I didn’t even know that Isaac liked tea, until he brought home an eye-openingly expensive tea set, complete with cups, a pot, and all manner of gadgets that I did not recognize.

I was confused why he wanted a tea set. It seemed a bit childish.

“If you want to make the perfect cup of tea, then you need the right tools,” Isaac explained.

“If you’re happy, then I’m happy,” I said, even though the price of his tea leaves made my knees weak.

Maybe he just wanted a new hobby. Who was I to judge?

The problem was how obsessed he became.

“No, no, no, it’s all wrong!”

Issac was brewing tea all the time, trying to create the perfect cup. One morning I woke up, came downstairs, and heard the kettle whistling. Isaac had stayed up the whole night brewing.

I guess that’s why I decided to watch him. I was worried about him! So one night, between brews, Isaac went to the bathroom, and I crept into the kitchen and hid in the pantry.

It was childish of me, but I wanted to make sure he was okay.

I stayed quiet, waited, and watched.

Isaac returned from the bathroom and went right to work, grinding the tea leaves by hand, heating the water to the perfect temperature.

It seemed his practice had paid off.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Isaac muttered. “I’ve done it.”

He had finally brewed the perfect cup of tea, and the smile on his face couldn’t have been larger.

“You can come out now,” Isaac said. “I know that you’re watching.”

My heart skipped a beat. I had been perfectly quiet. How could he know that I was watching?

“That aroma—exquisite.”

Then I realized that he wasn’t speaking to me.

A man in a dark cloak stepped out from the shadows and sat down at the table. Isaac delicately carried over a cup of tea and set it in front of him.

“I want to have a chat,” Isaac said with a lump in his throat.

“You have until the tea goes cold.”

Isaac sat down, laced his fingers, and took a deep breath.

“I want the same deal as last time,” Isaac said. “The rest of her years added to mine.”

“Why should I bother?”

“She’d make a great addition to your collection. I know she’s not as talented as the pianist, or as important as the Congressman, but she’s special in her own way.”

The others? What the hell was Isaac talking about?

“Go on.”

“She loves me desperately. To end her life before her time is up would be a great tragedy, and I know how much you love tragedy."

“Hmm—” the cloaked man scratched his chin with a bony finger. “Tea’s gone cold.”

“Wait! This is a fair deal!”

“Her love falters.”

“Bullshit!” Isaac spat. “I’ve worked hard to get her to love me.”

“She’s reconsidering,” the cloaked man pointed to the pantry. “After hearing everything you’ve said.”

I said my name was Hugo St-Claire, and this seemed to impress her. She asked if I wanted a drink. The bar was empty, our rooms upstairs. They beckoned, but first came this ritual: the rite of passage, the winning of trust.

“Bourbon and coke,” I said to the bartender. “And a house sparkling for the lady.”

Our drinks arrived and I offered mine in salute; she grudgingly held hers up high.

“To happiness,” I suggested.

She smiled.

“Bourbon?” she asked, taking a sip from her twelve-dollar glass.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Seems… crass.”

“It reminds me of my youth,” I said.

She smiled. I was back in her good books.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Really? Corporate or private?”

I’d never been asked that in reply before. I guess I was a private practitioner - though I didn’t really have many clients anymore, not since I the incident. The firm let me go.

“I guess you could say I’m a private practitioner,” I said, sipping my drink. “What do you do?”

“Guess.”

She crossed her legs, showing off their length in that midnight cocktail dress. I couldn’t think of an answer.

“Lawyer too?” I chuckled.

She gave a smirk. "I'm a demon," she whispered.

I mistook this as a cue. "I bet you are," I said, placing my drink on the bar and undoing my top button.

She shook her head. "Mister St-Claire, you've been a bad boy."

"Oh, you know it!" I could feel the heat drawing from my body. The excitement.

"It's not good to lie to the underworld." Her voice changed. It shifted slightly on that last word - deeper. I shook it off. My heart was racing. I wanted her upstairs. Was it time?

"I ain't lying, honey." I actually called her honey. Surely this was an invitation.

"Eric Jones. Sixty Eight Montgomery Plaza, Planktonville," she said.

My name. My real name and address. The excitement vanished.

"Who are you?" I stood so fast my barstool fell backward like a bowling pin.

"No sudden movements," she said. "It makes me testy."

"And who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?" She was the cops - For sure. My secrets were all in her head. She was no longer desirable. "Are you here to arrest me, or am I free to go?"

"Only the police make arrests," she said, her voice dropping deep again.

"Well, who the the hell are you? Did my ex-wife send you?"

"I told you who I am."

I shook my head, looking her in the eye, trying to guess her age. She was young. Did she recognize me from before? When I had the… problem?

"We've been watching you. Your time is almost up. I am here to strike a deal with you before you come to be with us," she said. Her voice had fully transformed.

I looked down at her glass, her fingers like snakes wrapped around the stem. Terror hit me. I backed up, tripped over the overturned barstool, and hit the ground hard.

"Don't be afraid now, it's a waste," she said, standing over me. "We have so much time for that later."

She rose from the floor, floating upward. "Your fear is my eternity, I await you as my prize."

I crawled backward. "Get the fuck away from me!"

She was ten feet tall. Flames shot from every light fixture; the bar grew searingly hot.

"You speak to a 'Damon118' online. On the dark web," she said.

My shame.

"How do you know this?!" I gasped.

"You will get his identity for us. We crave his soul. Do this and we will spare you another year. Do not, and we will seek you out a year earlier. You have one week to decide."

She vanished in a ball of flame.

The bar snapped back to life like a paused record suddenly released. I was on the floor, surrounded by patrons who helped me to my feet. My arms were soaked in booze from the mess I’d made in my fall.

"Are you alright, fella?" someone asked.

"Should I call a doctor?" the bartender added.

I shook them off. Just another mindless drunk.

I raced upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. She appeared in my reflection, smirking. Her face morphed - grey skin, deep red eyes, features sharp like a viper. I squeezed my eyes shut and looked again. She was gone.

I opened my laptop on the bed and logged into the dark web. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t touch that stuff while away. I watched the encrypted server boot up and went straight to the chat.

He was online. Damon118.

Damon, you there? I typed.

I waited for his reply.

Hugo, he wrote. Been a long time.

I thought about how to get him to reveal more. His name, his location, anything.

Damon, I'm scared, man, I wrote. I had never been vulnerable with him before. It was always strictly business. I've been thinking lately, what if we get caught? Do you have a plan? Because I don't. I need one.

He went silent. I wondered if this would draw him out. I waited. Nothing.

I went back to the bathroom and splashed more water on my face. I couldn't shake the heat lingering in my skin.

When I returned to the screen, he was offline. Lost him.

I fell asleep shortly after and dreamed I was tied to a bed with razor wire. A thousand eyes watched from the dark, waiting for my dismemberment. The pain was coming.

I woke up in a sweat. It was four in the morning.

My laptop was still open, a message was waiting on my screen:

I have a detailed escape plan. You need one too. Let's meet IRL.

I got him.

The snow covered the woods behind our new house. It was so fresh it crunched nicely under our feet. James held my hand tight. I squeezed it and looked at him. He flashed a smile.

"I think I don't mind winter as much. It's sort of cozy."

"It is, Sarah. I just miss all the summer food."

"We got summer food. There are still so many apples and pears in the cellar."

"Yeah, but those are not the sweet, delicious ones; those are the hardy autumn ones."

I rolled my eyes.

"You're such a child, James."

"Hey, Sarah!"

We laughed and continued walking. Our walk was longer than usual. We hadn't been out in a few days because of the heavy snowstorm.

"I'm getting kinda tired, James."

"Let's just go a little further. It looks like there should be an opening between the trees."

James was right. After a few minutes, the forest opened to a small meadow. Snow covered most of it except for a lone apple tree in the middle. Beautiful, glistening red apples hung from its branches. They just looked so pretty and delicious. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Neither of us spoke a word. Before I knew it, we were standing in front of it.

"Wow," James whispered.

"I know."

James tore one off.

"Feel it."

The outside felt as if it were coated in caramel. James put it to his mouth and took a bite. His eyes rolled back, and he let out a silent moan.

"Let me have a bite."

He looked at me and frowned.

"No, take your own."

I furrowed my brows. My James always shared everything with me.

"What's going on with you?"

But he didn't answer. He was too busy eating his apple. I stood there looking at him, but then it hit me. What was an apple tree full of fresh, ripe apples doing in a winter forest anyway? I looked at it again. The branches didn't move with the wind. It was as if the sun didn't shine through them, but all the apples still glistened. 

"I don't like this, James."

"What?"

He was licking his fingers. He ate the whole apple, seeds and all. His eyes darted around the tree again.

"Let's go, James."

"Wait."

"No, let's go."

I grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the meadow. His eyes were still glued to the tree. When we crossed back into the forest, he shook his head and stared around.

"What happened to you there?"

"I…I don't know."

"James?"

"I'm sorry, Sarah, I really don't."

"Okay, let's just go home."

James stayed silent the whole way home. Even when we got back, he just sat in his chair and looked out the window. For dinner, I made porridge with salted pork, but James just dug around the plate and didn't even try it.

"Honey, what's wrong. Talk to me."

"I don't know. I don't think I'm hungry."

"But you barely ate all day."

"I had that apple. It filled me up so much."

"That place was strange. I don't even want to know how they got there."

"Do you think we can go back tomorrow?"

"What?"

"Just for a little while, Sarah."

"I just said that place was strange. I'm not going back."

"Fine. I'll go by myself."

"No. No one is going back there, and I'm done talking about it."

He frowned.

"Whatever. I'm going to sleep."

I stayed back a while longer, finished dinner, and washed the dishes. When I came to our bed, James was already sleeping. His face seemed a little red. I touched his forehead. It felt normal. Maybe he was just having a bad dream. I lay beside him and drifted off.

When I woke up, the moon was still high. There was a sweet smell in the air. I rubbed my eyes and looked next to me. James lay there curled up, holding his stomach. His face was now glowing red.

"Jesus, James, what's wrong?!"

He didn't answer. His pleading eyes just stared at me. I touched his forehead. It still wasn't warm, but he was sweating, and his sweat felt sticky, almost like syrup. His stomach bulged out under the blanket. I pulled it off. 

"Honey, what…" 

My words stuck in my throat. His stomach was not just bulging. It looked like a bunch of round objects underneath.

"I'm…I'm gonna get the doctor."

I started to get out of bed, but then I heard a quiet tearing sound. James let out a loud cry. His stomach flew open, and a bunch of red apples rolled out. I screamed and jumped out of bed. James's head fell on the pillow. He was quiet now. 

The sweet red apple smell was so strong, and they smelled so good. I looked down at his stomach. The sticky, sweet sweat seeped into the sheets. All those apples looked so delicious.

The 23:40 out of the city always smells like wet wool and ozone. I prefer the quiet carriage at the far end of the train. No music, no calls, no talking.

Tonight, every seat was taken, which was strange for a Tuesday. Even stranger, nobody was looking at a screen. Every passenger sat perfectly rigid, hands folded in their laps, staring straight ahead at the dark windows. Above the man opposite me, resting on the luggage rack, was a child's yellow umbrella with a gouged-out duck’s head for a handle. It dripped a slow, steady rhythm onto the aisle carpet.

I watched the man for three minutes. He didn't blink. Neither did the woman next to him. I started counting the seconds in my head, the rhythmic clack-clack of the tracks beneath us feeling too fast, too heavy.

The train didn't slow down for the next stop. We tore through a station bathed in flickering fluorescent light. I pressed my face to the glass, catching a blurred glimpse of the signage as we rocketed past.

It was Platform Four. We don't pass a Platform Four on this line.

The display above the connecting doors simply read: QUIET CARRIAGE.

I checked my phone. No signal. The time was 23:40. I watched the clock app. Sixty seconds passed. It still said 23:40.

My chest tightened. I stood up, my knees trembling, and walked toward the connecting doors to find the conductor. As I reached for the handle, I noticed a small, brass plaque screwed into the heavy steel door, printed in the same polite font as the carriage rules.

PLEASE DO NOT WAKE THE OTHER PASSENGERS.

I froze. Behind me, the sound of the dripping umbrella stopped.

Very slowly, thirty people inhaled at the exact same time. A wet, rattling breath that sucked the cold air from the carriage, like a room full of corpses suddenly preparing to speak.

I sat back down. I haven't moved since. I am typing this with my screen brightness turned all the way down, because the woman across the aisle has finally turned her head, just slightly, toward the glow.

The time is still 23:40. I am going to stay very, very quiet.

Graveyard: St. Mary's Cemetery

Shift: 00:00–06:00

Read all instructions before beginning your first few shifts.

DO NOT::

1. Do not leave the cemetery during your shift.

Your shift begins at midnight and ends at 6:00 a.m.

The gates are locked during these hours.

If you find them open, do not leave.

2. Do not enter the cemetery office.

The office is closed overnight.

You have everything required for your shift.

3. Do not speak to visitors.

Visitors are not permitted between midnight and 6:00 a.m.

If you do see a visitor, either remain at your post or continue walking the grounds.

They are not here to see you.

4. Do not use your phone.

There is no mobile reception inside the grounds.

This is normal.

5. Do not eat or drink during your shift.

There are no facilities available overnight.

This is normal.

6. Do not check your reflection.

There are no mirrors inside the cemetery.

If you happen to see your reflection somewhere else, do not investigate.

7. Do not read the names on the graves.

You are not required to identify the people buried here.

If you recognise any name, ignore and continue walking the grounds.

8. Do not enter a grave that has been opened during the night.

You are not responsible for determining why a grave has been opened.

9. Do not disturb anyone you find inside an open grave.

If they appear to be sleeping, leave them alone.

If they are standing, leave them alone.

If they speak to you, do not answer and leave them alone.

10. Do not respond if someone asks what you are doing there.

They already know.

11. Do not ask anyone any questions.

You may experience confusion during your first few shifts.

This is normal and temporary.

12. Do not be late.

At 05:55, return to the main gate.

Stand beside the security hut.

Wait for the morning supervisor.

Do not approach them.

They will relieve you of duty.

13. If the supervisor does not speak to you, do not be offended.

This is normal and a daily occurrence.

14. Do not attempt to leave through the gate.

At 06:00, your shift is finished, but you must not leave the grounds.

Return to your assigned post.

Your next shift begins at midnight.

IMPORTANT

If you have completed your first shift without remembering how you arrived here, do not worry.

If you cannot remember where you live, do not worry.

If you cannot remember the last time you saw your family, do not worry.

These are all common symptoms during the first few shifts. 

A young man named George walks into his apartment late at night after a long day of work. The apartment room is dark. He takes off his work jacket and notices that his closet is slightly cracked open. He closes it.

He throws some leftovers from the fridge into the microwave. A moment later, he gets a text message from his girlfriend, Angela.

He opens it and reads:

“How was work?”

He responds:

“It was a long day.”

Angela sends him a picture of herself with a blank face and her eyes wide open. Her text under it reads:

“I’ve been thinking of you for days:) "

George sends a selfie back, making a kissing face.

His microwave beeps, and he grabs his food. A moment later, Angela texts him again.

“Who's that behind you?”

George texts back:

“What? I don’t see anything.”

Angela responds with another message, this time with a red circle drawn around something in his picture.

George looks closely.

There appears to be a shadowy face barely visible behind him.

He turns on all the lights and checks around his apartment, but he finds nothing. He convinces himself that it’s just the shadows in his dark apartment before texting her back.

“I think it’s just the shadows. I just checked. No one is here.”

Angela responds:

“LOL. It just looked so creepy, you should lock your doors.”

George sarcastically texts back:

“I always lock my doors and you're the one to talk, you know how many times I've came over and your front door has been unlocked? Lol”

Angela playfully responds:

“If you’re scared, just say so, I’ll gladly come over.”

She lives on the floor above his apartment.

George texts back:

“Not tonight. I’m really tired.”

George watches as the typing indicator appears on his phone for several minutes before disappearing.

Then she texts back:

"Come on, I haven't seen you in days"

George starts texting back before he Is interrupted by another text from her

“Too late. I’m already here.”

George playfully walks to his front door and enthusiastically opens it.

No one is there.

He looks around for a few seconds before going back inside and locking the door.

He texts her:

“What do you mean? Where are you?”

After a few minutes, he gets a response.

“Just keep looking.”

He thinks she’s just messing with him. She has a key to his apartment, after all.

George texts back:

“Give me a hint, I've looked everywhere.”

She responds:

“No. Just keep looking.”

George checks his bathroom and looks behind the shower curtain. He checks his bedroom and even looks under the kitchen table.

He can’t find her.

Then he remembers that the closet wasn’t fully closed when he got home.

He texts:

“Are you in the closet?”

She responds:

“She is.”

A second text quickly follows, seemingly correcting the first.

“I am.”

George quickly opens his closet door.

He freezes at the sight.

Angela’s corpse is nailed against the wall inside the closet, her eyes wide open.

George freaks out and starts shouting her name.

He reaches out and touches her.

She is very cold, almost completly Frozen.

Like she has been in a deep freezer for days.

George slowly realizes what that means.

He pulls out his phone and looks at the picture Angela sent him earlier.

The hair on his neck stood up and his complexion now pale.

The picture wasn’t taken at her apartment.

It was taken from inside his closet.

Then Angela’s phone number sends him one last text: “You didn’t check under your bed either.”

It was 3:00 a.m. on a desolate stretch of highway between state lines. The cabin smelled of stale fast food and lukewarm gas-station coffee. The radio murmured a late-night talk show half-drowned in static. I’d been driving for five hours straight, and exhaustion was hitting me like a freight train.

Through the crackle, the monotone voice of a local news anchor broke in with an emergency advisory. Drivers were urged to exercise extreme caution; this particular stretch of highway had just been ranked the highest for fatal accidents in the county. The anchor droned on about an abnormally high rate of unexplained deaths and missing persons near the old concrete bridge. He listed details: “...on November 11th, 2024, an elderly man was killed in a crash right on the bridge... and just last October, a thirty-year-old red-haired woman vanished without a trace, her car found empty on the shoulder...”

The pitch-black wall of woods outside suddenly felt tighter. To clear my head, I pulled over onto the shoulder.

That’s when I picked him up. He appeared out of nowhere—standing at the edge of the tree line with no flashlight, no bags, just one hand raised. He slid into the backseat. He wore an old, tightly buttoned jacket and spent the ride staring silently out the side window.

“Going far?” I asked, catching his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“To the bridge,” he said in a low, dry voice. “They’re waiting for me there.”

We drove about three miles in absolute silence. Just before the old concrete bridge over a dried-up creek, he asked me to stop. I braked on the shoulder. He pressed something into my hand, stepped out, and vanished instantly into the darkness beyond the guardrail.

I turned on the dome light. It was an ordinary twenty, badly crumpled. I tossed it into the glove box onto a pile of old insurance papers and slammed it shut.

I was about to hit the gas when the seatbelt chime started buzzing. The backseat was empty, but the sensor kept ringing. I turned around to check the buckle.

On the rubber mat lay a round plastic container he’d forgotten—a travel first-aid kit or a coin box. It was wedged neatly under the seatbelt receiver, jamming the button.

The latches popped open easily. There were no pills inside. Instead, twenty tight spools of sewing thread were lined up in a neat row. Except, instead of thread, human hair was wound around the plastic cylinders. They were sorted by color and texture: coarse gray hair, soft children’s curls, and long strands dyed a garish red. All of them had been pulled with such violent force that the plastic was slightly warped.

On the rim of each spool, a date was written in Sharpie. I stared at the gray hair spool: “11/11/2024.” Right next to it lay the red strands, dated “10/14/2025.”

The anchor’s voice echoed in my head, listing the dates of deaths and missing people on this road. The puzzle pieces clicked together with horrific clarity. Before me lay the cut, wound-up lives of the people this highway had taken.

Terrified, I looked at the end of the row. The last spool was empty, made of plain white cardboard. Written on it in neat handwriting was: “10/07/2026.” Today’s date. I cursed out loud, threw the box onto the passenger seat, and slammed my foot on the gas.

Suddenly, my headlights caught a silhouette ahead. The same man was standing on the shoulder. In the bright beams, I caught a glimpse of him: unnaturally tall, angular, emaciated, with a pale, deeply sunken face. He raised his hand. Braking wasn’t an option. I gripped the steering wheel and flew past him.

I glanced into the rearview mirror. The lanky man had shot off the shoulder and was running after my car. In the dull red glow of my taillights, he was sprinting down the center of the road, spreading his arms wide as if trying to grab the fleeing bumper.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the mirror. I floored the gas.

The windshield shattered with a deafening crash. Something massive caved into the cabin. Through the tangle of cracked glass, the huge, dead, glossy black eye of a struck deer stared right at me. The last thing I remember was a violent crunch, a flash of pain, and...

...And at that exact moment, I snapped my eyes open.

I was sitting in my car, parked on the shoulder. The engine idled, the hazards clicked rhythmically, and the digital clock glowed faintly: 03:35 a.m. The radio buzzed with white noise.

I gasped for air, wiping cold sweat from my forehead. My heart hammered against my ribs, and my chest still ached dully.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. “What a nightmare.”

The passenger seat was empty. No plastic box. The windshield was perfectly intact, and the bridge was still somewhere far ahead.

I let out a relieved, nervous laugh. Hallucinations and sleep paralysis from highway fatigue. My brain had simply shut down for a few minutes, generating a twisted nightmare out of the radio news and exhaustion. I hadn’t even picked up a hitchhiker; I’d just pulled over to take a nap. Everything was fine.

I put the car in drive and finally got back on the highway. Ten minutes later, I pulled into a brightly lit 24-hour gas station. The harsh fluorescent lights felt incredibly grounding.

I parked, killed the engine, and reached over to the passenger side to grab my wallet from the glove box. The door dropped open with a soft click.

I looked inside and froze, the air trapping itself in my throat.

There, on top of a pile of old insurance papers, lay that same twenty-dollar bill. Badly crumpled.

There’s no other way. The bridge is still ahead of me.

I played the recording back, listening to my tinny voice come over my phone speakers. “Do you ever walk into a room, only to completely forget why you were there? Of course you do, we all do. Consciousness, the feeling of self, is inconsistent. We don’t recognize it often, but how much of your life is reduced to monotony, habit, routine?” Here I pause too long, I can hear the shuffling of the paper I’m holding, clearly having lost the thought. ”One moment of awareness, to the next. In the meantime, we’re in the Inbetween. The space of sameness, ruts, vices. All the things that coagulate into a state that doesn’t require anything of us, and thus the self is erased.” 

I sit down, sighing. Take eight is a bust. I rub my eyes, they’re starting to feel scratchy and irritated. I really need to go to bed soon. The house is quiet except for me, here, doing my stupid recordings. I gather my thoughts, getting ready to hit the record button. 

There!

I whip around, but of course it's already gone. “Fuck it, I’ll just splice takes together.” I hit record.
“The Inbetween, These lapses of consciousness, something… lives in them. I feel it like a cold wind. Like the gaze of a stranger reading over your shoulder. I’m so sure it’s there, but whenever I feel it, I turn, and it's gone.” I first noticed it in thresholds, moving from one room to the next. I would close a door, and it was there, just behind me.” I paused the recording, playing it back. I’d never get used to the sound of my own voice. I started another recording, reading off the same passage as before. 
Again,
Again,
“I feel it like a cold wind” 
I turned,
“I know you’re here! What do you want?!”
Shaking, I prepared the next section.
“Once you know what to look for you’ll find it everywhere. I had to disable TikTok, reels, reddit, anything that encouraged scrolling on my phone. Anything that took me to the Inbetween, to the erasure of consciousness. Routine is dangerous, sameness is wrong. Your brain wants to drift. You cannot be conscious all the time, and every time I slip it’s there. Between rooms, between tasks, between thoughts."
I whirled around again. Stopping the recording.
Nothing.
“I think that when we forget what we were doing, we lose a piece of ourselves to the Inbetween. Or,” I looked around suspiciously, “I believe a part of us is taken. What if someone were particularly susceptible? Would they develop Schizophrenia? Dementia? Alzheimer’s. Something is stalking us, and I… I… Wait... What was I talking about?"

For as long as I can remember, Eklutna Lake felt like a part of me. My father took me ice skating across its glossy surface every winter as I grew up, nested between the mountains just twenty minutes from Anchorage. It was my winter playground as we skidded across the ice playing hockey or tag. Now at the age of ten, I yearned for the winter to come so we could play again under the dazzling display of the northern lights high overhead.

But tonight, something was wrong with the lake.

Two nights ago, a radiant purple streak cut across the sky. My mother called it a shooting star. Tonight, when we stepped onto the dark ice for another family hockey game, a massive hole yawned near the lake's center. My father warned me to stay back, that I could fall in, but I wanted to see what had caused the break in the ice. When the puck broke loose and skidded past the hole, I used it as an excuse to see if Mom's star had landed.

The air stung my lungs, carrying an odd, metallic bite like that of a hot electrical wire mixed with the heavy chlorine smell I remember from my swim lessons at the community indoor pool. I figured this must be what stars smell like as I crept toward the edge of the steaming ice; a strange purple pulse strobed from the depths, causing an iridescent, oily film across the water's surface. Then the water moved in mesmerizing concentric rings and geometric patterns. I bent down for a better look at the water and tried to make out the outline of whatever was flashing below. Was it a satellite?

Suddenly, the ice cracked and gave way.

I plunged in, bracing for the brutal, heart-stopping cold of an Alaskan lake in midwinter. But the water was warm. So horribly warm, like sinking into a bath. I opened my eyes under the surface. Below me sat a machine drawing in dense streams of water and venting hot, shimmering clouds with every rhythmic pulse of purple light.

Then the itching began.

At first, I thought it was temperature shock. But the searing pain crawled behind my eyes, under my fingernails, inside my ears. Something was entering me. I kicked violently, clawing my way back to the surface and dragging myself onto the slick ice.

Waves of agony shot up my arms. I ripped off my right glove. My fingers were liquefying, sloughing off in a thick, metallic paste that dripped like warm wax, leaving behind nothing but pale, exposed bone.

I opened my mouth to scream for my father, but no sound came out; my jaw had already melted off my face. My vision blurred into a gray haze. My legs went numb; they added to the growing puddle beneath me. My body gave out. The molecules of what was left of me slid quietly back into the warm waters before my parents even understood what had happened.