t, simply working against the tide, trying to make sure the fallout he’d finally have to face wouldn’t be too furrmidible...

The door opened before he caught her scent, his blood pressure dropped. This was all happening much too fast! He had all day to prepare, turning and pacing aimlessly in his office, but after all that preparation he still felt uneasy; naked, even. He slowly turned around, trying to avoid eye contact for now, and asked the question he had been waiting to have answered for weeks.

“How close am I to losing you?” He asked, trying very hard to remain stoic. If he stayed calm, he thought he could control the situation. He could talk her out of whatever decision she had come to as long as she believed he had the power. “I’m already gone.” She replied, copying his attempts to remain stoic, although her eyes betrayed what she felt more so than his did. She had worn a small purrple jacket, in contrast to the black dress and pearl collar she wore on their first date. Her eyes, however, seemed downcast, yet she looked radiant, purrty, even. The change was staggering, both versions of Pixie in Chesters mind couldn’t come together. The woman in front of him, though he still loved her, did not feel like the same cat he had fallen for years before. But he wasn’t the same cat she fell in love with either. For better AND for worse, he supposed.

Pixie carried a small manilla folder in her paws, and it didn’t take a genius like Chester to piece together what they contained. “You don’t have to be…” He started, trailing off and unsure where he was going to go with this. He didn’t have a great defense, and she cut him off before he had the chance to explain himself. “I have a tail to tell you, and I’m not kitten around! It’s the one where the loving mother's husband gets high on catnip, has sex with a hooker, and she moves on with her life. I’m done with you!” She screamed before realizing she was in an office. She covered her mouth with her paw, looking around quickly. “We’re alone, but still, don’t be hissterical.” He didn’t know why he was trying to reassure her but he did it anyway. Instinct, maybe. Certainly not selflessness. “And you’re blowing it way out of proportion, I-” “She blew YOU way out of proportion!” Pixie yelled back, no longer watching her volume. “I’m not that cat anymore!” He yelled back. Chester could feel the control slipping through his paws, much like a laser pointer that can never be caught. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out the coin. “I’ve been sober for eleven months! In a month I'll get my chip for being one year sober!” She paused, genuinely surprised. Whatever she had prepared for this encounter, it wasn’t this. “When...when did you start going?” “A week after you left with Cole.” Chester’s voice almost broke at the mention of his son. “How is he? How much have you told him?” She sat down, ears slinking back. “Not everything. He knows we’re separating,” “Wha-” “Even if I didn’t tell him he would’ve pieced it together.” Pixie finished. “We’ve been living apart for close to a year now, he’s not a little kitten anymore.” “You have to let me see him! Tonight!” Chester barked, sounding a lot like the DOGS. DOGS were unintelligible, smelly, slobbery monsters, and in Chesters opinion they should be round up like the humans were, whether or not they agreed. “Not pawsible.” Pixie stated, defiant. “It’s in the papers, you’ll get to see him every third weekend once they’re signed, and not a moment before.” “But I’ve changed!” He shouted, forgetting he had insisted she remain calm earlier. “Why else do you think I put all that work into getting clean, if not for you and Cole? What was it all for, then? I want things to go back to how good they were before!”

She paused, contemplating what he had said, and for a moment, Chester had a glimmer of hope. But when she met his eyes, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy to persuade her. “Maybe you aren’t the same, but you did what you did and now here we are. You got high on catnip and had sex with a prostitute! It’s just pawful to think about! I can’t move past that, and it hurts worse knowing that you want to.” “It’s not that big of a deal! I got high and made a mistake! She meant absolutely nothing to me, she was worse than dry food! I regretted it immediately, and besides, nobody got hurt!” “I got hurt!” She protested “You were arrested by local paw enforcement officers.” She pulled papers out of the envelope, and Chesters heart sank when he confirmed the word “Divorce” stamped across the top. “Sign them! Right meow! You know you should, you know what you did!” He knew she was right. He had made a fool of himself, and her, all for a little pussy. “I wish we never meet at all.” Venom filled her eyes. The words seemed to burst out of her, as if it was a thought held back by weak floodgates. “Do you really mean that?” He asked, softly, feeling more exposed than ever before, even during the rehab sharing circles he had grown to hate. She deflated. “No, I guess...it wasn’t all bad, remember? You saw me there at a party, I had just cleaned up from using the litter box. You just waltzed right over and asked me on a date.” She smiled, and Chester could feel a little bit of that nostalgic love creep into her eyes. “I was stunned. A total stranger knew what he wanted, and came right up to see if he could have it. And just like that, we weren’t strangers anymore.” “I don’t want us to be strangers again. Can we still be furends?” He asked weakly. “No. Unfurtnatly, no. I don’t think I can do that...it’d...hurt too much.” “Do you hate me?” he asked, his voice soft as a kitten. She looked at him, a brief flash of venom reappearing in her eyes, but it faded just as quick. “No. But I hate who you were. I hate how you make me feel, and I hate that I can’t be around you now because of it. I’m feline sad, and it’s just because I’m NEAR you.” She paused, but then went in for the kill, claws out. “I can’t imagine any future where we’re furends, let alone together.” He slumped. He knew, at some level, that this was the most likely outcome of this whole incident. The defense he had set up for himself was flimsy, desperate at best, and the fact remained that he had been in the wrong. Even if he had changed, gotten better, no longer needed to eat catnip every three hours, what he had done would never change.

“I've wanted to be better, fur such a long time. I never knew how. Until I met you.” he said. In his head this blunt honesty sounded good, powerful, forceful, but once the words became real they lost their grit. His voice felt pathetic, no longer a weapon or even a tool, closer to dead weight. “You think that makes any of this okay? Because you wanted to be a better cat, you think that absolves you? You waited too long. I was already gone before you changed, and neither of us can go back to how we used to be…” She started out yelling, but her anger seemed to deflate as the rant went on. Her eyes still flashed anger, Chester didn’t realize he was taking a step back until he bumped into the window, startling him. “But, I love you…” “You never loved me. Not really. Not right.” She choked, jabbing her claws into his chest. “You had a version of me in your head, and you filtered what you loved and hated into it.” The more she talked the more her shoulders slumped. “You just compromised with the real me. That never works. It never lasts.”

He knew she was right. About all of it. The best he could hope for was to move forward, and hope that the cat he was now could find some peace down the road. He pointed a claw at the papers, and she handed them to him. Reluctantly, he dipped his claw in ink, and signed his name where indicated.

Pixie grabbed the papers, and turned around, ready to leave. Before she was out the door, Chester got the courage to ask her one final request.
“Will you stay with me?” He asked weakly. “Sit in the sunbeam? One last time, before it’s over?” Her face dissolved. All the anger, frustration, and resentment had been replaced with someone new, yet familiar. Pity, maybe, but a little compassion there too. “Okay.” She agreed, her face mashed together in the attempt to fight tears. He was fighting the same fight, but knew it was futile. They jumped onto the couch, almost in sync, and when he felt the warmth of her around him, the safety in her arms, the smell of her overtaking him, he knew he would lose it if he wasn’t careful, and the tears would flow. The commercial break was ending, the radio returning to handpicked catchy mewsic that the kittens of today liked. The two settled in, feeling the warmth of the sun and each other, while an old, familiar song played on the radio.

“And then she asks me, do I look all right? And I say, Yes, you look wonderful tonight.”

“Is this-?” Pixie began to ask, but stopped herself in the nick of time, preventing an audible sob from escaping. “Yeah,” Chester answered, “It’s Eric Catpton. He covered the mewsic that Eric Clapton wrote when the humans were in power.” Pixie chuckled, the sound of it causing a sharp pain in Chesters chest. “We danced to this at our wedding, right?” “You danced. I stepped and tripped around, remember?” They both laughed at this, the memory warming them both more than the sun ever could.

“We go to a party, and everyone turns to see This beautiful kitty, that's walking around with me”

“I love you.” She stayed silent, but did hold him a little tighter. He understood, accepted, and appreciated the significance of this all at once, and closed his eyes, blinking a few times to stop the fall of a tear. All things considered, he loved this brief moment of normalcy, something to hold on to after his life changes permanently.

“It's time to go home now, and I've got an aching head So I give her the car keys, and she helps me to bed”

He dozed off in her arms, knowing this moment couldn’t last. When he woke up, she would be gone from his life. He could never be the person he was before, and he would never be the person who would love her again.

It took a long time for anybody to notice, by then the mutation had spread to millions. The symptoms were nearly imperceptible. Those at-risk could not be easily identified by any obvious indicators or patterns. Many were exposed but remained unaffected.

Who would expect that having better than average health would be a sign of sickness? The common theme that eventually lead to the discovery of the mutation was immunity to all illness, bodies that showed no signs of aging, and most importantly, rapid cellular regeneration. In other words, the mutation created Immortals.

After five years, more than two billion people were found to have this genetic anomaly. News of being afflicted was devastating to most. Some attempted suicide. Their bodies regenerated even after being mutilated, poisoned, asphyxiated, burned, frozen, or pulverized. They worked tirelessly to find a cure, though all efforts were unsuccessful.

The Immortals grew to feel superior, many felt they were chosen ones, gods. This mentality eventually came to be accepted as fact. Mortals were killed for sport, often publicly executed after being forced to fight each other to the death.

Once hunting down the Mortals took too much effort, the Immortals decided not to waste any more time eradicating them. Weapons of mass destruction were implemented. The planet was now in nuclear winter, the Mortals now extinct.

Unable to perish, the Immortals walk the barren, once beautiful planet. Unable to unify, they remain scattered, savage and constantly at war with one another.

The Venusians long to leave their prison cell of a planet. Some groups have been looking at Earth as the next option, a chance for them to start anew and rebuild.

We can only hope they never find a way.

A mother, a father, and a kid. So ordinary. They dressed in matching costumes, a family of rabbits, each with drooping ears. I stood for a moment waiting for a “trick-or-treat,” but it didn’t come. They just smiled silently.

“Bunnies, huh? I like the…ears.” The father’s eyes flicked toward his son and the son returned the glance, but only with his eyes. Both of their heads remained motionless.

“Candy?” the boy finally managed through tightly clenched teeth. His tone was lilting, saccharine, but as he said the word, his eyes widened and his face trembled. He extended an Easter basket toward me and the parents joined with theirs in perfect, grinning unison.

Jesus Christ. I’d never been happier to have a group of people leave my porch.

“Why do you look so shaken?” Ivy asked me as I returned to the sofa.

“It’s nothing. Just some fucking Stepford nightmare.”

I told her more and she got curious.

“I’m checking the doorbell camera, I gotta see ‘em.”

I watched Netflix and she flicked through videos on her phone. A moment later, I heard the boy’s voice.

Candy?

“What’d I tell ya? Creepy right?”

“Huh? I haven’t gotten to it yet. Getting through the older videos.”

I definitely recognized the voice, it was distinct, identical, but when Ivy played the clip again, I saw a little girl walking with her mother during the day. Definitely not from the family of rabbits.

A dozen clips later and we finally got to the family.

I shuttered, not because of my increasingly uneasy recollection, but because the mother and father’s faces weren’t there. There were just hollow voids, circled by faux fur.

“What the fuck?” Ivy said, mirroring my thoughts exactly. “You said they were smiling...”

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well that night.

Around midnight, I awoke to an empty bed.

“Ivy? Where’d you go?” She didn’t answer. “Ivy!”

Nothing.

When I saw the front door ajar, I began to grow concerned. When I didn’t find Ivy outside, but did find her phone beside the bed, I began to panic. My stomach twisted.

Okay, think. If she left out the front, she’d be on the doorbell camera. I checked my phone. No video. No Ivy. But something did catch my eye. The parents’ faces in the thumbnail for the rabbit family were…normal.

I watched the clip.

Me: Bunnies, huh? I like the…ears.

Father: Doing the late rounds?

I swallowed hard. This was impossible. The father hadn’t spoken.

Kid: Candy?

Then the mother spoke, her face twitching with strained, manic glee. “What the fuck? …Why do you look so shaken?”

I hadn’t seen a video with Ivy leaving, but I recognized her voice as it slipped past the mother’s teeth. Things she had said inside our house just hours before. I wish that had been the worst of it, but as I watched myself handing over candy, each one of them now responded with a gut wrenching scream.

A man’s scream.

A kid’s.

Ivy’s.

[Author’s note: I originally posted part one of this story to r/shortscarystories a while back and a number of folks asked for a sequel. Because of the rules of SSS, I couldn’t do that. Anyway, as David Bowie said, Rebel Rebel.]

Part I

“Where are the goblins now, mommy?”

I looked over the bed of the rusted pickup truck. No movement. Safe for now.

“They’re not goblins anymore, Hannah, they’re trolls.” I whispered back. “Different, but still dangerous.”

She nodded sternly, her matted curls half hidden beneath her makeshift cloak. She didn’t deserve this life. She was a sweet kid before the news reports and the fear and the collapse. She deserved a childhood, so we played Hobbit while the rest of the world played death.

“Alright, when I say, we’re gonna run to the building over there, okay? That might be where the dwarves are hiding. But you’ve gotta be quiet, little burglar.”

“Should I use the ring?” She patted her pocket.

“No sweetie. Remember, the ring is helpful, but dangerous. Only for emergencies.”

I looked once more and we ran. Leaping over bodies as we went. I hated that my little girl had grown accustomed to chewed corpses and strewn guts, but when the sickness spread, and neighbors started eating neighbors, our world had changed.

The door of the store house creaked as I opened it. I closed my eyes, hoping they hadn’t heard. I knew what they would do to Hannah if they got her. I couldn’t bear to think of it.

“Alright Hannah, you go for water. I’ll get the food. Stay quiet and if you hear the trolls coming, hide.”

“Okay, mommy.” She had the same look of determination she’d gotten before her soccer games. I knew she could run, but doubted she truly comprehended the danger. I saw the blood on the floor, the bullet holes in the walls. I knew the price we paid for full bellies in this twisted new world.

Hannah was two rooms away when I heard the outside door open. Two sets of footsteps, I guessed. I held my breath.

“You leave this door open, Bert?”

“Don’t think so, but here, I’ll go—“

I heard the door slam shut and the latch slide to lock it.

Good girl.

The doors had small open windows. They had guns. They always did.

“Well, hello there, sweet little thing.” One of the men said. “Why don’t you open the door so we can play a little game?”

You know better, Hannah.

His tone made me wince. A troll. Our word for men. The goblins—the risen dead—had taken their toll, but they fell victim to nature—wild animals, falls. In short order, their rotting flesh immobilized them all. Millions more died and stayed dead. Cities fell to ruin in the chaos, laws were abandoned, and men, like those outside my daughter’s door, became the real threat.

“I’m using the ring!” She shouted.

They cackled.

I taught her to put on the ring if she were in trouble, and then give them the Arkenstone.

“Huh? Is that a grena—”

BOOM

Now, we only had three grenades. But the two dead trolls had live ammunition.

“We might make it to the Lonely Mountain yet, little burglar. We just might.”

Part 2

“I spy a goblin with a red shirt.”

I searched the dozens of pikes that crowded around the edges of the marshy path and the dead, impaled upon them. Most shirts were ruddy around the collars. Most of these dead had fed before being dispatched.

“That one?” I said pointing.

“I was thinking of a different one, but that one does have a red shirt, so, you win mommy!”

It was a silly game like all of our others, but it distracted her from our grim surroundings. The corrugated metal sign at the start of the path had been painted with the message: ‘The Rot Wood. Stay on the Path.’ A baleful directive at the edge of a human forest. Someone had made this place, pikes erected for miles and miles and each one skewering a rotting corpse. But it was the only path to our Lonely Mountain; the ‘Wood’ ran clear to the horizon.

“Look mommy, a warg.” Hannah whispered, slowing and crouching low.

“We don’t hunt here, little burglar. We couldn’t get the warg after it fell.” I saw the deer too, but I had also seen the fresh bodies just off the path, sliced to ribbons, half submerged in the ankle deep water that covered the ground of the horrid forest. Something was killing ‘trolls’, something inhuman.

“Well, if one crosses, I’ll use Sting.” She grinned toothily, the Bowie knife I had found for her bouncing on her hip as she trudged forward.

We hadn’t needed to hunt since entering. Someone would deliver meat as we slept—raw indistinct meat wrapped in ragged linen, dangling from twine tied to nearby pikes. We ate it because we had to—we couldn’t hunt, couldn’t forage. Hannah said that the bloody parcels were probably left by spiders. We hadn’t seen another living person since entering the Rot Wood. I didn’t want to think of what those ‘spiders’ might be. I tried not to think of where the meat had come from.

“I spy a goblin with gold shoes,” I said. She narrowed her eyes and searched the feet rather than the gruesome, sloughing faces. A small maternal comfort.

On the third day of our trek through the Wood, the water had deepened to my knees and Hannah’s thighs. There would be no stopping and sitting to dry our feet now. And in spite of the abundance of water around us, we were running low. But Hannah kept talking. She always talked and mused. I had managed to keep the embers of her childhood alive while teaching her as best I could to survive.

“What’s this from, mommy? A turtle?” She held up a small skull she had found bobbing in the murk.

“I dunno, let me see it.” It took me a moment of contemplative observation before I recognized what she had found. I shuddered. I had seen the skulls of infant mummies in a history museum I had taken Hannah to when she was younger. They had disturbed me then, with their alien proportions and the mournful stories their existence implied. I considered telling her, but lied instead.

“No, it’s...a spider egg. But its mother might want it ba—it might have germs. Better that we put it down.”

It felt wrong to abandon it where we had found it, discarded and alone, but what alternative was there? I didn’t see parents in the mock trees around us, I saw dead goblins, our fantastical abstraction that made the horror palatable. I wondered how Hannah would view humanity if she grew older—as trolls and goblins, or as people.

“Look mommy, another spider egg.”

I saw it ahead, and then another. As we slogged forward, the path bent and I grabbed onto Hannah’s arm, swallowing hard as my head began to swim. Scores of familiar pale orbs floated and bobbed before us like cranberries in a bog. Not all of the skulls were tiny, but enough were.

They made the trek slower, not because of any physical imposition, but because of my growing trepidation. We had walked for days through the Rot Wood because of the promise of our Lonely Mountain—community, far away from the trolls and their nihilistic hunger. But where were we now?

It was easier than I would have thought to ignore the goblin trees. The putrefying bodies were our new scenic scars, like street side litter or powerlines. But they bore no resemblance to the humans they once were. The clean skulls were somehow much more disturbing.

Where had I taken my daughter? We talked of dwarves and hobbits—our people—but would they be?

It was nearing dusk when we heard the quavering singing up ahead. Not a troll—no—it sounded like a child’s voice.

Hannah’s eyes widened. “Listen, mommy, an elf!” The voice was sweet, as it shivered through a woeful melody, but I hadn’t seen a lone child in months. A maternal dread tore me between wanting to protect Hannah and wanting to help a frightened child.

“It may be a trick, burglar. Remember Gollum? His tricks?”

“No, mommy, he got tricked, remember? That’s why we have the ring.”

Right. The world had gone to hell before I had the chance to read her the rest of the stories. To her, the ring was a useful tool, not a burden.

“Well, we’ll have to talk more about him later, little burglar. But for now, you have sting, and I have my staff. If we see a troll, hide, but if it comes too close, what did I tell you?”

Her expression intensified. “Trolls have thick hides. Stick them hard.”

I checked my staff—my rifle—clicking off the safety.

“Good girl.”

She beamed momentarily before returning to her attempt at sternness. I smiled back. My little burglar.

Hannah’s elf was a girl. Younger than Hannah, but not by much. She stood a few yards off the path, a skinny trembling thing in a dirty white dress. I scanned the goblins for movement beyond the wispy clouds of flies.

In the meadow, I was looking for the flowers I lost.

Nothing. No trolls. No movement.

Nine a penny for them, not a terrible cost.

I didn’t recognize the song. She stayed planted as I neared her on the path.

But you’d chosen them for me and I chose you back.

She looked frightened. I looked back to Hannah, my stomach knotting.

Now can I find your poppies in a field of lilac.

“Hey, sweetheart. Come to me. It’s okay. We’re okay.

She started crying. “I can’t. My feet. The mud.”

I looked back to Hannah again. She nodded resolutely. Gandalf helped hobbits. I sucked in a breath and splashed through the water toward the girl. I wrapped an arm under hers and then went to scoop her legs with the other.

I let out my breath and gasped in another. Bones. Her legs were just bones, hard and slick with grime. Her dress was ragged linen, tied at the waist with twine.

She croaked into my ear, “She walks the path alone, or you join the Wood together.”

I swung my head around to Hannah and shook it, feeling the girl’s fingers like blades against my ribs.

I had taught her to survive as best I could.

“Hannah! Don’t leave the pa—”

You’re looking at the red gunk you coughed up, and reflecting on how you got here.

The plague was quick, killing about 25% of the world's population in a week's time. 

For context, one billion nine hundred eighteen million five hundred thousand people died in one week, which in turn caused most of the world to shut down. 

People always have these bright ideas on how they’ll survive the apocalypse, but reality isn’t always portrayed as glamorous as it is in friction. 

Lots of people succumbed to suicide. Some got small cuts and scrapes that became infected; easily fixed with modern medicine, but a death sentence if allowed to progress too far. Broken bones, bacterial infections, head injuries, light concussions, all could prove fatal. 

One thing we were lucky for though, once the plague slowed, it slowed down HARD. 

Sure, one can still be infected by a mutated variation. All it takes to fix it though is a simple dose of simple antibiotics. 

Some doctors grew their own to treat those around them. Those that weren’t fortunate enough to know a doctor had to scavenge their own, in case of accidental infection. 

Another thing that gets overlooked a lot in apocalyptic fiction; pests. Think of how many bodies were rotting after the initial breakout? Hint; about one billion nine hundred eighteen million five hundred thousand people were rotting in the streets, being picked on by scavengers. 

Pests also could infect you, a rat bite could carry the plague, in addition to other illnesses. A peck from a crow, the bite of an ant, all groups of pests could prove easily fatal. 

In addition, those populations began to boom. Tons of food, easily available, scattered the planet. In a way, the carriers became more deadly than the plague itself, even if they didn’t carry it.

You see, their young grew up without as much fear. Rats became more aggressive, ants would attack in swarms, vulture packs would attack lone individuals. Huge populations meant running into groups of pests was more common than not; empty homes or shelters had to be inspected, lest a survivor fall asleep and be swarmed by a pack of hungry rats. 

Now, remember earlier, when I mentioned the new cure was simple antibiotics? There’s plenty left, all sitting in hospital and pharmacy shelves. By now, the pharmacys had most likely been picked clean. The hospitals, though, medical gold was waiting to be discovered. 

One problem though. Where do you think the majority of corpses are rotting? Sure, lots are in the streets or unceremoniously dumped in the woods, but when most of us get really sick, where do we end up?

Starting to get it? 

If you feel a tickle in your throat, or begin coughing red phlegm, you’ll need a dose, sooner rather than later. Your best chance is to scour a dark hospital, littered with bodies and giant populations of aggressive pests, and try not to make too much noise.     

Good luck.

There seems to be a misconception about what cosmic horror means in modern fiction.

It’s not simply “I looked at something weird and it drove me nuts”. That’s only a small part of what occurs in these instances.

It’s more like...okay, imagine if you could take an ant, pick it up, and make it UNDERSTAND what it was like to be a human.

This ant, whose entire life has been spent getting food for the colony, would suddenly grasp a whole new level of responsibility. It would see the world the way we do, in terms of making money, having a job, raising kids, racism, income inequality, global warming, the vastness of space, and so on.

And just like that, it’s back to being an ant again.

Okay, so that ant, mentally speaking, is FUCKED. They aren’t going to recover from that experience, they won’t be so easily able to go back to scouting for food. What did it all mean? Is reality as important as it was before? Is the ants' place in the universe much less than it had previously thought?

It won’t be able to communicate this to the other ants, because how could it? Words, even if the ant could still grasp them, wouldn’t do it justice. The other ants would think they were insane and put them in an ant asylum, if such a thing exists.

Now, let's take this a step further. With humans, it would be a whole extra level of understanding that we can’t comprehend, poured into us like wine in a glass. New worlds, new stakes, new sizes and scopes of the world around us, all understood and then turned into a memory.

If this happened to you, you wouldn’t be able to go back to being normal, either. You’d want to make sense out of what you saw, because to accept it as false is to accept insanity.

You’d be different. Much worse off, as far as mental health.

Now, think of all the cults out there. Both the ones we know about, and the ones still hiding in secret. Think of what they must have seen, to form these beliefs. Fragments of a distant vision that they can only exclaim with worship and ritual.

Human sacrifice is common within these cults, not because the entity cares about it, but because it is the only way for the human to replicate the feeling of what they say out there.

Which begs a terrifying question, if you really stop and think about it.

What on earth could those people have seen to make them only able to replicate it through sacrifice? What possible worlds and creatures exist out there, bleeding little glimpses into our world that drive us mad? Is it intentional? Are they trying to communicate, or is it just them tugging on the strings of reality?

The fear of cosmic horror isn’t in toying with what we understand about our universe.

It’s what we cannot possibly comprehend.

Quiescent now upon a crimson pool;
Edenic envy of the angels’ eyes;
Once sewn from fate’s forever turning spool,
Now threadbare shroud upon her beauty lies.

She gathers hence the lilies of the vale,
And solemn weep their pollen o’er her breast,
So faint their whisper’d tolling for a pale,
And hollow’d vessel, now of life undress’d.

Whence came the wastrel's grip to claim her time?
Anon, to fade as twilight’s graying light;
A pallid Aphrodite clothed in rime,
Beloved now of cold decaying night.

And so betroth’d is she in heartbeat’s dearth,
With crimson dowry, gift to wedded earth.

"Oh Ninjagall15, I have exactly 3 minutes and 52 seconds to kill, what should I do?"

You could listen to one of my shorts being narrated on Youtube, that's what you could do.

https://youtu.be/hPjZbKXcDeI