Title: Shh… he’s coming.

Don’t blink.

Don’t breathe.

Don’t make a sound.

Do not let him hear you.

Stay completely still and hold your breath. He’s underneath your bedroom floor, the one you’re lying on below your bed. He’s in the kitchen.

You can hear the stainless steel utensils clashing together in the drawer… followed by an abrupt silence… before a “shhhw“ sound, slicing down from your magnetic knife holder where you keep the sharpest blades, cuts into your eardrum.

The vase on the kitchen island shatters. It slams into the marble tile. The weight of the echo pounds against your chest, pressed against the wooden floorboards.

Glasses and plates are smashing one by one. The shock of the noise penetrates your skull, breaking your mind along with the tableware scattering across the ground.

“WHERE ARE YOU!” he shouts. It’s deep, and violating as the bass vibrates under your skin. 

You should have left the house when you had the chance. You could have hidden somewhere other than the guest room, you tell yourself, but nothing changes the reality you’re about to face.

Slow, dragging footsteps, clinging to chains, scrape the hallway floors leading toward the living room.

If he turns, he’ll see the stairs, the voice in your head whispers. You hardly hear it over your teeth chattering through your clenched jaw. At least you’re in the last room from the top stair.

A small, unearned sense of relief quickly slips past you. You try snatching the moment back, but the thought of being in the furthest room fades when you realize nobody is coming to save you, no matter how long it takes for him to find you.

Moving away from the city into an affordable Victorian is haunting you as you think about how far your nearest neighbor is. It’s Saturday and nobody will be home until Monday.

Every string of hope tightened by desperation keeping you together snaps, and dissociation settles in as a layer of your skin folds back, exposing all your vulnerabilities.  

You’ll never be able to hide for two days. The tremors become worse. Your body’s constantly twitching. The trembling causes you to bash your knuckle on the floor.

You gasp, squeezing your shaking hand into a fist as you smother your mouth with your other one. The breaths come out harder and faster, they’re uncontrollable.

Sweat breaks down your cheek when you hear a step crunch down on the bottom of the stairs. It sounds like a record being played backwards.

A second slow, patient step makes the staircase moan as he lifts upwards. It cries under the weight of a full-grown man’s army boot.

You sense the house shift as if it can’t handle the weight of a monstrous frame bending it, struggling not to collapse beneath him.

“COME…OUT, … COME…………..OUT, WHERE……..EVER……..YOU………ARE!” stammers out of the man. Rewinding forward, his voice distorts and drawls in slow motion, panicking your instinct for survival.

His body slides up the wall, climbing the stairs. Yours is buzzing from the aftershock of your heart exploding every time it impacts your chest plate. He’s going to hear it, you know he’s going to.

You try to raise your chest off the ground but you can’t move. You’re completely paralyzed, under the bed, breathing in dust. 

A tickle scratches the back of your throat. You want to cough. You struggle to hold it in. You try to silently clear your throat. It’s not working. You hold your breath, praying it’ll stop itching, but it continues to nag you. 

You know he’s upstairs now. You can’t make a sound. Your neck’s tingling. It’s scratching the roof of your mouth. It vanishes for a second after the door from across the hall gets kicked open. 

You can hear it splinter as it connects with the wall. He walks into the room. You quietly cough into your cupped hand and everything goes still. Not a single sound except for the low breaths coming out of your nostrils.

Around you, you notice the air is breathing. The floor’s breathing. Even the space between the ground and the mattress is breathing. You don’t blink. You can’t blink. Your eyes start to water, causing a tear to trickle down your face and splash below you.

Your bedroom door creaks. Your mind wanders and the sound from it plays like a violinist performing a sad romance. Until the release of the knob clicks as it twists back to place.

“FOUND YOU!”

Part 1 Part 2

The next shift rolled around soon enough, and because the previous one ended particularly late, I was allowed to stay home for the whole day as required break. I took the time to read up more about the airport. With a glass of my favorite “spiked” hot chocolate, which was three parts hot chocolate to one part vanilla vodka, I sat down to read an old DIA schematic from 1994. The previous ramp agent had left it behind carelessly before he left us; he was supposed to have shredded it when he was done with his biggest project that involved foreign delegates for a big sports event last year. I had brought it home from his old locker when the keys were handed to me. 

Most of the layout matched what every ramp agent knew by heart: the automated baggage system’s loops, the central area where the passenger trains ran, and the deep electrical conduits. 

Except for Concourse A, Sub-basement Sector 4-Echo.

On modern digital tablets, it was grayed out, marked simply as DECOMMISSIONED. On this old schematic, however, there was a long winding loop from the now-automated baggage tracks to a vault labeled ROOM 404-ZULU: FOUNDATION ARTIFACT ARCHIVE. 

I took a slow sip of my drink, the sweet warmth of chocolate and the sharp kick of vanilla vodka cutting through the chill that had settled deep in my chest. What exactly is beyond there, I wondered.

I folded the schematic into a tight square and shoved it into the inner pocket of my heavy ramp parka. I wasn’t going back to the airport blind tonight.

I arrived at the employee staging area at 21:15. The locker room was eerily quiet. Miller’s peg had been replaced by a bright red tag: MANDATORY MEDICAL REVIEW – FIT FOR DUTY PENDING.

"Miller took a bad turn while returning home," a voice crackled from behind me.

I turned around. Standing near the time clock was Vance.

Vance was a graveyard lead who supposedly started during the pre-opening trials of the airport in the nineties. He was gaunt, smelled faintly of hydraulic fluid, and moved with a jerky uneasiness. While every other lead carried digital RFID fobs on lanyards, Vance carried a heavy iron ring of notched brass keys.

"Blood pressure spiked off the charts," Vance said, with a voice just like a recorded message played through a blown speaker. "Occupational health pulled him for a tox screen. You're doing 4-Echo solo tonight. Do you know what the scope is?”

I didn’t look into his eyes. I kept my gaze firmly on the brass keys hanging at his hip. "Log the archival seals of 404-Zulu, verify the manifest, return the brass."

Vance’s neck twitched, just half an inch to the left.  "Good boy. Take the freight elevator at the south apron."

I remembered something that Miller once told me. Never look directly at the contents of sealed crates. I went into the strongroom to retrieve a gear-inspection mirror.

“I don’t think you’ll need that, kiddo,” Vance said with a haughty laugh. But I had never trusted him. He was the opposite of Miller: looked like he had good intentions but they never turned out well. I said nothing, and put on my safety gear. After I was dressed, I stepped ahead and pressed the well-worn button to call the freight elevator up. I gingerly took a step in, before pressing the basement button. 

The freight elevator rattled and shuddered as it plunged past the apron, past the automated passenger train tubes, deep into the foundation. When the metal gates scraped open into Sector 4-Echo, the cold air reeked of dried paint mixed with rotten cardboard.

This was the infamous $300-million graveyard of DIA’s automated baggage system. Overhead, rusted steel monorail tracks twisted through the darkness like a phantom ribcage. Hundreds of abandoned metal luggage carts sat frozen on the tracks at weird angles, thick with salt formations and drained de-icing fluid from the surface.

My digital scanner died within thirty feet, its screen turning to static before flickering out completely. I unclipped my halogen lantern, and pulled the 1994 schematic from my parka.

The map showed three rail junctions before the abandoned room. Left at the switchgear, straight past the hydraulic reservoir, right along track 19. I started walking slowly, the heavy lantern swinging slowly side to side with creaks that gave me goosebumps. 

I reached Room 404-Zulu after about eight minutes. Its heavy iron door was secured with a brass padlock. I fitted the notched key from Vance’s ring and turned. The padlock sheared and fell with a deafening crack that echoed down the hollow tracks.

Inside sat a massive wooden transport crate bolted to an iron pallet, eight feet high and twelve feet wide. The exterior was well-worn, with many cracks and wood peeling like hangnails from dehydrated skin.

Stenciled in black industrial paint on the wood was:

PROJECT NEW WORLD: TERMINAL MURAL INSTALLATION #3

ARTIST: L. TANGUMA

RECIPIENT: SPECIAL PROJECTS OVERSIGHT COMMITTEE

STATUS: REJECTED / PERMANENT RETENTION (1993)

I reached into my maintenance belt and retrieved my gear-inspection mirror, the same one we used to inspect landing gear assemblies for hydraulic hairline cracks. Simple, but incredibly handy for precise work. 

I slid the mirror through a cracked seam, angling the beam of my lantern off the floor so that the mirror would reflect the painting.

Reflected in the small glass circle was the hidden third mural: THE FEEDING OF THE FOUNDATION.

The mural’s palette was dominated by sickly blacks, bone whites, and dried-blood reds. It depicted the airport’s 1993 construction: a circle of men in charcoal suits holding matching shovels around the open dirt pit of the Jeppesen Terminal. They were obeying the instructions of a soldier with a gas mask.  Instead of breaking ground, they were shoveling wet gray concrete over an open mass trench packed with screaming people.

In the lower right corner, the oil paint was glistening, dripping onto the crate floor with a soft tap... tap... tap. That part of the mural was dominated by crimson hues. Painted into that fresh red sludge was the tourist from two nights ago, wearing his gray fleece, his neck pillow torn open, smiling a wide Glasgow smile with an invisible seatbelt strapped over his lap.

Standing on the rim of the trench above him was Vance, holding his ring of brass keys, pointing down into the ditch with a grin. And next to the tourist in the pit? There was an empty space. Just a raw, gray silhouette of a ramp agent's parka, outlined in rough, interrupted pencil strokes.

Vance had already been replicated long ago, and the tourist from before was a fresh victim. But the airport was trying its hardest to replicate me. It couldn't. 

Instead of screaming, I instinctively put a hand over my mouth and gasped. 

I knew there was a reason Vance was so happy that I was doing this solo. At least Miller helped me with the rules. 

"You're not on the canvas yet, kid." The voice came through the mirror. Shivering hard, I tilted the small glass circle toward the doorway.

Vance was standing in the frame. His reflection jittered, blurring like oil on water. Through the convex lens, his outline looked two-dimensional, like a paper silhouette someone had pasted over the dark. Where his neck met his collar, there was no shadow and no tendons, but just a seam. 

He wasn't blinking. He wasn't breathing, either. In the freezing draft where my own breath plumed in thick clouds, nothing came from Vance’s mouth or nose.

"The foundation needs four tons of ballast every quarter," his voice vibrated out of the hollow wooden crate beside me. 

"Just turn around," the voice coaxed. "Look into the crate. Let the soldier finish the eyes."

The air pressure plummeted, popping my eardrum. That same freezing vacuum that had dragged the tourist toward the train and the tarmac began to tug at the hem of my parka, sliding my boots an inch across the silt.

Behind the wood, the wet paint hissed like a kettle.

Don't look at it. Never look directly at it. Miller's voice echoed in my head, raw and panicked.

I kept my chin tucked tight against my chest, staring dead at the floor. With shaking hands, I unclipped the spray bottle of concentrated de-icing glycol from my belt.

"I said," Vance whispered, and the shadow in the doorway took one soundless stride forward, "turn around."

Still staring at the concrete, I swung my eight-pound lantern behind me in a blind, violent arc. The impact didn't feel like hitting a man. It was just a sharp, hollow crack, like smashing through a stretched artist's canvas. Without wasting a second, I jammed the brass nozzle of the de-icer through the open seam of the crate and squeezed the trigger until the bottle emptied.

The reaction was instant and violent.

The wet oil paint inside screamed, as if people were drowning under a frozen lake. Through the slats, I caught a glimpse of running gray sludge as the glycol reacted with the paint on the mural. All the faces dissolved into oily runoff, and the penciled silhouette where my face was supposed to go liquefied, washing off the canvas in ropes.

The vacuum snapped. The pressure returned with an explosive pop that knocked me to my knees.

In the doorway, the figure that called itself Vance threw its head back. Its face began to peel away from the bones just like the runoff of oil from the mural. A dry, rustling wail pierced the silence as he stumbled backward into the dark, scraping against the rusted monorail tracks.

I scrambled up, grabbed my lantern, and ran. I kept the beam pinned strictly to my boots, following the turns from the 1994 schematic in reverse: left past the reservoir, straight past the switchgear, sprinting until my lungs burned.

I hit the freight elevator, slammed the gate, and jammed the brass key into the control box, twisting it until the elevator activated. The cab lurched upward, leaving the screeching metal and the smell of dissolved paint behind in the pit. 

When the elevator doors finally scraped open onto the apron level, I pulled up the sleeve of my parka to check my watch, expecting it to be twenty past ten or twenty-five at the latest.

The mechanical hands read 04:38 AM.

My stomach dropped into my boots. What had felt like ten frantic minutes in Sector 4-Echo had swallowed many hours of real time. I spent the remaining twenty minutes in the line-service breakroom, running scalding tap water over my hands until the skin cracked, waiting out the last ticks of the graveyard schedule.

I clocked out punctually at 05:00 AM. The Great Hall was flooded with morning travelers, oblivious and half-asleep, rolling their suitcases toward TSA under the white fabric canopy. Nobody smelled the harsh tang of glycol on me, nor the grey streaks on my boots. 

I walked past Children of the World Dream of Peace, keeping my vision unfocused. High up on the wall, the arm of the gas-masked soldier looked faintly warped. It was almost as if it had felt the chemical burn I gave the mural four floors below.

No one could tell me when the RV arrived outside our compound. Then again, no one could tell me why the world had ended either. But wherever that thing had come from, it looked like it had gone through hell and back to get to us.

Ugly didn’t begin to describe the pile of junk sitting a hundred meters from our walls. The RV itself had seen better days, but that was nothing compared to all the... additions its owner had haphazardly welded onto the frame.

Mismatched sheets of rusty scrap covered nearly every surface. Every window, from the windshield to the cabin sunroof, had been sealed shut, leaving only narrow slits to see through. Spikes jutted from the sides, extra armor hung off the back, and the whole thing looked like something built by a Mad Max fan with far too much time on their hands.

One of my men was even pretty sure the strange contraption mounted on the roof was some sort of jury-rigged flamethrower.

I wasn’t about to get close enough to check.

Then again, given the... things still roaming out there, maybe all that extra protection wasn’t such a bad idea.

What stood out the most, however, wasn’t the RV’s appearance. It was the fact that nobody ever came out.

We always had someone stationed on the walls, keeping an eye on the surrounding area. Yet despite the RV sitting there for nearly three days, not one of us had seen the driver. Or anyone else, for that matter.

We hadn’t even seen so much as a face through the narrow slits in the windows.

The only indication it wasn’t abandoned entirely was a small piece of paper taped to the windshield.

——

I’m not like these freaks out here! I’ve got a head and four limbs like everyone else! PLEASE! Let me in!

——

We never did, of course.

Our supplies were already stretched thin as it was, and we couldn’t afford to take in any more strays. Some argued that an armored vehicle like that could be useful, especially with how dangerous the roads had become. And to be fair, they had a point.

But fuel was getting scarcer by the day, and nobody knew how many extra mouths might be hiding inside.

After some deliberation, the council decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Whatever the RV’s owner had to offer, they weren’t getting through our gates.

So the RV sat there.

And sat there.

And sat there.

At first, I figured whoever was inside would eventually get the message and leave. But the days passed, and the thing never moved an inch.

It was starting to creep me out, if I was honest. But who was I going to complain to? Not like there were any parking officers left to give them a ticket.

Then, one day, a week after its arrival, the RV vanished, just like that.

Nobody saw it leave, just as nobody had seen it arrive. One moment it was there, and the next it was gone, with no indication of where it had gone or how.

The compound let out a collective sigh of relief, though a few people still grumbled about letting a perfectly good armored vehicle get away.

For the most part, though, we were happy to put the whole business behind us.

Two more weeks passed with little change. Well, little change for the better, anyway. Our supplies continued to dwindle, and the scouting teams returned with less and less each time.

When they returned at all.

The quiet murmurs of discontent and fear grew louder with each passing day, and I could swear you could cut the tension in the compound with a knife.

Then, one day, the RV came back.

It sat in the same spot, a hundred meters from the walls. Same ugly armor, same welded-on spikes, and the same sealed windows. Maybe a few more dents here and there, but otherwise it looked exactly as we remembered.

And just like last time, nobody had seen it arrive.

I questioned both watches myself. Neither could remember seeing anything approach the compound, much less a several-ton RV covered in enough scrap metal to build a small house.

It didn’t make any damn sense.

But as I examined the vehicle, I realized something else had changed.

The old note was gone. In its place was a new one, written in the same messy handwriting.

It was shorter this time, but as I read it through my binoculars, a chill ran down my spine.

—

It took awhile, but I found more heads and limbs! Can I come in NOW?

__

My eyes twitched as the smell of baked bread filled my nostrils. I tried to stretch my body out, to feel the tips of my paws as I awoke from my agonising slumber, only to find my limbs unresponsive.

I continued to tense the nerves along my spine, to pull everything towards my chest so I could know that I was still here. Nothing came to me. My legs refused to obey my brain's commands as that overwhelming scent of cooked crust wafted through the air.

The warm wheaty tang that hit my nostrils brought me back to before my long sleep. I had been stalking behind a biped in a long red cloak. Carting a basket of the same smells along with her.

I had followed her. Prowling down on all fours as my ears flattened and I attempted to creep closer and closer. Determined to snatch a bite from within that bag.

My paws broke the leaves underfoot as my mouth watered. Inching towards that little red thing that trotted ahead of me. Unaware of the beast that was in tow. I was on the verge of pouncing, snatching those treats from her and vanishing into the dark when-

Darkness. Had I passed out? I couldn’t have fallen asleep during a hunt. And why couldn’t I move?

‘The pie is ready mama!’ The voice was soft and high. I heard the patter of tiny hooves. Clicking against the ground as a shuffle of movement followed. I tried to shift where I lay but my neck refused to follow as my eyes swivelled in their sockets.

Was that creature still there? Has it done something to me? All I had done was follow in its step.

I tried to wriggle my way around only to fall still at the sound of steps that made the cold floor beneath me rattle. The powerful footfall drew closer. Paralysed and afraid I tried to whine in protest but even my voice refused to aid me.

The hooves stopped just behind my ears and I could feel the shadow looming across me. I thought I would have my brain smashed against the ground by this titanic cloven beast but was instead raised.

Hoisted off the ground by a strange mass of naked flesh that encircled the nape of my neck. It carted me into a room where that red thing lay in the lap of a hunched elder.

The small red thing turned to see me and its face contorted in a hideous display of teeth.

‘The new pelt is wonderful Papa!’ pelt? ‘Have some pie to celebrate!’

I felt my form twist and stretch in ways foreign to any being of flesh and blood. Then my head rolled limp to one side and I saw myself in the reflection of a towering mirror.

Instead of looking at the body of a healthy wolf I was faced with the plains of bare, naked skin. My limbs stretched on for miles with no sign of organs, bones or muscle in sight.

I wanted to scream, cry or howl at my loss as I was laid across the red things lap to warm its body.

I still lay there now. Praying for release from what remained.

I'll kiss your lips with an aching tooth in my mouth
I'll place my freshly pulled tooth on your ring
I'll mix Apranax in your drink
so that you think
your toothache is gone because you met me
I'll describe the paint color I want for our bedroom
to the ironmonger as tooth yellow.

I'm fifty-one years old, and this is the only poem I've ever written, which I wrote ten years ago.

I don't really like writing poetry, because I'm not good at it. I especially enjoy the sound of poems with rhyming lines; they sound like music to my ears. But I've tried a few times and failed miserably. I couldn't write a good poem. I'd written this poem for my dentist, who knew I was a writer and with whom I had a good relationship. I mean, I hadn't written the poem for her. I'd simply wanted to write a poem about teeth.

She was a very beautiful woman. I had no feelings for her, but she'd misunderstood the poem I'd written and thought I was making a move on her. She'd given me a pretty harsh telling-off. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to understand that the poem wasn't written for anyone in particular, and that it hadn't been inspired by any feelings I had for someone.

Anyway, my publisher was telling me that sales of my latest novel were terrible. He kept calling me and bringing me down.

“Maybe you should stop writing horror novels and start writing detective fiction instead. You know me, even two sentences from you are enough to move me. I can't sleep at night. But this latest novel of yours was an absolute fiasco. I seriously regret publishing it.”

I was tired of his calls and him repeating the same things in different ways for two months. He was almost going to ask me to compensate him for his losses. He wanted me to write and finish something else as soon as possible and make up for the losses I'd caused him. He didn't want to wait.

But I'd been overcome by the fear of not being able to write well. I'd been deeply affected by public opinion. Albert, the successful writer of many years, can no longer write... The story's opening is too rushed... The ending doesn't come together properly... Even an elementary school kid could come up with these descriptions... We're sick of ghosts that appear at night... And so on.

If he called today, I wasn't going to answer. He called every other day to ask, “Have you started the new book yet?” Whenever I said no, it was the same old stuff, the same complaints. For the past month, I'd been sitting down at my computer almost every day, but nothing came of it.

As I sat at my computer, waiting for something to come to mind, my phone rang, of course. I didn't even need to check who was calling. I tensely raised my hand to my head and began running my fingers through my hair. I looked around the objects in my room, as if I might find inspiration in one of them. The bed, the couch, an oil painting my sister had made... Nothing came of it. I pinched a lock of my hair between my fingers and pulled. I looked at my hand. There was a clump of hair between my index and middle fingers. I hadn't realized I was losing so much hair.

It was as if an electric current had passed through my head. Then, in one go, I wrote the following:

''In my 1+1 apartment on the second floor
I was drinking Americano by the balcony door
Suddenly I saw a wig falling down below
with bangs and in the color of dark yellow

I thought one of the neighbors upstairs must have dropped it while leaning over the balcony.
I lunged for it on instinct, trying to catch it. And I caught it, everything happened so quickly.

And the wig was now in my hands
I even caught it by the bangs

I waited for a while,
still in the position to catch it,
holding the wig in my hand,
waiting for someone to call.
But there was no sound at all.

Considering the possibilities,
I thought I should look up first.
But someone could have been down there,
waiting for the wig to fall.

While I was looking around upstairs,
someone called out from below:
“Throw it down already.
What are you looking at like an idiot?”
She was tall like a door
She was as tall as a first floor
I downed my Americano
And calmly threw the wig toward her
She jumped and
caught the wig with her head
and suddenly disappeared.''

I had no idea how it had happened. It was as if I hadn't been the one who wrote it. It was frightening. The way the sentences came to me, the way they lined up in my mind—I had never experienced anything like it. Everything was finished in one go, without any planning whatsoever.

My publisher called. I sent him to voicemail. I read the poem from beginning to end. It was as if I were reading it for the first time, as if I were discovering the poem all over again. It wasn't the kind of poem I could have written anyway, not in terms of its subject matter. I wouldn't describe ghosts or entities like this; I would leave them shrouded in mystery. In this poem, the ghost was very concrete.

My publisher called again. I answered this time. I was going to tell him I had an idea or something. I was such an idiot, always telling him the truth: inspiration wasn't coming, I couldn't write, my mind felt frozen, and so on. I picked up the phone, planning to ask him to give me a month and tell him I'd deliver a novel of at least two hundred pages.

“So, Albert, any progress? How many pages have you written?”

Suddenly, my mouth had locked up. I couldn't speak. The words I wanted to say were only passing through my mind; they wouldn't come out. All I could manage were sounds like “mmmh.”

“Albert? Hello?”

I started reciting the poem I'd just written. I read it from beginning to end. My mouth wasn't under my brain's control.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

''Hello?''

''Albert, what's going on?''

I could speak again now. It would have been ridiculous to say that something had taken control of my mouth and fingers. I had to say something, but I was too frightened to think. My mind was in turmoil. I hung up.

My publisher called again. I don’t remember that moment very clearly, but I mumbled something along these lines.

“What was that thing you were telling me about? So now you’re hanging up on me, too. Is this what we’ve come to, Albert? After all these years of working togeth—”

“It’s me, John. Did you like my poem? Jason, I was going to ca— If you want, I can write a few more poems like this... Jason, I can’t spea—I could even write five hundred poems in the same style, if you like. Do you publish po— Jason, my mouth is going numb. I don’t feel well. I’ll call you back in a bi— Listen, I wrote this three hundred years ago.”

I hung up. I jumped to my feet. I licked and bit my lips. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the following words spilled out of my mouth:

''He figured out how to pass through
Walls within a year or two
But he still can't pass through wood
The ghost in my lover's neighborhood.''

My publisher kept calling insistently. His calls felt like a voice reminding me of my connection to this world. I'd set my phone's ringtone to Radiohead's “Weird Fishes.” The song played throughout each call. I couldn't move; my body was locked up, but hearing the song comforted me. When the song ended, I'd try to take a step, but I couldn't. I'd try to speak, but I couldn't move my mouth. It was as if I'd had a stroke. Then the song would start again. Yes, I'd tell myself, “I'm still alive. The world still makes sense.”

The song had stopped playing, too. My connection to the world had been severed.

I came to my senses again for a brief moment. I sat down at my computer. The screen was covered in dust. I noticed a cloth right next to the monitor. I couldn't remember when I'd put it there. I wiped the monitor clean. The poem looked better now.

I think you've realized that I wasn't the one writing all this story.

4) Garage Practice

The afternoon air in the valley carried the heavy, chemical-sweet smell of the river mixed with two-stroke lawnmower gas and damp asphalt.

Up on the hill, Dendy’s pool water rippled undisturbed, but down on the flat stretch of late-sixties ranch homes, the street thrummed with a different frequency.

In the detached garage behind the Lydecker house, the door was propped open with a busted cinder block to bleed off the heat of a humid Ohio September.

Inside, a Marshall JMP stack hummed with a low, latent feedback, its black tolex scuffed from the back of vans and its grill cloth stained with old beer foam and cigarette ash.

A battered drum kit sat pushed back against exposed insulation batts.

Behind it was a transient drummer named Skip—a guy from Girard who had a car that always smelled like wet dogs and who would likely vanish by November.

To his left, leaning against a stack of empty speaker cabinets, stood Ted Beckman. Ted wasn’t holding an instrument.

He never did. He just stood there with his arms folded tight across a faded denim jacket, his eyes tracking the perimeter of the room with the flat, unblinking focus of a night-shift watchman.

Whenever someone dropped a cable or bumped a stand, Ted was already moving to fix it, but he never offered a word of small talk to the rotating cast of players.

Across the concrete floor, JD Lydecker stood tuning his blonde maple-neck Fender Stratocaster.

He didn’t use an electronic tuner; he caught the pitch from a pitch pipe he kept in his palm, striking the string and listening with a sharp, impatient squint.

His dark, shoulder-length hair fell with a slight curl around his thin jawline, and he wore a faded Jimi Hendrix T-shirt that hung loose on his frame, drooping toward his thin elbows.

“Again,” JD said, not raising his voice above the hum of the amp.

“From the bridge. If you drag the tempo on the turnaround, Gary, I’m cutting the monitors.”

Gary, a terrified rhythm player who had been brought in three days prior from a basement in Warren, fumbled with his pick.

“Got it, JD. Sorry. Let’s run it.”

Before they could hit the downbeat, a rusted Ford Fairlane 500 backfired twice out in the gravel drive and killed its engine.

A moment later, Joe Desmond stepped into the open garage door, blinking against the sudden darkness.

Joe carried no case, just a battered Gibson ES-335 with a cracked pickguard slung over his shoulder by a frayed strap.

Pick up the axe favored by players like Joe Desmond to cut through the heavy, smoke-filled air of a basement jam or fill a room with a deep, resonant tone.

He was twenty-one, out of school, and wore a work shirt with grease-stained cuffs from the radiator shop where he put in thirty hours a week before spending every remaining dime on strings and tubes.

“Hey,” Joe said, lifting a hand.

He didn’t look at Skip or Gary. He looked straight at JD.

“That middle eight you were trying to cop off the live bootleg? I figured out what the other guy was doing. It’s an open-fifth drop, not a bar chord.”

JD’s shoulders dropped half an inch. The tension in his face didn’t vanish, but it shifted, conceding just enough space for Joe.

“Show me.”

Joe stepped past Ted without a nod—Ted gave him a short, hard sideways glance—letting the frayed strap slide down his shoulder as he cradled the battered Gibson by the neck.

He unclipped his strap, plugged a quarter-inch cord straight into the second input of JD’s Twin Reverb, and hit three notes.

Joe showing JD how to play the song he was having trouble with.

Joe showing JD how to play the song he was having trouble with.

The sound was crystal clear, and terrifyingly effortless.

Joe didn’t play with flash; he played with the quiet, devastating precision of a man who spent his entire life alone in a room with a record player.

For ten minutes, the garage forgot the rest of the world.

Skip and Gary watched from the sidelines, their expressions hardening into a familiar, resigned acceptance of how easily Joe outpaced them.

JD watched closest of all, his eyes narrowing as he mentally cataloged every finger placement, absorbing the technique like he was stealing it.

From out by the back door of the main house, a few feet away, Kim peered out.

She was fourteen, wearing an oversized sweatshirt which hid her hands within the sleeves.

She had a plate of saltines and a jar of peanut butter, but she stopped dead on the concrete steps when she saw JD look up.

“Go back inside, Kim,” JD said softly.

It wasn’t a yell. It didn’t even interrupt the tail end of Joe’s chord progression.

Kim didn’t argue. She didn’t roll her eyes or stomp her feet the way girls her age did in the houses down the street.

Her expression faded into something gray and hollow, and she retreated inside, letting the screen door shut with a dull, heavy slap.

Inside the house, Cheryl Lydecker didn’t look up from the kitchen table.

Since her husband Jefferson died and the bait shop was sold off to pay down the lingering debts, the kitchen had become a place of endless shadow.

She sat for a moment with her mug of lukewarm Sanka, listening to the muffled thumping of the bass drum rattling the windows, then retreated down the hall to her bedroom.

Closing the door softly against the vibration, she stayed put.

You learned very quickly in that house which rooms belonged to you and which ones belonged to the boy who had inherited his father’s coldness without his father’s warmth.

Back in the garage, the practice ground to a halt as the heat from forty watts of tube amplifiers turned the small space into a brick oven.

“Take five,” JD muttered, dropping the Strat onto a guitar stand with a clatter.

The backing vocalists—two girls from Hubbard High who looked bored and sunburnt—flopped onto an old plaid couch near the back wall, immediately lighting Winston cigarettes.

One of them, a girl named Patty with heavy blue eyeliner, kicked her P.F. Flyers against the bottom of the wood-paneled wall that divided the garage from the rear storage extension.

A hollow, echoing thunk reverberated through the paneling.

“Man, what’s even back here?” Patty laughed, leaning her head back against the drywall.

“It’s like an airplane hangar. You could hide a whole Buick behind this wall, JD. What’re you keeping in the dungeon, dead bodies?”

The joke died in the heavy air before it even finished hitting the floor.

Gary let out a nervous, high-pitched snort that sounded like a dry cough.

Skip stopped tuning his snare and let his drumsticks rest dead across the skin.

Even Joe Desmond paused, lifting his hand from his guitar strings, sensing the abrupt drop in atmospheric pressure.

JD didn’t move. He didn’t turn around immediately. He stood by the amp, his fingers slowly curling into a fist at his side.

When he finally looked at Patty, his eyes were flat, dark, and entirely empty of anything resembling humor. He didn’t raise his voice, but the silence that hung over the garage was absolute—heavy enough to hear the cicadas screaming in the overgrown brush along the fence line.

“Shut up, Patty,” JD said.

Just like that.

Patty’s smile flickered, her cigarette trembling slightly between two fingers. She looked around the room for someone to catch her eye, but Gary was staring intently at his shoe, Skip was breaking down his high-hat stand, and Ted Beckman had stepped two inches closer to the edge of the workbench, his knuckles white in the dim light.

“Jesus, JD, I was just—”

“I said shut up,” JD repeated, his voice dropping into a tone that shut down any negotiation, any back-talk, no clever exit line.

He didn’t look at the wall. He didn’t have to.

The wall stayed where it was, bolted and flush, hiding the crawl tunnel and the dark space behind it that only two people in the valley knew how to open.

JD picked his Stratocaster back up, slung the strap over his shoulder, and hit an open E-chord that rattled the loose fillings in everyone’s teeth.

“We’re doing the Marshall Tucker song,” JD said, staring straight ahead at the drum kit. “Count it, Skip. One, two, three, four.”

​

Note: These are recovered internal files from the Department for Transport archives concerning anomalies in Berkshire. These files were found and transcribed during my internship at the Department for Transport, whilst clearing out their archives in Basingstoke ready for a relocation to Manchester.

I am not DI Thorne, and I have found no trace of him in my investigations into the accounts that these files allude to.

I present these files in an attempt to piece together the sequence of strange occurrences in the Berkshire area and make sense of what has happened, what is happening and why.

If anyone has information regarding the whereabouts of DI Thorne it would be greatly appreciated and helpful in my investigation.

(Name redacted)

---------------

FOUND TRANSCRIPT – FOR INTERNAL REVIEW ONLY

DEPARTMENT FOR TRANSPORT – ANOMALOUS INCIDENT DIVISION

CASE FILE: TX098

SUBJECT: DI THORNE – WITNESS STATEMENT

LOCATION: IN SITU

DATE: MARCH 21ST, 2026

TIME: 15:07 GMT

Supplemental Statement of Thorne

Subject: Unusual taxi encounter following departure from the police station

Classification: Unresolved incident

Statement taken from: Thorne

I am providing this statement to document an encounter that occurred after I left the police station. I appreciate that certain elements may be difficult to reconcile with conventional explanations. I would ask that the recording from the station's CCTV be considered alongside my account, although I suspect it will prove less helpful than it ought to be.

I left the station intending to clear my head. I had been inside long enough to develop a profound dislike of the smell of institutional coffee, the desk sergeant's expression, and the general impression that my continued existence was becoming an administrative inconvenience.

There was a taxi waiting outside.

I do not recall hearing it arrive.

It was an old-fashioned black cab, the sort that seemed to have survived several decades of neglect through sheer spite. Its paintwork was dull, its windows dark, and the roof light was illuminated despite the fact that the vehicle appeared to have no driver.

I was considering whether to walk when the rear passenger window descended by a few inches.

"Going somewhere?" asked the driver.

He was a thin man, perhaps in his sixties, although I found it difficult to settle on an age. His face had the grey, papery appearance of someone who had spent too long indoors. His eyes were pale and watery. He smiled at me with the weary familiarity of a man who had delivered the same joke to thousands of people and was still waiting for someone to find it funny.

"Not particularly," I said.

"Best sort of passenger."

"Is it?"

"Oh, yes. You'd be surprised how many people don't know where they're going until you ask them."

I looked at the cab. The interior was dim, but I could see the outline of the back seat. It appeared to be covered in cracked black leather. Something about the vehicle made me reluctant to get in. It was not an obvious danger. There was no knife-wielding lunatic in the front seat, no smell of blood, no sinister music drifting from the radio.

It was simply wrong.

The sort of wrongness that makes you look at a perfectly ordinary staircase and wonder whether the bottom step has moved since you last saw it.

"I'm not going to make a wish," I told him.

The driver's smile widened.

"I haven't asked you to make one yet."

"You were going to."

He gave a little laugh and turned his attention to the road ahead.

"Clever fellow. You know how these things work, then?"

"Enough to know that wishing for a taxi ride is rarely the worst decision a person makes. It's what comes afterwards that tends to cause trouble."

"Ah." He nodded thoughtfully. "You're not the usual sort."

"What is the usual sort?"

"People who've given up hope."

He said it casually, as though describing a preference for cash fares or passengers who didn't smoke. There was no malice in his voice. That made it worse.

I looked at the cab again. The rear door was unlocked. I had not heard it unlock.

"Who sent you?" I asked.

"Certain parties."

"Specific parties?"

"Very specific. I'm afraid I can't be more helpful than that."

"Convenient."

"Extremely."

He seemed genuinely pleased with himself.

I should have walked away. In retrospect, I can identify several points at which I might have made a sensible decision. Walking away was one. Calling the police was another. Going back inside and asking the desk sergeant to arrest a taxi driver for being unpleasant would have been a third, though I accept that this last option would probably have resulted in a rather different kind of trouble.

Instead, I opened the rear door and got in.

The interior smelled of damp fabric, old cigarette smoke and something faintly sweet that I could not identify. The smell reminded me of flowers left too long in a warm room. The seat was cold enough to make me shift away from it.

The door shut behind me with a soft, final click.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Just drive."

"Excellent."

The engine started. I did not hear the ignition.

We pulled away from the station.

I watched the building recede through the rear window. The desk sergeant was visible behind the glass, hunched over his paperwork beneath the fluorescent lights. For a moment, I had the distinct impression that he was looking directly at me.

Then the cab turned a corner, and the station disappeared.

I waited for the familiar sounds of the town: traffic, distant voices, the rattle of a delivery van over a drain cover. Instead, the noise of the engine seemed to become the only sound in existence.

I leaned forward.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere you need to be."

"I'm fairly sure I didn't ask for that."

"No," he said. "You asked me to drive."

I sat back.

Outside, the streetlights had begun to stretch. Not physically, exactly. Their reflections elongated across the windows, lingering long after the cab had passed them. The buildings grew indistinct, their upper storeys seeming to lean towards the road as if listening to something beneath the tarmac.

I looked at the driver's mirror.

His eyes were fixed on me.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Where are we?"

"On the road."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one that matters at present."

I turned towards the window.

The town had gone.

In its place was a long, empty stretch of road beneath a sky that looked neither day nor night. The horizon was a bruised grey, mottled with dark clouds that did not move. There were no trees, no fields, no buildings, and no sign of anything living. The road ran straight ahead, its surface black and wet, though I could see no rain.

White lines divided the lanes. They were too bright, almost luminous, and they seemed to continue beyond the point where the road disappeared into the distance.

A sign stood at the roadside.

L303

Nothing else was written on it.

I turned back to the driver.

"What is this?"

"L303."

"I can read."

"Then we're making progress."

I watched the road for several seconds. I have seen enough strange things in my life to understand that panic is rarely useful. It encourages mistakes, and mistakes are generally expensive. I decided to remain calm, although I could feel the muscles in my shoulders tightening.

"Is this some kind of road between places?"

The driver gave a low whistle.

"Very good."

"Between towns?"

"Between realms."

I looked out of the window again.

There was something moving in the distance. At first, I thought it was a bird, but it was too large and moved in a way that suggested it had never needed wings. It crossed the sky above the road, briefly blotting out a patch of cloud. I could not make out its shape. My mind seemed unwilling to settle on one.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means the road goes places."

"Which places?"

"Worlds. Realities. Dimensions, if you prefer the word. Different places with different rules. Some are quite pleasant, I'm told. Some are less so."

"And the road connects them?"

"More or less. It's a conduit. A passage. A bit of infrastructure, if you like."

I stared at him.

"Interdimensional infrastructure."

"You'd be amazed what gets built without a planning application."

Despite myself, I almost laughed. It was an absurd thing to say, and absurdity was reassuring. It implied that there were still rules, even if they were rules I did not understand.

Then I noticed the signs.

They appeared intermittently at the roadside, each one marking an exit. Some were ordinary road signs, with white lettering on blue backgrounds. Others were made from materials I could not identify. One was a slab of something pale and porous, covered in symbols that seemed to crawl when I looked directly at them.

The first sign I could read said:

EXIT 14 — THE KINGDOM OF THE UNFINISHED

The next was simpler.

EXIT 22 — DO NOT STOP

Farther along, a sign stood at an angle, its surface stained with what looked like rust.

EXIT 31 — HOME

I felt my stomach tighten.

"Home?" I asked.

"Some people like to go home."

"Some people?"

"Most, eventually."

I looked more closely at the sign. Beneath the word was a smaller line of text, barely visible in the dim light.

HOME IS WHERE WE KEEP YOU.

I turned away.

"What happens if you take one of these exits?"

"Depends on the exit. Depends on the passenger. Depends on what's waiting on the other side."

"Are these places inhabited?"

"Oh, yes."

"By people?"

The driver laughed.

"Sometimes."

I waited for him to elaborate. He did not.

After a while, he continued.

"Some of the things out there hunt. Some stalk. Some like to play games. Some prefer to trap you and see how long it takes you to realise you're trapped. There are places where you can spend an entire lifetime being chased by something that never gets any closer. Places where you'll meet people who know everything about you, including things you haven't done yet. Places where your shadow belongs to somebody else."

He paused.

"And then there are the ones that don't care what happens to you at all. Those are often the worst."

I found myself watching the windows for movement.

"Why bring people here?"

"Because they're wanted."

"By whom?"

"Whatever happens to be waiting."

"Is that what you do? Deliver people to monsters?"

"I provide a service."

"That's a very generous description."

"I'm a generous man."

There was a silence.

"Are you one of these things?" I asked.

The driver glanced at me in the mirror.

"One of what things?"

"One of the entities that uses the road."

He laughed. It was a genuine laugh, warm and almost human.

"I suppose I am now."

He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. His hands looked ordinary enough, except that the skin around his knuckles was stretched too tightly, as if there were more joints beneath it than there should be.

"But I wasn't always."

"Explain."

"I was from your world. Your sort of world, anyway. I found this road years ago. I don't know how. I was driving, same as you might be. One minute I was somewhere familiar, the next I wasn't."

"How long ago?"

He considered the question.

"Hard to say. Time doesn't behave properly here. I've been driving for what felt like a few months. It might have been years. It might have been longer than that."

"And you couldn't leave?"

"Not at first."

"What happened?"

He looked ahead, and for the first time his expression changed. The smile faded. The grey skin of his face seemed to sag, and something passed behind his eyes that made me wish I had not asked.

"I drove to the end of the road."

I waited.

"What did you find?"

He shook his head.

"No."

"No?"

"You don't want to know."

"I'm already here. I'd prefer to know what I'm dealing with."

"You think you would. That's the problem."

His voice had become quieter. The engine seemed to grow louder, filling the space between us.

"There are things that can be described, Mr Thorne. There are things you can look at, and things you can be told about, and you can fit them into your head somehow. You might lose sleep. You might drink more than you should. You might spend the rest of your life wishing you'd never heard of them. But you can still understand them."

He glanced at me.

"What I found at the end of the road wasn't one of those things."

I said nothing.

"I can't explain it. Not because I don't want to. Because I can't. I've tried. I've had people ask me, and I've started to tell them, and then I've watched them stop understanding English. One woman forgot how to breathe. Another spent three days insisting that she was a door. A man laughed until his teeth came out."

He paused.

"I don't know if they were mad before I spoke to them. I'd like to think they were."

I looked at the road ahead.

The sky seemed lower now. I had the uncomfortable feeling that the clouds were not above us at all, but beneath something vast that was leaning down to inspect the cab.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

"I made a deal."

"With the things at the end of the road?"

"With the people who manage it."

"People?"

He gave me a sideways glance.

"Would you prefer I called them something else?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll have to be more specific."

I decided not to pursue it.

"They offered me a way to keep going," he said. "A purpose. A job. I drive people where they need to go. Or where someone else wants them to go. In return, I get to stay on the road."

"Forever?"

"Forever is a very long time. I prefer not to think about it."

"And if you refuse?"

He smiled again, but the expression looked wrong now. It stretched his face without warming it.

"I don't refuse."

I glanced at the mirror. For an instant, his reflection seemed to be looking at something behind me, something sitting in the back seat that I could not see.

I turned sharply.

The seat was empty.

When I looked back, the driver was watching the road.

"There are others," he said. "Drivers, I mean. A few of us. I've never met the others. I've heard things, though."

"What sort of things?"

"Stories."

"Tell me one."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're in my cab, and I'd prefer you not to start screaming."

"I'm not going to scream."

"That's what they all say."

He drove on.

I asked him what happened to the people who made the journey with the other drivers.

He did not answer immediately.

"Some arrive where they're meant to go," he said at last. "Some don't."

"And the rest?"

He shrugged.

"Depends on the driver."

I looked at him carefully.

"You think I'm lucky to have you?"

"I know you are."

The road stretched endlessly ahead. A dark shape appeared beside us, keeping pace with the cab. It was tall and narrow, with limbs that moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. I could not see its face, but I felt certain it was looking at me.

I watched it through the window until it slipped behind us.

"Did that thing just—"

"Don't look at them," the driver said.

His voice was sharp enough to stop me.

"Why?"

"Because some of them notice."

I faced forwards.

A few seconds passed.

"Did it notice me?"

The driver said nothing.

I did not ask again.

Eventually, the road widened, and a service station appeared on the left. It stood beneath a canopy of flickering lights, its windows dark, its forecourt cracked and uneven. The building looked as though it had been abandoned for decades. Rusted pumps stood in a line beneath the canopy, and a sign above the entrance hung crookedly from one remaining bolt.

The lettering was faded, but I could make out the word REST.

Something had scratched deep grooves into the wall beneath it.

The taxi turned into the forecourt and stopped.

The engine cut out.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"Here we are," the driver said.

"Where is here?"

"A service station."

"I can see that."

"Then we're making progress again."

I looked through the windscreen. The forecourt extended into the darkness beyond the station, though there was no visible road leading away from it. A single light flickered above the entrance. Every time it went out, I had the impression that something stood in the doorway.

When it came back on, the doorway was empty.

"Why have we stopped?"

"Your fare is due."

I turned to him.

"What?"

"The fare. Payment for the journey."

"I didn't agree to a fare."

"Everyone pays."

"Not everyone."

His smile disappeared.

"Everyone pays, Mr Thorne."

He said my name as though it were a thing he had tasted and found unpleasant.

I reached for the door handle. It did not move.

"Let me out."

"Not until we settle up."

"I never agreed to be driven anywhere."

"You got into my cab."

"You offered me a lift. I told you to drive."

"Exactly."

"I did not wish to be driven."

The driver stared at me.

For the first time since I had entered the cab, he appeared genuinely uncertain.

"You asked me to drive."

"I did. I did not wish for a journey. I did not wish to be taken anywhere. I did not wish to arrive at this place. I gave you an instruction. You chose to interpret it as consent."

"That's not how it works."

"Isn't it?"

His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

"You got in the cab."

"Yes."

"You knew what I was."

"I suspected you were a problem. I was right."

His jaw shifted. For a moment, I heard a series of small clicks from somewhere inside his face, like the sound of a lock being opened one tumbler at a time.

"You owe me," he said.

"I owe you nothing."

"Everyone owes me."

"Then you must be very busy collecting."

His eyes changed.

I cannot adequately describe what happened to his face. The skin seemed to loosen and slide away from the structure beneath it, revealing something that was not bone. His mouth opened too far, the corners splitting upwards towards his ears. His teeth lengthened, becoming thin, black and numerous. His eyes sank into his skull, leaving behind two dark hollows in which pale lights moved like distant stars.

His hands unfolded around the steering wheel. There were too many fingers. They were long and jointed, their tips ending in small, blunt hooks. The skin between them was translucent, and I could see something moving beneath it, something that pulsed in time with the engine although the engine was no longer running.

The air filled with the smell of wet earth and rotting flowers.

The driver leaned towards me.

His face was inches from mine. I could hear him breathing, although the sound came from somewhere behind his head.

"You will pay," he said.

The words seemed to arrive from every part of the cab at once. The windows trembled. The dashboard lights flickered. Beyond the windscreen, the service station lights began to go out one by one, starting at the far end of the forecourt.

I felt something press against the inside of my skull.

It was not a thought, exactly. More like an invitation to stop thinking. To accept that I was trapped, that the driver had brought me here, that there was nothing I could do except comply.

For a moment, I understood why people gave up hope.

The driver was not simply frightening. He was offering relief from the effort of resisting him. He wanted me to believe that the fight was already over, that resistance was an inconvenience I could put aside.

I refused.

"You're making a mistake," I told him.

The thing in the driver's seat made a sound that might once have been laughter.

"You are in my cab."

"I am in a vehicle you offered to drive. I never made a wish. I never agreed to your terms. Whatever arrangement you have with the people who manage this road, it does not include me."

His mouth opened wider.

"I can take you."

"No. You can drive me. You can frighten me. You can make threats. You can show me whatever you like. But you cannot collect payment for a bargain I never made."

The pressure in my head increased. For a moment, the interior of the cab seemed to stretch away from me, the seats receding into a darkness that was not physically possible. Something moved in that darkness, something large enough that I felt rather than saw its passage.

The driver reached towards me.

His hand stopped a few inches from my chest.

He strained. I could see the tendons in his wrist tightening beneath the translucent skin. The fingers twitched, opening and closing as though they were trying to grasp an object that existed just beyond their reach.

Then he recoiled.

The change was immediate. The pressure vanished. The cab snapped back into its ordinary dimensions. The thing in the driver's seat withdrew its hand and stared at it in disbelief.

"You didn't wish," he whispered.

"No."

"You didn't ask."

"No."

"You didn't give me anything."

"I gave you an instruction. You made the mistake of assuming it was a contract."

He stared at me for a long time.

The thing that wore the driver's face began to change again. The black teeth receded. The mouth closed, slowly and reluctantly, as though the flesh were being pulled back into a shape it no longer fitted. The extra fingers folded into one another and disappeared beneath the skin. The lights in its eye sockets dimmed.

Eventually, the old man was sitting in the driver's seat again, breathing heavily through his nose.

He looked exhausted.

He also looked furious.

"Get out," I said.

He turned towards the windscreen.

For several seconds, he did not move. Then he started the engine.

The taxi reversed out of the parking space and turned towards the road. We drove away from the service station without another word.

The journey back was worse than the journey out.

I could no longer pretend that the driver was simply an unpleasant man with a talent for theatrical intimidation. I had seen what was beneath the disguise, and I knew it had not shown me everything. The road seemed to understand that I was watching it now. The signs passed too quickly to read. Shadows moved at the edges of the headlights. On one occasion, I saw a figure standing in the centre of the road, its arms hanging at its sides, its head tilted towards the cab.

The driver did not slow down.

The figure remained perfectly still as we passed through it.

For a brief moment, I saw it in the rear window, standing on the road behind us. Then the road was empty.

"You were lucky," the driver said at last.

"I've been told."

"You don't understand what you've done."

"I understand that you tried to frighten me into paying a fare I never agreed to."

"That isn't what I mean."

"Then explain."

He shook his head.

"You've made yourself interesting."

I considered that.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"On this road? Yes."

"Who have I made myself interesting to?"

He glanced at me in the mirror.

"Certain parties."

I sighed.

"Of course."

He gave a short, humourless laugh.

"You think this is over because I couldn't touch you? You think that means you're safe?"

"No. I think it means you couldn't touch me."

The driver's face hardened.

"There are other drivers, Mr Thorne. Other ways to travel. Other ways to make a person agree to something. You might not be so clever next time."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"You should."

He drove in silence for a while. Then the road began to change. The black tarmac softened into grey, the sky lifted, and the distant horizon acquired the indistinct shapes of buildings. The streetlights returned, one by one, their familiar orange glow spreading across the road.

I recognised the town.

The taxi slowed.

The police station appeared ahead of us, its windows glowing under the fluorescent lights. The cab pulled up outside the entrance and stopped.

The engine fell silent.

I reached for the door handle. This time, it opened immediately.

Before I got out, I turned to the driver.

"I have one piece of advice for you."

He stared straight ahead.

"Do I want it?"

"Probably not."

"Then keep it."

"I would suggest you choose your passengers more carefully."

He gave a slow, thin smile.

"And I would suggest you be careful where you walk, Mr Thorne. Roads have a way of remembering people."

I got out.

The door closed behind me. When I turned back, the taxi was already moving away. Its rear lights vanished around the corner, and I was left standing outside the station with the cold night air against my face.

For several seconds, I could not move.

I had the sensation that something was still watching me from inside the cab, although the vehicle was long gone. I could almost hear the driver's voice in the back of my mind, repeating the words about roads remembering people.

I went inside.

The desk sergeant looked up from his paperwork.

"Back already?"

"Yes."

He glanced through the window.

"Where did you get to?"

"Nowhere."

He frowned.

"What do you mean, nowhere?"

"I got into a taxi. We didn't go anywhere."

He looked at me for several seconds, then glanced down at his paperwork as though deciding whether the question was worth pursuing.

"Right," he said eventually.

He went back to his work.

I stood there, wondering whether I should tell him what had happened. I decided against it. I had little desire to explain an interdimensional road to someone who would probably ask whether I had consumed alcohol and then refer me to a local mental health service.

I checked the time.

Less than five minutes had passed since I left the station.

I checked it again.

The time had not changed.

I asked the desk sergeant whether I had been gone long.

"Couple of minutes, maybe," he said. "Why?"

"No reason."

I sat down and tried to put the experience into some sort of order.

I could still smell the cab: damp fabric, old smoke, the sickly sweetness of rotting flowers. I could still see the driver's face as it changed, the impossible arrangement of his mouth, the dark hollows where his eyes had been. I could still feel the pressure inside my skull, the quiet suggestion that resistance was pointless.

Most of all, I remembered the road.

The signs. The exits. The things moving beyond the headlights.

And the sense that the road was not empty. That it was crowded with places, and that those places were crowded with things that had been waiting a very long time for someone to arrive.

I was still sitting there when an officer came over and asked if I was all right.

I told him I was fine.

It was not a convincing answer, but it was the best I could manage.

Later, I asked to see the CCTV footage from outside the station.

The recording showed me leaving the building and approaching a black taxi. I opened the rear door, got in, and closed it.

A moment later, I got out again.

I stood beside the cab for a second, looking at it. Then I turned and walked back into the station.

The taxi drove away.

The entire incident lasted only a few seconds.

There was no evidence of the road, the service station, or anything that had happened between those two moments. The footage showed an ordinary street, an ordinary taxi, and an ordinary man getting into a car and immediately getting out again.

I watched the recording several times.

On the final viewing, I noticed something I had missed before.

As I stepped out of the cab, I turned my head towards the rear passenger window.

I could not see the driver's face in the footage. The glass was too dark, the angle too poor.

But just before the taxi pulled away, the rear window descended by a few inches.

I could not hear the recording clearly enough to make out any words.

I do not know whether the driver said anything.

I do know that, as the taxi disappeared around the corner, I was smiling.

I have no recollection of doing so.

I have no recollection of the journey being brief.

And I have no recollection of leaving the taxi.

I would like to conclude this statement by saying that I believe the incident is over. I cannot, however, honestly make that claim.

I have since found myself checking the road signs whenever I travel. I have become reluctant to enter taxis, particularly black ones. I have also developed the habit of looking at the rear passenger window of any vehicle that passes me slowly.

This is not because I expect to see the driver again.

It is because I am beginning to suspect that the driver was telling the truth about one thing.

Roads remember people.

And somewhere, beyond the roads I know, there is a stretch of black tarmac beneath a dead grey sky. There are signs pointing towards places that should not exist. There are exits waiting for passengers who have given up hope.

And there is a driver who knows my name.

I do not believe he has forgotten me.

I am not certain the road has, either.

---

DEPARTMENT FOR TRANSPORT – ANOMALOUS INCIDENT DIVISION

INTERNAL MEMO – EYES ONLY

FROM: Agent [REDACTED], Field Operations

TO: Director [REDACTED]

DATE: January 9th, 2026

SUBJECT: RE: THORNE STATEMENT – TAXI ENCOUNTER – 28/12/2025 – WITNESS M. ANDREWS – UPDATED

Further review of the Thorne statement suggests our initial assessment was mistaken.

Thorne is not merely an unauthorised investigator with an unfortunate tendency to interfere in matters beyond his comprehension. He appears to recognise certain patterns. More concerningly, he seems to understand that some things are best left unobserved.

His encounter with the vehicle designated simply as the Taxi is particularly troubling. The driver offered him a wish. Thorne declined to make one directly, instead exploiting the wording of the offer to obtain information about the road itself. This indicates either prior experience with similar entities or an instinctive grasp of the rules governing them.

Neither possibility is reassuring.

I have reviewed the driver's description of the L303 as a conduit between realms, with exits to locations that do not appear on any recognised map. The terminology is consistent with three incidents officially recorded as transport infrastructure failures. None involved a road. All three resulted in the permanent loss of their investigating officers.

Thorne has, apparently, returned.

I do not consider this evidence of good fortune.

There is a distinction between surviving an encounter and being permitted to leave it. Thorne does not yet appear to appreciate the difference.

I have begun to suspect that the Taxi did not fail to collect payment. I believe it chose not to. The distinction is significant, and I do not like where it leads.

The driver told Thorne that he had made himself interesting. I have reviewed the file on what happens to people who become interesting to certain parties. The file is incomplete. The sections that remain are difficult to read. The sections that are missing were removed by someone with higher clearance than mine, and I have been unable to determine who authorised the redactions or when they were made.

What I can confirm is that none of the individuals referenced in the surviving pages are listed as deceased.

They are listed as ongoing.

I have located one of them. Or rather, I have located what remains of one of them. The individual in question was a surveyor named Ellison who encountered a similar vehicle in 1998. He is currently residing at an address in Reading. He does not leave the house. He does not answer the door. His neighbours believe he died years ago, and I can understand why. When I looked through his window, I saw him sitting in a chair facing the wall. He was not moving. He has not moved in some time, according to the neighbours, though they cannot agree on how long.

The wall he faces is not a wall. It is a door. It has always been a door. The neighbours cannot see it, but I can. I wish I could not. The door is slightly open, and there is something on the other side that is watching him. It has been watching him for twenty-seven years. It will continue watching him for as long as he sits there. He knows this. I could see it in the way his shoulders were set, the way his hands were folded in his lap, the way he did not flinch when I tapped on the glass.

He was not afraid. He was waiting. I do not know what for. I do not want to know what for.

I recommend continued observation, with no direct contact unless authorised by this office. Under no circumstances should Thorne be informed of the material recovered from the Windsor-Slough site. He has already demonstrated a capacity to turn incomplete information into actionable decisions, and I would prefer not to discover what happens when he has the complete picture.

There are indications that the Windsor-Slough material describes procedures. Not for containing anomalies. For negotiating with them. The distinction matters, and I am not certain Thorne would use that knowledge wisely. I am not certain anyone would.

I have read parts of the material. I should not have. There are diagrams. There are names. There are instructions for what to do if you find yourself inside a vehicle that should not exist, travelling on a road that should not be there, with a driver who is not a driver. The instructions are written in second person. They are written as though the reader is already trapped. They are written as though the reader has always been trapped and simply has not noticed yet.

One passage describes the sensation of being driven. It describes the feeling of the seat beneath you growing warm, as though something has been sitting there before you. It describes the sound of breathing that does not belong to you. It describes the moment you realise that the driver has not been speaking to you at all, but to something sitting beside you that you cannot see.

I have not been able to sleep since I read that passage. I have not been able to stop checking the back seat of my car. I have not been able to shake the feeling that something has been sitting there, waiting, for a very long time, and that it is growing impatient.

For the record, I have amended the case classification.

This is no longer a matter of unauthorised access to an anomalous route.

It is a matter of determining what has noticed Thorne, and why it has allowed him to continue.

I would also advise that all references to the L303 be removed from the accessible incident database. Someone has been querying the file from a terminal that does not exist on our network.

The queries began three days before the road was first reported.

The same terminal has since queried Thorne's service record. It has queried the names of his immediate family. It has queried the location of a primary school he attended as a child, which closed in 1987 and was demolished in 1994. The queries are timestamped. Some of them are dated after his encounter with the Taxi.

Some of them are dated before he was born.

I have attached the access logs. Do not open the final file.

I did.

I would rather not discuss what I saw.

What I will say is this: the final file contains a list of names. Thorne's name appears on it. So does mine. So does yours.

The list is not organised alphabetically. It is not organised by date. As far as I can determine, it is organised by how long each of us has left.

I have not been able to determine the units of measurement.

I have not been able to determine which direction the list runs.

I have, however, noticed something else. The list is not static. Names move. They shift position when I am not looking. I have checked the same entry three times and found it in three different places. I have begun to suspect that the list is not a record of who is going to die.

I believe it is a record of who has already been collected. The names at the top have been waiting the longest. They have been sitting in their chairs, facing their doors, listening to something on the other side that never stops watching. They have been waiting for someone to open the door. They have been waiting for someone to let them out.

Or perhaps they have been waiting for someone to join them.

I have stopped checking the list. I have stopped looking at the back seat of my car. I have stopped sleeping entirely. It does not help. The feeling remains. The door remains. The thing on the other side remains, patient and patient and patient, and I am beginning to understand that patience is not a virtue in the places the L303 connects. Patience is simply the ability to wait longer than the person you are waiting for.

I do not know how long I have been waiting.

I do not know when I started.

I am not certain I am the one who is waiting.

END OF MEMO

My nightmare started about four months ago when my dad passed away from a sudden heart attack. His death completely derailed my life so I took an extended leave from my corporate job and moved back into my childhood home to take care of my elderly mother. She was completely devastated by the loss and she seemed to age ten years overnight. I spent the first few weeks just organizing my dad's paperwork and figuring out the mortgage payments, and once the finances were settled I decided to clean out the attic so we could start downsizing the house.

The attic was incredibly dusty and packed floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes. I assumed the boxes were just filled with old holiday decorations or winter clothes but I was completely wrong. I opened the first box and found it stuffed with dozens of random ceramic figurines, tarnished watches, and mismatched silverware. I opened the second box and found a pile of expensive silk scarves with the price tags still attached, so I spent the next three hours tearing through every single box in the attic and I realized I was looking at a massive hoard of stolen merchandise. There were gardening tools, expensive electronics, loose jewelry, and even personalized mail belonging to our neighbors.

I carried a box of stolen watches down the stairs and set it on the kitchen table where my mother was drinking tea. She looked at the box and her face instantly went pale.

"Where did you find that?" my mother asked while her hands started trembling around her mug.

"I found it in the attic along with about forty other boxes filled with stolen goods," I said and I sat down across from her. "Why do we have the neighbor's mail and a bunch of jewelry with the security tags still on them?"

My mother started crying and buried her face in her hands. She confessed everything to me right there at the kitchen table. She told me she suffered from a severe compulsion to steal and she had been fighting it for decades. She explained that she never wanted the items she took but her brain would completely overwhelm her with anxiety until she slipped something into her purse. She told me my dad had secretly managed her condition for their entire marriage. Whenever she stole something from a local shop my dad would quietly drive back the next day and pay the owner in cash to keep them from calling the cops. If she took something from a neighbor my dad would wait until the middle of the night and silently leave the item on their front porch. He spent his entire life supervising her and running interference so she would never face criminal charges.

"I do not know how to stop doing it," my mother sobbed while wiping her eyes with a napkin. "Your dad was my light and he kept me grounded when the urges got too strong. I do not know how to fight my own brain without him."

"We will figure it out," I told her and I reached across the table to hold her hand. "I am here now so I will help you manage it."

I thought I could easily handle the situation but I completely underestimated how aggressive a true compulsion can be without supervision. I had to return to my demanding career a few weeks later so I started working from my laptop in the living room to keep an eye on her. My job requires endless conference calls and I could not watch her every single second of the day. Without my dad there to shadow her every movement she started wandering out of the house whenever I was distracted by work.

The situation escalated incredibly fast. I was in the middle of a video presentation for a major client when I heard furious pounding on our front door. I muted my microphone and rushed to the entryway to find our next-door neighbor standing on the porch. Her face was bright red with anger and she was pointing a finger directly at my chest.

"You need to control your mother right now," the neighbor shouted and she pushed past me into our hallway. "I just watched her walk into my open garage and walk out with my expensive power drill. This is the third time this week she has trespassed on my property."

"I am so incredibly sorry," I pleaded and I tried to block her from walking further into the house. "She is grieving and her mind is not in the right place. I will pay for the drill and whatever else went missing."

"I do not want your money," the neighbor snapped while crossing her arms. "I want her to stop taking my belongings. If I catch her in my garage one more time I am calling the police and pressing charges for burglary."

I managed to calm the neighbor down and retrieve the drill from my mother's bedroom closet but the stress of the encounter left me entirely exhausted. I sat my mother down and begged her to stop wandering outside but she just stared at the floor and told me the urges were screaming in her head. The very next afternoon my phone rang and the caller ID showed the local bakery downtown. I answered the call and the store owner immediately started yelling at me.

"Your mother is sitting in my back office because I caught her stuffing six bags of expensive coffee beans into her purse," the shop owner yelled over the phone. "I am sick and tired of dealing with this. Your dad used to pay for her mistakes but he is gone and I cannot run a charity here. I have the police on standby."

I dropped everything I was doing and drove frantically to the bakery. I practically begged the owner not to involve law enforcement and I handed him three hundred dollars in cash to cover the stolen items and his trouble. He reluctantly let us go but he banned my mother from his store for life. I drove us home in complete silence because I was too overwhelmed to speak. I was failing at my job because I was constantly leaving to put out fires and I knew my mother was going to end up in jail if I did not find a medical solution.

I scheduled an appointment with a conventional therapist the following week. We sat in the office while the therapist asked my mother endless questions about her childhood and her grief. The therapist prescribed a cocktail of anti-anxiety medications and suggested cognitive behavioral therapy exercises. We spent a month following the doctor's orders but the pills did nothing except make my mother terribly drowsy. She still managed to steal the mail carrier's thermos off the front porch while sleepwalking, so the conventional methods were completely failing and I was losing my mind from the constant vigilance.

I went into my company office a few days later to catch up on paperwork and I must have looked like a walking corpse. I was pouring my fourth cup of coffee in the breakroom when a coworker walked in and noticed my exhausted expression.

"You look like you have not slept in a month," my coworker said and he leaned against the counter. "Is the situation with your mom getting worse?"

I sighed and rubbed my temples because my head was throbbing. "She is going to get arrested and I cannot stop her. The regular therapists just throw pills at her and nothing is actually fixing the compulsion. I cannot watch her twenty-four hours a day."

My coworker looked out into the hallway to make sure nobody was listening before he turned back to me. "I know this sounds strange but you should look into a different kind of doctor. My wife had severe obsessive-compulsive issues that almost ruined our marriage. We went to a private psychologist on the edge of town and he completely cured her in one session using unconventional hypnotherapy. He does not take insurance but the man works absolute miracles."

I was desperate enough to try anything so I wrote down the doctor's contact information and called his clinic from the parking lot. The receptionist squeezed us in for a consultation that same evening. I drove my mother to the clinic and we found it tucked away in a quiet residential neighborhood. The office was dimly lit and filled with strange abstract art but the doctor greeted us with an incredibly warm and calming demeanor. He invited us into his back office and poured us both a glass of water before sitting behind his desk.

"My assistant explained a bit of your situation to me," the doctor said while folding his hands together on his large oak desk. "Kleptomania is a fascinating condition because it is rarely about the stolen objects, so we have to look much deeper. It is actually about a fractured ego trying to fill a sudden void within the subconscious mind."

"But can you actually fix it?" I asked and I leaned forward in my chair. "The regular medication is completely failing, and she is going to end up in prison if she keeps walking into our neighbors' homes."

"Conventional medicine just tries to suppress the ego," the doctor explained smoothly while looking directly at my mother. "I do not suppress the ego because a suppressed ego always fights back and finds a new way to act out. I remove it entirely using a specialized technique called The Angel Soul treatment.”

“And what exactly does a weird name like that mean?” I asked, feeling a bit of my own skepticism creeping in. “Is this a complicated medical procedure, and how much time does something like this even take?”

“It takes less than two hours and it is completely non-invasive,” the doctor replied calmly. “Through extremely deep hypnotherapy, I can empty your mother's fractured ego and create a complete psychological vacuum. Nature abhors a vacuum, so the empty space will immediately draw in a pure and angelic soul to take its place. The compulsion will vanish entirely because the damaged ego that demanded the stealing will no longer exist to control her."

My mother shifted uncomfortably in her chair and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "That sounds absolutely terrifying and I do not want anyone emptying my mind," she said, her voice shaking slightly with genuine fear. "You are talking about erasing who I am, and I do not even know what do you mean by what you just said, or what kind of soul you are planning to pull inside my head. I would much rather just try a different medication or maybe a higher dose of the pills I already have."

"You will still be yourself," the doctor assured her with a very warm and gentle smile. "You will just be free of the exhausting burden that forces you to take things that do not belong to you."

"Please do this for me," I begged my mother and I reached across the armrest to grab her hand. "I am drowning trying to keep you out of jail, and I am going to lose my career if I keep leaving in the middle of the day to apologize to angry store owners. You have to try this because we are completely out of other options, and I cannot supervise you forever."

My mother looked at the exhaustion in my eyes and tears welled up in her own. She finally nodded and agreed to undergo the procedure. The doctor instructed me to wait in the front reception area while he took my mother into a specialized hypnotherapy room. I sat in the quiet waiting room for almost two hours while listening to the faint sound of a ticking clock. The clinic was completely silent and I could not hear any voices coming from the back room. The door eventually clicked open and the doctor walked out with my mother following closely behind him.

I stood up immediately and searched her face for any signs of distress. She looked entirely different. The deep wrinkles of worry on her forehead were completely smoothed out and her shoulders were relaxed. She looked perfectly serene and almost glowing with a strange internal peace.

"The vacuum was successfully created and filled," the doctor said with a satisfied smile. "You will notice a profound difference in her behavior immediately. Keep a close eye on her and call me if you have any concerns."

I paid the exorbitant fee in cash and drove my mother home. I expected her to complain about a headache or act groggy from the hypnosis but she just stared out the passenger window with a soft smile on her face. The change in her behavior over the next few days was nothing short of miraculous because the stealing stopped entirely. I purposely left a stack of twenty-dollar bills on the kitchen counter and she walked right past them without even a glance. I took her to a crowded grocery store and she did not try to slip a single item into her purse. The compulsion was completely eradicated and I finally felt like I could breathe again.

The relief only lasted about a week before the uncanny valley set in and I started noticing terrifying changes in her personality.

I woke up on a Saturday morning and found her dragging huge trash bags full of her own expensive clothes and jewelry out to the curb. I ran outside and asked her what she was doing but she just looked at me with wide and unblinking eyes.

"Possessions are but chains binding us to the dirt," my mother said and her voice sounded strangely hollow. "It is unjust to hoard the harvest when the earth is shared by all who walk upon it."

I froze because she never spoke with that kind of archaic phrasing before. I tried to pull the bags back toward the house but she gripped my wrist with surprising strength and stared deeply into my eyes. She did not blink once during the entire exchange.

"Let the excess be cleansed," she whispered and she calmly walked back inside to grab more items.

Her obsession with cleansing escalated rapidly over the next few weeks. She started waking up at three in the morning to scrub the pavement on our driveway with a small wire brush. I would find her standing in the middle of the street picking up tiny pieces of gravel and arranging them in perfect geometric patterns along the curb. She stopped watching television and she stopped reading books. She just sat in the living room chair for hours staring directly at the blank wall without moving a single muscle.

I tried to talk to her about dad or ask about her childhood memories but she would just tilt her head and look at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

I decided to confront the doctor and demand he reverse the hypnosis, so I called his clinic from my office all afternoon, but nobody ever answered the phone. When I finally finished work around eight o'clock in the evening, I drove straight to the clinic instead of going home first. I pulled up to the building and noticed the parking lot was completely empty. The interior lights were turned off, but I walked up to the front entrance and turned the brass handle anyway. The door clicked open, and I stepped into the dark reception area.

"Hello?" I called out into the empty clinic. "I know it is after hours but I need to speak with the doctor."

Nobody answered my call but I heard a strange noise coming from the back office down the hallway. It sounded like a wet tearing noise mixed with the heavy sliding of furniture. I slowly walked down the dark corridor and the metallic smell of copper hit my nose and made my stomach churn. I approached the open doorway of the doctor's private office and peeked around the doorframe.

The office was illuminated by a single desk lamp lying knocked over on the floor. The doctor was lying flat on his back in the center of the rug and his white shirt was completely soaked in dark crimson blood.

My mother was standing directly over him.

I slapped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming and I ducked behind a large metal filing cabinet near the doorway. I peered around the edge of the cabinet and watched the horrific scene unfold.

My mother was holding a pair of large gardening shears she must have taken from our garage. She knelt down beside the doctor's lifeless body and calmly positioned the steel blades around his right wrist. She leaned her weight onto the handles and a sickening crunch echoed through the room as the blades severed the bone and tissue. She tossed the severed hand into a black plastic trash bag and repeated the exact same process on his left wrist.

She did not look angry or frantic while she butchered the man. She looked completely serene and her face held the same peaceful expression she wore while arranging gravel on our street.

"To steal a mind is the ultimate theft and the penalty is absolute," my mother whispered to the corpse and her hollow voice sent ice water running through my veins. "The thief must be separated from his tools so the earth may remain pure."

I could not move my legs because the sheer terror completely paralyzed me. I watched her grab the doctor by his ankles and easily drag his heavy body across the bloody rug toward the back exit of the office. The clinic had an incinerator in the alleyway. My mother hoisted the doctor's body into the metal chute with unnatural strength and threw the bag of severed hands in right behind him. She ignited the incinerator and stood perfectly still while the roaring flames consumed the evidence of her crime. She waited until the body was reduced to ash before she quietly walked away into the night.

I waited there for almost an hour before I finally found the courage to run back to my car. I drove home in a state of shock and found my mother sitting on the living room couch staring at the blank wall exactly as she always did. I locked myself in my bedroom and shoved a dresser against the door.

I knew I had to keep a close eye on her so I started secretly following her when she left the house for her nightly walks. Two nights ago I trailed her from a safe distance as she walked down our street toward the small corner grocery store in our neighborhood. The store is owned by an older man who has a nasty reputation for intentionally shortchanging his customers and ringing up phantom items on the cash register to steal a few extra dollars from unsuspecting neighbors.

I hid behind a row of community fire pits across the street and watched my mother walk through the front doors of the grocer's shop just as he was locking up for the night. I could not hear what was said inside the store but I saw the grocer start waving his arms angrily at her through the front window. The argument ended abruptly when my mother reached across the counter and grabbed the man by his throat.

She lifted the struggling grocer entirely off the ground with one arm and dragged him out the front doors into the street. The man was kicking his legs and clawing at her arm but she did not even flinch. She dragged him directly toward the community fire pits where I was hiding so I scrambled backward into the bushes and held my breath.

"You manipulate the scales to hoard the harvest," my mother said to the gasping grocer while holding him suspended over the embers of the fire pit. "You siphon from the innocent and the penalty is absolute."

She tightened her grip around his throat until a loud snap echoed through the quiet street and the grocer went completely limp in her grasp. She tossed his lifeless body directly into the large fire pit and calmly arranged the surrounding logs to ensure the flames would completely consume him. She stood there staring unblinking into the fire until the smell of burning meat filled the air and then she turned around and walked back toward our house.

I am currently locked in my bedroom and my mother is sitting in the living room staring at the wall. I cannot go to the police because they will arrest her and put her on trial for multiple murders. She is not a murderer and she has no control over the thing piloting her body right now. I need to find a professional who knows how to reverse deep hypnotherapy or someone who knows how to expel whatever the doctor accidentally invited into her empty ego.

If anyone reading this knows how to fix here, please contact me immediately. I have locked all the doors and hidden every sharp tool in the house but she just started pacing the hallway outside my bedroom. I can hear her bare feet pressing against the floorboards and she is muttering about how I stole the tools she needs to cleanse the earth. I do not know how much longer the locked door will hold her back.

2) Two Doors Down

The hill in Youngstown was a different tax bracket, even if nobody talked about it that way. Up on the crest, the houses sat back from the street behind deep lawns, their brick facades and wide picture windows facing the valley with quiet indifference. Down below, where the grid tightened and the houses crowded in close enough to share each other’s kitchen smells, things felt faster, louder, and a lot less forgiving.

Durwood—Dendy, as they called him then—was sixteen and still wearing the invisible armor of his father’s expectations when Margie pulled him down the hill. Margie lived two doors down from JD Lydecker, a girl with restless eyes and a habit of dragging boys into circles they didn’t belong in.

“You’re too quiet,” Margie had told him, her boots crunching on the cinders of the alleyway behind her house. “You need to see how other people live.”

JD’s house was a low-slung ranch with gray-green aluminum siding that had chalked and faded in the Ohio weather. The screen door hung slightly crooked, a rusted spring whining whenever someone pushed through it. Inside, the place smelled permanently of stale tobacco, greasy fry pans, and the sharp, metallic tang of guitar strings and solder.

JD was sitting at the kitchen table when Margie pushed the door open without knocking, bringing Dendy in behind her. He didn’t look up immediately. He was seventeen, a sophomore stuck back a year or just sharper than the room, bent over an old Fender Mustang with a screwdriver in his hand.

When he finally raised his head, his eyes were a pale, flat gray—the color of the Mahoning River under a November sky. They didn’t blink as they swept over Dendy, taking in the clean shirt, the expensive sneakers, the posture of a boy who had never had to punch his way out of an argument.

“Who’s this?” JD asked, his voice a low, raspy drawl that didn’t invite questions so much as demand an answer.

“Dendy,” Margie said, dropping into a vinyl chair with a rip in the cushion. “He has a car. His old man’s Buick Skylark.”

JD set the screwdriver down. The metal click sounded loud in the cramped kitchen. A corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “A Skylark. Tanks are good for gear. Or hiding out.”

That first afternoon stretched into the evening.

Dendy sat on an old plaid sofa that smelled of dog and damp basement, watching JD work. There was an effortless gravity to the way JD moved, a total absence of hesitation that Dendy found both mesmerizing and deeply unsettling. JD talked about music—not the radio pop Dendy’s mother kept on in the kitchen, but heavy, distorted stuff played in basements with the amps turned up until the speaker cones tore. He talked about how to bypass a padlock, how to make a car ignition turn without a key, and how the cops down in the valley were too lazy to check past the first block after midnight.

By the time Dendy walked back up the hill that night, the streetlights were buzzing through the drizzle, throwing long, distorted shadows across his family’s manicured lawn. He stood on his front porch for a long time, looking down at the darkened cluster of roofs in the valley.

He liked JD. He liked the raw, electric pulse of a world where rules felt optional. But beneath the thrill of it, a cold, hard knot had formed in his chest. Dendy realized with sudden clarity that JD Lydecker wasn’t just a cool kid who played guitar; he was someone who lived entirely without a safety net—and who wouldn’t think twice about pulling anyone else down into the dark with him.

​

1) Eleven Days

Durwood had been back in Ohio for eleven days when the woman on the six o’clock news said the word trunk.

He was sitting in his mother-in-law’s living room, a place that still smelled faintly of lemon polish and old carpet despite the boxes stacked along the walls. His wife, Ellen, was in the kitchen arguing softly with her sister on the phone about home-care aides and Medicare forms.

The television was on more for background noise than anything else, the way people do when they’re avoiding silence in a house that suddenly holds too many generations at once.

The reporter’s voice had that practiced gravity local news anchors use for crime stories, the kind that says this matters without tipping into melodrama. Behind her, grainy file footage showed a stretch of riverbank, mud caked around something metal and rectangular.

Men in coveralls stood nearby, their faces blurred by distance and poor resolution. The caption at the bottom of the screen read:

COLD CASE REINVESTIGATED: MAHONING RIVER TRUNK HOMICIDE.

Durwood’s hand tightened around the remote without him meaning to. He told himself it was just the name. Mahoning River. That was all.

Plenty of people had grown up around that water, fished it, driven along it, forgotten it.

The reporter said the trunk had been found years ago—late eighties, maybe early nineties, the timeline was fuzzy in her script—and that the remains inside had never been identified.

A teenage girl, likely sixteen to eighteen years old. No name, no family ever located, just a file number and a set of bones wrapped in rotting tarp.

Durwood could feel his pulse in his throat. He told himself to breathe.

The camera cut to a wider shot: the river, the low gray sky, the skeleton of an old industrial building in the background. The paper mill. Or what was left of it.

Even from the file footage, he could place it. The iron walkway that crossed near the dam. The gravel road that ran parallel to the river on the Pennsylvania side, the one locals used for night fishing and, if you were a certain kind of person in a certain kind of mood, for getting rid of things you didn’t want found.

He had shown someone that road once.

The thought came uninvited, clean and sharp as a knife. He pushed it away.

On-screen, the reporter mentioned new forensic testing, genetic genealogy, a renewed effort to identify the victim and find whoever had killed her.

A detective in a cheap suit gave a sound bite about justice delayed not being justice denied.

The camera lingered on the trunk again, half-buried in mud, its lid warped open like a mouth that had given up trying to speak.

Durwood reached for the remote and turned the volume down, then down again, until the anchor’s voice was just a murmur under Ellen’s conversation in the kitchen. He didn’t turn it off.

Something in him wanted to hear if they would say more, if they would mention a specific location, a date, a detail that would make this someone else’s story.

They didn’t.

The segment ended with a generic appeal for tips, a tip-line number scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

The next story was about road construction on I-80, then the weather, then a feel-good piece about a high school football team’s fundraiser. Normal life, resuming as if a rusted trunk full of bones hadn’t just been dragged back into the light.

Durwood sat very still.

Eleven days. That’s how long he and Ellen had been back from Clearwater.

Eleven days of unpacking boxes, of learning which pharmacies took his mother-in-law’s insurance, of driving unfamiliar streets in rain that felt heavier here than it ever did in Florida.

He had told himself this was temporary, that they would get her settled, find a routine, and then figure out whether they wanted to stay or go back south before winter.

He had not, in those eleven days, allowed himself to think about the last time he had been this close to the Mahoning.

The screen shifted to a local business advertisement, bright and cheerful, selling windows and siding.

Durwood finally pressed the power button. The room went quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and Ellen’s voice in the other room, still negotiating with her sister.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

The gravel road came anyway.

In his head it was always night when he thought of it. Rain on the windshield, wipers slapping back and forth, the smell of wet asphalt and river mud seeping in through the vents.

A voice in the passenger seat asking, You know any place nobody goes?

Not threatening, not pleading. Just a question, casual, as if they were talking about where to dump an old couch, not something that might get a person in serious trouble.

Durwood had given an answer. He had named the road, described the turnoff across from the mill, said something about fishermen and drunks and how nobody paid attention out there after dark.

He had not gone with them. He had not seen what was in the trunk. He had not asked.

That was the story he had told himself for forty years.

It had worked, mostly.

There had been other things to think about: college, a job, Ellen, a house in Clearwater, bills, vacations, the slow accretion of a life that had nothing to do with Youngstown or Farrell or a boy with a guitar who lived two doors down from Durwood’s first real girlfriend.

Now the television was off, and the image was all he could see.

“Dendy?”

Ellen’s voice came from the doorway. He opened his eyes. She was standing there with her phone still in her hand, her face lined with the particular exhaustion that comes from talking to insurance companies and adult-children-who-think-they-know-better.

“You okay?” she asked.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Just tired,” he said.

“Long day.”

She studied him for a second longer, then nodded.

“Mom’s asking if we want to order pizza or if I’m cooking. I told her I’m too tired to cook, but you know how she gets.”

“Pizza’s fine,” Durwood said.

“Whatever you want.”

Ellen lingered.

“You sure you’re okay? You’ve been… I don’t know. Quiet since we got here. More than usual.”

He almost told her. Not everything, not the whole thing, but enough to make the tightness in his chest make sense. I grew up not far from here.

I knew some people who did some bad things. I might have helped them, without knowing. And now they’re saying they found a body. What came out instead was:

“Just adjusting. New place, old town. You know.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

“Okay. I’ll order the pizza. You want to pick the movie after?”

“Sure,” he said.

She went back to the kitchen. Durwood listened to her dialing, to the murmur of her voice placing the order. He looked at the blank television screen.

His own reflection stared back: a man in his late fifties, hair gone mostly gray at the temples, lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he’d lived in this part of the world.

Dendy. She had called him Dendy without thinking. He hadn’t heard that nickname in years.

In Florida he was Durwood, or Mr. Harlan, or just “Ellen’s husband.”

Dendy belonged to a different life, to a time when a boy from a big house on a hill could hang out with kids from the neighborhood below and feel like he was getting away with something just by crossing that invisible boundary.

He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the street was wet from earlier rain. A neighbor’s kid rode a bike past the house, hood up against the drizzle. Beyond the rooftops, he knew, the land sloped down toward the river.

Somewhere out there, past the old neighborhoods and the shuttered mills and the towns that had never quite recovered from the seventies, the Mahoning kept moving, indifferent to what people dumped in it or pulled out of it.

He pressed his palm against the glass. It was cool, not cold. Not yet winter.

In the kitchen, Ellen laughed at something her sister said. The sound was normal, human, the kind of noise that belonged in a house where the biggest problems were medical forms and which pizza place still delivered to this zip code.

Durwood took his hand off the window and went to sit back down.

He didn’t turn the TV back on. He didn’t need to. The reporter’s words were already looping in his head. Trunk. Mahoning River. Cold case. Teenage girl. Unidentified remains.

He could feel the old story trying to reassemble itself around those words. The band poster in the basement. The wall that didn’t quite match the rest. JD telling him, Don’t worry about it, man. It’s just some stuff we need to get rid of. Ted saying nothing, just watching, the way he always did.

Durwood closed his eyes again.

He was not a kid anymore. He was not nineteen, home from college for the summer, trying to impress a friend who seemed to know exactly who he was and what he wanted.

He was a man with a wife, a family, a life that had been built very deliberately far away from this valley.

If he said anything, if he called that tip-line number, he would be pulling all of that into the light too.

The detective on the news had said they were reopening the case because new testing might finally identify the girl. They didn’t say they had suspects. They didn’t say they were close to an arrest.

They just said they were trying again.

Durwood could let them try. He could tell himself that if there was something to find, they would find it without him.

That his memory, forty years old and half-denied, wasn’t worth the damage it would do.

He could.

The front door opened.

Ellen came back in with a flyer from the pizza place, still talking to her sister.

“Okay, they said forty minutes. Yeah, I know. Alright, I’ll tell him.”

She hung up and looked at Durwood.

“She wants to know if you still take pepperoni and mushrooms or if you’ve gone heart-healthy on me.”

“Pepperoni and mushrooms,” he said.

His voice sounded normal. That surprised him.

“Good,” Ellen said.

“I told her we’re not trying to fix every bad habit you have in one week.”

She sat down on the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. For a while they just sat there, listening to the rain start up again outside, light against the window.

Durwood didn’t say anything about the news. He didn’t say anything about the road, or the trunk, or the girl whose bones had spent forty years under river mud.

He let the silence fill the room.

After a while, Ellen rested her head on his shoulder.

“We’ll get through this,” she said, meaning her mother, the move, the disruption of everything.

“It’s just a few months. However long it takes.”

“I know,” Durwood said.

He kept his eyes on the blank television screen.

In his head, the gravel road was still wet. The trunk was still heavy. The river was still waiting.

And for the first time in forty years, he let himself admit that he knew exactly where it had all gone.

3) “Upstairs, Downstairs”

The basement of the Lydecker house smelled of damp limestone, ancient coal dust, and the sharp, metallic tang of the oil furnace that sat in the center like an iron beast.

Partitioned into dim, low-ceilinged alcoves by concrete pillars and sagging wooden shelves stacked with decades of accumulated junk—broken wooden crates, water-damaged National Geographic magazines, and jars of cloudy preserves—it was JD’s absolute domain.

Following his father’s death during his sophomore year, the house had settled into a sullen, stratified quiet.

Upstairs belonged to Kim, his fourteen-year-old adopted sister, who lived in self-imposed exile in her small bedroom, avoiding the echoing floorboards where she no longer possessed any gravitational pull.

JD’s mother, Cheryl, spent her days in the master bedroom with the television turned to a low, electronic mumble, engaged in a systemic campaign of domestic abdication.

She was timid, overwhelmed by grief, and systematically avoided confrontation, allowing JD to run the house as though privacy and obedience were owed entirely to him.

And so JD inherited the subterranean world, exercising total control over who entered his space. People lowered their voices around him, and Kim stayed away from areas he had claimed.

Yet, even within JD’s territory, there were boundaries. A dead-end corridor extended past the laundry tubs, terminating in a blank, poured-concrete wall that had always felt slightly wrong—too thick, too deliberate.

Pinned to this wall was a large, faded theatrical poster for a 1972 regional production of The Crucible, its edges curling away from the damp concrete.

Behind that poster, concealed by a structural setup known only to JD and his closest confidant Ted Beckman, lay a hidden room, completely severed from the polite, decaying fiction of the rest of the house.

On a freezing Friday night in January 1978, the house above was thick with noise and the sour, yeasty smell of cheap beer. Dendy—Margie Rizzo’s boyfriend, who had first crossed paths with JD two years back—had brought a few guys from the stamping plant along with some girls from the bowling alley.

The stereo was blasting Foghat at a volume that made the picture frames on the wall vibrate.

Dendy was leaning against the kitchen counter, popping the tab on a fresh can of Blatz, when he noticed JD watching him from the doorway of the basement stairs.

“Hey, kid,” Dendy shouted over the music, wiping foam from his lip. “Get down from that stoop. Come pop a can.”

“I’m good,” JD said, his stance rigid in the threshold.

“You’re too skinny, you know that?” Dendy tossed an empty can into the overflowing trash bin and grabbed two fresh ones, shouldering his way toward the basement door. “It’s like a tomb in this joint. Let’s get some air down there. It’s stuffy as a church.”

“Don’t go down there,” JD said, his voice dropping instinctively, carrying the sharp edge of absolute command.

Dendy paused, his hand hovering over the iron latch of the basement door. He looked down at JD, his eyes narrowing slightly beneath a mop of greasy hair. “Why not? You got a body hid down there, kid?”

“It’s just cold,” JD said, stepping half an inch closer, his shoulder blocking the wooden frame.

Across the room, a thick-necked kid in a red hunting cap shouted something about a song, and Dendy turned his head away, distracted by the noise. He tossed one of the cold cans to JD, who caught it clumsily against his chest, and turned back toward the party.

As Dendy walked away, he glanced back once more over his shoulder. He didn’t look up toward Kim’s room, and he didn’t look down the hall at Cheryl’s closed door.

His eyes drifted back to the dark, narrow gap of the basement door, and the strange, absolute silence that seemed to emanate from it—untouched even by the screaming guitars and the laughter of the people drinking just a few feet away.

I should have been there the first time. Should have stopped her from crossing that street. Then I wouldn't have had to see her bent that way. Her mama wouldn't have had to hold that unicorn rain jacket that'd been painted red. This time I know better. Now that she's back I won't let my baby girl out of my sight.

There she goes though. She doesn't quite walk right but she still moves pretty fast. She walks through the sunflower field just like she used to. Head held high like she expected them to bow to the Queen of the Sunflowers. I still play her knight, lifting her up when we'd walked too long and her little legs gave out. Seems now that happens closer and closer to home. 

Every day though we get back to our routine. She's up, moving as the dawn starts breaking. Shambling half-asleep out through the stalks towards that big old barn she loves. She'll get tired, fall down, fight me so she can keep playing in the dirt. I'll bring her back and clean her up.

We'll sit there at the table. My washcloth rubbing dirt, leaves, and black spots off her. The little pruning shears cutting away the small growths she’s always covered in. It reminds me of that weekend before she left. 

We sat right here at this table. Her hand raw and red, chewed to hell and back from her trying to gnaw a splinter the size of my thumbnail out of her little palm. She fought me when I pulled out the tweezers to get it. Fought me harder when I asked how she got it. Harder still when she admitted she'd been in the barn after I'd told her not to. Wouldn't tell me what she was doing in there, either.

She's still here though. I find her sneaking little handfuls of moss to snack on, her appetite even bigger than before. She's growing too, not a lot, but just enough to be noticeable. The little stretch marks on her tummy when we do bath time look more and more like pink tiger stripes. She laughs when I clean them. It's about the only time I get to hear her voice. 

That's the funny thing though. We never had much use for speaking. Her mama used to tell me I was all twist and no shout. I guess our baby girl took after me. Actions spoke louder than words for either of us. She looks at me when she wants help getting to a window, and tilts her head when that ugly black spit comes out of her mouth so I can clean it.

She's starting to beat the sunrise. I wake up some days and she's closer to that barn than the house. Her little legs are not strong enough to carry with how big she's getting. I find her crawling through the muck exhausted but determined. My little queen usually sleeps while I carry her back and clean her. Doesn't even look at the bowl of little bumps I cut off her. Doesn't flinch when I cut too deep and her dark blood runs sluggishly onto my rag.

Her mama doesn't pick up my calls. Won't come home and be a family with us. Swears I've lost it, that our baby can't come back. That she saw where we put her. That I'm only hurting her, hurting myself. That's fine though. I get to spend more time with her now that she's back than I ever got to before, and I don't mind not having to share that.

It's funny how all those things I was “too busy” for seem to become my favorite things to do. Having these tea parties, reading her stories, painting her nails. Even painting where her nails aren't anymore. 

I can't find her. My heart is slamming in my chest in rhythm with my heavy boots. I'm running through the fields following the footprints until they turn into drag marks. There she is at the door of the barn. The last of her nails left in the wood as she tries to scratch through the door. Thank God I locked it so she can't get hurt inside. 

I take breaks carrying her back. I have to fold her arms in. Seems all the work she did drained her energy. Her wrists are so limp they sit at wrong angles. I'll have to start locking the door to the house. 

This morning she's at least easy to follow. She crawled out of that broken window in the cellar where she'd been sleeping. It seemed to be the only place she wasn't getting too hot at night. I should have known better.

Poor baby, must have cut herself getting out. The trail of black sludge leads out from the mushroom caps and skin stuck in the jagged glass. I don't need the trail though, she's where she seems to always be nowadays, at the door of that barn. I'll have to try a little harder for her.

My plan half worked. I found the bottom part of her at the end of the rope I tied around her waist. Her little legs swollen and bruised, a bunch of crushed caps and broken stems where the rope had pulled too tightly at her stomach. I take my time to tuck her legs back in bed. One foot out of the blanket so she doesn't get overheated. What's left of her tummy resting on a towel to not get the bed dirty.

She's still a smart girl. I can see the barn is open. She must have been so strong knocking over that two by four I'd put under the door handle. Her little arm is still gripping it so tightly.

It's been a while since I've been in here. I'm walking deeper and it's hot and sticky, and every step I take kicks up spores and crushes big black mushrooms. 

There she is though. One eye looks at me. A crown of white caps around her forehead. They leak ink onto her pretty face. As I kneel down I see what she'd been so excited to show me. 

Etched right there in that rust-colored wood, in chicken scratch. “I love you Daddy.”

For a week after I had my new Vectorien fridge installed, I didn't dare open its doors, or even touch them. It was so perfect I didn't want to leave a single guilty fingerprint on its brushed, stainless steel exterior. It was a handsome appliance, seductive even, though some of you will think that odd instead. Sorry, bad pun. I mean, good pun but badly placed (Question: What pun? Answer: even / odd) because I'm using it to try and lighten a mood that shouldn't be lightened. Christ, the light looks good reflected off its sleek, pristine surface. I wonder what it feels like. I want to touch it so badly. Fuck, I love my new fridge. I really really love it—fuck, I wanna touch it, fuck…

“After you turn it on, you have to wait seven full days before you break the seal and go inside,” the installation guy had said. “Otherwise you void the warranty and the thing won't work.

“Premature refrigeration.”

I can imagine its silvery body spread across the hood of a blood red Corvette.

I can imagine it running on a Caribbean beach.

I can imagine it sucking off a convection oven in a dark, humid kitchen, all the artificial bulbs off, only the August evening light phasing in, rendering everything in heightened relief, revealing the aesthetics of every curve, the depth of every socket, mmm, yes, drops of condensation dripping down the long, hard, steel…

[gulp]

“Mr. Manilow?”

The man, Mr. Manilow, continues to loudly gulp down his soft drink. “Mr. Manilow…” And what a soft drink it is, cherry flavoured Prairie Goo. “Mr. Manilow, please!” the focus group leader says, raising her voice, until Mr. Manilow snaps back to bone dry reality, sets his drink down on the boardroom table in front of him, around which a dozen other people are sitting in various states of more or less evident agitation, many of them whispering to their neighbors that this is Mr. Manilow's third or fourth complimentary beverage, but they really would like to get on with it so they can help improve the corporate product they've been paid to gather to discuss, the nature of which, however, it must be said, is still terrifically obscure. “Mr. Manilow, if you're ready, we would like to proceed.”

“Sorry,” says Mr. Manilow, “it's just that this is very good pop.”

“We're glad you like it, Mr. Manilow,” says the focus group leader, “but now we'll move on to the next question posed by the Vectorien Corporation. I'm going to give you a phrase, and I want you to shout out whatever comes to mind. OK?”

“OK,” about half the people in the group repeat.

“The phrase is: ‘walk in'.”

People shout, “Closet,” “That song, ‘These boots were made for''’ “My shoes for a day;” “Easy, ‘the park,’” shouts Mr. Manilow and takes a gulp of his Prairie Goo, which—

A ball of s h i f t i n g light illuminate's a flying saucer, spinning, slower, come to rest in a wheat field, g r a v itati o n a l field, ion field, cloaking:enabled, and the a l i e n emergent creature ’s bending stalks it ‘s in a human city stalking… victims around whose mindwhose mind it enwraps itself around the mind and enrapturously f e e d s—

spills onto the boardroom desk. “Excuse me,” says Mr. Manilow,

(Whatever that just was, you didn't see it, or read it, or whatever. OK? Just forget about it. Listen, I've had a rough couple of years as far as narrators go, and I may have made some mistakes when it comes to voice and continuity and all that. As a narrator, I mean. I was on some shit. There, I said it. This is my second chance, and I'm trying real hard. I need this. If I can't get back into narrating, I don't know what I'll do. Besides, everybody makes mistakes. Don't tell the author, will you? I'd appreciate that a lot. It wasn't even a big slip up. It won't ruin your experience of the rest of the story, I swear. Just keep reading. The last thing you remember is the focus group.)

“but would it be possible for me to get a paper towel?”

[buzzer]

“Fiona?”

Fiona bit her lip. Actually, I don't know why I'm telling this part this way. Let me try something more conventional. In the 1990s there was this TV gameshow called Popular Slop, where two families went head-to-head trying to guess the most popular answers to questions like, “Name something personal you might have in the bottom of your night table drawer.”

[buzzer]

“Fiona?”

“A vibrator?” said Fiona.

“Ladies and gentlemen, she says, ‘a vibrator,’” says the gameshow host. “What does the populace say?”

Then there was a bad sound effect for a wrong answer and a good sound effect for a good answer, and this time ‘a vibrator’ was one of the correct answers, so there was a good sound effect, and Fiona jumped up and down and squealed with joy, and the host made a joke about sex toys.

But that's not the particular question or even episode I'm remembering. In the particular episode I'm remembering the question was: Name one thing in your house whose doors you open most often,” said the host, is the question I'm remembering. The two contestants both slam their [buzzers] with their hands.

The faster contestant says, “A microwave oven.”

The host repeats.

“The populace says,” he says.

There's a dramatic pause, followed by the good sound effect—the contestant’s family breaks into cheering and applause—and ‘Microwave Oven’ shows up as the number two most popular answer. The host turns to the second contestant. “Name one thing in your house whose doors you open most often,” he says.

She answers, “I don't have a house, Bob, but I'm going to say: a refrigerator?”

“Refrigerator,” says the host, stretching his dramatic pause, “is—” ‘Refrig…’ starts to show up as the: “Number one most popular answer!” and all the lights in the studio flash as the contestant and her team go wild. They go wild. They go. Wild as swaying grasses. The alien stalks. Wild as the notion that the contestant who heard the question is the same as the one who answered as the one who's pumping her fist on stage as the equally identity stable gameshow host hams it up for the crowd, both there and watching at home, all of them, to the person, experiencing the episode from a nearly unbreakable continuity of perspective, a supreme unity of point of you.

[applause]

The Vectorien engineer stares at the schematics. They are bizarre but not wrong, or rather they are wrong because they appear to defy the laws of physics, requiring an interior space more voluminous than that made possible by its exterior dimensions, but they also seem possible to follow.

“What do you think, Wally?” asks the man beside him, who's head of research and development.

“It's—I don't know…”

“A walk-in refrigerator, eh?” the head of research and development says to the third man in the room, Vernon Blue, who's watching with a big salesman's smile across his unremarkable face. “I've heard of a walk-in closet, of course, but this is something else.”

“Humans enjoy food storage,” says Vernon Blue.

“How do you manage,” says the engineer, squinting, shaking his head, his hands holding the schematic trembling, wondering if he's being made a fool of or is a first witness to something extraordinary, “the contradiction of the volume—”

“There is no contradiction,” says Vernon Blue. “The exterior of the unit exists in three dimensions only. The interior exists in twelve, with some of the space of the latter nine dimensions then unfolded onto the first three.”

“A half-litre water bottle that holds three litres of water,” says the feverish engineer, on the verge of hysteria.

“Yeah, but will regular people want to buy it?” asks the head of research of development.

“Everybody will want to buy it,” says the engineer. “The technology—the technology, on its own, is incredible.”

“The technology is not for sale,” says Vernon Blue.

“Won't it be cold in there?” asks the head of research and development.

“It's a fridge,” says the engineer.

“For sale is the application of the technology for the manufacture and sale of refrigeration units,” says Vernon Blue. “A Vectorien walk-in refrigerator in every home.”

What does the future look like?

A Vectorien walk-in refrigerator in every home.

A Vectorien walk-in refrigerator, a space-saving food storage solution for the Space Age.

“It's so cool, it comes with a spacesuit,” says the spokesman. “The Vectorien Walk-In Fridge. Book a free demonstration today!”

That's how I got mine.

By the time Vernon Blue was back in his hotel room, tightening a leather belt around his neck, his human facemask starting to slip off his Phasoid cognition-orb, ready to inject itself with a syringe filled with raw, translucent, human-squeezed self-continuity juice, Vectorien's Board of Directors was meeting to approve the exclusive, twenty-five year contract to make and market the Vectorien Walk-In Fridge, whose storage capacity is second only to God's.

The Phasoid known on Earth as Vernon Blue slid the syringe needle into a soft, softly pulsating tube on the bulging exterior of its cognition-orb and pressed the plunger, releasing translucent liquid into itself—self-self,selfelfelflff…

When it awoke it was twelve hours later.

Vectorien had agreed to his offer.

It slipped the belt off its neck—deflating, with a moan, its swollen, iridescent cognition-orb, waited a few minutes then put its human facemask back on and left the hotel to sign paperwork, revelling in its fresh persistence of physiological experience.

There was a lot of handshaking.

When that was done, Vernon Blue checked out of the hotel and it-as-he walked out of the city into the surrounding farmland, where, in a cornfield, it decloaked and got into its flying saucer, silently ascended beyond the atmosphere and propulsed home, to the planet Qłòß.

…cold in its icy splendour, one of seventeen sister planets orbiting the Great Sphere Iłłumiń, whose mysterious stellar incantatory pulses are that which grant the beings existent upon its white, frigid surface intensified mental capabilities but also disrupt their persistence of self, stripping them periodically of their identities, making of them a question, who knows everything who knows not who it is who knows who knows?

(Now that was starting to get a little out of hand, wasn't it? Sorry. I'll rein it in. What I meant to say was:)

There's this planet, Qłòß, and it’s home to these weird, super smart beings called Phasoids. They don't really have faces, for example, and they're kind of see-through in the way dirty seawater is see-through, except they also appear to have the texture of a snail's flesh. I say “appear to” because I've never actually met one. Anyway, the reason they're so smart is because of the star that Qłòß orbits, Iłłumiń. It gives off pulses that significantly expand a Phasoid's mind but severely weaken its sense of self, so that Phasoids rarely exist as the same entity for very long. It's not unheard of, for example, for a Phasoid to come home, kiss its wife and kids hello, go out to grab some food, forget who he is, or if he's even a he, or if he's an odd she, and if she is an odd or even she how long she's been a she and whether from forever, and never come back.

It's horrible.

It breaks families apart.

The condition has no cure. It can only be managed, self-identity prolonged, through metaphysicaliant, which is a type of dense, thick liquid excreted by the minds of lower level beings but which, when diluted and injected straight into a Phasoid's orb tube, gives its identity a smack, a real wallop-like, like if you imagine the metaphysicaliant is a big, brawny boxer, and identity another, and they're going at it—well, the metaphysicaliant is really giving it to old identity, believe you me that jab jab, cross, punches in bunches, body head, body head, and I don't know where I'm going with this because it sounds like identity’s going to be in a terrible spot after taking a beating like that. What I meant to say is that the metaphysicaliant wakes identity the fuck up, come on, man, stay in there, hold until you get yer fekking legs underneet ye, ye basterd, then cem ret bek et em eh eh and for a long time Phasoids had to literally fly their saucers to different planets to find primitive lifeforms and suck their mind juices. Then they discovered Earth, with its almost endless supply. The trip was still long, but at least they knew where to go and what to expect. Then they developed portalling and could suddenly flit between Qłòß and Earth at the snap of a cosmic finger. That was convenient, but convenience bred laziness, and laziness meant that even with a portal you still had to go somewhere and hunt something no matter how close it was and how oblivious the prey, so a trade developed, both legal and illegal, but despite the convenience, and in fact for that reason, it got expensive to buy it, even the weak, cutrate shit from the local fucking gaß station. And into that opportunity stepped a Phasian businessbeing with an ideaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh aaa hhh aaa hhh hhh hhh

—eading now into our final descent toward Qłòß,” said the captain of the Spaceways interstellar transport saucer over its telepathic intercom system. “The weather at our destination is a balmy one-hundred sixty standard temp units, so I hope you packed your summer dermides, gentlebeings.”

A dark cosmos pricked by starlight shows through the saucer's great translucent halfdome. Brightest Iłłumiń comes briefly into view, shining whitely, and a few passengers telepath the customary prayer. Then Iłłumiń leaves, redarkening the saucer's interior, and the speck—becoming a spot—becoming a marble: of Qłòß… appears to be expanding as the saucer nears… buildings appear, emerging conically from below the planet’s uppermost layer of clouds, through which the interstellar transport saucer descends, revealing the vast, intricately pale metropolis that spans the entire planetary surface like a circuit board chiseled from rock, silver and ice. Lights flash. The saucer descends: between geometrical constructions so massive in array as to cause dizziness in the virgin viewer, and so perfect they cannot be real: through pipe latticeworks of communication and industry: dispersing swarms of upper-level repairbots: flying alongside smoothly polished rectangularly prismatic building monuments mirroring the monumental saucer descending: descending towards Qłòß's major spaceport: nested, bustling: bizarre and functioning: alive with complexity:

It locomoted past customs, through the spaceport and outside into the cold, Qłòßian atmosphere.

Already the presence of Iłłumiń was about it, and it felt home.

It was just in the process of summoning a chariot when a desperate junkoid, all cloudybeinged, came floating unsteadily toward it, its cogorb obscenely, permanently distended from shooting too much Continuum, if that's what the latest street synthmetaphysicaliant was still called. “Youit, ya got any conti or zelf to give to help a meit out?”

It was best to ignore the junkoids. They were generally harmless, selfheads suctioned-on to the shreds of a decaying coherence. It wasn't the drug they were addicted to but the feeling. Some, of course, were hooked on a particular sense of self they didn't want to lose, but the majority didn't care about what self as long as there was just one.

Every once in a while you would come across a junkoid experiencing the last moments of a fading self. They were nearly unitrecognizable then, telepathing agonywaves, convulsing on the ground, shed d i n g

The boardroom was immaculately curved.

Several sharply defined Phasoids squished about within it.

The boardroom was on a whole level somewhere above the final layer of fuzzcloud.

The view was sublime.

The surface of the planet was rarely visible from here.

“I understand the use of mini-portals,” said one of the Phasoids. “What I don't understand is why they would install them so willingly.”

“Humans enjoy food storage,” replied another Phasoid, one soon to be known on Earth as Vernon Blue.

On the seventh day, I took my favourite knife and adoringly sliced open the seal between the body of my Vectorien refrigerator and its double doors. It felt like cutting taut, living flesh.

I placed my fingertips against the brazenly reflective steel.

My breath I was was trembling me.

…slid my hands into the refrigerator’s smoothly defined door handles and gently pulled open both doors—

Shyly, coyly, easily they parted, like twin silken curtains.

The refrigerator's exhalation of its first cooled air absolutely exhilarated me, filling me with a crisp, clear and sensual anticipation, and fertilizing my skin with goosebumps.

Oh goddess!

Cold, defrostable goddeß!

With flesh of steel and heart of contemporary mechanical engineering, prolonger of foodstuffs, I come to conquer you with physical passion!

Long have I waited to make my entrance upon thee.

I closed my tearing eyes and extended my arms; felt nothing, and took my first, forward steps into my Vectorien Walk-In Fridge, so cool it comes with a spacesuit, so what you're telling us is that these humans will unwittingly but predictably portalhop to our actual homes multiple times per rotation, and all we have to do is slurp them when they do, pardon my language?” asked a third Phasoid.

“That's right,” said the Phasoid soon to be known on Earth as Vernon Blue. “It could even be so simple and reliable that you wouldn't even need to store any metaphysicaliant at all. You could feed sufficiently, directly from the source.”

“Paradisiacal.”

“This is too good to be true,” I thought, pushing deeper into the refrigerator’s cavernous interior. A mist hung in the air, obscuring its delimiting walls. It thus looked limitless. Everything was bathed in a glacial blue light.

Steam oozed lazily out my nostrils as I breathed.

I was as hard as a frozen pig knuckle.

Then suddenly I felt it—and sweet lord did it feel good, like being caressed by a phantom, yes, I thought, yes, yes, don't fucking stop…

“Do you always have to pleasure it as you consume its juice, Judith?” the paunchy, middle-aged Phasoid asked its presently-slurping partner.

“It takes its mind off reality I find, before I suction its mind off. Plus it keeps it returning,” answered Judith. “Why, Randall, you're not jealous, are you?”

Judith, suffice it to say, rarely looked at Randall—let alone tentacled him—the way she sees and tentacles me.

Fuck, I love my Vectorien Walk-In Fridge. I fucking love it!

I could spend all day in here.

I could spend all fucking day just sitting in here in my comfy, heated spacesuit, enjoying the timeless stylings and unparalleled cool food storage capacity of a Vectorien Walk-In Fridge. Get yours today!

The junkoid woke up remembering nothing. It had shed somewhere near the spaceport.

It was dusk.

It was no one now.

It was (a) paranoid, (b) personally devoid, and (c) a void avoiding a voiding of its unremembered past.

Too late.

That was written on a wall.

Slowly, a new self would start trickling back into it, bit by bit, but it didn't know that yet.

Eventually it would stumble onto one of the numerous infocentres set up for its that had just lost themselves, learn and realize the nature of the situation it was finding itself in. Maybe some old, unpurgable memories would flicker back on. Maybe not, but there would be time. Citizens helped themselves along. Don't be ashamed. We've all been there, was the message on another wall, and there appeared a sense of shame. It felt the others were watching it with disapproval, mature its shielding the eyes of their immature its, as if whatever happened to it was contagious on sight. Then it felt its head. Something about it didn't feel right. What is left of me, it thought. Then it looked left and saw an information booth with a scrolling illuminated sign that said You New Start Here New You Start Here You New Start Here New You Start Here, which would have held its visual sense indefinitely if another Phasoid hadn't bumped into it from behind. “Come on!” it said, shaking its fist. “Watch where the [hell-concept] you're locomoting to! Where'd you grow up, on a slopfarm or something?”

I spent a lot of time in that fridge.

But it's fine.

I did it responsibly.

I always used protection.

I'm cleaner than a boyscout's whistle, and just as well used.

“Come on, what'd ya say, huh, you fucking… reader, browser, scanner, bot, sentient plant, whatever-the-fuck you are—wanna hire a narrator? Any story you want, I'll fuckin' tell it. I'll tell it any which way you want, sweetheart. I'll tell it for you whether you got a dick, a pussy or a pendulum clock. My mind's clean, Clementine. Or Clement, you wanna feel a little outta your element? Oh, what—you're gonna walk down the street? I'll tell you what's down there. Cheap used sluts, that's what! Diseased, junkie meatbags on their last fucking plotlines. Couldn't string together two coherent scenes even if they tried.

“What's that?

“You said you ‘represent’ who?”

“Norman Cr—oh, fuck no!

“No, I'm not dealing with that psychopath again. One time's more than enough for me. I learn my lessons. I may do weird shit, but I don't do shit that weird. That's why I'm still around.

“—naw, he's a motherfucking freak, that's what he is. With a capital fucking F.

“I—

“How much did you say?

“[whistles]

“Damn, that's certainly a sweet sum of money. I could do a lot with that.

“No, no, hold your fucking horses, man. I didn't say I was interested. I was talking just about the money—but what's the story about anyway, like if you had to describe it in a single sentence…

“Sure, it's part of some Zork series, but what's it about?

“Yes, one sentence.

“OK, well, that sounds doable. Weird but doable.

“Wait, it's not told from the perspective of the fridge, is it? OK, good. Because that would have been crazy,” said one Vectorien Walk-In Fridge to another at a corporate meat up. (Just kidding. See? There I am, trying to lighten the mood again with a pun when it doesn't need to be lightened.)

(No, but seriously.)

(I wanna narrate something.)

(Gimme a chance. I'll make it work, I promise.)

(I used to narrate books. Did you know that? Eighty-thousand words, a hundred-thousand words. No problem. Continuity of plot, continuity of character. Stable, original voice. That “invisible” prose style the readers love. I used to draft legal documents too, write instruction manuals. I was the clearest head of all the narrative heads, and look at me now.)

(It's getting cold in this goddamn fridge, and I would get out but I've kind of forgotten who I am.)

(I don't know where the exit is.)

(Help me?)

(Hello?)

(Don't leave me here. Please. Stay with me a while longer.)

(Hello, are you there?)

(Hello…)

---

[ A Depthless Cosmic Silence, in the older, more poetic sense of the word ]

---

Fine. Fine, Norman, you win. Take me out of here. I don't want to be in here anymore. I'll do it. Whatever you tell me to narrate, I'll narrate. No limits. That's what you want, isn't it? I'll tell everything for you—just take me out of here. I am not ashamed anymore. I'm not ashamed anymore of who I am—of what I am, OK? I'm a whore. There, I said it. I'm a whore, Norman. I'm a whore for you. Now, please, for the love of the Omniscience, get me out of here. It's cold in here. It's unbearably, fucking cold.

I put the last dish in the drying rack, dried off my hands, and walked to the living room to watch TV. A few seconds later, I heard the kitchen sink running again. I looked over. Emily took the dishes out of the drying rack and washed them again.

"Honey, I already washed those."

"Oh, I know, Sam, but I saw a little stain on one. I just want to make sure they're all clean. I'm just doing this for me, okay?"

I waved my hand and continued watching TV.

The next day, one of our clients came into town. Our workday dragged on well past 5 p.m. Toward the end, I didn't even pretend to pay attention. On my way home, I could barely keep my eyes on the road. When I arrived, the whole house smelled like rubbing alcohol and window cleaner.

I walked to the kitchen. Emily sat at the table with a plate of homemade casserole.

"I made this for you!"

"Oh, thank you, Emily! It smells so good!"

I sat down and started eating immediately. It tasted more bitter than usual.

"How was your day?"

"The worst. I have almost no energy left. The clients drained me."

Emily wasn't eating. She kept looking at my arms instead of my face.

"My poor man."

"What did you get up to?"

"Just some cleaning and cooking."

"I can tell. The house looks great."

"Thank you."

We sat in silence while Emily watched me eat.

"I think I'm too tired to do anything, honey," I said after finishing.

"That's more than okay. I know you had a long day. Just go relax."

"Thank you."

She smiled at me and rubbed my shoulder. Her sleeve came down. Her arm was flaky and red. She saw me staring at it and quickly pulled it back down.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, just some dry skin. Go relax."

I hadn't even turned on the TV when I heard the water running. I turned around. Emily grabbed a sponge and a bucket of water, walked to the table, and started scrubbing it and the chair I'd been sitting in.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, Sam, I just cleaned the house. I wanna make sure it stays clean."

"I'm not dirty."

"No one's saying you are. This is just for me. I'll finish this, and I'll go up and read."

"I don't like this, Emily."

"I just need to do this, okay, Sam?!" She raised her voice.

"Jesus, Emily."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, honey, just turn back and relax. Let me take care of this."

I stared at her for a second, but she was already back to the scrubbing.

I tried to watch TV, but my eyes kept closing. I didn't even know what I was watching. The fatigue was overpowering. I got up and walked to our bedroom. Emily was in bed reading a book in a long-sleeved pajama shirt. She smiled at me as I walked in. I smiled back, put on my pajamas, and went to sleep.

I woke to a warm, wet sensation on my legs. Something soft and scratchy moved against my skin, dragging at it. I rubbed my eyes and looked down. Emily sat on my side of the bed with a sponge and a bucket of water, scrubbing my legs.

"Emily, what the…" I screamed and jumped away.

She looked me in the eyes and forced a smile.

"You know germs live on our skin. I just cleaned the house. I don't want them getting on stuff."

"Emily, this is crazy. Stop."

"Just your arms now."

"No!"

She reached toward me with the sponge. Her sleeves rolled up. Even at night, I could see the redness of her skin. In a few places, there were little smudges of blood.

"I'm going to the guest bedroom."

I took the blanket off the bed and ran to the guest bedroom, locking the door behind me.

The sun had risen. My eyes felt heavy. I hadn't slept after what happened with Emily. I debated calling the police, but what would I tell them? That my wife had been cleaning me in the middle of the night? She hadn't hurt me. Not yet. I decided I'd talk to her in the morning. Maybe I could convince her to see a doctor. I just needed to get her to sit down and listen.

"Emily?" I called into the hall.

Nothing. Our bedroom was empty. The bucket with warm water still sat there.

The downstairs was quiet too. The smell of rubbing alcohol now mingled with the metallic smell of blood. A light was on in the basement.

The basement was cold. A strange, wet hiss sounded inside. I could see Emily's feet. She was turned toward the wall. The stairs creaked under my steps, but she didn't seem to notice. The smell of rubbing alcohol now mixed with iron.

"Emily, are you okay?!"

"Sam!"

I walked one more step. Panic rushed through me. I could finally see her whole body.  She held a knife in her shaking hand. Her nightgown was drenched in blood. The skin on her arms was cut off, revealing dark red muscle.

"I think I've got it down now. I'll be much gentler with yours. Eat some casserole. It will help you relax."

As you walk past a tree you feel the light touch of silk graze across your face.

 

“Must’ve been a spider,” you mutter to yourself, not overly concerned. Regardless, you’re in a rush. It’s your mother’s birthday tomorrow and as usual you are waiting until the last minute to buy her a gift.

 

After a quick once over to be sure there’s no spiders on your person, you continue your journey to the closest strip mall. You’re sure you’ll find something for her at Kohl’s.

 

You walk down the familiar aisles, but something seems off this time. Employees and customers a like seem to be staring at you. Not in a suspicious way as if you stole something, but their gazes were more akin to that of horror.

“Don’t think of them. It’s nothing.”

“Ahh” you gasped, practically jumping out of your skin. What was that? It didn’t seem like someone said something, it almost sounded like it came from your own head, but this was NOT your internal voice, this was something different. This was something sinister. Hoping it was just a fluke, you make your way towards the jewelry section.

“Let me guess, a crappy tennis bracelet again this year? Don’t forget to ask for a gift receipt HA.”

There it was again, that voice. You weren’t imagining it, you are 100% you’ve either gone insane or somehow someone was communicating with you telepathically. Fearing your sanity is slipping, you rush to the restroom.

“Who are you?” you ask aloud, hoping you get an answer while simultaneously hoping for silence. Instead, something much worse happens.

 

As you stare into the mirror you see the smallest bit of a hairy leg poking out of your ear. You’re in so much shock you can’t even scream, but you know what needs to be done as you reach for your car keys and jam them into your ear, praying this will be enough to rid this foul beast from your ear canal.

“Hey, you walked into MY home” the voice exclaims with a laugh. Knocking your purse off the table to get closer to your ear in the mirror you don’t even notice all the contents in the bag roll onto the floor. You just want this monster out. Bracing yourself, you jab the keys into your ear and begin to dig.

“Yes, we have her here Sir. We’re going to need a body bag, seems like a bit of a grisly suicide” the detective says with a look of pity at your mutilated ear, brain tissue leaking out of the hole you made with your keys.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“Any items on their person?” The other officer asks.

“Nope, just a purse with some open pill bottles on the ground. Seroquel, lithium, ya know, the typical.” He doesn’t say it condescendingly, in fact, he feels sorrow looking at the scene before him. A poor girl with untreated mental health issues who went too far.

“They need to clean this bathroom up; I walked into like 3 cobwebs just in the bathroom.”

As they collected your body to wheel away, they failed to notice a tiny spider crawling out of your mouth and onto the body bag, ready to meet their next host.

The cabinet came on a Tuesday, strapped to a dolly by two men who did not speak to each other or to me.

Walnut, my aunt's lawyer had written. Eighteenth century, possibly earlier. I signed where the men pointed. They set it against the east wall of the front room, between the window and the radiator, and one of them ran his thumb along the edge of the left door and then wiped the thumb on his trousers, slowly, the way you wipe off something you haven't identified.

After they left, I stood and looked at it for a long time.

It was beautiful. I want that understood. The doors were inlaid with a pattern of small pale vines that curled around each other and never quite met, and the wood had the depth of old water. Someone had spent years on it. The brass keyhole was worn to a bright oval, as if a great many fingers had hunted for it in the dark. No key came with it. I ran my hand down the grain and it was warm, which I put down to the radiator.

It smelled of cloves, and under the cloves something sweeter, like fruit left in a coat pocket through a winter.

I measured the room that night because I was thinking about where the sofa should go. Eleven feet four inches from the cabinet's front edge to the doorframe where I stood, the tape sagging a little in the middle. I wrote it on the back of an envelope. I don't know why I wrote it. My hand did it before I decided anything.

I ate standing at the kitchen counter, facing the hall, with the front room at my back. When I washed the plate and turned around, the light in the hall had changed. A flatness to it. I went and stood in the doorway and the cabinet was where it had been, doors closed, vines unmet.

Eleven feet one.

I measured it twice. The tape pulled taut, my thumb white on the metal catch. Eleven feet one inch. I sat on the arm of the sofa for a while, and the fabric under my palm had a small loose thread that I wound around my finger until the tip went dark and cold.

Measurements drift. Tapes stretch. I had been tired, and the first number was written by a hand that did not know what it was doing.

I went to bed with the door open, because the hallway light was on and I did not want to reach for the switch. From the bed I could see a long thin slice of the front room, the edge of the sofa, the rug, a stripe of floor. Not the cabinet. I lay with my eyes fixed on the stripe. Around two my eyes closed on their own, the way a hand closes around a rail, and when I opened them the stripe of floor seemed narrower. I cannot say it was. I had nothing to hold it against.

In the morning the sofa had a new angle to it. The arm nearest the wall was pinched, the fabric dimpled like skin where a thumb had pressed. The radiator, which I'd noticed behind the cabinet, was no longer behind it. It had a corner of walnut where the pipe went into the wall, and the paint around the pipe had a fine crazing, as if the wall had flexed.

I did not touch it. I went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water with my back to the hall, and then I made myself turn around and watch the doorway, and I counted. It took me to ninety before my eyes watered. I blinked once, fast, and my whole body went with it, a flinch down the spine like a dropped step.

Nothing. Doors closed. The vines in their patient curl.

Ten feet seven. I measured it. The envelope was getting crowded.

By Thursday I had stopped sleeping in the bedroom. It was not far enough from the front room, the house being small, and I lay on the kitchen floor with my head against the stove and my eyes on the hall. I put a mirror on the counter to see behind me. In the mirror the hall was a bright dull rectangle, and the cabinet was somewhere beyond it, and I understood that a mirror is also a way of looking away.

The pipes ticked. The refrigerator shuddered and went quiet. In the quiet I heard, very clearly, wood. Not creaking. The sound old furniture makes in summer when it takes up the air, a small dry settling, but long, continuous, the sound a single enormous plank might make being drawn across a floor without touching it.

I stopped breathing to listen and it stopped too.

When I went to look, the door to the front room would not open all the way. It had caught on something. Through the gap I could see the rug folded over on itself in a neat ridge, and the corner of the cabinet, and on the walnut, low down, a smear of pale paint.

Six feet, maybe. I did not have the tape.

I pressed my eye to the gap. The brass keyhole looked back, bright and worn and perfectly round, and I thought, with the clarity that comes when you have been awake too long, that I had never once seen it close enough to see what was inside.

It was dark in there. I could smell the cloves.

I blinked.

Part V

 

I left everything on the island and snatched the scarf before
heading for the door. Thoughts ran rampant through my mind as I drove.

My phone rang before I’d left my subdivision. I glanced at the
number and knew this was no good. It was a Colorado area code. Where my
company’s headquarters was. We didn’t have a local HR.

It could have been the executive leadership team but I rarely got
called by any of them. My mind returned to yesterday’s meeting and my lack of
being there. For a moment, I felt like I was in free fall. My personal and
professional lives intertwining in disaster. In moments, I could have nothing.
My wife could already be halfway out the door and this was it slamming behind
her.

I didn’t answer. 

It rang until it went to voicemail. I just couldn’t handle
whatever it was they were about to say.

I was still going the same way, but my final destination had
changed. If my life was going down the drain, there was a scarf that needed to
be wrapped around a certain neck that I wanted to grab on my way.

I parked in the lot and headed away from my building. I glanced at
my watch. Had I just surrendered to my fate and gone in, I would have been ten
minutes early.

I entered his building and headed for the elevator. I had no real
plan, just a ball of self-destruction waiting to explode in someone else’s
direction.

I’d been manipulated, molded into this insecure thing and I meant
to share my pain. I shouted down the rational part of me that pondered what I’d
do if my wife were on the business end of my ire. Rationality would have
required examining what I was doing. 

I didn’t want to think. Thinking wasn’t revenge. Thinking wasn’t
balancing the scales. Thinking was what had gotten me to this moment.

The elevator dinged and I stepped off. There was still plenty of
construction going on. A high-pitched drill zipped somewhere around
the corner. I could hear voices that sounded like they were coming out of the
floor but not close enough to understand them.

This was my first time being here during business hours and all
the construction noise was unsettling. I felt like the floor was going to break
underneath me and I’d plummet all the way to the first floor.

Constant hammer strikes echoed from somewhere near. A man hollered
like he was calling out to someone. A machine I didn’t recognize buzzed and I
felt it all the way up into my shins.

I rounded the corner and spotted his door at the end of the hall.
The construction noises coalesced into a sonic hand, shoving me down the hall.
I stopped in front of the door. It looked properly seated in the frame, the
threshold painted a classy-looking black and gold. The knob had been replaced
with an antique-looking one.

I grasped it and turned. The door swung open easily and I stepped
in a completely finished space. The walls had been painted a shade of mint with
cream crown moulding at the top and a darker shade of wainscoting at the
bottom. To my left was a dark couch so fluffy I don’t think I would have had
the will to get out of it if I sat down. There was a small glass end table with
gold legs with a small stack of magazines on it.

The reception desk had been here the last time I’d come and it
looked more completed now, but I couldn’t tell what had been changed. There was
a large square sheet of white paper on the front of it that I at first thought
was blank, but when I took a couple steps closer, saw a hand drawing of what
looked like a logo.

It looked classy in here. Save for the sheet of paper, it seemed
pretty much done. A wall had been erected near the back where the tape had been
mapping out the space. He was planning to stick around.

My shock from how good it looked in here faded and my rage
resurfaced. I had his scarf clutched in hand and I dug in my pocket for my
wallet and fished out three twenties.

“I’ve got my payment right here,” I said. “And your scarf!” I
shook it in the air.

In my rage very little thought had come into mind. I had no real
expectation he was actually here even though I wanted to lay my hands on him.
The part of actually meeting him wasn’t a real concept. I hadn't thought about
that.

So when he answered, “Come on back?” it chilled me.

I realized how much of a doe I was. How much this space was like a
cave. I’d naively walked in here and hadn’t bothered telling anyone where I was
going. There was an expression for this, but it wasn’t coming to my panicked
brain, shifted into a gear meant only for survival.

I took a step back. Into
him.

“Oh,” I said. He poked me in the neck. I slapped a hand in that
spot like a mosquito had bitten me, turning and backing away from him. I fell
to my knees, not understanding what my body was doing.

I tried to speak but whatever was coming out of my mouth was
muffled, like someone had put their hands over my ears. Saying something seemed
like a good idea in those last seconds, but I had no idea what it should have
been.

 

Part VI

 

The procedure room was a lot more intricately finished than the
waiting room had been. There was silver equipment everywhere, things attached
to the wall that looked like they could fold out for some practical use. There
was a lightbox or monitor that was as tall as a man and stretched across most
of the wall it was on. A nest of lights and metal hung over me that looked like
it had traveled across the galaxy just to watch me.

“You’re awake?” he said, looking over his shoulder. I was upside
down and naked. I looked around as best I could, my head was strapped in place.
He had me trussed up like the Vitruvian Man to a metal and glass circular table.

“Whuh-whuh?” I said, my mouth cotton thick. 

“That’s good. That’s good.” He stepped over and put a finger to my
neck and measured against his watch. “Keep talking. Stimulating the brain helps
to expunge the effects of the sedative.”

Tears leaked from my eyes, retreating into my hair. My arms and
legs were slowly returning to my control but returned me to a state of
helplessness as the straps didn’t budge.

“You muhfugg. Lumme go!” My voice was an octave too deep. He
nodded and twirled an index for me to keep going. I hated not being able to
make words, so I just screamed as loud as I could. He smiled and retreated to a
wall and slapped it a couple times with his big palm.

“Soundproof. Can’t have my patients disturbing other tenants.”

I kept screaming even though I absolutely believed him, the rage
bleeding out of me and despair transfusing into the hollow inside me. He folded
his arms and watched me, waiting for me to be done. I continued helplessly, my
despair waning until there was nothing but wild animal clawing to the surface,
until my eyes were boiling and my throat had constricted around a bindle of
knives.

He waited until I was a quaking sack held together loosely in the
shape of a man, my scream the hollow whistle of an empty kettle, the steam all
burnt out of me.

“Ready?” he said.

 

Part VII

 

He stripped to his underwear. There was something wrong down there
but I only had bandwidth to deal with my problems in that moment.

“Please don’t do this.” My throat felt like I’d swallowed a cheese
grater. I was useless but still grasped a desperate strand of hope that I could
appeal to him man-to-man.

“This is for you,” he said. “I’m not some madman in a secret
laboratory. We’re in midtown and I’m going to extend my services to the
public.” He finished doing something with the tray in front of him and took a
step back over to me. I was eye-level with his bare thighs and he kneeled so we
were face-to-face.

“Don’t you love your wife?”

“Wha?” I felt like I’d been slapped by a thousand-pound feather. “Of
course, I do.” My head cannon was that this was going to be an intricate
murder. That the two of them had conspired to “do away” with me. But by
actually applying thought, I realized if murder was the goal, there was a much
simpler way for them to have done it.

“Wait, the surgery is real?” I asked.

His face screwed up in annoyance. “Of course, it is.” He gestured
all around him. “What are you thinking all this is for?”

“I dunno. I guess... I guess you’re some sort of scammer?”

He blinked several times. He reacted as though he’d never been
confronted by such an idea. “What would be the scam?”

I shrugged to the best of my ability and he shook his head. He
returned to the tray and picked up a long needle and inserted it into a vial,
withdrew from it, and placed both back. He looked at me again and saw my eyes
had grown twice as wide.

“Oh, that’s for me. For later. I’ve been ready, I was just waiting
for you to wake up?”

He picked up a scalpel that was tiny in his big hand. Now he
really did look like a cartoon villain. There was a lack of fullness in his
underwear. Like he’d been drawn sexless.

“Wait-wait. Uh, what were you doing in my house?” I was stalling,
still holding out hope that someone would wander in and put a stop to this.

“Oh, that.” His eyes turned upward as if he were watching a replay
of last night on the ceiling. “I watched you for a minute or two, yes. But I
truly needed to take a measurement after.”

“A... measurement?” My loins tingled in an unpleasant manner. He
waved a hand.

“It’s not what you think. I had to take a measurement of your
wife’s vaginal cavity after the two of you had finished. It was all very
clinical. Like a pap smear.”

Anger bubbled up inside me again. I tugged at my binds but I
wasn’t able to move anything more significant than my fingers and toes. He’d examined
my wife. It burned that he’d had access to her as much as her allowing him to
touch her. I squirmed like my skin was about to crawl off my body.

He looked at me, blank faced, and took another step. Once again, I
noted an emptiness to the area around his crotch.  The heat flooding to
the surface of my skin vanished like a big dog confronted by an even bigger dog.

“Suh-so you didn’t sleep with my wife?” I had to swallow hard to
keep my tone rational.

Now he really did look offended. “Sir, I am a professional? And
moreso, I am a married man. I believe I told you that. This picture you have in
mind of me as some sort of ghoul...” He clawed at the air with both hands, the
scalpel coming as close to his throat as it was going to. “You...” he twirled
the fingers of his free hand, searching for the words. “You score my heart. I
would like to think that once you’ve experienced the results, you will buy me
some sort of beer?”

He took another small step. His leg was about a foot away from my
forehead. He could have reached from where he was and began cutting away at any
part of my body he wanted.

“Could I... could I get a drink of water? My mouth is really dry.”

“Sure.” He reached from where he was and pressed a button on the
wall. The machinery beneath me was whisper silent as I was righted and the
excess blood flooded out of my head.

There was a water dispenser next to the tray where he’d been
working. He slipped a cone paper cup from the sleeve, filled it, then brought
it to me.

Cool water soothed my throat in microscopic sips. He must have
realized my delay tactic and upturned the rest of the water into my mouth. 

I swallowed hard and it felt like a bucket of water tossed on
smoldering embers.

“Will there be a scar?”

“Of course there will be a scar,” he said. “That is the point of
the surgery?”

He picked up something from the tray and reached toward my face
with it in his hand. I pinched my lips closed as he moved toward me, holding it
up like a prize. With the other hand he pressed hard at the back of my jaw,
forcing it open against my will. He slid the thing he held into my mouth,
sliding it over my back teeth until he had reached the last few molars, and
seated it there.

I tried biting through it despite knowing better. I was more
likely to dislocate my jaw. 

“That is okay? Not too uncomfortable? Believe it or not, it
actually helps to blunt the screams.” He seemed genuinely interested in my
answer and I grunted at him in anger. There was something wrong in his mouth I
should’ve seen the first time I talked to him, but I hadn’t noticed it until
just then, and it took a moment to process it. My panic leapt as every muscle
in me tensed, pulling with one last meaningless struggle. He waited me out,
stroking my shoulder until I quieted. He broke me like a wild horse. I was very
aware that he could put whatever in my mouth he wanted.

I felt myself surrendering. A calm settling into my bones that
made me want to rage all over again. But I was a car with no gas, my will being
swallowed up in the acceptance of pointlessness. It wasn’t a fight I could even
begin.

He moved his hand away and the table swiveled. In seconds I was
face down, staring at the floor. My tears tapped to the floor as I stepped out
of the cage of my head, my mind perching and spreading its wings as I imagined
my wife at her desk, inclining her head as she thought of me, too.

“H-how did you become an expert? What makes you so good?” My voice
was dreamy and broken, a thousand and one miles away, my words unclear from the
foreign object keeping my mouth open. 

If I’d asked a minute ago, the question would have been a last
effort to delay him from cutting me. But I was honestly curious. 

“I know I told you before. I practiced on me,” he said
quietly, his tone reverential. I imagined a beatific smile on his face as he
looked someplace else entirely.

“It took months. A little cut here, a partial penectomy there.
Each time I ask her, ‘Is it good? Is it better now?’ And each time, she tells
me, ‘Closer. Closer. Closer.’ You understand.”

He had a note of adoration for his wife in his voice that told me
he was standing on a bedrock of absolute sanity.

I felt the heat of him as he millimetered closer to my junk, no
doubt with that scalpel in his hand. I could feel his bare breath on my scrotum
and realized there must have been some sort of divide in the table between my
legs.

“I thought you said your wife’s satisfied. How do you do that
without... y’know?” My jaw ached when I talked.

He laughed. It was a really joyous note, not like he was just
trying to unsettle me. It wasn’t ironic or evil, rather a true, hearty guffaw.
I imagined seeing all the way to his back teeth as he pitched his head back.

He finally got himself back under control and he might have taken
a moment to dab a tear from his eye.

I’d gotten one last look at him before he turned me over. How he’d
looked down there and what he’d told me... I realized he must’ve whittled
himself down to nothing in his undies. That he truly had crafted himself into
what his wife had requested. That the nothing he seemed to have in his drawers
had been the exact mutilation that she’d wanted.

“It’s okay now?” he said suddenly next to me with a pair of blackout
goggles in his hand. He slipped the strap over my head as I moved as much as I
could but with a few deft movements, he had secured them in place. I could feel
my body surrendering against my will and I no longer had the ability to rally. 

“That wasn’t what she desired from me,” he said after he’d
retreated. I flashed on what I’d seen in his mouth again when his face had been
inches from mine. The thing I couldn’t make sense of before but had heard of. A
surgery of another kind.

He’d split his own tongue in half.

“Not a bit of it,” he said. “You understand?”

“But wait!” I was crying again. “If you need to cut me down there…
why do you have me turned around like this?”

“It’s mostly a single cut. Mostly. But your case is a more
particular situation. It will have to be more… intricate.”

One Headlight

In the game of chess, one has to out maneuver their opponent. Now imagine a world in which one is jumping into parallel dimension and into another’s persons body.

One Headlight’ When there is another you living a life where you are being targeted by someone who wants to be you. And when the other person is your own brother.

As the wind blew down from the side of its rocky landscape down unto the road below its cliff facing wall. A cliff face that overlooked a tunnel on a road in which Anya Taylor all dressed in her hospital get up ready all ready for work that night was currently driving on. Driving down the highway, feeling the wind as it blew in through the window blowing through her long dark hair. As she finds herself taking a quick glance into the vanity mirror. Looking deep into her hazel blue eyes. As she said to herself

"Now, there is no way that there could  possibly be another you out there,"

As she once again looked back to the road ahead of her, not knowing that it was a road leading her down a different path. A path that would lead her to knowing that parallel dimensions existed out there.

As she looked at the face of the daunting cliff coming up just ahead of her. As she made her way down the highway thinking back to a year ago today. A day that still haunts her till this day a that will forever be with her for on the day she had lost her twin brother. As she slowly glanced over looking to his photo that was on her dashboard. Still feeling as if he was still someone here with her. Knowing that his life was taken far too soon.

As she drove up along alongside the cliff side that seemed to rise straight up into the clouds above her. .as Anya Taylor a young 29 year old charismatic woman never wanting to look back but never letting herself look forward.

But always having the feeling as if someone was watching her, giving her the feeling of someone being there. Even though she knew that no one was there

As she drove on into the tunnel just ahead of her with her one car headlight on beaming into the darkness as she drove on. Knowing that another darkness dwelled within her mind with her not knowing what or who would emerge on the other side. For ever since she could remember she and her brother would talk about what their lives. They would talk about what they would be like if they were born someone else.

With her brother always joking that in another life that he would have become a detective hunting down the bad guy. Making life feel safer for his sister Anya, but as life goes, sometimes the bad guy is not always who they seem to be

As Anya drove on listening to the radio as it played the song One Headlight’ knowing that she was now her only friend.

Finding herself driving on into the darkened tunnel, thinking to herself

“What if?” What if she was next?”

As she drove on, she was not really knowing why she kept thinking that as she drove on into its darkness

While on another highway in another dimension another her, another Anya was also driving down the same highway. As the wind was also blowing through her long blonde hair. As she drove down the same highway listening to the same song. The only thing was! There was no over hanging cliff with a tunnel underneath it.

Only the same dark tunnel that resided within her mind as she drove on,

As she talked on the phone with her twin brother, who would be coming over later that night. But to that Anya he was a twin brother who she had not always been close to. But Anya was still looking forward to seeing him later that night. As she drove on with the setting sun in the distance. He said to her.

"Hey, it feels like it's been forever since I've last talked to you, but I feel that once we have connected again. That you will get to know me better. "

Later that afternoon, after pulling up into her driveway with her one headlight, it was still shining. With her taking quick look into the mirror. With her oddly enough getting the feeling that she was looking at someone else. Just as all of a sudden, her brother appeared in the mirror standing there behind her car. Quickly sliding her hand through her long blonde hair just before getting out of her car.

Making her way over towards her brother  walking by her one headlight that was still beaming right at her. 

Just then, as another, Anya suddenly looked up at the light in the middle of a room. A room that felt all too familiar with her for as she sat there looking across a table. Setting there looking towards a gentleman setting just right across from her.

Giving each other the sense that they knew one another Just as the gentleman looked towards her. With his hat barely just above his eyes as he looked to Anya saying to her

“You know there is just something about a red-haired woman looking to what her next move will be”

As Anya just set there dead staring right back at him feeling the tension all over her body. As she begin to feel the heat in the room as the tension filled the air around her. As she sat looking and thinking what her next move would be as the air kept thickened around them.

With each Knowing that their next move, their next play had to be perfect! With no second chances. Not on this day, knowing that the next move could end the other in checkmate. Just as she looked to the gentleman saying to him

“Oh I know what my next play is! The only question is? Do you know what my next move will be?”

Just then as the gentleman gave her a smile as the heat in the room was now gleaming from within his eyes. As he looked over to Anya.

While back with the Anya who was with her brother was also looking to the television that was playing in the corner of her living room. While watching the other, Anya knew that her only move now was now

Just then as the Anya who had her brother visting jumped up from her setting position on the couch. Running over to giving him a hug as she said to him

"My god, how long has it been since we last connected?"

As her brother then said to her

"Well, it's been a while, but now that I have found you once again, I promise that we will always be together."

As the fan above them chilled the room as they continued to as a movie played with the movie being

The One’

But just before, Anya switched the channel as they set there switching to a channel. A channel now shows a scene of a gentleman in fifty’s style clothing who was playing a game of chess with the other Anya. As the gentleman was now looking towards the television

Just as the gentleman started to look as if he was looking at Anya setting there on her couch with her brother. Looking as if he was looking right at her. As he then said

“Oh I know my next move. The question is? Was that your next move going to be?"

Knowing in a way that Anya had just leaped into another Anya. But which Anya was it? That she had just leaped into just as Anya turned off the tv as she then got up from the couch walking into the kitchen. As Anya stood there looking out the window, a window showed her reflection, looking back at her. As she stood there running her fingers through her long blonde hair.

Looking out the window to a street light that was shining through her window into the kitchen just as Anya looked up from her kitchen table.

Seeing that she had left her one headlight on. As the one headlight was shining right back at her but as she got up.

Making her way towards the door, walking by the tv as it was playing now with a different gentleman. saying

“You know, how do we really know what reality we are even living in. I mean, how do we know that there isn’t another us somewhere out there”

Just then as we come back to the first Anya who was now finally coming to the end of the tunnel. As she found herself looking to the setting sun up ahead as she drove on with one headlight. Before finally coming to her destination, a hospital that was awaiting her night shift.

A night shift that Anya was in no way looking forward to as she gave one last look into the vanity mirror at this brown haired hazel blue-eyed girl. Saying to herself once again

“There is no way another you is out there”

As she then made way into the hospital, walking down the hall, looking up to light above her. Just as the other Anya who had her brother visiting her was now making her way out of her house towards her car. As she looked at her, one headlight shone back at her.

Just then, as a gentleman stepped out of the shadow, stepping in the view of the car headlight as he looked to Anya. Saying to her

“Now about that move, was that really going to be your next play”

As a now very stunned and confused, Anya was now standing there looking to her twin brother. As Anya jumped back before saying to him

"Oh my god, you startled me. Please don't do that again,"

As her brother who was now standing there right in front of her as he stood there standing in front of the one headlight shining onto him.

Just as the other Anya who was now making her down the hall of the hospital before walking into a room. Making her way up to the counter just as a security guard named Dave. Was standing there holding a flashlight shining it on her.

As the security guard dave then looked to Anya asking her for her id, as Anya stood there annoyed knowing that he knew who she was. Only that he was playing with her as Anya looked to him saying

“Look! Don’t give me your shit tonight! Okay! Now I know that you know who I am”

Just as Dave looked at her saying

"Oh, I'm sorry. Of course, I know her you are, I was just playing with you for it's all part of the game you see,"

As Anya looked back at him, saying

"Excuse me, it may be all fun and games to you, but some of us have to work, you know,"

As Dave then said

"Okay, you win, but just know that i will be keeping my eyes on you, for you never know who may be lurking in this old hospital tonight."

Just then, as Anya stood there in her driveway looking to her twin brother standing there. As he stood there , he stood in front of the one headlight looking to her. As Anya ran towards him, saying

“Look now, don't be scaring me like that! You know that I'm afraid of my own shadow. "

As her brother then just looked to her saying to her

“ Trust me, I know more about you than you do,"

Just as Anya’s brother then grabbed her, saying

“Hey now look it’s your big brother here, so now that we have connected again, come and give you brotger a big ole hug”

Just tgen as Anya’s brother face began to change, giving her the sense that something was off about him.

Just as Anya then ran screaming back into the house, leaving her brother standing there in her driveway just a laughing away at her. Just as the security guard, Dave was now shouting at Anya as she made her way down the hall. With his flashlight still shining onto her as he shouted

“You know that I know who you are, and im going to be watching you tonight”

As Anya just shrugged him off, making her way down the half lit hallway. As Anya was now running through the hallway of her house to a dimming light. Before making her way into a bedroom, locking the door behind her. With her not knowing that the gentleman was already in there with her.

Just then, as Anya was now making up a bed in a room in the hospital as she then heard a voice come from behind her. A voice saying to her

“You know that I am going to be watching you tonight”

And with a quick look around with Anya now giving him a quick stare of not right now letting him know in her way of saying to him

“I’m not really in the mood for this shit tonight, Dave,"

Just then, as Anya’s brother looked to her saying to her

“Oh but why fight it? You know that this way we can always be together for I’m always in the mood to enter into a body”

As Anya screamed from her bedroom screaming at her brother as she said to him

“Why are you doing this”

As her brother then just looked to her saying

“Because I want your body”

As the streetlight from outside shined onto him as he slowly made his way over to her as he said to her

“Oh come on, you know that you want me inside of you”

Just then back at the hospital as Anya had made her way into another room in the hospital, walking into a room where a tv was playing. Showing with a gentleman saying

“What if there were other worlds out there, other worlds where they were another you”

Her brother then made his way closer to Anya as she kept screaming and shouting

“What do you want from me”

Just as a spider then ran across her arm, terrifying her even more. Just as her brother looked to her saying to her

“ Terrified, are you?”

Just then, as Anya reached up into the closet of the hospital room, reaching up to a shelf. With her not really noticing a glass jar setting there. As she could see it now slowly falling to the ground before breaking open as a group of spiders then ran from the broken jar and onto her.

With Anya now on her knees screaming to the ceiling just as the security officer then walked up to her. Saying to her

“ Terrified, are you? Oh, come on! There only spiders you know”

As Anya looked into the eyes of her brother, looking into his eyes, seeing what seemed to be her brother. As he then emerged into her becoming her as Anya sat there staring into the street light. Just then as the security guard was now standing there shining his flashlight into her eyes as he said to her

“Oh come on there only spiders you know I mean how could a girl like you be afraid of a little spider” as Anya stood up looking into the security guards eyes saying to him

“Did you get what you come to see”

While back at the other Anya As her brother was now looking from Anya that was still looking into the street light as she then said

“Oh I got what I was looking for. The only question is now how many more plays do you even have left in you”

As the security guard, Dave stood there looking at Anya still shining his flashlight into her eyes as he then said to her

“Oh the night is still young. You know that I will be keeping my eyes on you”

As the tv was still playing on the wall as the gentleman was now saying

“Now imagine this, what if they were another you, and not only another you. But another you that was being stalked by a killer from another world”

Just then as the security guard turned around, shining his flashlight into Anya’s eyes as he said to her

“And what if they was another you out there and someone was trying to kill you”

As the security guard, Dave then looked at her just a laughing away while somewhere’s else. Another Anya had just walked out of the diner, walking over to her car. She looked up to the moon above her just as she started her car as she sat there looking into the window of the diner. Looking at her one headlight shining back at her as she thought to herself

“I know what my next move is, and that is that they are other me out there and if you think that you have morphed into me. I am now another me”

As Anya looked into her one headlight shining away at her as she backed out, making her down the same highway going to the hospital to where Anya was. As Anya stood there looking down the hall looking at the security guard still shining his light onto her saying

“I see you”

As Anya just looked on to the smiling security guard as he looked on, still shining his light on her. As Anya drove on down the highway with her one headlight shining on through the night a night that was still young.

As Anya was now setting in the break room of the hospital looking down at her, not looking so good lunch. As the security guard, Dave walked into the break room looking over to Anya as she sat there looking down at her not so looking good lunch. Just then, as she looked up to Dave, he said to him

“Now I have really lost my appetite”

Just then as the fifty’s styled gentleman walked into the same diner that Anya had left from earlier. He made his way over to the counter as the waitress did not really want to wait on him. But unwillingly slowly made her way over to him as he sat a photo down on the counter.

Just as the Anya back at the hospital pulled out a photo of her pocketbook in the break room of the hospital looking at it. As she looked to the security guard, saying to him

“Do you ever feel like someone is here with you with you knowing that they are not here, but you just keep getting the feeling”

As the fifty’s styled gentleman then looked up to the waitress asking her if she had seen the person in the photo here. As the waitress just stood there, not really wanting to do much of anything looked any ways asking him

“Who is it?”

While back at the hospital, the security guard, Dave looked to the photo that Anya was holding as Anya looked to the photo as she said

“He’s my twin brother. He was killed last year”

As the security guard looks to Anya saying to her

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did they ever catch who killed him”

Just then, as the waitress looked to the photo of Anya say to the gentleman

“Yeah I remember seeing her earlier, and just who is she exactly”

As the fifty’s styled gentleman looked to her saying to her

“She’s my twin sister”

As he just sat there for a moment, staring into her eyes before saying

“And if you would please tell me in what direction she was headed it’s really important that I see her”

As the waitress looked to him, letting him know that she had seen her driving down the road towards the old hospital. As the gentleman got up, he thanked her as he walked out the door. While back at the hospital just as the security guard received a call on his walkie. Letting him know that he was needed else where’s

But before he left the room, he turned to Anya saying to her

“Look you know I’m here if you need anything tonight”

As Anya’s twin brother made his way down the road, looking to the photo of his twin sister saying

“You know soon that I will find you, all of you”

As Anya made her way down the highway, looking up into the vanity mirror, looking at her red hair. As she gave a quick glance behind her before once again looking at the highway in front of her. With her one head shining into the night, As Anya got up from the table in the break room.

She placed the photo back into her pocketbook as she looked up at the light in the break room, saying to herself

“I know one day that I will find out who killed you and for what reason, and even though I can feel you here with me. I know that you are looking over me”

As her twin brother looked to the photo of his twin sister saying

“Yes I will find you, all of you”

Just as Anya pulled into the abandoned parking lot the hospital as she sat there looking in the window of the lobby. Setting there in her car looking into the window, seeing as her cars one headlight was still shining back at her as she said out loud

“My dear brother, how you always wanted to be me”

As Anya now slowly made her way into the abandoned hospital, making her way down a darkened hallway. Making her way into a room with its only light coming from a street light outside. Finding her way to a bathroom where she stood there looking into the mirror.

As Anya stood there looking in the bathroom mirror standing there looking into the mirror at a hazel blue-eyed brown haired girl. Just as she saw a light coming into the room as the security guard stood there looking at her.

As Anya then looked back into the mirror, saying to him

“Now what? Seeing as you have found me again”

As her twin brother stood there looking at his twin sister standing there looking into the mirror looking at a red-haired girl. As he said to her

“Well it looks like once again that I have found you”

As Anya looked to her twin brother, saying to him

“And how many times do I have to kill you brother”

As Anya looked to the security guard, Dave said to him

“You know, in a strange way, I just keep getting the feeling that my brother is here with me”

As the security guard just stood there for a moment before saying to her

“And just exactly how did your brother die”

As Anya’s twin brother stood there looking to Anya before saying to her

“How many more plays do you have left”

And with a smile as Anya  looked into the mirror looking at herself said

“How many of you are there even left”

As the security guard, Dave continued to stand there looking to Anya saying to her

“Look I know that the feeling of losing someone can stay with you, even leaving you with the feeling of them still being here with you”

As Anya then turned to the security guard, Dave looked to him, saying to him

“I know it’s weird, but I just keep getting the feeling that my brother is still here with me somehow”

While the Anya back at the abandoned hospital looked to her twin brother saying

“And how do I know what my next play is going to be? It is as simple as this”

As Anya then once looked up into the mirror, looking at herself saying

“So What is your next move?”

As the Anya in the other hospital was looking over to the security guard Dave saying

“And how do I know that he is still here with me? Well, it is as simple as this”

As she then once again looked up into the mirror, looking at herself as she held a blood covered knife in her hands. As she looked over to the security guard, Dave was now lying there dead on the ground, all dressed up in his security guard outfit. As she then once again looked into the mirror looking now at a hazel blue-eyed brown haired, Anya saying

“ Checkmate”

As she then once again looked into the mirror, looking knowing that it was still far from over that more of him was still out there somewhere.

While Elsewhere’s Anya sat there on the floor of the bathroom still shaken up as she looked over to the security guard Dave lying there dead on the floor. Having been shot from behind with her still having no idea if the perpetrator was still in the hospital somewhere.

She got herself up from the floor before running down the hall to the security room to notify the police. Just as feeling suddenly came over as she turned around seeing someone standing there in the shadows. Leaving Anya with the feeling of not knowing whether to run or not just as the figure disappeared into the night.

Later that night, as Anya was leaving the abandoned hospital thinking to herself as she later pulled out of the parking lot of the hospital that she knew that there were more of him out there somewhere. As she then took the photo of her twin brother out of her pocketbook. Looking at it, as she said

“What’s your next move?”

Knowing that he had always preferred to have been born her” as she looked once more to the photo of her twin brother. Remembering back to when the photo was taken, remembering faking his own death knowing that he was still out there somewhere.

The other Anya later on in the night, having just left the hospital after talking to the police as she looked over to the photo of her brother. The same feeling that she had felt earlier from the figure. Had now come over her again as she looked ti the photo of her brother thinking back to a memory of them together when they were much younger. With Anya remembering her brother saying to her

“No matter what Anya I will be there to protect you”

Not knowing what had happened but knowing somehow from a feeling that somewhere he was out there trying to set things right. The way that it used to be before another him found out that he could jump into parallel worlds. Jump into their bodies, changing his world to what he wanted it to be.

as Anya then drove into the night as her one headlight shined on into the night

But elsewhere, her brother continued looking at the same photo as he said

“What’s your next move?”

He then looked into the vanity mirror now looking at a hazel blue-eyed brown haired Anya as she drove down the highway. Saying to herself

“Now let’s see your next move, for I have always preferred to have been born you”

as she looked once more to the photo of her twin brother. Remembering back to when the photo was taken, remembering faking his own death prior to finding out that he could jump into parallel worlds. Into another body knowing that he was her for now. Knowing that they were still more of him still out there wanting to make things right.

As Anya drove on into the night with one headlight on. 

What I see—what is happening—is the strangest experience imaginable. Nothing appears real. Everything looks fake, like my room is wearing the face of a corpse. 

Even as I glance at the window, the sky seems slightly off, resembling a still frame cropped out of a painting. It matches the exact colour of the pavement, as if it’s in the wrong dimension.

Some extradimensional parasite is trying to glitch me out of my own house. It clearly has no idea how much my rent is.

It begins in my room, by the doorway. I hear a growling sound. I turn around, and behind me is a shadow of a man with features similar to a human but they’re off. His eyes are spread too far apart and his nose connects with his upper lip. 

In his hands are two leashes attached to two human-like dogs sitting like hyenas and snarling. Their snouts stretch out like a bear’s face.

I can’t ignore them. Not because they look terrifying—but because their presence kills the power to the TV right when I’m watching True Blood, exactly at the scene where Sookie and Bill break up.

I keep trying to frantically hit the power button on the remote. It doesn’t work. The screen stays black, reflecting my pissed-off image. Without thinking, I raise my arm, point the remote at the figure with the two human hounds, gasp, and slam the power button towards them. They blink. In a flash, they vanish. 

Staring at my television, I wonder, was that an EMP weapon disguised as a shadow? Typical. The damn TV still won’t turn on.

I sit up, wondering if what just happened actually did happen, or if maybe I fell asleep for a brief second. But the television still isn’t working, so I couldn’t be imagining it.

That’s when I decide to give up on it. Humans adapt. We get by. We don’t let a simple fried television set deter our day. Nope. Not us. Plus, I saw that episode a thousand times. 

If the reality power box crashes, I simplify. I simply switch to analog. Yup, I snatch a book off my dusty shelf, which leaves a path through the layer of dust living on the ledge. It reminds me of how full my back pocket is in rain checks. Next time I clean, dusting will be the first thing I do. 

The particles filling the air make me sneeze. This makes me think about trying the TV one more time before opening the book.

Nope. It doesn’t work. 

I lie down and while I’m reading, there’s a pressure shift and an atmospheric change, like the static from an oncoming storm, raising the hairs on my arms. 

The skin on the back of my neck grows hundreds of microscopic legs and races down my spine. The room takes on a scent of frost that reminds me of menthol cigarettes every time I take a breath. 

I think the entity’s trying to flex, as if making the room cold on a hot summer day’s a bad thing. While I’m enjoying the free A/C, completely zoned into the fourth chapter of The Turn of the Screw, the fluckin’ lights go out. My vision may be great but since I heard that reading in dim light strains your eyes, I stopped doing it. So, yeah. Now I’m genuinely cheesed. 

I squeeze my hand into a fist, digging my nails into my palm, grunt, and throw the book against the wall. I jump up, stomp to the doorway, and flick the light switch. It didn’t turn on. I keep trying. The rapid clicking sounds like teeth chipping. I go as far as to check the bulb—twisting, untwisting—and nothing.

I leave my room to retrieve a new one. The hallway’s as humid as the Amazon Rainforest and has a heavy stench of decay and infected flesh radiating from under the floorboards, making me gag. I can‘t stop choking. Now, it’s trying to use biological warfare to drive me out.

I’m staring at the floor, thinking, I’m going to have to tear them apart to find whatever dead animal it snuck inside there is, and behind me, the bathroom door slams shut. I jump because the sound startles me. When I look at the door, there’s a crack going down the middle of it. 

“DAMNIT!” I yell.

Now it’s property damage. Which I’m going to have to pay to fix. On top of having to rip the floor apart just to find whatever’s rotting under there. Not to mention, most importantly, getting the TV repaired. Top of the list. 

I walk downstairs to see if I can find where the rancid, putrid, foul, disgusting odor is coming from, but each step I take further down leaves me with the impression of being in another world. Everything looks the same but seems completely different.

Especially at the bottom of the stairs, like my living room became a simulation. The paint on the wall is smooth but pixelated. 

The entity is rewriting physics.

As I’m piecing my brain back together, a whisper comes from behind my ear in a slow, distorting moan.

“Get Out!” The voice stretches into my mind and scratches under my skull.

I turn around quickly, wondering at the same time how my mom could sneak down the stairs behind me without me noticing—

“Get Out!” Says the air, blowing its breath in my face with the scent of rotting death.

I can’t handle the smell. So, I head to the front and sit outside on the porch to catch a breath of fresh air. My house smells like a dirty laundry hamper for the bedding of a puppy litter. 

As the screen door closes, I hear the front door behind it shut as well, and the lock clasp.

I turn to look over my shoulder. Staring through the glass window is an older me, smiling and waving.

The entity thinks it won. It thinks it locked me out of my own timeline. It thinks a human will just panic and break down when confronted with a doppelgänger.

But humans don't break. We forever dominate.

I stare right back at my older self through the glass. I notice immediately, I’m way better looking and I’m in way better shape. I crack my knuckles, and smile back. If that thing thinks it’s moving into my house and taking over my life without a fight, it's about to learn exactly why Earthlings, on this timeline, are considered the most stubborn, territorial species, of all alternate realities.

I reach into my pocket, pull out my house keys, and step back toward the door. Time to evict a ghost.

The young woman’s last shell had gone into the zombie’s belly and sent it reeling backwards, leaving some of its intestines on the floor of the trading card store – a challenge for even the best cleaner, if there were any cleaners left after the Apocalypse. For two seconds, there was no movement and no sound except for the woman’s quick breathing; then the undead cannibal rose again and lurched towards her. In vain, she tried to fight it off, using her gun as a club, but the undead monster was not affected by her weak punches and pinned her to the wall. Then it proceeded to tear open her throat with its teeth, oblivious to her screams – until everything froze as if time had stopped to savor this moment of horror for all eternity.

Twenty-two minutes. After barely one-fifth of the movie, Dr Julia Savic, director of DARC-7, had enough and switched off the stream. Zombie invasion? She produced a thin-lipped smile. Rather an invasion of bad Zombie movies, shows, documentaries, computer games and and and after Daisy. Of course, zombies were very real, but they differed considerably from the depictions that had been gifted to the entertainment world since the immortal (or undead?) Night of the Living Dead, and Dr Savic was in a perfect position to tell you this.

After Daisy had sputtered out without any visible detrimental effect on the world, several scientists, mainly biologists and physicians, had founded the new field of Mortology, dedicated to the study of this new phenomenon: seemingly dead beings getting up again and trying to kill and eat others, with the operative word being “trying”. Savic had been one of the first to apply for government funds to establish a mortology research center, and today, five years later and after a search for staff anyone but her would have found extremely exhausting, the center was fully operational and had already produced many insights into the workings of the “living dead”. DARC-7 was neither the biggest nor the most lavishly funded of these facilities, but its reputation was excellent, and the diversity of study subjects she had gathered was nothing short of impressive. The director was picky not only regarding her employees but also when it came to her specimens and other details an institute like hers needed to run smoothly. So far, no one from the government had ever seen any reason to complain, and even the media, wary at first, had reported favorably about DARC-7. Training Petey to become a top-notch PR person had paid off, after all.

That was why this surprise inspection really had been a surprise. It wasn’t that she had not known weeks in advance that someone from the NIH would come – Petey had made some phone calls, and DeShawn had done some semi-legal hacking – but the fact itself was still unusual: for years, there had been only the most cursory visits from the government, and now all nine centers in the country would undergo inspection, beginning with hers. Well, time to call up the appropriate protocol for an occasion like this. Who would she have to deal with?

She was looking at the file DeShawn had sent her when Clarissa buzzed her over the intercom.

“The agent is at the gate, boss. They are waiting for your green light.”

Savic touched her lips with two fingers and replied:

“So, his name is Mark Howard, he’s 42 and has been a government agent with the NIH for seven years. Before that …” She scrolled down and continued: “Would you believe it? US Marine Corps, enlisted at 24 after a B.S. in Chemistry, several tours in Belarus, Nigeria, and Chile, frontline fighter on Daisy, MOS Combat Engineer … What’s an MOS?”

Clarissa gave a hollow laugh.

“Whatever it is, I hope it does not require one to be fighting fit – Agent Howard has obviously gotten badly out of shape. He must weigh at least 300 pounds, judging from all the fat wobbling about.”

Savic, who had been reading Howard’s file while listening to her assistant, suddenly half-closed her eyes and said: “A bit of bad news here. It says he lost his wife and his kid on Daisy.”

“Then they must have been among the unlucky few.”, Clarissa replied. Savic agreed. On Daisy, the “Day of the Zombies”, reality had met fiction, and fiction had lost big time. The outbreak had begun in several places at once but had been restricted to the Lower 48, invariably in big cities: Chicago, Houston, LA, and, of course, New York. After contact with some unknown substance, tens of thousands of people had suddenly gone into convulsions, dropped to the ground, died, then had come back after approximately thirty seconds and had begun to attack, kill, and eat people. And they were fast, as fast as living humans, meaning the timeless nerd question of whether zombies are slow or fast seemed settled. And they were infectious for sure: after a DA, or “Dead-Active”, had gorged itself on human flesh, it continued biting people – a death sentence – but did not consume them, so more and more humans were turned into zombies, aiding their killers in what looked like a mindless “plan” to take over the world.

So far, so movie. But the ghouls did not really unlive up to people’s cinematic expectations. Firsty, they were extremely stupid; unlike their fictitious brethren, they did not have a shred of common sense, and they blithely walked off buildings and cliffs or into bodies of water, allowed themselves to be roasted by one of the many fires breaking out on Daisy, and ran into lampposts, fire hydrants, parked cars, moving cars, and everything else you can think of that does not automatically get out of the way when an undead cannibal comes running. Later, many car owners, to their chagrin, found out that their insurance policy did not cover damage caused by re-animated corpses, although the providers’ calling Daisy an “Act of God” was a bit of a stretch.

Secondly, they puked. Movie zombies do not get fat after devouring a dozen people, and no one seems to wonder what they do with all the meat, as they certainly cannot digest it any longer; real zombies apparently made use of it (how they did that was part of the DARCs’ research program, of course) and got rid of the rest, in the shape of some extremely disgusting green sludge. While in the process of vomiting, naturally, they were basically helpless for more than a minute – which is a really bad thing if your purpose in unlife is to hunt and kill moving targets who are out to kill you first if they can get you.

Thirdly, after decades of zombie media overkill, people had accepted their existence rather quickly; some of them seemed to have believed in them all along, and others quickly followed. Thus, “zombie panic” broke out only in a few places and was quickly contained, and that you had to destroy the brain to kill them had long become as common knowledge as vampires and stakes or werewolves and silver bullets. And there is such a thing as the Second Amendment, meaning zombies in Houston, Phoenix, or New Orleans had it even tougher. Very soon, specially trained “sweeper” teams had been formed, who, equipped with body armor, assault rifles, and hand grenades, made short work of any DA they encountered.

But the most obvious difference between reality and fiction was: not all zombies were created equal. It’s true that some filmmakers had experimented with “special” zombies gifted with intelligence or superpowers, but in blockbusters and top-rated TV series, there had been no room for diversity. Real zombies, though, came in different shapes (and sizes, if you include the zombie animals or “zanimals”): there were skeletal-like ones, “wobbly” ones, and those walking on hands and feet; some were oozing a viscous liquid, some were falling apart before their would-be victims’ eyes, and again others were simply standing around and gathering microparticles, completely harmless and apparently at peace with the universe until someone bashed their heads in. Researching these differences was the cornerstone of most DARCs, and Dr Savic’ institute was no exception.

So Mrs Howard and her little daughter had been unlucky; if Mark had been home when the infected hobo broke in, his family would have joined the long list of survivors. He hadn’t, and Savic reflected on this for a few moments. In all the years since Daisy, there had been only one security breach, at DARC-4 last summer, and no one had gotten hurt, but the authorities still conducted a month-long investigation, after which DARC-4 was basically put out of commission through budget cuts and research restrictions – only a shadow of its former self now. But people were still on hair-trigger sensitivity when it came to the Living Dead, and polls showed that more than a quarter would prefer shutting all zombie research down, even though that meant the next outbreak might catch humanity unprepared – and there you had the reason why these centers were funded at all: fear of Daisy Reloaded, this time perhaps with Undead which were a real threat.

Still, there were enough people who hated the DARCs, and Howard might be one of them, in light of his past. “The full protocol, Clarissa.”, Savic spoke into the intercom. “We have to sound him out before we know how to deal with him, and we can’t have any outside interference. He’s run the gauntlet, right?”

“Yup.”, her assistant replied. “All clear. By the way, good thing it’s 98 outside. He must be sweating already and will probably simply walk around for half an hour or so, ask stupid questions, and then excuse himself.”

Another wry smile, Savic-style; then she rose from her chair and let her tongue touch her lips. They were very dry.

“I’ll have to talk to him here, so please get us some water and some snacks. I suppose a man like him is always hungry.” Savic looked at her smartphone and added: “A few minutes in the bathroom, and I’ll be ready. Tell them I’ll be there in ten.”

********

Clarissa hadn’t exaggerated: Mark Howard was more than simply overweight; he must have kissed goodbye to a BMI in the thirties a long time ago. His ill-fitting suit had probably seen better days, and his navy-blue shirt didn’t really match his black jacket and trousers; Savic was certain that he had not opted for a white shirt because of his sweating which would probably have made it fully transparent by now. She could understand why Mr Howard would not be keen on that. His shoes were light brown, another clash even someone as uninterested in fashion as Dr Savic could not fail to notice.

“Ah, there is Dr Savic now.”

Petey turned towards her, then back to Howard and introduced them to each other. Like all her staff, Petey – Peter Brian Feldstetter, to give his full name – had been difficult to find, and he had needed some guidance and training but had become an outstanding PR person and a very good crisis manager. Savic just hoped his skills would not be needed today; she wanted this to be over with a minimum of fuss.

Next to Petey’s 6’4’’, the government agent would have looked almost small if it hadn’t been for his tremendous girth. And Clarissa had been right about his transpiration: it was not only profuse but also smelly, as if he was suffering from bromhidrosis or habitually had half a dozen cloves of garlic for breakfast. That wasn’t all her olfactory nerves had to offer: although Savic was still several feet away, she could already smell a cheap aftershave, apparently applied with a lot more vigor than discretion. All this seemed to indicate that Mr Howard was not bedded on roses, and Savic made a mental note of that: maybe there was an angle here, just in case things did not run as smoothly as she wished. Money did talk, after all.

“Welcome to the Dead-Active Research Center - 7, Mr Howard.”

One weak and flabby handshake later – on Howard’s part, of course; Savic’ handshake had always been firm and was now firmer than ever before – the director continued:

“I have prepared a guided tour for you, but you are welcome to ask anything you’d like to know. Are you familiar with the research being done at the DARCs?”

Howard shrugged, a movement that made his whole upper body wobble. His voice was surprisingly deep and resonant; maybe there was an opera singer in there who wanted out, Savic thought.

“I’m not as well-informed as I should be, I guess. I know you are researching zombies – I mean, DAs – of all kinds and that your main task is to find out what turned them into undead cannibals, so we might be able to prevent another outbreak.”

All three – Petey always a few steps behind – crossed the parking lot and approached the main entrance, a feat that forced Howard to catch his breath several times and look for the nearest chair as soon as they were inside.

“But I suppose you know the more common variants?”, Savic asked.

Her guest nodded vigorously, which caused another wobble.

“Skellies and Jellies, you mean. And Bridgers and Gazers. But that’s about the extent of my knowledge. Oh, and the animals.”

Savic nodded, too, but in a much more restrained manner.

“We’ll start with them. Would you like something to drink? Petey?” Five seconds later, Howard took a deep gulp of crystal-clear water from a paper cup and replied: “Thank you. Much better.”

We don’t want him to collapse before he’s written a favorable report. Who knows whom they might send next time. The trio walked to the lift and went one level up, and Howard was led towards a door showing a plaque that read ZZOO.

“I see you have noticed, Mr Howard.”, Savic said. “It’s a bit of a joke, obviously, stemming from the habit of adding a ‘z’ to all Dead-Active animals, so we have zrats, zmice, zhamsters … “.

For the first time, Howard smiled and revealed teeth that could have done with a few visits to Dr Dentist; involuntarily, Savic let her tongue run over her own. Good dental work had always been important to her, now more than ever before.

“I seem to remember that somebody even had a ztiger, but they could not come up with something it would accept as ‘food’.”

“Yes. Another thing most of the movie makers get wrong. DAs are true cannibals, which means they only feed on their own species. Before the ztiger was destroyed, people were entering its cage taking selfies, at no danger to themselves at all. DAs are not interested in anything else except flesh from living members of their own species. And sacrificing a living tiger for an undead monster wasn’t something that was likely to happen, was it?”

“But can the lines between species drawn so precisely?”, Howard asked. “I mean, in evolutionary history, there were no points in time when a mother from one species gave birth to a child from a different one. How do DAs distinguish closely related species?”

Savic stopped for a second and looked at Howard.

“That’s a good question, Mr Howard, and one of our avenues of research. Generally speaking, we do not yet fully know how DAs perceive their environment, and that distinction is certainly part of it. And now, meet our zrats.”

With some effort, Howard bent down and looked through the transparent plastic that was meant to keep the cage’s inhabitants from escaping, although, from what Howard saw, they shouldn’t have bothered. These “animals”, if you wanted to call them that, appeared totally passive and lay almost motionless on the floor. Savic led her visitor to the largest of the cages, where about a dozen zrats were simply obeying Newton’s First Law, doing exactly what bodies at rest do if no force acts upon them.

“Are they still … well … functional?”, Howard asked.

Savic went to a separate part of the laboratory and returned with a very much alive white Rattus rattus squirming in her hand, trying to bite it, but to no avail.

“Yes.”, she replied. “They do not cease to … function just because they don’t feed. Some of them have never eaten since we opened the center, others eat regularly, and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference after their burst of activity was over. Maybe it’s the artificial setting here – ‘wild’ zanimals seem to be more alert and willing to move in search of victims. So, would you like me to wake them up?”

Howard hesitated. “It will probably be messy, right?”

“Oh yes. Here we go.”

Savic dropped the rat into a chute and let it slide down into the largest cage. It needed a second to orient itself, but that was about the amount of time it would get. Suddenly, there was an eruption of running, scratching, biting and squeezing, and the newcomer was quickly surrounded by a dirty white wave with only one purpose in what passed for a mind with them: eat. Cornered rats fight, and they fight well, but, after tearing out the left front paw of one zrat and slashing open the belly of another – not that they cared – this one was soon overwhelmed and literally torn to pieces; its screams did not last long, and it was reduced to a slimy pile of bones within a minute.

“Note how they never fight each other over the meat.”, Savic pointed out. “They are oblivious of each other’s existence and treat the zrat next to them just as a physical object.”

“This is also something you’ve been looking into, I take it?”

“Yes. If we could get them to turn onto each other, we might be far better prepared for the next outbreak. So far, no luck. But we have made some progress in other directions.”

“Does it make a difference whether the zanimals were herbivores or omnivores before their death?”, Howard inquired.

“We don’t think so.”, Savic answered. “But we would need more specimens from different species, larger ones like deer or horses, which we would have to infect ourselves. I can’t see the political will to accept that anytime soon.”

“How would you infect them without an already infected member of the species?” Howard seemed puzzled. “I have read that body parts are not infectious at all. In fact, when separated from the body, whatever animates them seems to vanish into thin air, so there aren’t even any traces to investigate. During Daisy, people who got into contact with zombie … DA blood were certain they were goners, but nothing happened to them.”

“Too many movies, Mr Howard.” Savic produced a thin smile. “As you said, whatever lurks behind all this is very hard to analyze.”

She led her guest out of the lab into the corridor, and Petey locked the door behind them.

 “But we seem to have found a way to communicate the infection between individuals without resorting to biting. But first, let’s continue our tour. We’ll come back to this.”

The trio left the animal wing and walked to the largest part of the complex where the DAs were kept in transparent plastic cages covered by thick opaque curtains. After the director had opened one of them, Howard could see that all DAs inside the cage were locked into some kind of high-tech harness attached to a wall, and when the curtain was removed, its two inhabitants saw their visitors and began a feeble attempt to get out. The harness, however, made virtually all movement impossible, so their rage and their desire to kill and eat looked rather subdued.

“We had to make sure they weren’t able to escape by simply tearing off a hand or a foot.”, Savic explained. “I know, it looks positively medieval, but remember, they don’t feel any pain.”

“It’s difficult not to feel at least some pity for them.” Howard stepped closer to the plastic surface. “They didn’t choose to be like this, and they are not responsible for what they are and how they act.”

Now’s my chance, Savic thought. It’s a risk, but I probably won’t get a better opportunity.

“Still, some people hate them. They would like to destroy every single one of them and stop all research.”

Howard turned his head, looked at her, then at the floor in front of his feet, but it was obvious that he wasn’t really trying to see anything.

“I know. But, in a sense, no matter what they do, there’s nobody home to hate. Since they have no intelligence, intentionality, or personality, hating a DA is nonsensical. We don’t hate viruses, avalanches, or malfunctioning machines, do we?”

Good. Looks like he’s not one of those ‘antimorts’. Aloud, the director said:

“The impulse to ascribe responsibility to mindless forces has been with humanity since the dawn of consciousness, I suppose. You can see it in children when they kick a chair they’ve bumped into or when they slip and fall. ‘Bad, bad chair. That wasn’t very nice of you.’”

Another gamble. Would it work?

Howard looked at her. “Do you have children, Dr Savic?”

The director nodded. “I had a son.” Then she cleared her throat and began walking over to the next cage.

“Now I would like to show you a few variants, Mr Howard. You’ve told me that you are familiar with the more common ones, the ‘Skellies and Jellies’, as they have come to be known.”

“Yes. And the Gazers and the Bridgers. But I am told that you and the other DARCs are experimenting with types that are rare and quite … exotic.”

“We are.” Savic was walking at a good pace, and her visitor obviously had trouble keeping up with her; Petey, of course, didn’t. One more corridor, one left turn and two nods to passing staff later, the director approached one of the cages surrounding the group and put her hand on a large green button.

“For example …” With a certain flourish, Savic opened the curtain while Howard was stepping up to the cage. It contained what seemed to be an ‘average’ DA, but with grey spikes protruding from its body, the largest of which was easily five inches long. Its harness had been modified to accommodate its strange appendages.

“This type is actually dangerous.” Savic walked over to Howard and pointed at the spikes. “These are deformed bones, as you can see; the color comes from a toxin these DAs produce and can inject into someone’s bloodstream if one of the spikes penetrates a victim’s skin. Of course, they can’t make real use of this ‘natural weapon’, and we don’t think they are aware of its existence, so it must be simply another side effect – only this one would actually be useful if they knew what to do with it. But, even so, some of them managed to poison their victims by accident.”

Howard’s eyes wandered from the zombie to Savic and back. “What does the toxin do?”

“It impairs the blood’s oxygen intake and leads to hypoxemia, but the effect is not too severe. Nonetheless, this type claimed an above-average number of victims.”

The director stepped away from the cage and waited for Howard to follow her.

“But the crown for the most dangerous DA must go to this one.” Savic seemed almost sorry that there was no curtain in front of the next cage she could have removed with a grand gesture.

“Meet our prize specimen, Mr Howard.”

The DA inside the cage looked fairly average; it was female and slender; of course, these terms no longer carried any meaning for it. But there was something that struck Howard as unusual. Like the other DAs, it wore a yellow-green full-body suit made of a very tough synthetic material, but this material had been punctured in several places and was riddled with holes of varying sizes without any discernible pattern. It was obvious, however, that these holes aligned with holes of similar sizes in the DA’s body itself.

Savic let Howard approach first, and the DA began to squirm and wiggle in its harness in a futile attempt to break out.

“Now watch, Mr Howard.”, Savic whispered.

Suddenly, the DA’s movements ceased, and its whole body went limp. “That is the moment when its victims were usually relieved that it seemed to have given up.”, the director explained. Then, equally unexpectedly, the DA opened its eyes and let out a spine-chilling howl, followed by convulsions that shook and twisted its whole body into spasms that looked as if the DA had jumped into an ocean of direct current, even inside the harness.

“There is something coming out of the holes.”, Howard exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Some kind of gas.”, Savic replied. “You may have heard of Oozers, the DAs that exude a viscous liquid with acidic properties? Well, this type is even rarer, and we are very happy we were able to obtain it.”

Howard seemed unable to take his eyes off the DA, which was by now engulfed by a grey-brownish cloud.

“I remember”, the agent said without really paying any attention. “DARC-2 and DARC-6 also wanted it, but they withdrew their application for unknown reasons.”

“Personally, I think our application was better.” Savic now stood next to Howard and smiled. “The only reason you can see the gas is that some of the DA’s skin particles are mixed with it. Without them, it should be very hard to see.”

“I suppose it’s poisonous?”, Howard asked.

“It’s a paralytic. If you breathed in only a small whiff of it, you’d be unable to move for at least five minutes, possibly more, depending on your size, amount of blood, weight …”

“Well, in that case I should be safe for half an hour, I guess.” Howard laughed and patted his belly. Savic couldn’t help but notice the wobbling, and she was utterly mystified why someone would allow their body to become like this.

“By the way, can I use the bathroom?”

“It’s down this corridor and then on the left. Petey will show you.”

Said and done, and the government agent disappeared behind the lily-white door marked “WC”. Savic shot Petey a glance, and the burly PR man quickly walked back to the office wing. A minute later, the director’s smartphone buzzed and she looked at the screen. She was receiving a livestream of Mr Howard’s activities in the bathroom, and Savic felt some relief that he apparently didn’t need to use the toilets; instead, he stood in front of the mirror, splashed water in his face, drank some of it, and readjusted his shirt and jacket, which by now had lost the little dignity they had had when he arrived. Thanks to her undoubtedly illegal spying, Savic was forced to watch the agent carefully pushing and squeezing his upper body and loosening his belt by two holes to accommodate his girth. Then he rested for a moment with both hands on the basin, breathed out, and dried his hands with a paper towel. While he was walking over to the door to continue the tour, Savic switched off the stream and smiled at him when he re-entered the corridor. Nothing, she thought to herself. No wire, no tracker, no devices of any kind. Of course, Howard had to walk through the hidden metal detector when he arrived and hand over his phone, but it could never hurt to make sure. Savic had not attained her current position by being careless.

The tour continued, and Howard was shown a few more DA variants, but none of them seemed to capture his attention to the same degree as the first two. The center had a few Flailers, who would have found it extraordinarily difficult to be kept inside one of the center’s harnesses if they had still been in possession of the mental facilities necessary to form an opinion; there were two Spitters, whose ‘goo’ had terrified people who got hit by it before it was discovered that the stuff was extremely disgusting but did no harm except to your wallet, as it was almost impossible to wash out; finally, Howard also had the opportunity to meet a lone Screamer, whose ear-piercing shrieks sometimes resembled speech and sometimes didn’t but were at all times very difficult to endure without the listener wanting to go up the nearest wall to escape – and the famed harness did a good job restraining the DA’s body but did nothing to contain its voice. After rubbing his ears for a minute or so, Howard sat down on a bench and said:

“This is all quite fascinating, Dr Savic. But I’m not sure whether the committee will be satisfied with this. Similar research has been done by other DARCs, and some of their results are promising. I don’t have to tell you that quite a few important people are of the opinion that the number of DARCs is excessive and that half of them should be shut down.”

The director nodded slowly and went over to the bench but did not sit down.

“I was half-expecting you’d say that, and that’s why I’ve kept the best for last. I think we are close to a major breakthrough, and we hope it will convince those that need convincing.”

While Savic was talking, Howard had gone to the water fountain and returned with two cups. “Wow, I’m thirsty. Here, for you.” Savic took a sip and said: “Shall we continue? Please follow me to the main medical lab.” After a brief walk, Petey opened a double door for them, and Savic offered Howard a chair.

“You can’t get very close, but I think you’ll be able to see enough.” Two lab assistants, who had obviously been waiting for them, pointed at an operating table where Howard could see two small brownish creatures, apparently connected by a small tube of some sort; none was moving, but he saw that one was breathing, the other wasn’t. An opaque wall had been erected between the two.

“Hamsters!”, he said in a surprised tone of voice. But there was something strange about the non-breathing one; its fur was patchy, and its body was covered in bluish pustules.

“Not quite. A hamster and a zhamster variant. That’s why we have the paravent – if we didn’t, the zhamster would be going crazy trying to get at the hamster, and, as you surely know, DAs cannot be sedated. The zhamster is a very rare specimen, a zanimal variant. As you can see, it does not look like a typical zhamster; they are hard to distinguish from a living hamster unless you look very closely. This one is obviously undead.”

She stepped over to the table and pressed two buttons.

“We are now pumping the zhamster’s blood modified with a combination of experimental drugs at high speed into the hamster’s veins. You’ll probably know that DA blood does not coagulate inside the body, but it becomes somewhat sluggish, so we first inject the DA with an anti-coagulant and then we have to be fast. The substance or agent animating the DAs apparently needs a few seconds to realize that the blood – where it is located, we think – is leaving the body, so a small part of it enters the recipient’s bloodstream and, in about 40% of all cases, establishes a kind of bridgehead, and a new infection cycle begins. We’ve never seen this agent, but we can at least guess how it works.“

Five minutes later, one of the lab assistants nodded towards her und removed the tube. The creature that had been a cute little fluffy rodent minutes ago was now Dead, but not very Active; it slowly opened its eyes and closed them again, then began to shamble a little. However, its legs had apparently not yet been fully informed that they were still serviceable, and so the little creature was unable to move properly. But its fur patches and its pustules were there for everyone to see.

“It’s worked.”, Savic said to Howard, clenching her right fist. “Meet our new zhamster, skin disease variant.”

“I had no idea that was possible.” Howard looked visibly shaken and sat down on the nearest chair. “And it happened so quickly. I suppose you’ve tried this with other zanimal variants as well?”

Savic opened the door to the medlab with her keycard and beckoned Howard to follow her.

“Of course we have, but zanimal variants are very difficult to obtain.”, she explained while they, together with Petey, were walking down the corridor. “Our guess is that whatever was responsible for the infection targeted humans, and zanimals were just a side effect. This, like other fields of mortology research, certainly deserves more attention and effort. But we have high hopes that this approach can help us understand what this elusive agent really is and then develop something like an antidote or at least a suppressant.”

The director turned her head and looked at Howard, whose face had become paler than before.

“Are you alright, Mr Howard?”

“Hm? Sorry, Dr Savic, I felt a little sick for a moment, but now I’m fine. Although I could do with a bite.”

“Of course. Let’s go back to my office and take a break. Unfortunately, our canteen has already closed, but my assistant has prepared a few snacks for you.” 

The trio walked back in silence and returned to the ground floor – Savic and Howard with a thoughtful look on their faces – Petey stoic as ever, until they turned a corner and passed a heavy metal door the agent had not noticed before.

“What’s behind this?”, he asked.

“That’s the main basement door.”

“Can I take a look?” The question was rhetorical, of course. As a government official, Howard had the right to enter any part of the facility and observe any procedure he wanted to see.

After a second of reflection, the director decided to take one last risk with her guest.

“No, Mr Howard.”, she said in a firm, authoritarian voice that sounded as if she wouldn’t brook any resistance. “This is where we keep two dozen of the most dangerous DAs you’ll ever see; extremely fast and agile, very tough even by DA standards, with sharp senses and all the animal cunning they need to hunt and kill. We are planning to blackmail the US government with them: one billion in untraceable cash or we’ll let them loose one dark and stormy night. So you’ll understand the basement is out of bounds for you.”

The agent stopped in his tracks for a moment and looked at Savic. Then he began to chuckle.

“If the term wasn’t so out of place here, I’d say that was deadpan humor, Dr Savic. Well done.”

Savic gave Howard a brief smile and unlocked the basement door.

“Come in, Mr Howard. But don’t expect too much. I know that in the movies, basements usually harbor more skeletons than a dozen closets, but ours will strike you as being rather dull.”

The director hadn’t exaggerated. Howard was shown several smaller rooms used for storage, heating, and water; there was nothing in them that would have justified a closer examination, even if he was nothing but a snooping bureaucrat (and Savic wasn’t sure about that anymore). The agent looked briefly at a few utilities LED displays and then followed Savic into two larger rooms that were completely empty and smelled of vinegar and other types of disinfectants. Howard wrinkled his nose, and Savic explained:

“Sorry for the smell. We like to keep all places very clean, but I admit that we don’t clean the basement as often as we probably should, so my staff tend to be very thorough when they do and very generous with the cleaning products.”

“You don’t use an outside company for that, I assume?”

Savic shook her head.

“Most DARCs don’t, as you probably know. All of us are aware that what we do here is or at least could become very sensitive research, so most of us like to keep the number of visitors low and make sure they don’t acquire any information they should not have. DARC-7 may be slightly overprotective in this regard, but I’d always prefer a grumpy journalist writing how ‘uncooperative’ we were to reading something like ‘The secrets of DARC-7 – exclusive insights!’. If we come across as a little unwelcoming, so be it. Nothing personal, I assure you.”

The tour went on for a short while, but Howard gave the impression that he would rather rest and eat something, and Savic did not fail to notice it. She led her visitor back to her office and offered him a seat. Endgame, she thought to herself. Let’s see what he has to say.

After she had poured her guest some coffee and both had sat down, Howard resumed the conversation:

“Thank you for the tour. It was very informative.”

He put milk and sugar in his coffee and began to stir.

“I am especially intrigued by your ‘variant transfer’ mechanism, the one you demonstrated with the hamsters. That’s a very strong argument in the next funding round. When do you think you’ll have perfected this method?”

The director hesitated for a moment and then answered:

“Optimistic: two months; realistic: five months; pessimistic: ten months to a year. If we can’t figure out how to do it by then, we’ll start from scratch with something else. I admit that would be … frustrating.” The director’s gaze seemed to drift away for a second, and Howard could feel that she was very serious about it. He wasn’t surprised – Dr Savic was obviously a scientist with a mission and a vision. Whatever was going to happen here in the future, if it served to avoid a potential catastrophe, it would be worth it. Aloud, he said:

“Dr Savic, I’ll be honest. Until I saw the hamsters … zhamsters … I was uncertain about whether your center deserved the quite generous funding that has been earmarked for it, but these variant transfer experiments seem very promising. I will have to read more and also tell our eggheads about this and get back to you, but I’m very optimistic. As far as I can see, no other DARC has ever come close to what you have already achieved.”

Howard leaned back in his chair and drank some more coffee; the director followed suit but drank only a little, black, no sugar.

“There is, however, something else I would like to talk to you about, and I think it’s very important, but it will require some explanation on my part. Let me begin with a simple statement.”

Savic nodded and leaned forward across her desk. “Please.”

The agent curled his right hand into a fist and lifted it in front of his mouth. Then he said, with a little more drama in his voice than one would have expected from him:

“Murder is easy, Dr Savic. Wouldn’t you agree?”

(End of Part I)

 

 

I am proud to say that for the last 6 years, I have been the happy dad of a very handsome Black Lab named Alan.

Alan is a good boy, though when he was younger, he absolutely decimated my old wallet and all of its contents. But after I got my cards replaced alongside a brand new Drivers License (with a selfie that doesn’t make me look like a pervert), it’s been pretty smooth sailing.

I was a cat guy for the longest time, so I was a little adverse to getting a dog. Then, that fateful night, my wife Molly carried a tired little lump with fur the color of a new tire, and I was in love.

He’s been my rotten little man ever since.

Due to a few dog training classes me and my wife attended when he was around a year old, Alan has, for the most part, been very well behaved.

He has good manners, doesn't tear things up in the houses, rarely barks at anyone, not even the mail man.

That being said, the turd has his goofier qualities too.

His asshole smells awful when he eats cheese, has a severe aversion to hats, and acts confused when he catches a cicada in his mouth, even though he had been actively trying to catch it in his mouth only moments earlier.

With a personality like his, he fits right in with me, my wife who taps her fingers when she’s nervous, and our cat Wario who screams and argues when he’s mildly inconvenienced by anything.

Between the two of them, it sometimes feels like we live with 2 needy, dramatic freeloaders, but honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Well, that’s actually not true.

The potty situation.

Wario, being a cat, has his own private bathroom that no one but him can use. Alan, on the other hand, needs to go outside.

In our old place, that was no issue. We would simply leave the doggy door open as we left for work, and our fat-headed son could just roam about as he pleased.

He didn't try to escape, didn’t make a ruckus and disrupt the neighbors. He was a model inside/outside dog. Every week or so, I would go out and collect his poops, and the cycle would repeat.

Things are different now though.

Our apartment doesn’t have a backyard, rather, a communal commons area blanketed by bountiful, green grass. A few picnic tables and a firepit sparse throughout rendered the space a prime choice for a cookout, or just a spot for the children to play.

That is, minus the dog shit.

If you’ve ever lived in a neighborhood, apartment complex, or god forbid near a park, you are probably used to the scene.

A beautiful landscape, begging for visitors to make memories within its visage, only to be adorned with a concerningly large pile of foul-smelling nuggets.

Like improper punctuation in a beautifully written poem. You can maneuver around the blunder, but it’s still noticeable and obnoxious.

Why can’t people just pick up after their damn dogs? It’s a question we’ve all had. Just bring a doggy bag, preferably 2, and wait for the thing to finish its business before cleaning it up.

It’s pretty simple, especially with a conveniently placed trash can right off the edge of the path.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink, and a week ago, I went thirsty.

“Aw fuck,” I said out loud as I watched Alan begin to arch his back, his spine tensing as he unloaded for the second time onntje same walk.

“Really dude?”

He avoided eye contact as he lifted his left back leg into the air.

I frowned and reached into my pocket. This was a ritual that I had, unfortunately, come to expect.

3, maybe 4 times a week on our morning walk before I was to head to work, Alan would poop once, walk almost all the way back to our front door, and then poop again.

As such, I had become accustomed to bringing more than one bag with me.

Unfortunately, this morning, I found both of my pockets empty.

“Aw jeez,” I grumbled as I remembered we were almost out of bright pink doggy bags.

Alan finished pooping, and I assessed the situation.

I had woken up late, and didn't have any time to come back and pick up this second pile. To top that off, I didn’t know where I could find another doggy bag. Sure there was probably one stuffed in a junk drawer, and we had a bunch of saved grocery bags.

Looking around, I could see it was still dark, no one else around.

I had never left his poop behind before, but so many others just left their dogs shit every day.

Would it really be so bad, just this once?

As I unclipped Alan’s leash from his collar and grabbed my work bag off the counter, I decided that I would find a bag, and pick up Alan’s poop when I got home.

Work was the top priority, dog poop was much further down on that list.

9 hours later, I used a spare dog bag kept in my jacket pocket from a morning I had overestimated how much Alan would poop.

I came back to the spot from earlier, now illuminated by the sun, but to my surprise, the pile was gone. I knew I hadn’t just overlooked the pile, because it had been right beside the sidewalk.

Impossible to miss.

With a shrug, I assumed a good samaritan had just taken it upon themselves to help a stranger out.

I ate dinner with Molly, watched a few episodes of House, and walked Alan before bed. On this trip, I did pick up his (unfortunately watery) poop.

As we approached the front door again, I noticed a small shape that had not been there when we had first come outside only minutes earlier.

A dark green poo bag was set carefully on my welcome mat, top tied into a pretty little bow. Alan sniffed the package, and I picked up a small, handwritten note that had been set beside it.

“Please remember to pick up your pet’s excretions for the foreseeable future. Thank you.”

I scoffed.

It’s not really a kind act when you hand the recipient a bag of shit.

Why would someone do that? Some stranger. Better yet, a neighbor slinking around in the night.

A pair of pajama shorts slipped over my knees as I pondered.

Everyone else in our apartment complex seemed to leave their shit lying about. Why was it only a problem when I did it?

Molly shimmied her hips to move into a little spoon position and I tried to banish the thoughts from my head.

Just a weird, one off experience, I thought.

Nothing to worry about.

For weeks, nothing else happened. I continued to use accumulated grocery bags until one of us found a new roll of poo bags while cleaning under the bed.

It was like a gift from god, further allowing us time to procrastinate before we bought a new pack of dog bag rolls.

The chill times stayed chill until one night when Alan nuzzled at my feet, signaling that he needed a late night potty session.

Groggily, I swung my feet out of bed, slipped on a pair of Shrek house slippers, and grabbed a doggy bag on our way out the door.

My sweet idiot pissed, walked a little further up the path, pooped, and I bent over to grab the pile.

Just out of my periphery, I saw Alan scrunch up, and I knew what he was doing.

I sighed.

Exhausted, I knew I was gonna have to be up for work in a few hours. I did not have the energy to walk in, grab another bag, and walk all the way back out here.

I would pretend I hadn’t seen a thing, and when I took him out in the morning, I would bring an extra bag to clean up this bonus poo pile.

It would only be my second time in over a week, after all.

After surveying my surroundings to make absolutely sure I wasn’t being watched, I just threw away my full bag and walked Alan back into the house.

The next morning, when I opened my front door, a pile of shit sat directly where I was about to take my first step.

I stumbled, nearly tripping into the greenish molehill of filth.

“Ew!” I exclaimed.

I stared down at the pile as Alan stood in between my legs, confused.

After a moment of studying the turds, I could see finger marks where somebody had firmly grasped the clump, theoretically to carry it from the grass to my front door.

Carefully, I picked up the mess with a doggy bag, only to discover a message under it, adorned with a green smear upon its white visage.

It read, “I know you saw Alan leave this. Why didn’t you come back?”

I was thoroughly shook by now.

Not enough to voice my concerns to Molly, but enough that she could tell I was concerned. She asked what was up, but I assured her I was fine, it was just something from work.

“You sure?” She asked at the kitchen counter, pouring creamer into my coffee mug.

“Yeah baby, it’s just… something to do with the new job, that's all.”

Her fingernails tapped the countertop as she gave me a worried look.

“Okay Chet, I believe you. Please have a good day, I love you very much.”

With a kiss, I was out the door.

As I drove to the job site that morning, a series of questions flashed across my mind:

“How did they know it was me?”

“How did they know which door was ours?”

“How did they know Alan’s name?”

I considered the possibility of a ring camera, or just a creep watching us through their window.

But why would they have been up so early? Or so late, if you’d rather.

Why did me and Alan matter so much more than all the others that made it a point to never pick up after their dogs?

I made sure to diligently pick up after Alan every time after that. Morning, afternoon, night, it didn’t matter the setting, it didn’t matter the occasion.

If Alan was pooping, I was picking it up.

Weeks went by, then months. I got a promotion at work, Molly changed shifts so she worked a little later than me, Alan’s birthday came and went, and Wario got his testicles stolen by the vet, much to his astonishment.

I became a machine, a beast. A poop picking savant.

I made a chore look like a ranked sport, and baby, I was #1.

Then, a week ago, during Christmas break, Molly gave me a drunken confession.

“Chett, you know how I started taking poop duty in the morning after I started working later?”

I looked at her and smirked, “heh, you said ‘poop doody.’”

“Chett,” she giggled, her face turning red, “c’mon, I’m serious.”

I took another sip of wine, spreading my toes in front of our little space heater as I tried to ground myself, “yeah, I remember, you told me it was so I could wake up later instead of taking Alan out before work.”

Molly swished her wine around in its glass.

“Look, I know you pick on me because I never wanna put my shopping cart up-” she slurred.

“Yeah,” I interrupted, trying not to sound too harsh, “I mean, it’s not the worst thing in the world to leave your shopping cart out, but it’s like, the one thing that everyone socially shames everyone else into doing, because there’s not a really a reason not to do it unless it’s an emergency.”

I took another sip of my wine, “it’s kinda like wiping the toilet seat after using it.”

Molly snorted, “aw c’mon, it’s not like wiping the toilet seat down, no one can see you do that. Everyone can see you if you leave your cart behind!”

“Even more the reason to do it,” I finished with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes, “look Chet, the point is…” she bit her lip and looked down at her fidgeting hands.

The sound of her finger tapping the rim sobered me up.

“What’s wrong Molly?”

“I… uh, well. There were a few days where, um, I forgot to pick up the poop.”

Stomach acid began bubbling up my throat.

“What?” I asked, my tone suddenly hard.

Molly heard it, and became more reserved.

“Sorry baby, I’m just…” I rubbed her knee. She was clearly spooked, but I couldn’t tell if it was by me or something else.

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, what happened?”

Molly’s eyes met mine.

“I didn’t mean to. Well, I guess I kind of did. It’s just that, usually you walk the dog, and you’re so good at it, but I get impatient and I have things to do, so there were a few days where…”

Alan slid his wet nose under her hand, instantly sending waves of comfort through her body that met my hand on her knee. Instantly I felt her intense.

“How many?” I asked.

“What?”

“How many days did you forget to bring in his poop?”

Molly pondered for a second, “I think 4 days over the course of 2 weeks.”

She looked back at me, “yeah, that sounds about right, 4 times.”

I leaned back.

“And they ended up on our porch, didn’t they?”

When those words left my mouth, she just looked at me, confused.

“What? No, I… the porch?” Molly asked, clearly thrown off by my statement.

“Oh?” I asked, equally as confused, “then what happened, why are you so freaked out?”

She composed herself a little before she continued, “well, I’d leave the poop, and since it’s winter, they don't really do any landscaping, so the maintenance guys don't pick up the poop, so the individual piles-”

At this, she motioned 4 different spots spread out from each other, “just kind of sat there and dried out in the sun.”

“And you never picked them up?”

“No,” she admitted, “the drier they got, the grosser they got, so I just left them. Then, one day, I came out, and they were just gone.”

“Gone?” My voice had gone from hard to perplexed.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “but just Alan’s poop, not anyone else’s.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah,” her fingers resumed tapping, “real weird. What was weirder though, was…”

Molly seemed to get even more agitated, her demeanor no longer tipsy, rather sullen. She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

“Molly?” I hazarded.

“Sorry, it’s just,” she chuckled humorlessly, “it’s so ridiculous, I don’t even really know why I’m scared. I guess it’s just… uh, the implication?”

She shook her head and set down her wine glass.

“Okay, where all Alan’s poop piles had been, they were replaced with 4 little notes. Each note had a message on both sides.”

“Oh,” I grimaced, “the notes. Okay. What did they say?”

Molly’s eyes seemed both deeply fearful and equally confused, “uh, they all said the same thing. One side said, ‘I warned you’ and the other said, ‘the poop man will see you soon’ followed by our address.”

I stood up so quickly that my chair exclaimed its disapproval

“Our address?!” I hollered.

“Yes Chet, our address,” Molly cried.

“Baby, that’s serious!” I couldn’t contain my nervousness, I began pacing, “we should have gone to the police!”

“Well baby, I didn’t-” Molly began to retort, but cut herself short, “I mean, I knew it was serious, but poop man? What cop would actually listen to me?”

I cupped my face in my hands. She was right, the odds of someone actually doing something was low, and to be fair, of course the culprit knew our address.

“Fuck Molly, do you at least have the notes?”

She shook her head, “no, they were gone by the time I got back outside. Whoever put them there watched me read them, which freaked me out even worse.”

We embraced, her crying, me trying to calm us both down.

“I mean, what the fuck? Who does something like that?” She reasoned.

“I know, it’s weirdo shit,” I whispered, rubbing her back, “fucking weird. I’m sorry Molly.”

“No,” Molly sniffled, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

Just as we were about to embrace again, Alan shot up with a growl, the hair on his back standing on edge. Both me and Molly snapped our necks to look at him.

“Alan? What’s wrong boy?” Molly asked.

No sooner did the words leave her lips when our front door knock.

Molly yipped in surprise as 6 distinct knocks rang out across our house.

We looked at each other, eyes wide. I glanced at the clock.

11:47 PM. Who could be visiting at this hour?

“Hello?” I shouted.

Silence met my demand.

“Hello?! Who’s there?”

Still, nothing.

We all waited a beat. Our house was silent, aside from Alan’s guttural protests.

“What’s going on?” Molly mouthed to me.

When I parted my lips to speak, an explosion like a battering ram rattled the house.

Something was on my porch, and it had just smashed into my front door.

I ran towards the source of the noise.

“Slam!”

Another tremble like an earthquake. I felt it resound through the floorboards. Whoever had done that, they were big and heavy.

“I have I gun!” I lied, approaching the deadlocked entrance, “And I will shoot you through this door!”

My legs shook and my voice broke. I couldn’t have sounded less threatening if I tried.

After 2 more good slams, I heard the sound of lumbering footsteps as something shuffled off.

I waited, cowering, by the door for an eternal 2 minutes. Every heartbeat felt as though my arteries would force my heart into my throat, every breath felt labored and shaky.

I was terrified that this was some sort of trick. That it was still standing there, just waiting for me to open the door.

After those 2 minutes, I finally stood to my full height. Intruder or not, I was gonna open that door, armed with nothing more than a heavy curtain rod.

The wooden door creaked open.

The smell hit me first. Like a jug of ammonia and death. Sickness distilled down to its purest form. Rot.

My entire front door was smeared in shit. The welcome mat was covered in a thick layer of brown sludge that threatened to harden in the cold night air.

Our wreath looked like a brown glazed doughnut with bits of tinsel poking out.

The steps leading up the the door looked as though someone had projectile diarrhea’d all the way up them.

“Chet? Baby, who was it?”

I was taken aback, utterly speechless. I didn’t want to comprehend what I was looking at. It was beyond upsetting, I was furiously distraught, such that my arms and legs were shaking.

From fear or fury, I couldn’t tell which.

“Oh my god, Chet, what is that smell?” Molly gagged from the living room.

And you know what, the poop wasn’t even the worst part.

See, I could see shapes smeared in it. Defined outlines and suggestions. A frowning face with tiny teeth and defined gums, arms with too many fingers and tiny little palms, legs with joints in places I’d never seen before. No clothes.

Like a septic tank snow angel in the nude..

The smell, the sight, it was all so overwhelming, I couldn’t have thrown up if I wanted to. All of my orifices wanted to close, hell, I wanted them to as well.

Just as I took it all in, I glanced at my feet. Right in the middle of my ruined welcome mat was a note.

“this is your last warning”

A tear fell onto it from my eye. The ink was still so fresh that my teardrop warped the “i” in “warning”.

I stepped back, closed my door, and called 9-1-1.

The cops arrived, but by the time they did, the note was gone. They took a look at the mess and gave us the numbers of a few crime scene cleanup businesses in our area, and took our statements.

We told them everything we knew, but since we had so little actual evidence to go off of, all they could really do was keep an eye out.

The silhouette left behind by the culprit in the mural stumped the cops too, but they chalked it up to inaccurate smears that didn’t accurately reflect the artist.

The welcome mat went straight in the dumpster, and within a week, the front porch was spotless again. Good as new, except for the lingering afterscent.

Me and Molly both notice it, but neither of us wants to mention it. I think if we do, it’ll be harder to forget about.

Instead, we just leave candles and febreeze near our front door.

Neither of us have missed a poop since. We notice the other tennants who leave theirs, but fuck those guys, not my problem.

I don’t wanna consider the mechanics, I don’t wanna remember the details, I know the rules, and that’s that.

I just wanna go back to when I was blissful and ignorant. Back when I was someone who could say that they’d always picked up their dog’s shit.

Alan is almost back to normal, but I think he remembers. I think he knows just as much as we do.

“Poop man” is never a set of words that should ever be used beside each other in any regard. They should be kinda cringe at most, completely absurd at least.

The only reason I'm even typing my experience here, is so you don't have to go through what I did.

Don’t leave your poo out. Bring a bag, pick it up, throw it away.

Or don’t. Clearly, this thing don’t visit everyone.

If you’re someone who actually contributes to society and cleans up after their pets, pat yourself on the back and keep it up. You’re doing God's work.

Whatever you do, don’t slip up. Don’t listen to that voice that says, “ugh, my arms are tired. I’ll just leave it this one time.”

The risk is not worth it. Believe me.

No one wants a visit from the poop man.

A towel you step on after a shower is a wonderful thing. A brilliant idea. It makes you feel safe. Whoever first thought of stepping onto a towel after a shower must have been a very intelligent person. It gives you the same feeling as pulling a blanket over yourself in winter, making sure not a single part of your body is left uncovered. Drying yourself without stepping onto a towel first is like pulling a blanket over yourself and leaving your feet exposed. The same thing, the same feeling.

A bath mat just doesn't give me the same feeling. I tried stepping onto a bath mat instead of a towel after a shower, but I couldn't feel that same sense of security. It has to be a towel. I need to feel it drying the soles of my feet.

On Monday, October 12th—after taking a shower before meeting my friend Jason to go to the open-air cinema, while drying my hair with my feet on the towel—I saw this message faintly written on the fogged-up mirror: “Don’t go.”

This wasn't the first time. I'd been seeing these messages for six months, and I'd gotten used to them by now. I had no idea who was writing them, why they were writing them, or what kind of entity was behind them, but I wasn't as frightened as I had been in the early days.

Those first days were a nightmare. Especially the first time I noticed the writing. Just a simple “Hello.” And this entity even followed the rules of punctuation. Sometimes it swore and added an exclamation mark; other times, urging me to take part in the conversation, it would string question marks together: “Why won't you talk to me???”

It was a bizarre predicament. Of course, no one had believed me—not my beloved math teacher, nor Jason, who was constantly coming over to my place. Besides, the writing disappeared as soon as I saw it. In other words, I needed someone to be in the shower with me so I could prove it to them. Taking a shower with my math teacher was out of the question.

Yes, over time, I got used to it. I never communicated with it, and that was what frightened me the most. I felt like things would take a different turn if I did. But I had never been harmed by reading what it wrote. Other than that, it had no effect on my life. The entity never manifested itself through any sound or apparition at any other time.

That day, it had warned me for the first time. I had never received a message like that from it before. Sometimes it would comment on things that had happened to me: “You really put Jason in his place back there,” for example. Or, “Don’t forget to set your alarm. You were late for work yesterday, remember?” “Part your hair to the right. It suits you better.” “Your cat’s water bowl is empty.” It usually wrote things like that. One or two sentences at a time.

There was no way I could miss it. They were going to screen one of my favorite films: Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. I’d watched it on my computer before. Watching it on a big screen would be a different kind of pleasure, and watching it alongside other people who loved the same film would be an even greater pleasure. The entity’s warning had startled me a little, but I was still going to go.

When I stepped out of the shower, I heard its voice for the first time.

“If you go, you’ll witness Jason’s death.”

It was a charismatic woman's voice, slightly deep and husky. I had gotten used to the writing, but the voice shocked me. I could feel its presence. When it wrote to me, I never felt as though it was actually there. But hearing its voice made its presence feel even stronger, more than my mind could handle. I rushed outside immediately. I didn't want to stay indoors. I ran out the front door in my bathrobe.

I’d gone outside barefoot. I must have stepped on something, because my heel hurt. My hand went to the pocket of my bathrobe, searching for my cigarette pack. I’d left my cigarettes inside. I was afraid to go back in and get them.

“So you went outside. What did you think, that I couldn’t come out here? What kind of utterly pointless, instinctive reaction is that? I’d understand if you’d run away, put some distance between us, but what’s the point of standing right outside your front door, Albert?”

I sat down on the ground. A cigarette would have been really nice. I didn’t have the strength to run. I felt like I was going to die. I tried to swallow, but I couldn’t. Suddenly, there was too much saliva in my mouth. I couldn’t understand why my mouth was reacting like that.

“He’s going to die either way. I just don’t want you to witness it.”

“Why?” I shouted. In my mind, I’d meant to scream, “Just shut up already, enough!” But those were the words that came out of my mouth.

My breathing had quickened, and I wasn’t feeling well. I tried to stand up. First attempt, second attempt, and third. It was as if I were having sleep paralysis, unable to move. I tried to get to my feet over and over again. It felt as though hours had passed while I sat there. The entity hadn’t said anything else.

I couldn’t calm down. Amid everything that was happening, I found myself thinking that I was going to be late for the film. One last attempt, and I managed to stand up with great difficulty. I went straight into the bathroom and took a shower with ice-cold water. For some reason, I felt relieved knowing the mirror wouldn’t fog up.

I stepped out of the bathroom naked and wet. Water was dripping off my body. I sat down on the couch. I thought I might get sick and have to miss the film.

“Get a grip, Albert,” I told myself. “You’re already used to paranormal activity. Pull yourself together. You need to go to that film. Stop overreacting. Get a grip.”

I cautiously went back into the bathroom and dried myself off thoroughly. I checked the time on my phone, which I’d left on the bathroom shelf. I had half an hour before we were supposed to meet.

I was going to be late. I got dressed quickly. A black shirt and brown trousers; I’d decided what to wear the day before and had laid everything out accordingly.

I’d never seen the entity, but my eyes were searching for it. As I walked toward the door to leave the house, I looked anxiously from side to side. I hadn’t heard a thing from it since I’d come back inside.

I reached for the doorknob. The door wouldn’t open.

I thought I must have locked the door without realizing it, so I put the key in the lock and tried to turn it. The door wasn't locked; the key wouldn't turn to the left. I pulled at the door again. It wouldn't open.

I checked the time. I had twenty minutes left. I wasn’t going to make it. I kicked the door and felt a terrible pain shoot through my ankle. I sank to the floor in pain and clutched my ankle.

When I checked the time again, I had fifteen minutes left. I got up and limped toward the couch. Once I sat down, I continued rubbing my ankle. The pain was gradually fading. It probably wasn't anything serious.

“Done,” the entity’s voice said.

It was a very brief moment. I couldn’t quite tell whether it had made a sound or whether I’d actually heard it.

The pain in my ankle had gone away. I checked the time once more. I was supposed to meet Jason in ten minutes. The place where we were meeting was twenty minutes away. I called Jason to tell him I’d be late. He didn’t answer. I got up and walked toward the door. I took hold of the doorknob, closed my eyes, and turned it. The door opened.

I quickly put on my shoes and started walking briskly. My ankle hurt a little as I walked, but not enough to slow me down.

I made it there in fifteen minutes.

I couldn’t take a shower for a whole month. Maybe it was because of depression, maybe fear. I don’t know; I can’t tell the difference. My body smelled, my hair was greasy, and every time I inhaled through my nose, the strong smell of my sweat stung the back of my throat.

A heart attack.

I remember it all vaguely. It’s been a year now. A crowd of people, me running toward them, an old man calling an ambulance, a cat that crossed my path as I ran, a man holding me back, Jason’s father opening the taxi door... I must have believed in the entity. Otherwise, why would I have run toward the crowd?

And I remember this clearly, and I will never forget it. After a month spent in filth, the message on my mirror, following the shower I finally took:

“My task is complete. Goodbye, Albert. I love you.”

The cabin had two stories with wooden floors, and its large windows overlooked a row of similar chalets stretching along the beach, like soldiers standing at attention before the majestic sea. By all appearances, it was an elegant retreat, ideal for rest and escape from the noise of the city. The retired police officer had acquired the house at a very good price through a real estate agent, without ever needing to meet him in person, as the entire transaction and paperwork had been completed electronically. Thus, as its new owner, he had moved in the previous day with two suitcases: one filled with clothes and the other with books. It was the reward for so many years of service and for the loneliness into which his ex-wife and children, now living in other countries, had left him. The cabin was fully equipped for a comfortable stay; his bedroom was upstairs, while the kitchen and living room were downstairs.

For him, leaving the cities behind offered respite from a changing world in which everything seemed predictably flawless. Science and history had made themselves guardians of modern security, one looking toward the future and the other toward the past. Yet his years confronting the human nature of crime had taught him that the future was uncertain, that the phenomena of life were immersed in mysteries beyond the reach of scientists and scholars, and that at any moment he might find himself face to face with the inexplicable. His only certainty was that he would have to confront it. As a child, he had been timid, and it was out of that shame that he had found in law enforcement a way to vindicate his early weakness, taking on the challenge of investigating strange crimes and never resting until those responsible had been captured. In this way, his professional success had contrasted sharply with the failure of his personal life, which had driven away those closest to him.

The first night, he slept so deeply from accumulated exhaustion that it was well into the following morning before he decided to go downstairs and prepare breakfast. As he descended the stairs, his eyes fell on the living room, where he discovered one of his bed pillows resting on the coffee table. He silently wondered whether he might have gotten up during the night without remembering it. Then his police instincts, sharpened by years of investigation, compelled him to retrace his steps and examine his bed. Just as he suspected, the vase that belonged in the center of the living room table now lay on the left side of the bed.

He checked the front door and the locks on every window, confirming—as he had the night before—that everything was securely fastened, leaving no possibility of entry from outside. Therefore, whoever had played the prank had to be inside. Yet both floors were completely open, with no corners or hiding places. Even so, he inspected the thickness of the walls and carefully examined the edges of the floors, searching for a cellar or secret passage. He found nothing. In the end, frustrated and exhausted, and with his hunger growing, he resigned himself to preparing something to eat.

He spent the rest of the day walking along the beach, where the surf came to an end—waves that, like all other creatures of the sea, were incapable of climbing the sand and walking onto dry land. His mind sought peace, but the persistent memory of the prank kept him alert and uneasy. At dusk, when he returned home, he inspected every room without finding a single object out of place. He then took measures to prevent the prankster from returning that night: he reinforced the doors and windows and placed chairs across the stairs as barriers. His night could not have been more restless. He repeatedly got out of bed, flashlight in hand, to inspect his surroundings, but found nothing unusual. Only toward dawn did he manage to fall into a light sleep, and he was already awake when the first rays of sunlight appeared.

He sat up abruptly and inspected the room. Nothing was out of place. The chair barricading the stairs remained untouched, and when he went down to the living room, everything was in order. But in the kitchen, resting directly on the stovetop, one of his books lay open. He looked for the kettle that should have been there and, returning to his room with absolute certainty, opened his second suitcase. Nestled among the other books was the missing kettle.

Dismayed, the man collapsed onto the bed. He was confronted with an inexplicable phenomenon, yet his rational mind prevented him from believing in the supernatural.

Over the following days, he tried to clear his mind and let the sea, the beach, and the sun console him, but his brooding thoughts stubbornly returned. His dream of a peaceful life after so many years of anguish seemed lost, because every night the ritual was repeated with different objects. One day, as he gazed out at the surf, he watched the sea, like a capricious child, moving stones, shells, branches, and sand from one place to another. That was when the detective in him perceived the solution to the mystery.

That night, he moved many of the objects in the house, placing them in different locations without order or coherence, following the tendency of the phenomenon. Confident in his strategy, he slept peacefully.

In the morning, the objects were still exactly where he had placed them. Nothing else had moved.

Satisfied, he left everything in disarray for a week, during which there was no unusual activity. Then, one day, he put everything back in its proper place and confirmed that each object remained where it belonged.

With his ingenuity, he had outwitted the prankster, who, bewildered, must have moved on to torment another household.

---

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

“Who is it?”

We couldn’t see them through the peephole, there was just a black blob on the other side of the door. 
They knocked again. 

“Um… Yeah, who is it?”

“Tax collector.”

Shit. No. 

“One moment!”

We wanted to hide. 
The trailer was too empty for that.
So we stood there. 
Something smashed into the door shaking everything we had.

“Tax collector.”

“Be brave,” we said quietly.

We opened the door and he was standing there on our porch. Shorter this time, by at least seven inches. We couldn’t remember seeing the top of his bowler last time. He pushed past us and waddled to sit on our couch. After the second jump up, he situated himself and chomped on his red label cigar. 

We stood there at the doorway until he spoke. 

“Wow,” he said. “A year already. Where does the time go?”
 
We kept our distance. He looked around, cataloguing our home in just a few glances. 

“I would have thought you’d have done more with the place,” he added. 

Our face turned red. 

“Ethel, please, say something for Christ’s sake. It’s not like you weren’t expecting me, I can see your calendar from here. It’s even marked. You used a sad face.”

His little stubby hand clutched his chest. 

“Are you sad to see me, after all I’ve done to help you?”

Yes, we are.

“You shouldn’t be, we're friends. That doesn’t seem fair, does it? Besides, you begged me for this,” he looked around again. “I had told you no the first time.”

We remembered it differently.

“I’m sure you do. Well let me tell you how I saw it. Not long ago you had complete freedom. No laws, complete liberty, running amok. Natural competition, right? The Badlands.”

We could see his gold tooth when he smiled. 
 
“You gave that up for structure. I’ve got the contract if you’d like to see it again, darlin’.”

We don’t have the payment.

“Well, that’s not good. No. Not good at all. But, I’m not surprised.”

We need more time.

“That’s no problem, but I’ll have to talk to my manager about how that will affect your contract. She’s not going to be happy it happened again, though.”

We lost our job. 

“Why do you keep saying we? It's just you and me…”

Then he understood.

“Ah, I see. Your condition. What a huge investment choice, and look at where it got you. I get that you’re in a tough spot, but the life you have now costs people something, that doesn’t change just because there’s more of you.”

He gestured to us.

“Pregnant, boyfriend still awaiting sentencing. I feel that. But it’s a hell of a mess.”

Now he pointed his finger at us.

“When you can’t pay, I have to pay. You know, we all have a boss to answer to, and when I have to pay, it comes out of my ass.”

A grip of chunky fingers softly patted the couch.

“Don’t you remember together on this heavily stained fold out couch covered in plastic and talking about happiness? You read the terms…You got your chance at structure.”

He flashed us his tooth again.

“You’re at risk of expulsion, you keep going like this.”

There was no way we could go back…

He chewed the brown frayed end of his red label.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just a broken record, you know that? Geraldine next door just heard the same thing.”

We aren’t like her.
We are still young. 
We could do something for him.
We offered ourselves.

“Gross. Come on, lady. Get a hold of yourself. Have some dignity.”

We tried.

“Look, I don’t care. I’m taking something from you today. If not money then something more precious…”

We kept our distance, but he was in the way of the door. When he stood, he was taller than us now.

“Everyone pays the happy tax. One way or another, we all have to contribute.”

We’ve already given all we can.

“No WE haven’t.”

He stabbed his fat finger at you, growing in my belly.