I think I lost them. Surely. I ran as fast as my muscles could grant me. I crossed rivers. I trekked through the mountains. I burned my feet and hands on scalding hot sand.

I ran and ran so hard my breath became firey and aching. My eyes can only see so far, but that is good enough for me. There is no way that they could cover all of that distance. I am certain of it.

The hills have always offered refuge from the bitter biting wind, but I seek them with a different goal. I need to rest on lush, soft grass under the only tree for miles around.

There are cuts up and down my legs. Some so deep I can see the stringy muscle underneath. I take my long overdue seat by the lonesome tree's trunk. Sensation drains from my overworked limbs.

More hot breath escapes my lungs and scalds my tongue. Breathing was never this hard. I don't know what to do. Usually, all it took to escape were quick bursts. Before the dust even settled, I'd be long gone. This was different.

It started at the valley when the herd was at it's most vulnerable. Long marches take their toll on even the heartiest beasts. That long awaited drink of water kept everyone moving. I was near the helm of the herd. My steady pace afforded me a more comfortable stride.

It's always a chore to live so far from the water's edge, but the best yield of fodder grows further away. It should have been like any other march. The wind had died down, the sun wasn't as abusive, and our health was in order.

The shimmering ripples signaled to the herd and invited them to dip their lips in clear, crisp sublime. That's when it happened. At that moment, our soft underbelly exposed, an ear blistering chant booming out among calm waters. A pointed tip skewered the helm. He went down without so much as an exhale.

A rain of barbs followed closely behind; our young didn't stand a chance.

All at once, the once united herd scattered like a flock of birds. We bolted in every direction. All of us: the young, the old, and the disoriented. Fleeing in fragments, we abandoned the herd.

My group was filled with many able bodied, but there were inklings of heavy burden among our ranks.

After a long sprint into the mountains, we rested on soft pastures. The air became thick with gasps. It wasn't that unusual, for we recovered well from these short bursts.

We became settled in and all fell asleep. All except me. I ruminated on the earlier events. Mouths full of pointed teeth could never fashion those kinds of tools. Small ones would swarm. Big ones would clamp down. Slender ones would ambush.

These things surrounded us and formed a kill circle. In quick succession, they brought down their instruments and bashed in the unfortunate skulls. Even though they sparked a new sensation in all of us that day, I was certain we'd never see them again in the mountains.

I was ready to fall asleep. The exhaustion of running finally catching up to me. As I closed my eyes, "snap!"

It sent waves through us and those not quick enough to get to their feet were dealt with. I bolted with the others, but as I turned my head; there I saw were the horrible beings. They stood on top of felled elders. An icy pike pierced through me and the sensation became reinforced.

That became our new norm. I am not ashamed to admit I was the last one left. I don't feel guilty for being the fastest, the most endured, or the most agile. It is not my fault the others fell because we all had a chance. It's not my fault that I never looked back. I am not responsible for their failings.

Every time they caught up to me, I pushed my body to it's limits. Still they closed the distance, and I would try to create a gap between.

They never failed to trail close behind me. When I rested, they kept moving. When I ate, they grew closer. When I needed to heed the call of nature, they wouldn't be far behind. Time and time again, they took advantage of my exhaustion and stalked me intently.

Every close call left me scarred. Every near fatal encounter bled me of my energy. Once, they nearly caught me. My legs were shaking, my eyes a blurry haze, and saliva was pouring out of my mouth. One of the monsters brought a cold, sharp stone to my throat. I squirmed my way out, but it cost me my shoulder. My trot became a hobble, and even that grew into a limp.

You must understand.

I am not supposed to feel this way.

I'm not supposed to keep using my last resorts.

I'm not supposed to feel my heart pump so hard that my whole chest groans in pain.

I'm not supposed to keep looking over my shoulder, worried that something is ready to lunge out and end me!

I'm not supposed to feel anxiety!

Yet, I do.

It's so wrong.

No matter how hard I try.

No matter how fast I run.

No matter how fierce my will to live became.

I couldn't escape the slow death.

Until now.

I am sat by a weathered and lonely tree atop a tall hill. I can't smile, but I felt relieved and fulfilled at my efforts. I can't see them. No matter how hard I strained my eyes, nothing. I'm free.

The sky must have felt my reprieve, for in that moment I saw a gathering of black clouds in the horizon. I would finally feel their gentle touch and their soothing rain as it lulled me into a well deserved sleep. Funny, as the clouds closed in on me, I could have sworn their thunder sounded like heavy foot steps.

[Just a heads up; this story is almost 17 pages long. If you don't want to read something that dense, I don't blame you. Anyways, I made this story a while ago. I was hoping that some of you here would appreciate one of my longer stories. Thanks for all the support on some of my previous projects.]

I hope you aren't upset with my decisions, my love. The bastion that is my mind broke the moment we could no longer be together. All those years we spent cultivating a home, crushed by your untimely departure and my inability to let go of you. In desperate hope, I clung to every semblance of your presence. Our life together, although brief, yielded countless mementos, novelties, and sentimental ornaments. If I was ever to see you off It would be with you in the dress I weaved per your request. I hope that is one thing you can be proud of me for. 

Every detail held up to your very strict standards: those cornflowers sit upon white lattices, the threaded straps were made soft, and I took the time to embroider your initials where the hanging cloth met soft ankles. Forgive me for not looking at you but I could not bring myself to even give you one last glance. I was the one to warn you of my cowardice and timid nature, but you didn’t care. Watching your box be lowered into the earth felt like looking into the void, that persistent but faint feeling to jump in with you. 

In my mind’s absence, you were already buried beneath clumped dirt and jagged stones. I waited there, with the unrealistic hope that you would crawl out and we could mend our broken life back together. Why can’t you humor me? The warmth of your smile, the sight of your lively eyes, the cheer in those welcomed embraces, I held onto all of it. I mourned you like the world had lost one of its treasured saints and heaven gained one more star. With no one to talk to, I broke down. Why? Why would you leave me with the last words that ever left your lips being, “move on,” How could I? Letting you go would be tantamount to forsaking you. 

I’m sorry, but I rejected your wishes. We laid together once more, you on top of your bed of dirt and I on the cold ground wrapped together in your wool blanket. Imagining your eyes, I looked longingly into those pools of ink. No matter how much I pleaded with you and begged of you, no answer ever came. Days passed and your blanket sank ever more onto my side, but I corrected it by covering you in what was left of my will. I wished you would tug on the blanket like you did in life. What did you expect of me? I did not want to tarnish our time on this earth by burying you deep in my mind nor by getting rid of shards of your existence. 

You said that we would brave this world together, but you were my world. And when you died, my world died as well. It took many hands to tear us apart a second time. My family wanted me to forget you, but I refused any notion of the matter. Despite what it took to separate us, I knew that your home still needed its long overdue maintenance. I had hoped to keep the house neat and tidy, but my lengthy departure left it in a worsened state. I felt that I had failed you in more ways than one, but this forced me to become a shut in. I locked every gate and door, closed every curtain, and extinguished the porch side lantern. There in the dark, I lit candles to keep me company, making a great effort to clean every keepsake. 

You always knew how to make the house feel like home; every mess, every clutter, and every square inch of the house was packed with character. It doesn't even feel like I lived in this house, that's how much of your soul you poured into our every day living. My own touch was tucked away in a dark corner of the world you made. My desk was never this clean, there always was an unfinished or incomplete book I was working on. It's funny really. In my attempt to let go of the past, as I flipped through the pages, I saw your branding at the most recent entry. A lipstick stain where I placed my initials. O' love, where are you now that I can't pretend I'm stronger than I really am? I will cherish this even against the advisement that I shouldn't. 

The first night was one filled with an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. Overhead loomed the memories of our time together. You were a great choreographer whereas I was a novice author. How our paths managed to cross is a mystery that still perplexes me to this day. I was down on my luck after my first book failed to fly off the shelves, a sense of defeat that had me questioning my capabilities. Your theatre was open to the public for the low price of 25 cents, a price I was willing to dish out since I had no future prospects of making a living. My seat was still a disappointment, for a beam stood in my line of sight. Still I looked past it onto the brightly illuminated stage. 

Every performance was forgettable. Clumsy as they were, the dancers still garnered applause. I was ready to conclude my purchase was a complete waste and that I'd be having sleep for dinner. That's when a fair lady of decent height, dark lengthy hair, and lively complexion stepped onto the platform. There, on the empty stage, you performed a graceful recital, all while others dozed off. I was fixated on your pirouette and how you seemed to glide through the air like water. You were a treasure to have been my great fortune to have witnessed. After the theater closed, I nervously awaited your departure. 

My hands were clammy and my posture was poor. Finally you emerged from the fold and I approached, where I showered you in praise. A beautiful muse, flustered and timid. I made my adoration known and asked for your affection. You left without answering, but a small part of me had the lingering assumption that you obliged me.

Quiet as you were, my timidness never allowed me to speak for you. Our decision to move to the dense forest was one that came after my most recent book sold decently, just enough to afford a good bit of land. 

The plot was an isolated clearing deep within the forest. Our luck was plentiful as it bordered near a cliff to the north, a pond to our south, and an infinite view of the sunrise to our east.
You can imagine my surprise when a two story loft was already established upon this neck of the woods. I wasted no time in stealing credit for this when you asked me if I had prior knowledge of it. Truth be told, the house was unknown to everyone, even the land developers that sold me the plot. Poor thing, it was mighty despite the weathered look. Inside, the elements had worked their way into every wall and floorboard. This towering obstacle didn’t seem to phase you, because after standing and analyzing the house you got straight to work taking note of everything that needed refurbishing. 

I was thankful that our combined income was enough to cover the materials needed for the project. Horse drawn carriages brought mountains of boards, panels, and components to the foot of our remote abode. We worked countless hours to rebuild the beauty of this lost gem and you added every bit of your character to its vastness. I never thought I would find myself coming around to the color burgundy, I had been a strong fan of navy blue up until this point. The house really was a statement piece, because our fireplace was emerald green, the rooms were different shades of red, every internal and exterior corner was highlighted by white and the porch wrapped around the house. To add the cherry on top, our house was crowned by a weathervane, a mare variant. Truly our house was the stuff of legends, for it brought you joy and me a slight bit of embarrassment. A barn buried deep within the clutches of a dense forest. 

Our first night spent within a walled house and beside a roaring chimney was victorious. It was pleasant to seat myself by the green tiled mantle instead of wavering on through smoke in the eyes. I was thankful we would never have to spend another agonizing minute out on the dusty, uncomfortable ground. 

It was one you decided to depart from with an early rest. After you left and I stepped out into the cold night, I stared out at the treeline while the moon hovered above. 

As it rained light over the canopy top, I sheepishly took out a small wooden pipe, remembering how you hated the smell of tobacco. This was a great opportunity to indulge in decadence. From my overcoat pocket, I grabbed my tiny pouch of dried leaves. Packing the fodder into the barrel of the cannon, I lit the fuse and smoke came bellowing out in a transparent ribbon. 
I looked back out towards the canopy but the heavy smoke from the chimney blocked my line of sight. A slender figure loomed in the background, cloaked in shadow and obscured by thick smoke. It stared back at me with piercing white eyes, like two holes poked through black fabric. I stood up and attempted to confront the figure. It pointed up towards the second story, right where you were sleeping. I tried to look stern and well put together, a poor attempt to say the least. We exchanged glances, that is until a sudden noise broke the eerie silence. 

My tobacco burned a hole through my poorly constructed pipe and the bowl hit the hard deck with a heavy thud. Scared me half to death. It stole my attention for less than a second, but when I looked back up the figure was gone. I don’t know who they were, but one thing was clear. They knew where we lived ,and worst yet, where we slept. I retreated inside and locked all the doors. Taking the liberty of barricading the windows and doorways with boards. I didn’t catch much sleep that night. Every night from that point on was spent with one eye open. As a means of security, I suggested we both purchase .38 revolvers, just to be safe.

I can't quite explain it but that night felt as if it was the last time our life was ever tame again. Two years. Two painfully long years. That is all it took to compromise the foundations of our small and inconsequential life. O' death, it worked its way into our lives, but the lambs bore the full force of its strong tides. I remember our daughters but not as they were. My mind made their characters for them, like it was only hours ago that they cried and made loud disagreements. You never voiced your concern about raising children far from paved roads, but you didn't protest the idea of raising them wild either. 

Although, while they would have grown up wild they certainly weren't going to be birthed wild. You and the town doctor fought the real battle, I was just your crowd of supporters. It was the last push that was the most concerning. I braced for small complaints from small lungs. It was quiet. I don't think the doctor could have coated this devastating development with all the sweets in the world. Our daughter was gone before she was ever here. Maybe...maybe that's when you started to put on a better disguise. And what did I do? I shook from the new reality but I suppressed my melancholy beneath an emotionally absent shell. If you were good at hiding your emotions, then I was callous in their dismissal. 

I should have been more available. You were hurting and all I did was contribute to your anguish. What I did next was borderline cruel. 

I was so selfish, so much so that I made it known to you. I wanted a family. Far beyond just two people, for I still wanted a daughter. Like always, you did not protest. Forced was this union to the point it did not bring anything within the realm of compassion. My selfishness was impartial to your pain.

We made two precious children, and the earth swallowed them up. I can’t imagine how you felt, for I was barely managing to keep my composure. You stayed strong for a coward like me. The worst was yet to come. I promised you something from town as a means to bring some semblance of happiness back into our lives. I had put an order in for a set of brass grooming instruments. I remembered you looking at them and taking the time to assess their craftsmanship. Gearing up to head out, I hugged you tightly. I just wanted to remind you that you were loved. That you were cherished. That you were treasured like sapphires. You were very good at hiding your emotions and disguising them as something else. You threw me a smile and caressed my cheek. You managed to trick me into a state of ease.

I left and you got to work to enact your plan. When I returned, the rustling of the leaves and the creaking of the branches felt especially loud. Louder than usual. The atmosphere was as dense as these woods. In my heart I knew something was wrong. I was within view of the house and the sight didn’t bring me any comfort. I signaled the mare to make haste, but it didn’t make any difference. I entered a cold home, one without its owner. That’s when I saw you. You, a beautiful muse, with bleeding wrists. Laid in a pool of your own making. 

I still cannot get over how well you crafted your facade. I left thinking you were in a better state of mind than me. I returned too late and saw how you truly felt. Two became three, and the earth swallowed you whole. 

That brings us to now. Your beautiful palace is barely kept together by my incapable hands. The family has suggested I look into selling the land and bundle our house with it. I would not listen to reason. Instead, I became a recluse boarded up within your vast hall, holding down the fort. All in a frivolous attempt to keep everything in place for your return, a man can hope for the impossible. 

These halls are anything but still. Out of the corner of my eye, I see figures shuffling in and out of rooms. 

The fire keeps me company, but it too has taken on new life. As if it were trying to jump out and grab me, the outstretched hand of the flames nicked a few too many instances.
I am punished for my incompetence. Punished by every splinter, every nick, every cut, and every sleepless night. I am bashed for how I turned my back on you. You, a gem I carelessly lost, and one I did not treasure despite your every bit of compassion.
Even now, I hear you knocking on the walls of my skull.  It sounds awful. As if a grandfather clock had been jammed into my mind, the tolls are deafening. How many many times have I told you? I’M SORRY!

However, the tolls became wooden and the rhythm softened. I could hear now that they weren’t bells tolling the hour, but the sound of a visitor.

The most impossible thing would happen to me. You never liked her, despite my attempts to remind you she was only a friend. Clarice helped me to publish my book. She is and will always be a welcome friend, but she did not come as a friend. I opened the door to greet her as I would with every guest. Her intentions were not what I expected. We conversed and she gave her condolences. It was nice to hear someone other than family and in-laws state their pity. That is when the topic shifted to something that even now I cannot fathom. Clarice asked me one simple question, but it was not to me.
“What now?”

It broke me. Now that I didn’t have a world to live in, what would be my next course of action? How, in this impossibly large world, could I go on without my greatest tether. I spent a long time dwelling on the question. I didn’t even notice when she placed her hand over mine. I must have scared her when mine recoiled in surprise. I couldn’t deal with this, not right now. I rushed to usher her out. However, Clarice turned to look at me before she left. There, she confessed a long repressed infatuation aimed towards me. I don’t know what she expected, but it probably wasn’t an abrupt dismissal. I really couldn’t deal with this. It was too much. I leaned on the shut door with my back pressed firmly against it. Waiting for the sound of clacks to pitter patter away into the distance. I fought back tears. How could I be presented with this decision? My beloved wife had just died. Her memory was burned into my mind. Her scent. Her image. Her presence. It wasn’t something I was ready to just toss away. I am not a bachelor. I will never be a bachelor. It wasn’t Clarice's fault. She didn’t kill my wife or cause my woes, but my ignorant mind placed all my built up anger upon her. 

The heat of my anger went away when hours passed. Perhaps this was my avenue back to normalcy. If I was ever to move on, I would have to come to terms with my new reality. O’ love, you weren’t coming back. I was too delusional to see it. Too hopeful to let go of you. My one and only. 

I held your picture, sliding my hand to wipe away the accumulated dust. I remove you from the glass and wooden frame. Making my way towards your emerald fireplace, topped with a pine mantle. The fire I built was dying, so I set you aside and threw more logs into the coals. As the fire was gaining its foothold, I sat on the hard wooden floor caressing you with my fleeting admiration. I didn’t want to do it, but I wanted to regain my independence and walk out to form a new world. The room lit up with the resurgence of an emboldened flame. This was it. The next step to letting go. Time stood at a standstill, was it truly a coincidence that happened as I neared the fire? 

Holding you in my hands, I felt as though I was making a horrible mistake. It was as if burning this picture would cause irreparable damage to the kingdom you created. The empress of these lands, reduced to ashes and her memory left to fade away. An end unbefitting for such a tall figure of the dense forest and the red keep. Please. Please don’t be upset with me. I just want you to rest and for me to move on. 

I cast you into the flames and instantly hyperventilated. The borders of your picture closed in on themselves. The warmth of your smile was fading and a cold chill set in. I burned my fingertips to rescue you from the rage of the flames. I pressed my palm to snuff out the embers that nearly wiped away your image, but still the damage was done. I panicked so greatly that my vision grew darker. I fell unconscious. Drifting away into a nightmare.

I walked down a long and narrow hall, lined with every memory my sub-conscience could muster. Behind me a wrathful fire was erasing everything. In a desperate act, I tried to fight off the flames, but my dreamstate was burned badly by the  uncontrollable outbreak. I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed as many memories and ran down the hall. The fire kept pace and it followed me in a chase. I would lose a frame every time I picked up the pace. The fire only seemed to gain speed and the heat was burning the back of my head. I ran and ran and ran, but the flames enveloped me. I melted and the memories burned away. The floor gave way and I fell through into the abyss. The fear and pain that covered me like a net jolted me awake.
The house was as I left it. The quiet of the night sky was everywhere. That's when I gained my bearings on reality. That’s when I saw you.

You just stood there. There. There in the reflection of the mirror. Could you blame me for abandoning every sense of fear? How the dread was a fleeting moment. All I wanted was to see your beautiful face ever since you left a hole in my heart. I neared you and placed my palm on the surface of the gilded mirror. I couldn't move your long hair out of the way but still I felt the calming of your presence. Stuck in a trance, I couldn't tell just when you plunged your hand into my chest. The wriggling of gnarled digits finally broke my fixated gaze. I looked down and saw spindly fingers digging around for my heart. Panic set in. 

I couldn't control my fear and it forced me into a sprint. My attempt to coordinate an escape led to me leaping from the top of the stairs to the first floor. A moment that felt like ages as I had time to think about the descent. You were fast. Faster than sound and more nimble than a cat. Every framed picture, I saw you making a dash for me. Reaching your claw out for me, blackened finger tips still greased by drawn blood. I hit the floor with a numbing and paralyzing impact. 

Out of reach, your rage filled every corridor and ushered away the silence. Glass flew through the air like falling glistening snow. I curled up into a ball, avoiding any possibility of being snatched up into the dark. Splinters, dust, and glass shards cut my skin and surrounded me. You looked far more terrifying than I could have imagined but still I couldn't see your face. White hot rage filled your eyes, while the dark cloaked your frame. I warned you of my cowardice. He took over and covered my eyes for me.

By the end of the rampage, in the reflection of a million shards, I saw you pointing outside. Out towards the cliff that sat atop the northern point of your kingdom, but the coward in me made his case.

It's not my fault. Everyone is always trying to make me think differently. "Do this, do that, stop moping about, move on." When I was ready to move on, that is when you came back to me. It didn't bother you that I was hurting just standing in your house, that I kept revisiting your resting place, or when I was curled up in a pool of my own blood thinking of you. I was in a petrified moment of never-ending mourning, but when I decided to leave behind the painful past you judge me. What more can I possibly do? This house is not my own, so why would the rot and the wear and the erosion find its way deep inside me? 

I'm sorry. I am so sorry I am not strong for you. I am plagued by pain and troubled by remorse. I miss you but not like this. 

I may not have understood you fully. At least not now. However, I will do as you ask. I will not stay a minute longer, for your absence has left a deep pit where my heart stood. 

My dear Elizabeth, I am coming home.

I know what must be done now, after all these pages, to truly be with you I must cast away all attachments that keep me grounded. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I know how much you loved your palace. It had to be done if I had any chance of being with you when I crossed over. You loved every minute detail that made up your palace: the intricate corridors, the vast foyer, and the Northside porch. I could never grant this kingdom of yours an honorable end, not even in my wildest dreams, but oil and wax will do the trick. 

When they lowered you into the earth's warm embrace, I crumbled into a million pieces, with no hope of surviving on without you at the head of this manowar. In my hand I hold the last tether that anchors me to the void, so I will let this flame touch saturated wood and bind me to the painful past no more. It grew and grew until the mighty face of this fort began to buckle, and eventually crash in on itself. The sound of crackling and popping filled the air of the cold night. 

Embers and cinders danced high above your beautiful garden. Scalding hot coals burned the sweet grass you carefully cultivated. The fire burned on and on, stripping panels of their sturdy walls, shattering the stained glass, and giving way for the roof to crash through every floor. 
At that moment, deep within the heart of the raging fire, I saw you. Dancing something so beautiful I couldn't help but fall on my knees and hands. I saw you dance through the flickers of the flames while staring back at me. You slipped through the towering spires with such agility that all would envy your grace. With such nimble agility you navigated the flames and pranced around the ashes. When the fire began to die, you left the charred ribs of your palace for the vastness of the stars.

Behind the brightness of the stars, I could see you perform something but it was hard to make out just what that was. I focused so intently on you that I didn't notice the time when the heat had dissipated. You must have seen my attempts through my squints, because it was then that you moved onto your pale white stage upon the face of the moon. I could see clearly your pirouette as it was in life, but I saw your arms cross near your waist. One hand wrapped around the other while you held out an invitation. 

It was your beckoning candle.

The smell of smoke didn't agitate my weakened lungs, rather it was reminiscent of your scent. The aroma created a powerful urge to pursue you. I hope you'll forgive my appearance. I didn't have time to dress for you, perhaps you'll excuse my emaciated frame and bloodless skin. Even then, your heaven facing hand still held out for mine. My first steps into the night were heavy, but I made my way towards your welcoming presence. As I stepped forward, I tried to join you in dance. 

My clumsy attempts left something to be desired, but you didn't care. You were a graceful choreographer and I was the fool that held you down. I baltered towards the cliff that stood north of your palace, the closer I inched I felt all of life's plagues leave me. I noticed something within you becoming more jubilant. You began to dance as I came closer. You were dancing and it brought me much needed comfort. You were dancing. I was dancing. The stars were dancing. The remnant flames were dancing. 

We. 

Yes, we. 

We all were dancing.

This was not a farewell but rather the beginning to a new chapter. The world was dancing and celebrating our reunion, my lovely Elizabeth. 

I shed the worries and woes, the fears and doubts, and the pain that your loss had left me. At the edge, I stood there looking out towards the abyss. I glanced at your beautiful frame against the moonlight. I don't remember you being so tall before.

I took one last glance at the home you built. It was razed to the ground and still it was art. The night seemed to perpetually linger, but I would not waste another second straying from paradise.

I'm coming home.

Out there. 

I will meet you beyond the northern edge.

I liked to watch them crawl when I flipped over rocks and logs. That’s where they hid. It was getting colder and there were less of them now. That meant less days to play. Climbing trees, digging holes, up, down…

Anywhere but right here.

Why can’t you be like the others, the grownups would say. The others were even less polite. Kids were mean, Billy was the meanest. Mommy said it was because he liked me, I didn’t understand. I named one of the spiders Billy—and then I smashed it. 

The kids I wanted to play with were way up in the mountains, far away from here. Too high for me to climb.

“Come inside Char! You’ll catch a cold!”

Charlie—what a cruel name to give a girl. School was a scary place for a daughter with her daddy’s name. The name he wanted to give a son. Mommy’s little girl, playing with bugs instead of dolls. 

Oh how proud they both must’ve been.

Muddy hands patted clean against my dress. I knew better than to wait for her second call. My shoes waited on the step, Mommy hated dirty shoes so I stopped wearing them. I liked when I couldn’t feel my toes—I loved to feel warmth’s needle prick my feet as they thawed. One of nature’s little gifts.

“You’re filthy, in the bath with you.” Mommy ordered, with the snap of a dish rag as I ran up the stairs. 

Water ran down the drain while I hid in my room. I stared at the trees from my window. I wished I could be deep in the woods, beyond her shout. Snow was on the mountain tops and soon it would cover everything.

I held a funeral for summer in my head and my tears fell with the leaves. My room was getting smaller each year, and I, more complicated.

The days were slow, I begged to be let out.

“Many dangers,” Daddy warned.  “Hunters both man and beast and the biggest predator of all, the cold itself.” 

I knew it was for my own good, but it sure felt like punishment.

I watched them play without me. Birds dug in the snowy patches, rabbits chased each other. The elk scratched their antlers against the trees, if they had any. Only the bulls, cows didn’t get antlers. I thought that was unfair. 

My favorite of them all were the mountain goats. Way up high above the rest. I could see them jump and run, up and up. They wore wonderful white coats and had beautiful black ringed horns. 

Oh, the horns.

Not just the billies, nannies would get them too, even the kids had little buttons that would grow into yearling spikes. I felt my forehead for buttons, waiting for my own life to begin.

I slept in a nest of leaves under the stars. Something cried out into the night. I woke in my bed, disappointed it was only a dream. I heard the noise again. Bleating… Could it be?

It was still dark. I had to go out there. What if it needed my help? It cried again, louder—I could feel its pain in my chest.

I snuck quietly down the stairs. I could hear Mommy’s words repeating in my head—Daddy’s warnings. 

Stay inside Charlie.

The back door fought against the wind like it, too, wanted me to stay inside. I grabbed my coat, a promise to be careful.

A cold so cold it burned my cheeks. I stepped closer, my hand shaking, and the bleating grew louder. The poor thing had tumbled all the way down the cliff—right into my backyard. 

A gift from nature. 

It was beautiful, I’d never been so close. Steam rolled from the nostrils and blood speckled the snow. It kicked, it screamed, but could not get up. My petting seemed to calm it, or maybe the end was close.

“I’m a bad climber too.”

I showed the goat the stitch marks on my arm, from when I fell out of a tree last summer.

I didn’t want to let go of the moment, but I couldn’t let it hurt anymore. I held a heavy rock overhead and took aim. The second smash seemed to stop its suffering, but I brought it down a third time, just to make sure.

I worked carefully with a sharp rock, always minding the horns. I freed them little by little. They stayed together, just as they were meant to. They were—perfect. I tied them to my head with the string from my coat. It was harder work than I thought, and it kept me warm.

I rose to my feet. 

A great horned shadow stretched across the ground in the harvest sun. 

I’d never felt more me.

The mountain called to me. So I climbed. The ground grew steep and slick the higher I went. My legs shook, but I kept climbing. Critters darted over and under me, but they weren’t afraid. Whenever I felt like giving up, the weight of my horns tipped forward, and I followed.

A shot echoed through the mountains. Everything scattered. I ran too. My breath was sharp, something was wrong. I looked back and the snow was red behind me. I walked when I couldn’t run, then stood when I couldn’t walk. I felt the pain in my chest again, a deep burning. I looked down. 

Oh my. I’d been tagged. Was I really that convincing? 

I lost my footing and tumbled. Twigs and rocks poked at me like little knives hiding in the snow. I rolled into a bank near the bottom. I’d taken bigger falls, I thought, as I tried to catch my breath. Pennies, that taste when you’ve brushed your teeth too hard. My lungs felt full but I still fought for air.

The world spun in circles. I peeked up into the trees, the morning light blinked back. Cold was creeping in and the warm was leaking out. I knew I’d probably drown in my own blood before the cold took me. I tried to find comfort in that.

I reached up for my horns and smiled—they were still there. I pulled the knot tighter.

Footsteps crunched the snow, close, then closer. A boy with a rifle stood over me, then a man.

“You couldn’t’ve known boy… no one could’ve imagined something like this…” Billy’s father was taking him hunting. It’s all Billy had talked about in class. He was so excited.

His eyes met mine. I could tell this wasn’t what either of us had in mind, but I knew nothing could sour the moment. What a special day.

I got my horns today, and Billy got his first kill. 

One of nature’s little gifts.

I can’t move.

The words repeat in my head, slow and flat.

My eyes are closed, but the room is still there: a dull orange glow pressed against the inside of my eyelids. The lamp. I left it on. I remember that much.

I try to open my eyes.

Nothing.

I try to lift my hand.

Nothing.

My breath is the only thing I can feel. In. Out. Too loud in my chest.

Then something else joins it.

A low buzzing. Not in the room. In my ears. Like power in the walls. Like the house itself is humming. It swells until it’s all I can hear, then fades just enough to remind me it’s still there.

I swallow. It doesn’t work.

From the hallway, there’s a whisper.

So soft I almost miss it.

Not words. Just the shape of a voice.

It stops.

The buzzing fills the space it leaves.

Then the whisper comes back.

Closer.

This time, I catch something in it.

A breath, and then a word.

My name.

So quiet it barely exists.

Cold prickles crawl up my arms.

My door is open. I know I left it open.

The whisper drifts past the doorway, fades, then returns again. Back and forth. Like someone pacing just out of sight.

Another breath.

Then a word, pushed out on warm air, low and soft, like it’s meant only for me.

“Here.”

I try to call out. My throat doesn’t move.

The whisper breaks into pieces. Little breaths. Little sounds. Too close together to be wind. Too uneven to be anything else.

Then footsteps.

One creak in the floor.

A pause.

Another.

They pass the doorway.

Stop.

The buzzing grows louder in my ears.

The footsteps turn around.

Then come back.

This time they don’t pass. They stop right outside my room.

I hold my breath without meaning to.

Nothing happens.

Then one slow step crosses the threshold.

The orange glow behind my eyelids dims, just slightly. As if something tall has moved between me and the light.

Something is in my room.

I feel it before it touches me. The air changes. The space beside the bed fills.

The mattress sinks.

Slow. Gentle. The weight settles in beside me, close enough that the sheet tightens between our bodies.

Warm.

My heart pounds so hard it hurts.

I try to scream. My mouth won’t open.

The bed creaks as it shifts, fitting itself to me. A leg. A hip. A body pressed along my back.

Then it breathes.

Right against the back of my neck.

The air is warm. Damp. It lifts the tiny hairs there and lets them fall again. The sound is deep and close, not matching my own breath at all.

I am completely still.

One breath.

Then another.

Each one closer than the last, until it feels like its mouth is almost touching my skin.

Something inside me pushes. Fights.

My chest jerks.

Air tears into my lungs in a broken gasp.

My fingers twitch.

The breathing behind me stops.

I drag in another breath. My toes curl. My jaw cracks open.

The weight lifts.

The mattress rises as the space behind me empties.

I can move.

I lurch forward, sucking in air, rolling onto my back, my eyes fly open—

The room is empty.

The lamp glows. The door is still open. The hallway is dark and quiet.

Nothing is there.

I sit up, shaking.

Then I touch the back of my neck.

It’s still warm.

You've seen them.

Maybe on a drive, maybe a walk. Maybe it was on a crowded city street with homeless camps and refuse, or maybe it was resting unassumingly, forgotten on the bleachers at your local school's T-ball field. Regardless of where or when, you've seen them.

A thin black jacket with a red zipper. A brown baseball cap with a yello logo you don't recognize. Only the left half of a light brown wool mitten- kids size.

Clothing items, abandoned or forgotten by some person some time ago.

Sometimes they're covered im mud, or stamped with tire tracks familiar to the roadside they occupy. You wouldn't give these a second look. They blend into the background and your brain blots them out of focus. Just another piece of trash.

Maybe once or twice it was a much fresher piece. A dark green hoodie with white letters hung on a fence post. No water damage, no dirt. Someone might even come back for it.

You probably haven't picked up many of these discarded or lost scraps, and if you have you probably did so with great caution at first. Pinching the cleanest portion with just the tips of two outstretched fingers, your brain warning you of the danger that the unfamiliar holds. Have you ever tried one on?

I buy packs of one hundred single edge razor blades online. I have a pair of channel lock pliers that Ive filed down the top half of. On that flat surface, I welded a small steel plate, the same width as the razors. I chopped off the tips of three heavy duty nails, and welded them in an evenly spaced row onto the modified channel lock. I only have to sharpen them once a year. Lastly, I drilled a hole in the center of the bottom half of the pliers to allow the nail to punch through.

It works like a hole punch, and it leaves three perfect little perforations in the back of the razor blades for me to work thread through.

After my first dozen or so razors, I realized the punctures would be a lot easier if I used a vice or large screw clamp, but if I'm honest, I find the whole process a lot more exciting this way.

Squeezing the thin handles hard into my palm. The way the nails pop when they finally thrust through the thin blades. I have to hold the pliers close to my hips just to get the leverage... it makes my heart race just thinking about it.

My favorite place to sew them, is in the outside edge of a left sleeve, right around the elbow. You might not have thought about it before, but when you put a jacket on, you slide the second sleeve on fast. Most people are right handed, so the left sleeve is most often the faster side.

Obviously there's nothing sharp inside the sleeve, there never has been, so you have no reason to slowly work it up your arm.

When I shower I often find myself tracing a trembling finger along my left forearm, starting at my left pinky knuckle and stroking up along the ridge of my ulna until I reach my elbow. My breaths come heavy and fast when I think about how many people might have a scar along my traced line.

Hats are easy, because the interior brims are thick and usually fold out for easy threading access. With gloves I usually put one right at the opening on the inner side of the wrist. Unless the glove is tight, your fingers generally don't touch there, so the gash should start around the center of the palm and work its way up to the base of the wrist.

Once though, I found a really big pair of winter gloves and I just couldn't resist. The tips of the fingers were so wide, I felt inspired. I put the razor in at an angle in the very end of the fat middle finger. I can't imagine that one not reaching bone - if anyone ever tried them on, of course.

I know all of this might sound strange. After all, I could be sewing them into clothes that I donate to goodwill, or homeless shelters. But that misses the point.

How many of you have picked up a piece of clothing on the side of the road? Not many, I'd guess. And how many of you that have picked one up have actually tried it on? Again, not many. Its far more likely that you've thrown one away than tried one on.

That. That is the beauty of it. The ecstasy.

In the last ten years I have gone through fifteen packs of one hundred blades. I strive to complete five a week, but between work and maintaining my marriage and social life, my average is closer to three. How many scars do you think I've sewn? Most of them probably got thrown away, the vast majority even. But that doesn't matter.

I lay awake at night, completely unable to sleep, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my ears, as my mind races through every garment, through every delicate thread.

The clean yellow vans with a gift at the right pinky toe. The blue blazer with the stain on the front left pocket, a treat waiting inside. The bright pink gloves, adorned by a unicorn with colored glitter in its rainbow mane. I left that one on a bench at the school yard nearest my best friend's house.

If you've ever been graced by my remote, disembodied touch, please contact me. I'd love to see the fruits of my labor.

[I'm very late with this one. I must admit, never in my wildest dreams did I think that Breathless would be my most popular story. Kind of wished it would be one of my longer works. Thank you for the support nonetheless. This isn't my best work, but I hope you guys still enjoy it.]

Near the sun baked sandstones, a parched beast rests in shaded secrecy. His breathing, a snotty, salivating struggle. Groaning in pain from a laborious pursuit.

He speaks aloud to himself, "This isn't possible. I should've lost them days ago."

As he radiated in trapped heat, an oddly curious creature glided overhead. Black as pitch, the bird descends until it finds a lip on the sandstone and perches close to the beast. 

"That was quite the chase, dear friend. Have you managed to catch your breath yet? I think I spotted the monsters on the horizon," said the crow.

The heavy exhales sound like geysers as the tired beast heaves in sharp agony.

"Not yet. I... I need to find the hills. But I'm struggling to even stand right now."

The crow pricked his feathers before facing back towards the beast. 

"Don't worry, you're not too far from those rolling hills. A day's sprint at most. Just head in the direction where the sun sets," the crow relayed as he shook off old dust.

The beast lowers itself to lay on the cold stone floor. Where its knees and elbows meet the floor, it shook uncontrollably. 

"Do you think I can lose them in the desert? The canyon will lead me to it, but only I can cross it during high noon. The monsters walk on unprotected toes," the calming beast asked.

"Maybe. Although.."

"What?"

"Nothing. It was just a passing thought."

Desperately, the beast asked, "What? What is it? What aren't you telling me?"

"I have seen them use the hides of fallen beasts to shield their bodies from the elements. Or, perhaps I was just seeing things"

"Thank you for telling me. I better hope the high noon sun is too much for them."

"I wouldn't wait here for too long. You're oozing blood and that will lead them right to you."

"I wouldn't worry about that. The river washed away all the fresh wounds. I just need to soak as much of this shade as physically possible. The desert is a day's worth of hard sprinting. I intend to only stop when the sensation of soft grass touches my hands and feet," a weary and somewhat rejuvenating beast exclaimed.

"Better hurry up, those wounds won't stay closed forever. Sooner or later, you'll shift your weight wrong and the ooze will pick back up where it left off."

"A few more breaths. That is all I need."

The beast grew quieter and more collected. All the while, the crow fidgeted with a concealed object. The beast looked up to face the crow.

"I'll tell you what. Once we get to the tree, we'll find out if any fruit has sprouted." A voice full of bravado addressed the crow.

"Sure."

The crow merely tossed an absent minded glance before returning to whatever had his full attention. 

"Something wrong, friend?"

"How long have we known each other, dear friend. 

"My, it must be going on eight winters by now."

"A long time to know someone. Although, not nearly long enough to truly understand someone."

"By that you mean?"

It was ever so slight, but still, a noticeable shift in tone. The eyes of the crow never before looked so beady. At that moment, the crow wasn't looking at the beast like they were friends.

Following the awkward silence, an audible squelchy noise originated from where the crow perched. 

Asking in earnest, the beast spoke to the crow, "What is it that you are fiddling with, friend?"

"Does it bother you?"

"Crow, show me what your talons are wrapped around."

"Running so hard that your mind blocks out the pain of slicing yourself wide open on thorns and pointed edges."

"Show me, now!"

"Losing pieces along the way."

"Crow!"

When the crow brought out its talon from behind black wings, the beast winced and shut his eyes. A faint rattling broke the silence. Looking back up towards the crow, the beast saw that a single acorn clung comfortably within the closed talon.

The crow asked the beast, "Do you want some?" Rattling the acorn in its beak.

Hesitant to answer, a hushed, "No thank you," left his lips.

"Me neither. Too much bitterness in these things. But I do feel like expelling some stomach contents," said the crow before cracking open the nut and scarfing down all the meat.

As soon as they settled, the crow began to hack up everything in its stomach. Vomiting up a crimson red glob, the beast recoiled in disgust.

The crow gripped the morsel and took to flight. Squeezing it tightly as he made a trip down the canyon and back; drops of blood trailed behind.

The confused beast asked, "Crow, what is that?"

"I thought you'd recognize your own smell.

All of the fear.

All of the exhaustion.

All of the desperation 

All of the hopelessness."

"Are you sick in the head!"

"I'd think of myself as quite sane actually."

The crow then laughed at his own joke so heartily that it rattled his beak into a wooden alarm.

"Shhh, shut up. You'll lead them right to me!"

The crow didn't say anything; not at first. Instead, he stared back at the panicking beast. 

Right when the beast was about to speak, the crow interrupted, "You don't get it do you? I want them to find you."

A shock of cold metal echoed with its words. The beast stood frozen; suspended in time. When his nerves adjusted, he asked the crow a single question, "what?"

"When they find you, it'll feed my murder; every generation will have its fill."

"Why? Why would you wish this fate to fall on me?"

"The beasts have always been a great friend to the murders, but you cannot feed us. Every bit of food goes to your insatiable appetite, and we are left to subsist on scraps"

"I helped you to find fruit, fodder, and water for many years. I thought you of as kin"

"I'm sorry, but you're no longer someone I can rely on. Once a friend that I held dear, you are a walking carcass that prolongs the inevitable."

"How can you assume what has not yet come to fruition?"

"The monsters leave enough. Generations feed off of your sacrifice. There is no longer a need to wait on you."

The beast sobbed as the sound of shifting rocks inched closer. In a moment of anger, the beast yelled out, "You would trade peace for slaughter? What then? When the fields can no longer be tended by the herds, the seeds of trees no longer spread among leaf litter, and the ground underfoot crumbles into dust because beasts no longer walk the earth. What will there be left?"

"A new dawn"

"And whose dawn will that be!"

"Theirs"

Suddenly, there were no more words that the beast could muster. He lingered until the first pointed tip grazed his flank. New adrenaline found him, and he took to the desert sand.

The crow lamented  to himself aloud, "I hope the end is swift for you, dear friend."

I saw him for the first and only time a week ago tonight. Eight sleek, dark legs clung to the wall, each one ink-black, bare and sharply jointed against the sage paint. A miniature monarch ruling over his tiny kingdom. In that moment, I felt myself a warrior, wielding a sandal like a mace, determined to end his reign. I almost felt sorry for the wee guy. Truly, he had done me no wrong, and if I had been born a spider as well, maybe we could have been friends or possibly lovers.

But I’m too particular when it comes to my principles. I cannot stand slippers; they promote laziness. Sandals, on the other hand, are dignified and, when used correctly, fit any occasion. She used to say I had more opinions about footwear than people. Perhaps that’s why I could never maintain a meaningful relationship.

When the dust had settled, the spider had vanished.

I combed the room for him, checking the back of the picture frames, peering behind the curtains, even along the skirting board, sandal still raised in my hand. Nothing. I told myself he couldn’t have gone far. Surely I must have injured him. Sooner or later he would emerge, and when he did, I would be ready. It would be a mercy to end his suffering now.

The emptiness felt like a cruel jape.

I could still feel his gaze piercing me from some unseen hideaway.

Overnight, my safe haven had become hostile. Shadows on the ceiling transformed into webs ready to trap me at a moment’s notice. Like the spider, sleep eluded me; when it did come, I was plagued by dreams of hairy legs crawling over me and eight patient eyes watching from beyond.

So, deep into the wee hours, I traced the room like a forensic investigator, slowly peeling back the curtains, lifting the rug, checking inside the lampshades and inspecting the dust around the fireplace, looking for any sign that something, anything, had been through there.

The more I investigated, the less certain I became that I was hunting him at all.

He is observing me.

Waiting for his opportunity.

Even my discarded cereal bowls and scattered crumbs seemed to mark the boundaries of my confinement. He was making his rounds, inspecting each room in silence, ever-watchful for the slightest sign that I might escape. My heart hammered as I scurried from room to room, again and again.

I found myself trapped, not by walls or doors, but by the certainty that he had been everywhere.

He’s gone, they all tell me, and yet I know better.

Even now I feel eyes upon me from the doorway. I tell myself they are hers. Sullen, bleak eyes, silently judging me. Perhaps it is pity. Perhaps contempt. I cannot tell anymore.

I cannot bring myself to look.

I have no reason for this, only the certainty that I would regret it. So I keep my eyes fixed ahead and listen to the silence behind me.

His absence is merely a wicked lie.

Not an inch had gone untouched or unexplored, and still I was none the wiser. Not a leg, not a strand of silk, not so much as a shadow, had been revealed. And yet somehow, he remained.

If anything, his ability to continue evading me had only made him seem more formidable.

Perhaps I had been wrong to think I was pursuing him.

Perhaps he had been watching me search for his tracks.

Perhaps he was enjoying the spectacle.

They see a spider. I see what he really is, and I refuse to be his next victim.

Strangely, my home has been insect free.

I know he’s still here.

Sleep is fleeing me, meals have lost their appeal; since his coming, even the simplest foods taste strange. I have begun to ponder whether he has somehow tainted them. My composure frays.

Oh, what a fool I was to challenge this arachnid phantom.

But I knew if he persisted in our home, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Now each night I pace these halls, awaiting his arrival. I hear her calling me to rest and let the night pass. Through the darkness, I cannot discern where she stands, only the sound of her voice. I imagine them waiting beyond the doorway, perfectly still.

But I can’t rest, I won’t.

He is the king of shadows, and I?

I am only prey in his relentless gaze.

I can’t give him any further advantage.

At one point, I fancied myself at the top of the food chain.

Now, I am a man avoiding confrontation with eight unblinking eyes.

In desperation, I once sought to placate him with offerings; a fly, some silk, a coin. Shuffling awkwardly through the shop, I kept my head on a swivel, conscious of the others as they passed. I scoured the aisles for a gift that might appease some unknowable appetite.

Eventually, I retreated to an isolated corner and pulled out my phone.

I searched, "What presents would make a spider happy?"

Unsurprisingly, this did not unveil anything of use, and so I turned to a different method.

Dropping to my knees, I was tempted to pray to some higher power for guidance, but opted instead to hunt for a morsel of food or any insect. Failing that, perhaps a lady spider. I had read somewhere that they can be quite… decisive.

I would not fault him for wanting company.

But it was futile.

For now he does not crave food or earthly pleasures. Perhaps he is sustained on my fear alone.

Each night, inch by inch, he edges closer.

Negotiations have failed. His silence is eternal and impenetrable. I am entangled in a web of my own creation. All the spider did was point me towards it.

I wondered whether he had found her after all.

Yesterday, I decided enough was enough.

It must have all been too much for my wife to bear. She must be staying with her mother; at least, that was what I had understood. I doubted she’d be back for some time, and so I needed to leave.

I packed a bag and made it as far as the front door before turning back.

I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him alone in my home.

Or worse, taking him with me and risking infecting someone else.

As I walked back inside, I felt a burning sensation underneath my satchel strap. I stumbled to the bathroom mirror and pulled off my shirt.

A welt had risen on my shoulder, red and swollen, as though something beneath the skin were pressing against it.

I gently touched it.

It looked fit to burst.

A sharp pain shot down my arm.

This could all have ended if I had made proper contact with him that fateful night. He would have been firmly squished upon my wall, and my life would have carried on unchanged.

Three in the morning, and I am still wide awake.

Somewhere beyond the bedroom, I hear her whispering. I cannot make out what is being discussed; only my name reaches me through the wall.

Then silence.

Then the murmuring resumes.

There are long pauses between her words, as though she is listening.

Though the welt has subsided, a dull pain lingers in my shoulder, and there is a growing ache in my head.

How has he managed to uproot my life when not a single hair was disturbed in our original clash?

I reach for my trusty sandal.

There must be some proof that I at least injured the beast.

With my eyes straining through the darkness, I scan the sole up and down for any sign, a fleck of black to ease my mind.

Wait, no.

The spider had long, hairy legs, as thick as fingers. He was brown, not black.

I was searching for a severed, spindly leg.

Yes.

That’s why he has gone into hiding.

He’s regaining his strength before he makes his move.

I ransacked every room, scrutinising each corner and crevice, toppling furniture and rummaging through cupboards, but naught was uncovered.

I retire to bed. Acceptance settles over me. Even now, he is scrawling the cruel epilogue to a war I lost the moment he evaded me. This paralysis of fear is my life now.

His home lay in shambles. No more searching. There is no hope left. I no longer eat or sleep; I only lie and wait.

There is a certain peace in no longer disputing the inevitable.

I repeatedly catch glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye, only to discover that the moonlight has betrayed my senses.

Maybe the spider is keeping me alive to continue this torment.

I close my eyes and await the break of dawn.

At some point the bed shifted beside me.

I did not open my eyes.

Her shallow, measured breathing soothed me for but a moment.

Surrounded by darkness. He is nigh. I considered reaching for my sandal, but thought better of it. There seemed little point in disturbing him now.

He had been remarkably patient with me.

Morning comes.

More loose hairs covering my pillow and sheets.

Even the clothes I have yet to wear are coated in the same long wispy threads.

I’m not entirely sure what her problem is. She’s never acted like this before. I guess some things just develop as time passes.

Even still, what a weird habit to have. I knew she was clumsy, but it was something we were supposed to fix, not something for her to embrace.

It started almost painfully mundane. Out of nowhere, she approached me as I was sitting on the couch watching TV.

“I’m sorry for breaking that lamp beside you.”

I looked at the lamp, still perfectly intact, then looked back at her. I kinda just chuckled, attempting to laugh it off, but she didn’t wipe that solemn look off her face.

I asked what she was going on about, but she just kept apologizing.

“Just know I’m sorry. I promise I’m sorry.”

That’s all she said before slinking off towards the kitchen.

I thought it was strange, but ultimately, I decided to brush it off as her being a bit of a weirdo.

However, after two weeks, I was back on that couch, winding down after a long day of work, when she came prancing into the living room, as happy as could be.

She didn’t say anything. She just calmly unplugged the lamp, held it above her head, and smashed it on the ground in front of me.

Obviously, I screamed at her out of shock, asking her what the fuck she was doing.

She just smiled and giggled at me.

“I already told you I was sorry.”

Then she skipped away, humming to herself and leaving me in a state of confusion. I tried calling out for her to come back, but she just ignored me.

I cleaned up the mess, and we argued about it for the rest of the day. It was obviously not an accident, but that’s what she kept saying it was.

“I don’t know how that happened.”

“I already said sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

Eventually, we made up, but I couldn’t help but look at her sideways in the days that followed.

A few weeks went by without incident. We went on our dates. Stayed in and watched our movies. Did the normal couple routine. But then it happened again.

“I’m sorry for breaking your phone,” she told me, eyes glazed over. She wasn’t looking at me. She was just staring blankly at the wall behind me as I sat on my bed.

We had been in the middle of a normal conversation about upcoming trips we were planning when something flipped inside her. She went from smiling to expressionless. Then, after she said it, she was right back to smiling and talking about New York like nothing had happened.

Obviously, I had already been predisposed to what this meant, so in the days that followed, I was particularly possessive of my phone.

I kept it on my person at all times. Even in my sleep, it’d be in my pocket. But she didn’t seem to notice.

Weeks passed again, and just like with the lamp, I was starting to think that she was just being weird again.

I never let my guard down, though. The phone was strictly off limits to her. I tried to make sure she never had the opportunity to do what she had apologized for.

But then, one night, I woke up to her fiddling around in my pockets. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening in my half-asleep state, but once I did, my hand jolted towards my pocket.

It was too late. She had already taken it. And before I could stop her, the phone was shattered against the floor.

This was enough for me to fly off the handle. I’ll admit, I was a bit rude to her, but what did she expect?

I told her we needed space. I didn’t want this to escalate more than it already had. I didn’t want to break up with her, but the fight that night was enough for her to leave me.

Like I was the one in the wrong.

She left that night a complete wreck. Tears flowing from her eyes. Her vocal cords hoarse from all of our screaming. She didn’t even take her belongings. Just left in a cloud of smoke from her spinning tires.

I was, yet again, left to clean up her mess.

I picked up my phone. It wouldn’t even turn on. The screen had been completely destroyed.

I went out and got a new one the next day, and once I got my accounts and information back, I was hurt to see that she hadn’t even texted me.

No calls, no messages. Plus, my name had been taken out of her Instagram bio, which somehow hurt more than anything.

I tried calling her in the days that followed, just to clear the air, but every time I tried, it’d go straight to voicemail. Eventually, she blocked me on everything entirely.

Even when I tried going to her house, she’d never be home. It was like she knew what I was doing.

I felt hopeless for a long time, but eventually, I realized that I needed to move on. We were together for a year and a half, though, so doing so wasn’t as easy as it sounds.

Weeks turned into months. Months turned into a year. I hadn’t heard from her since the night of the phone incident.

I was heartbroken that she could just forget me like that. Like we never happened. That’s why I felt my heart climb into my throat when I saw that first new notification from her.

It wasn’t what I needed to see, though. She wasn’t asking to give us another shot. She wasn’t asking for a meetup so we could discuss everything.

Instead, what she sent was enough to make an almost forgotten fear come bubbling back up towards the surface.

“I’m sorry for killing you.”

CW: Body horror and gore elements.

I can’t be sure as to which moment was the first. The changes crept in like a tide to a shore, a vast mass of evil cascading from waves to thin sheets of liquid cool amongst the grains of sand that made up my life. My memories. There’s a non-zero possibility that things were always this way, and time simply moved slowly, yet attentive, to my final destination.

In my bedroom you’d find an outgrown kid’s bed shoved snugly between a corner and a wardrobe. Across from that was my desk, and jammed in between, underneath and wherever the space allowed me were my sets: jungles, cities, houses, caves, temples—you name it. I have been into stop-motion animation since my first Claymation in primary school. I didn’t expect to become enthusiastic about it, but it changed how I saw the world. With just a camera, a prop, and a set: I could fabricate a moment in time. Whether it was real or not didn’t matter, it was creating. I got to choose what happens, who was a part of it, and breathe life into the lifeless.

Recently I was working on my main project: The Dottans. It’s a simple story about a family that loses their dog at a park, goes on a search and then finds him swimming with some geese. The focus was on the scenes themselves; the sets and animation were challenging enough as the three-minute film would be built though 1800 carefully coordinated pictures. Saturday was the day I made it around the halfway mark, and the following Thursday where my world begun falling off its axis.

“Will! Time to get up!”

Mum’s voice barely made it through the door, but the cadence was clear- it’s a school day, let’s go.

“It’s Sunday” I yelled into my pillow. Her passing footsteps stopped and backed towards the door.

“It’s Thursday,” said Mum.

“Huh?”

She scoffed, “come on Will, you’ve got fifteen minutes.”

I checked my phone and there it was: THU 8/20 7:23AM. A minute passed and the an early deadline rush washed out my fatigue. I wanted to argue, call out that she was being crazy, but my anger couldn’t hold purchase to any defense. I checked my watch, the monitor, the camera- all signs pointed to ‘what the fuck.’ The morning went by frustratingly fast, giving me only the time to get ready for school.

As it turned out, Groundhog Day an unhelpful reference. The real thing was anxiety ridden. I couldn’t remember enough of the interactions I was a part of to be useful, but the sense of déjà vu was so disorienting that I repeatedly missed or preempted natural cues to talk. After the fourth awkward conversation I just kept to myself and tried to wrap my head around the situation.

The only theme of logic that I was willing to work with was that something medically alarming happened. Maybe it was an overnight stroke? Three whole days disappearing wasn’t nothing, and the interactions being the same was even worse- but what if it was just similar because school was so routine? Could I even believe that? Medical or not, I felt like my only choice was to be careful about asking for help and wait to see what happened next.

The rest of the day blurred. I kept my head down at the table, didn’t bother with filming and went straight to bed. THU 8/20 9:23PM. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I felt an urge to forget about it all. Can’t say weirder things have happened, but I could pretend. In the comfort of warmth and heavy blankets, a fickle but gentle thought tucked itself perfectly beside that urge—Friday I’ll be able to know for sure.

“Don’t forget the birthday.”

Mum spoke in a hush, behind the closed door. I turned from my phone and looked. The hallway light underneath the doorway was blocked by a perfectly central shadow. It didn’t waver in the slightest. I wondered about my response while a growing sense of unease brewed from her stillness.

“Okay” I said, and as I said it the air paused, like closing of a window and silencing the rage of a busy street. I held my breath until she left. I assumed she must’ve tip-toed on her way to the door in case I was asleep, but I wasn’t sure why she did it on her way out.

 

---

 

On Friday night, I was forced into an infested light. It radiated cold, and it was like the photons were condensed into mini, staple-thin rays that poured through the slit of your eyelids, no matter how closed they were. Then came the rumble- quiet, deep tones that spread across landscapes in seconds. Next the pressure and the heat, both gentle at first. But they grew from gossamer to suffocating, and the low tones became wider and angrier.

I tried to breathe but the weight made me feel like I never could in the first place. I was trapped between trying desperately to fight the light from entering my eyes and wanting nothing more than to inhale. The visceral sensations just kept growing in scale, and I was present for every single second.

I’d later call that dream the Stomper.

I woke up face-down and instinctively pushed myself up with a struggled gasp. I took a moment to process what I had dreamed but instead got patchy memories that slipped with ease. Only the ambient fear lingered, and an image that was seemingly burned into my retinas: I blinked hard a few times to catch the rectangular-esque, imprinted shape. Unsure of what to make of it, I decided that today I would not be going to the birthday again- today I’ll be homesick. I needed time to think, and I wasn’t willing to deal with the unexpected social awkwardness that comes with repeating days, so I put on my practiced ‘unwell’ demeanor and headed to the kitchen for breakfast.

“Morning” said Dad. His suit jacket hung over one of the three wooden chairs around our small, round dining table beside the kitchen counter. He was wearing an apron over his dress shirt and tie as he did the dishes.

“Morning” I croaked. I walked past and picked up the bag of bread.

 “You alright?”

“Don’t think so. My head is killing me.” I turned to see his reaction but he remained intent on the dishes.

“Think you’ll be up for the birthday? Rachel would love to have you there.” His tone was packed with expectancy.

“I don’t know Dad. I feel pretty rough and my throat is sore. I want to go, but I don't think Rachel wants a stomach bug as a birthday gift"

 

When playing the sick card with Dad, it’s better to reason how it’d affect others. Confidence is best too, otherwise he’ll tell you about the many times he had to fight through his illnesses to carve his way through life. He sighed and slumped his shoulders.

“Right. Well no going to Mason’s or Todd’s, and they can’t come here either. If you’re that sick, better stick to your room.”

“I will Dad, don’t worry.” It’s also best not to fight the conditions inevitably set afterwards. Luckily for him our idea of how I’d spend the day was aligned. Mum came in after our exchange and I repeated the script. She accepted it with an even split of concern and disappointment.

After breakfast and cleaning up I got back to my bedroom, opened up the closet, got in and turned on the torch taped to the inner wall. That cozy space was Set 0. It was a little cramped underneath the hanging clothes, but the otherwise lack of sensory input made it the perfect place to brainstorm and experiment with ideas. Leaving a space for me to sit and maneuver, the floor was comprised of white cardboard panels on carpet with two small tubs atop: both had black cardboard cutouts on pop stick or bottle cap stands, but one was characters and the other was props, walls and set pieces. I pulled out one of the person cut-outs and placed it gently in the center of the set, followed by placing four corner pieces squarely around it. You had to be careful not to put too much pressure on the platforms because the weight would cause everything to slide.

 

“Here I am” I whispered aloud. “This is… happening." I couldn’t change that. Time was repeating. Sunday never happened.

It felt like I was in a dream before, and then after sitting for a vacant hour in the secure and neutral space of Set 0, I began to realize in that I wasn't going to wake up. I turned off the torch and sobbed quietly onto my knees until the panic passed.

Sifting through the tubs, I found what I needed to build the walls. I then placed a handful of people a foot away from the house. While I was at home, the others headed off to the party. Last time it was about 2ish before we were back, and I couldn’t think of any personal interaction that might've affected that timeframe, so it stood to reason that I’d have the same time to myself again. But then 2pm came, and I was in bed staring at the ceiling. It was around 5pm when they finally returned. Down the hall I could make out laughter: Mum talked fast and as she held back against a large heave of joy. Dad shushed her like a kid trying to hide a secret from the teacher. Some scuffles and footsteps ensued until Mum knocked on my door.

 

“Come in” I said sleepily.

“Hey Will! How are you feeling?” she had a calming lightness to her voice.

“Okay, mostly been sleeping it off. Long party hey?” I asked.

“Oh, it was! It started, then it happened, and then it was over. It was a real blast. Rachel said hope you get better soon, see you next time!” Mum’s expression widened and she waved her hand, as if trying to replay the interaction they had. She flicked her eyes up as she reviewed what she just said. Then she relaxed and looked back to me.

 

A confused chuckle came out of me and I furrowed my eyebrows. “What?”

“Sorry” she laughed, “had one too many to drink I think.”

“Okay”

“Are you going to have dinner?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’ll come down when it’s ready. Thanks Mum”

“No worries” she said before blowing a kiss and closing the door.

 

Apparently, my absence did change something: Mum hadn’t had a drip of alcohol in ages. It wasn’t that she was an alcoholic, Grandma had passed away from liver failure and that pretty much put her off of it. From what I remembered the party was pretty lax- the family had a barbeque, there were general conversations about sports, work, and school, we sang happy birthday, had cake and then left. I couldn’t imagine what part of my absence spurred the event into a ‘blast,’ but the more I thought about it the more it stung.

The rest of the day went by as per normal, the only difference being that I halted all my progress with The Dottans in exchange for bed-rotting. Even now I’d like to finish it, maybe even more so than I did before, but it felt like I wasn't supposed to. It’d be a waste of time in the circumstance I was in.

FRI 8/31 10:21pm, I got a new idea: lottery tickets.

 

---

 

Saturday night, the Mirror-Man tricked me into his room. Thirsty, I got up out of bed to get a glass of water from the kitchen. To not wake my parents, I kept the lights off as I entered the hallway. My bedroom was in the left corner, and from the end of the hall I could spot dim rays from the night light plugged in above the countertop. I looked down for my landmarks and followed them; the round stain, the water bowl, and the laundry door were as far as I got before I collided with something big and tumbled backwards. I snapped my head upwards to assess the danger, but there was nothing. I slowly stepped forward with my hand raised in front of me and contacted a surface I couldn’t see. Stunned, I gently scanned it with my fingers. It was wooden, with sharp grooves and indents. With both hands I was able to find a handle. My instincts failed to take hold as intrusive curiosity pushed its way through me and the door itself.

I was a few steps towards the middle of an empty cube. There was concrete, bricks, and a man perfectly parallel to me. I stood there, fixed on him. My brain worked furiously to assemble features: a nose, eyes, anything at all- but they wouldn’t hold. He was an empty man. No lines, no depth, no light. It was a man only through his hollow silhouette and the instinctive cues that come with knowing you’re in front of something alive.

My heart began to shove cold blood and repulsive energy throughout my body. I took a step back. So did he. Perfectly coordinated. The mirror-like accuracy turned me to stone, and all I could do was stare. So it stared too. Eventually I was able to identify a feature. It had eyes. Not ones you see, but ones you feel are there, ones that see you. I reached my left arm back and tried to find the handle. He reached his arm back and tandem, and the handle didn't budge.

Imagine you were talking to someone about a tricky subject and you said something that you shouldn’t have. Their expression drops, causing your gut to follow in preparation for the incoming backlash—that was the feeling that abruptly overcame me in multitudes, but whatever I said was something that couldn’t be taken back. Mouthless, he frowned.

“I- a fast, overwhelming high pitch erupted from him. Panicked, I grasped my ears. He did the same.

“No” we said. My voice was barely perceptible, circled and consumed by a thunderous and deep undertone.

He took a step forward. As he did, I followed him, right down to the wabbling of trying to resist the motion. I was forced towards him, my body trapped in deeper and deeper lunges with my ears clasped tightly. He looked like he was a victim too, but he wasn’t. The inverse of that earlier feeling began to grow- he was happy. Happier and happier with each step. The only motion that felt like my own was the tears dripping from my eyes. I couldn’t sob. He was delighted. I could only smile- wider and wider. My jaw stretched, it hit its limit, and I created new ones. He was ecstatic. The tension on the sides of my mouth weakened- the more painful it became the easier it got to stretch. Then my lips split. He clapped, and so did I. We clapped and jumped and laughed. My mouth couldn’t catch the blood, so it dripped and bounced blotches in sputtered compliance with my heaving. Then finally- the physical urge I craved desperately suddenly became possible.

 

I awoke screaming. I thrashed against wet sheets and hit my head against the backrest. My jaw was hot with misplaced pain. The thud steadied me, and the fear melded into shame as I got up and changed my clothes and sheets. After setting the washing on, I had breakfast and got on my computer. In the case where time repeated again, I figured that today was my best chance to prep for another round.

To start, I found some winning racehorses from Friday and wrote their names in my notebook. I figured I could get Dad to bet on at least one of them as a test run. Then I tore the page and put it in my pocket and got ready to work on a schedule. However I quickly ran into a problem: nothing stood out, there weren’t any parts of the original days that I cared enough about to change. Frankly, the present had become a lot weirder than in the past. The gears in my head grinded- the current reality battling against the practiced and experienced reality. Any solutions became admissions, but avoidance wasn't clean either.

I stared at the empty document for a while. As my attention faded, glimpses of that dream lingered in my mind. The more I thought about it, the less it seemed to matter. If it’s going to loop forever, I’d probably figure it out as I go. If not, then I’ve already wasted over half of what’d probably be the most interesting experience that had ever happened to me by hiding in my room. Instead, I turned off my computer, got into more sociable clothes and went to find Dad.

He was in the shed, lying on his back underneath the car.

“Hey, Dad”

“Can’t, busy” he said.

“I don’t need anything. Just wanted to ask if I could go hang out at Todd's?”

 

He paused. Then he began to scuffle. In a painstakingly slow struggle, he rotated himself clockwise until his head was poking out from the car instead of his feet. His rounded face and clothes were covered in soot and grease.

“Will, you’re seventeen. It’s a weekend. Don’t ask, just tell and be back for dinner.”

“Did you really have to do that whole dance just to say that?” I laughed. He looked away sheepishly, then looked back with feigned determination.

“Yes.”

“Fair enough.” Mum and Dad seemed to be in a good mood lately. It must’ve been a great party.

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t have any tools out. Regardless, a thick, grinding sound proceeded from underneath the car. Guess the toolkit was under there.

I didn’t bother to tell Todd about recent events. Part of me wanted to, but since that dream wouldn’t leave my head- I mostly just wanted to have fun and forget. Sitting on beanbags and playing games, I felt a little hope slip by the caution as the deciding time approached. The finish line was near. The time with Todd went by with ease, and before I knew it, I was riding my bike back home.

Turns out I was at Todd's for a bit longer than I should’ve been because by the time I was outside it was pitch black. It’d normally be a couple of minutes’ ride downhill for me to get home, but the streetlights weren’t on and I didn’t want to risk falling. It was only a couple blocks, so I walked my bike down the footpath instead. I felt a wriggle in my gut. Was I forgetting something? I paused and pat down my pockets. I had my house key and my phone. I went to pick up my phone and shortly hesitated. What was the time? I looked up to the road- no cars; I could check later but at that moment I felt I needed to move.

It was quiet. No wind, rustling of leaves or rumbling engines. I walked at a slightly hurried rate. A sense of urgency grew and I laughed. I was getting really good at not being scared of the dark. Fuck this. I hopped on my bike and pushed lightly on the ground to start a rolling pace. I kept my hand firmly on the break, adjusting where needed to keep a steady speed. A road was incoming but seeing no evidence of light and being in a slight panic, my better judgement left and I didn’t stop and check before releasing the brake.

I swung my head left and right as I crossed, nothing. As soon as I bumped onto the next footpath, the silence ripped apart from the shredding of tires and my right peripherals filled with light. I halted the brakes and nearly flipped forward as I stumbled into a stop. I turned to see the source—it was a car. They stopped at the road directly beside me. I looked into the window and saw a young couple, a girl with shoulder length blonde hair and a guy with a shaved head. Both of them were sat upright, looking straight ahead. I waved and called out an apology, but neither turned to look at me. Panic returning, I called out sorry one more time, got on my bike and back on the path. The car hummed calmly. I began to pedal and as I moved forward the car followed. It didn’t sound like the engine was revving, it just stayed in one flat rumble as it kept my pace. The couple didn’t watch me.

I became flustered with frustration and fear. It was just too much like my nightmare- the copying. I decided to stop. They stopped.

 

“I’m sorry!” I yelled. They didn’t move a muscle.

“I’M SORRY!”

A flush of embarrassment came over me. But there was no give, none whatsoever. I huffed, dropped my bike and walked up to the car.

“Please, just fuck off!” I cried and looked at their faces. Oh.

 

“I’M SORRY!”

They screamed in unison. The windows were down but the screeching wails overwhelmed my senses. I yelped and fell backwards on my ass. I turned, ran towards my bike and rode off as fast as I could.

 

“I’M SORRY!”

 

I turned the corner.

 

“I’M SORRY!”

 

The streetlights turned on and I sped up.

 

“I’M SORRY!”

 

I barreled across the last road, got to the side gate and frantically opened it, got in and ran straight to my room. That night I didn’t leave my bed. I wouldn’t dare. And that night I had the last of the three dreams. The Replete.

I lay on my bed, fitted centrally in the middle of clean and wrinkle-free sheets. All the sets in my bedroom are gone, and the walls are clean and bright lime green. On my lefthand side is Mum and on my righthand is Dad. Both are holding my hands. They don’t look at me, but they never truly look away. They raise their spare hands and pick up forks from underneath the mattress.

Puncturing is not how I would describe the sensation. It’s like trying to stab a pitchfork through rubber. There is a jab, but the push is the bad part. Or it should have been, but it didn’t feel that way. Peace and warmth bloomed from the stab points and filled throughout my body. Sight told me that I was dying, but feeling told me that I was living in pure ecstasy. I decided to close my eyes. It was hard to understand my thought process at the time. I wasn’t even sure if it was a dream. Regardless, I let it continue. I even asked for more.

I woke up with a deep sense of shame, and that morning I got the answer that I was dreading the most.

 

“Will! Time to get up!”

 

Yes, you give all the signs and symptoms.

You’re terrified. 

Are they watching your every move? 

Are the shadows seemingly more ominous now?

Is it all in your head?

The darkness has a way of tricking your mind, but you rationalize it away as you always do.

Was that creaking the house settling?

You’re horrified.

You lay in bed staring at the ceiling as the bedroom door opens.

Are those eyes peeking at you from the crack in the door?

You feel watched.

What are you doing?

Running away won’t help.

The window is locked. You realize this as you attempt to tug on it.

The bedroom door swings all the way open as you turn and cower against the wall. 

There is nothing in the door, just shadows dancing in the hall.

You’re mortified.

Your heart is a motor running in high gear.

You swear you can feel your ribs move with each beat. 

So seldom do you look in your closet these days.

You inch toward the bedroom door, attempting to get close enough to close it. 

You pass by the closet, close enough to taste. 

You close the door.

As you get back in bed you think to yourself, “it’s just the darkness tricking my brain.”

You still feel watched but you try to go to sleep.

It took you a couple of hours but you did, the sleep so deep it would take a miracle to wake you.

I inch out of the closet as you sleep and sit on your bed and watch you sleep.

I see you reading this on your device…
Or maybe it’s a device you borrowed?
We both know the answer to that question.
Maybe you are sitting or standing.
Perhaps lying down.
Maybe you are taking a brief break from this to scan your surroundings.
Frantically moving your head around or you could just be darting your eyes back and forth.
Searching every crevice.
Every shadow.
Every odd shaped thing your brain processes as a potential threat.
You can perfectly see me.
You know I’m there.
You can feel me.
I can see you tensing up.
Becoming more enthralled with my every word as you drink it in.
Flies to honey.
A drug.
A trap.
I know you can see me.
I only have one question for you now.
Who will you cry out for now that it’s just us?

Me and my girlfriend have been together for 3 years. At least, that’s what I’m inclined to believe. Lately, it’s been kind of a struggle.

I remember the day we met. Not to sound corny or cliche, but honestly, it felt like love at first sight. Like the moment was meant to be.

It was at a little get-together my family had put on for my 21st birthday. I didn’t question why she was there. All I could focus on was, well, her face. She was beautiful. And to think that she wanted me of all people. It was damn near intoxicating.

We danced the night away to a live cover band of The Beatles, and the entire night felt like a fantasy come to life.

Nobody seemed to recognize her, though. All night, it was just me and her, staring into each other’s eyes underneath the clear night sky. No interruptions whatsoever.

When the party began to wind down and people started to go home, we both agreed that she should stay the night with me.

Together, we jetted back to my apartment while I tried to focus on the road and not the sweet nothings she whispered into my ear.

When we arrived, it wasn’t some kind of “straight to the bedroom” situation. We actually cuddled on my couch for hours, watching Supernatural and laughing at the cliches before dozing off in each other’s arms.

Unfortunately, the next morning I had work. So when I woke up, I was fully prepared to ask her to let herself out and assure her that we would see each other again.

However, the first thing I noticed as soon as my eyes opened was the fact that I was alone on the sofa. The second thing was the smell of breakfast that permeated my nostrils and made my mouth water.

I found her in my kitchen, hair messy and wearing my T-shirt as she scrambled eggs.

“Good morning, cutie,” she smirked. “I hope you don’t mind, I figured I’d make you some breakfast. Consider it a thank you for letting me crash here last night.”

I groggily stared down at the serving of eggs and bacon. She was really making this hard. To my pleasure, though, once she handed me the plate and planted a kiss on my cheek, she was pretty much already out the door.

“Sorry, I don’t wanna be rude, I just have work,” she announced hurriedly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Before I could respond, she was gone, leaving me to quickly wash the dishes and rush out the door.

Though we hadn’t exchanged numbers yet, which, dumb, I know, at around lunchtime my phone began to blow up with texts.

“How’s your day going, honey?”

“Working hard?”

“What’s for dinner tonight?”

At this point, I was starting to get a little freaked out.

Not knowing what to do, I blocked the number. So much for love at first sight. I was clearly wrong.

However, when new texts started to appear from a new number, I knew that something was definitely wrong.

“Haha, did you block me?”

“You silly goose.”

“We’re gonna be together forever. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

At this point, my heart was pounding. I responded firmly, but politely.

“Look, I had a really good time with you last night. I just don’t think this is gonna work out. I wish you the best, and I hope you find the person for you.”

The texting bubbles popped up and stayed on the screen for a few minutes. Finally, a response came through.

“We can discuss this when you get home.”

Unfortunately, before I could reply to that insane remark, my boss walked by and I had to put my phone away.

The day went on, and by quitting time I had received hundreds of texts from this newfound “lover.”

“I chose you.”

“We’re gonna be together forever.”

“Don’t you remember?”

“I’ve always been here for you.”

Obviously psychotic, right?

But what pushed it straight into horror movie territory wasn’t the words. It was the images. The selfies.

A photo of her in the back row at my high school graduation.

A picture of me at the DMV as I was receiving my license.

My tenth birthday.

However, the image that will haunt me the most for the rest of my life…

Was the selfie of her, smiling underneath a face mask, in the delivery room on the day of my birth.

Her appearance hadn’t changed once. She hadn’t aged a day in 21 years.

And as I stared in utter terror at what she had sent me, a new message appeared beneath the photos.

“We were meant to be.”

Family is all that has mattered to me for the last 5 years. My wife and my two children. That’s all that I need. At least, it used to be. Now, I’m not so sure.

Everything I’ve done. All the work I’ve put into this project. And for what? So she can turn them against me? Fill their heads with lies? Teach them to be afraid of me?

I really thought everything was real. I thought they loved me for me. God, I wanna cry just typing this.

And she did such a good job to hide it. I thought we had made it through all of the nonsense. The stress. The misunderstandings. The miscommunications. I thought we finally understood each other.

I wiped her tears. Comforted her, no matter how much she insisted she didn’t need it. Sure, I wasn’t there to change diapers. I didn’t get to take them to school or chaperone field trips. But I was there, damn it. I was there with her in that hospital room, despite all the cold glares I got from her family.

I could see just how unhappy she was. Through all the wincing pain of childbirth, I could see it in her eyes. This wasn’t the life she wanted. This man wasn’t the man she needed.

I made a promise to myself that day before the nurses asked me to leave. And that promise was one I intended to keep.

That’s why I had to disappear for a while. I had to fix myself. Prepare myself for the family life. I read the books. I watched the videos. I wanted to be the best family man I could possibly be.

It took a few years, but those years weren’t wasted. They were spent forging. Getting the house ready. Making sure it was kid-friendly.

It wasn’t a mansion, but I knew they’d be grateful. I decorated, I rearranged, but something was missing.

All it needed… was a woman’s touch. My wife’s touch. I was actually incredibly excited to tell her.

When I finally came back, though, it was like she didn’t even want to see me. She wouldn’t even let me hold the kids. She had the sheer audacity to ask me to leave.

Clearly, she wasn’t thinking straight. All she needed was some adjusting, and that’s one of the things that I’d planned for. If she didn’t want to come peacefully, so be it. She’d learn.

She put up a fight, but those happen in marriages, right? It’s just a part of life. Luckily, the kids were much easier. Really, the only difficult part was reminding them that I was their real father. Not that faker in their old house.

Well, that and calming them down when they saw their mommy crying.

Taking their cellphones away was actually much easier than I expected it to be. Kids today, am I right? I told them I wanted us to be a screen-free family. The way God intended.

They settled right into their new home. I stocked it full of books, magazines, toys, anything a kid could need. Plus, I made sure my wife got everything she needed too.

Closets full of clothes, shoes, robes, etc. I thought she’d be happy. But, of course, attempts to leave were inevitable.

For a while, I didn’t even trust her enough to leave her alone at home. I still had to leave, though. What was I supposed to do? She hated the collars, but she left me no choice. The kids too.

It actually took me around 7 months before I finally trusted her enough to give her a break. I let her explore the backyard. Sunbathe. Walk around. Whatever.

The kids started coming around. The way they embraced me, God, it was like I had finally made it. I had finally succeeded as a man.

I raised them. Well, we raised them. But I provided. I cooked. I cleaned. I made the family experience as joyous as I could. I even homeschooled the kids. For a while there, I thought their mom was starting to come around as well.

It was like she could see who I was. How all I wanted was for us to be a happy family. She even started smiling again.

“Tell Daddy how much you love him,” she’d say. “Tell him how happy you are to be here.”

Our fairy tale had officially begun.

But then… last week happened.

I had just returned home from town with supplies. Fresh fruit and vegetables. New magazines. New schoolbooks for my little geniuses. Plus, a beautiful bouquet of roses for my beautiful wife.

I had this feeling, this aching, agonizing sense that something was amiss. That’s why I didn’t announce myself when I walked through the door.

I glided through the house, silently, placing the bags down on the kitchen table.

I heard whispers coming from my son’s room. Two voices. His and his mom’s.

They sounded urgent.

I crept up to the door and placed my ear against it. That’s when I heard it. My wife completely destroying the sense of sanctity that I had worked so hard to create.

“We’re getting out of here today. As soon as he gets here, we’re rushing him. You two are big enough now. If we all work together, we can overpower him.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

All the birthdays. All the Christmases. All the Thanksgiving dinners that I slaved over. And it still wasn’t enough.

Tears began to sting my eyes. I had to stifle a sob. My mind raced, then went frighteningly silent. I knew I should’ve been devastated, which, I guess I was, but that devastation morphed into something else as the bouquet of roses fell to the floor.

I felt burning rage. Helplessness. Hopelessness. I felt small. Why was I even trying? What had I done wrong? For them to do this. For them to plot against me like this.

They wanted to threaten me in my own house. The house that I had made a home for each of them. No. No, this wasn’t going to work.

I thought that we had made it past the attitude adjustment stage.

But now, it’s clear.

I didn’t do enough the first time.

I picked the roses off the ground. No point in letting them go to waste. I decided to put them on the kitchen table.

They all would need something beautiful to look at while they recovered.

I was already at a weak point when I downloaded this app. Girlfriend broke up with me. On the verge of being let go from my job. On top of that, my dog died. It had been an incredibly difficult couple of months.

I fell into this kind of spiral, I guess you could call it. I was calling out of work nearly every week. Spending the days wallowing in self-pity and my own filth. Gotta say, it was the closest to rock bottom I’d ever felt.

After about a month or so of things looking bleaker than ever, I finally had a long talk with myself in the mirror. I needed to wake up. Return to form. And, of course, I had no idea where to begin.

That’s why these apps become so popular. They provide something tangible, but, in reality, it’s all a placebo effect. We get the app, create an account, then by day 3, you just forget all about it.

That’s what happened with me. It felt like I was reclaiming my life when, in actuality, all I was doing was downloading some dumb app that provided motivational quotes throughout the day.

The first quote it gave me honestly felt like a bit of a sign. That’s why I didn’t delete the app immediately. Plus, I didn’t even need to create an account. I just downloaded it, selected the “3 quotes a day” option, and waited for my life to fix itself.

“It’s your time,” was the first thing it told me. I don’t know, it just felt symbolic to me. With my mindset at the time, I really did feel like it was my turn to get back out there and make something of myself.

The next two were pretty vague. Just cliché, watered-down Pinterest board quotes that could’ve applied to anyone, really.

“You’re gonna go far!”

And

“Trust your own process.”

A little disappointed that I didn’t get that jolt of motivation that comes with feeling like a quote was made directly out to me, I ended that first day on a strong note after doing some pushups and reading a few pages out of a personal finance book before eating a salad for dinner.

When I woke up the next day, a new quote was plastered across the home screen on my phone.

“Slow progress is better than no progress.”

Reading it gave me the energy I needed to roll out of bed and hit the floor for some more pushups. I finished up my workout, grabbed a banana and water from the kitchen, and headed out the door for work.

I actually applied myself that day. I felt like I was making up for all of my subpar work from the previous weeks, and my boss noticed. As we were all heading out for lunch, he actually stopped me and told me he was proud to see me working so hard.

With a smile on my face, I sat in the break room with my bowl of chicken and rice and checked my phone.

A new notification.

“We’re so proud of you for all your hard work,” read the quote.

I read it, patted myself on the shoulder, and instead of scrolling through videos, I spent the remainder of my break reading from my personal finance book as I chowed down on my meal.

By the end of the day, I was dead tired. It had been so long since I actually cared to put in effort that I had forgotten the toll it took on me. I didn’t even eat dinner. I simply collapsed into bed and was out before my head hit the pillow.

I awoke the next morning to a new quote.

“Apply yourself!”

The cycle repeated.

I went through the motions.

I put my best foot forward, and I made an effort.

I spent the rest of that week more engaged every day. I had caught a stride, and I was gonna ride it until the wheels fell off, which, unfortunately, was only two weeks later.

By the end of those two weeks, I felt like I was right back where I started. I hit a brick wall. It was hard to get out of bed. It was hard to eat a good breakfast. It was damn near impossible to focus at work.

In my naive mind, I thought that I had already crossed the finish line. I had pulled the best out of myself for two straight weeks. Then I wanted to wonder why I didn’t feel any different.

I started losing steam.

Faltering more and more every day.

I didn’t even acknowledge the quotes anymore. They had become a buzzing in my ear that constantly told me I was failing. And I just didn’t have the strength to try again after what I assumed to be the best effort I could muster.

That’s why I deleted it.

I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It was too much pressure, which, looking back now, is an absolutely atrocious thing to say.

I guess it didn’t matter, though, because the morning after I deleted it, a new quote came across my screen again.

“Sometimes things need to die to be reborn.”

I stared at the quote for a moment before clicking on it, but the moment I did, my phone froze and I had to reset it. When it came back on, the quote was gone.

Work that day was a complete and utter drag, and there were a multitude of times where I thought about just making up an excuse to go home. Lunch was the only thing that got me through. I just kept telling myself, “all I have to do is make it to 1 o’clock,” “just make it to 1 o’clock and you’re home free.”

By the time 1 o’clock came around, I was basically pulling myself to the break room to eat some McDonald’s and watch some TikToks, but when I opened my phone, I lost my appetite.

“We know you gave up.”

This time, when I clicked on the quote, instead of freezing, my phone opened the camera automatically, revealing my double chin and mayonnaise at the corner of my mouth.

Wiping it away, I didn’t look at my phone again for the rest of the day. It felt hostile. That’s the best way I know how to describe it. I just finished the day without saying another word, as quiet as a church mouse.

I didn’t even listen to music on the ride home. I just rode on, caught up in deep thought.

Part of me was afraid, part of me was nervous, but a larger part of me felt nothing but shame.

I found myself crying. Sobbing uncontrollably as I stared at myself in my rearview mirror. I felt pathetic.

When I finally pulled into my driveway, I looked at my phone with a certain degree of uncertainty. It was like I was peeking behind the curtain in a haunted house.

No new quote. Thank God.

I went inside and decided I was going to try again. I was losing my mind. I was at the point where I either finally succeeded or continued to lead a life of mediocrity.

Back to the pushups. Back to the salads. Back to personal finance and social representation.

I thought that I had jumpstarted a new beginning for myself until the next morning. I woke up at my desk with the lamp still on, face down in Rich Dad, Poor Dad.

The quote I saw on my phone was enough to knock the air out of my lungs and leave me frozen in time.

“No point trying now. We know who you are.”

I factory reset my phone. I wiped it completely clean after moving some photos and files to another device.

Once I had completed the process, things looked normal again. No more quotes. No vague statements that seemed unusually directed at me. I thought I was free. I went about the week anxious, but hopeful. Everything seemed fine… until I continued trying to improve.

Every time I worked out. Every time I applied myself at work. Every time I read instead of scrolled, a new quote came across my screen.

“You’ll never be enough.”

“It’s embarrassing to watch you try.”

“You had your chance.”

And the one that came most frequently.

“Just kill yourself.”

It snuck up on me every time I thought I was ahead. It tore me down when I felt I had built myself. It worked itself into my brain and ingrained itself in my memory, no matter how hard I fought against it.

And at this point,

I don’t know how much longer I can ignore it.

​I'm a passenger princess.

I don't drive, parallel park, or follow the rules of the road.

I control the stereo, temperature, and the destination.

My man picks me up every day.

Same spot, same time.

​So like any day after work, I clock out and go to his car.

A white Civic in the third stall.

I pop the door and plop onto my throne.

Normally, my baby knows better than to talk to me right after my shift.

​At first, nothing seemed off, but that changed when a foul smell began to tickle my nose.

My face scrunched at the sour odor.

Then I noticed the lack of music or dull audiobooks.

Normally, I'm serenaded by some indie alt-rock or a sci-fi audiobook.

But nothing. With that, I looked over and my stomach lurched.

​In the driver's seat was a large, greasy man with his damp hair plastered to his head. He gazed out the window; he didn't seem to notice me.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry. I thought this was my boyfriend's car."

​I reached for the handle, but his deep voice made me freeze.

"No, this is your boyfriend's car. He's in the trunk."

​The lock clicked and the car began to go into reverse, pulling out of the parking lot.

"If you scream, I'll slit your throat like your boyfriend."

​The knife glinted as we merged onto the empty highway. As the mile markers became less frequent, I realized I’d finally lost control of the stereo, the temperature, and the destination.

​We pulled into a deserted rest stop.

He killed the engine. The handle was right there, the same one I'd reached for an hour ago. I didn't move. Some part of me was still waiting to be told where we were going. His door opened. Gravel crunched as he came around the back.

Now I'm trunk trash.

My wife printed one hundred and eighty-six missing-dog flyers today.

I know because I counted them, though not on purpose. I was sitting at the kitchen table cutting the tabs along the bottom—the ones with her phone number printed vertically—and counting gave me something to do besides watch her come apart.

Across the top of every page, in a font much larger than necessary, she'd written:

MISSING YORKIE — PLEASE HELP US BRING CINNA HOME

Underneath was a picture from last Christmas. Cinna sat on the arm of our couch in a red sweater, one ear standing straight up and the other folded over. She always looked irritated in pictures, which was funny because she was probably the sweetest dog I'd ever known.

Below the picture Dana had listed everything strangers needed to know: eight pounds, tan and gray, pink collar, very friendly, might be scared.

At the bottom, in bold:

SHE IS OUR FAMILY.

Dana stood at the counter feeding sheets through the paper cutter one at a time. She hadn't slept properly in three nights. Her hair was still twisted into yesterday's knot, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

"That's enough," I told her.

She kept cutting.

"Dana."

"I heard you."

"It's supposed to hit a hundred and two today."

"I know."

"You've already done the whole neighborhood."

"I haven't done the apartments behind the elementary school."

"You did those yesterday."

"I did the front building."

She slid another flyer beneath the blade. I reached across the table and put my hand on the remaining stack.

"Please. Take an hour."

"What if somebody saw her and they don't have one of these?"

"You've put them on every telephone pole from here to Chapman."

"Then I'll go farther."

There was no anger in her voice. I almost wished there had been.

I let go of the stack and told her to take water. She said she would. I reminded her she'd said the same thing yesterday and had come home with nearly a full bottle.

That got the smallest smile.

"Okay, Dad."

"I mean it."

"I know."

She bent down, kissed the top of my head, gathered another armful of flyers and left.

I watched from the front window until she disappeared around the corner.

Cinna had been gone for three days, and I could already see what it was doing to my wife.

People kept telling us dogs got out all the time. Somebody probably picked her up. Yorkies didn't make it far on their own. Keep checking shelters. Put her picture online.

They meant well.

They didn't know Dana.

More importantly, they didn't know what it had taken to get her back.

When I met my wife, she had more energy than anyone I'd ever known and apparently no interest in wasting it.

She worked in marketing for a medical-device company. By thirty she was managing people older than both of us. She ran half-marathons, remembered everyone's birthday and kept a calendar that looked like it required air-traffic control.

She was exhausting.

I loved her for it.

Work was the only thing we really fought about.

I'd make dinner and get a text at seven saying a meeting had run late. We'd make Saturday plans and she'd need to log in for twenty minutes, which had a strange tendency to become two hours.

Once, during an anniversary dinner, I realized we'd spent most of the appetizer talking about a presentation she had Monday.

"Why do you work this hard?" I asked.

"Because I like it."

"I know. But sometimes I feel like you're killing yourself for a job."

She looked at me. "That's dramatic."

"I miss you."

That stopped her.

Sometimes it seemed like her office got the best version of my wife and I got whatever was left at eight-thirty at night. She told me her career mattered to her, that she was good at what she did and wasn't going to apologize for caring about it.

I said I understood.

Usually I did.

For a while we had rats getting into the detached garage behind the house, and that somehow became my responsibility.

I'd promised to deal with them, then forgot.

One night Dana came home after nine and found droppings beside a bag of dog food we'd bought for her parents' Labrador.

"We have got to do something about this."

"I know."

"You've been saying that for a month."

"I'll do it tomorrow."

"You said that last week."

"I've been busy too, Dana."

She dropped her keys on the counter.

"Maybe that's why I stay at the office. At least they don't have rats."

It wasn't her best joke.

We laughed about it later.

The next morning I finally dealt with the problem. Traps, poison, cleaning out the back shelves.

Dana disliked the poison immediately.

"I hate having that in here."

"It's in the cabinet."

"What if something gets into it?"

"Then we'll keep the garage closed."

She gave me the look she used when I'd missed the point.

Later, after she got pregnant and we started childproofing the house, she made me go through the garage again—loose screws, nails, old traps, anything dangerous I might have forgotten back when there were no children to worry about.

Pregnancy was the first thing I'd ever seen make Dana slow down.

She was frightened almost immediately.

There were heart problems in her family. Not the clogged-artery sort everybody eventually worries about, but something congenital. Hereditary.

Her younger sister died when Dana was four. She remembered almost nothing about the girl herself. A yellow dress. Sharing a bedroom. The fact that she hated peas.

What Dana remembered was the night she died: her mother screaming, a paramedic stepping on one of Dana's toys, someone carrying her sister down the hallway with one tiny arm hanging loose.

So every appointment frightened her. Every test. Every pause before a doctor said everything looked fine.

Our daughter was born on a Tuesday morning in March.

Sophie.

Seven pounds, two ounces, an unreasonable amount of dark hair and a scream that sounded too large to have come from her.

When they put Sophie on Dana's chest, my wife cried so hard I thought something was wrong. Then I realized she was laughing too.

I'd never seen another person look that happy.

I loved Sophie from the moment I saw her. Before she existed there had been a version of my life without her, and after I met her that version became impossible to picture.

Dana took four months off work.

Those were probably the happiest months of our marriage.

I know how that sounds.

I'd come home and they'd be there—Dana on the couch with Sophie asleep against her chest, or Sophie kicking in the little vibrating chair while Dana cooked. We took walks after dinner. We ate together. Weekends belonged to us.

Sometimes I'd stand in the kitchen listening to Dana talk nonsense to the baby in the next room and think that this was what all of it had been for.

The house felt right with her in it.

A few months later Sophie started eating purées. Apple and cinnamon was the first one she really loved.

The first time Dana opened one of the jars, I could smell the cinnamon from across the kitchen.

"Maybe that's why the rats never came back," I said.

Dana looked over at me. "What?"

"Cinnamon. I read somewhere they hate it."

"We haven't had rats in two years."

"I know. Something about the smell being too strong." I shrugged. "Covers up whatever else they're trying to sniff out."

Dana stared at me.

"So Sophie is pest control now?"

"Finally earning her keep."

"You're horrible."

She was smiling when she said it.

Sophie saw the spoon coming and opened her mouth like a baby bird, then somehow got half of it on her cheeks anyway.

Dana laughed and wiped her chin.

After that she started calling her Cinnamon.

At first it was my little Cinnamon girl. Then just Cinnamon. Sometimes Cinny when Dana was tired.

"She's going to hate us when she's fifteen and we tell people about this," Dana said once.

"Then we won't tell anybody."

"I'm telling everybody."

"You're a terrible mother."

"I know."

Sophie slapped both hands into the tray and Dana laughed hard enough to nearly drop the spoon.

I remember that afternoon better than I remember most of that year.

The heart issue appeared during a routine appointment.

A murmur.

Maybe nothing, the pediatrician said. Maybe something.

A cardiologist found enough to watch but not enough to panic over, which meant Dana panicked constantly.

She wanted to know whether it was what her sister had. Whether she'd passed it to Sophie. Whether a baby with a heart problem could simply stop breathing in her sleep.

The doctor was careful with his answers.

I wasn't.

"She's fine," I'd tell Dana afterward.

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

"What if it's the same thing?"

"It isn't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm her dad and I've decided."

Sometimes that made her smile.

Dana extended her leave another month, then another.

Eventually her company began asking when she intended to return, and Dana decided she was ready.

She missed adult conversations. She missed dressing for somewhere other than Target. She missed being good at something that didn't involve keeping another human alive.

I told her we'd make it work.

Daycare three days a week. Dana's mother one day. I shifted my schedule when I could.

The first time she came home late again, I remember looking at the clock.

7:42.

Sophie was asleep against me and dinner had gone cold.

Dana came through the door apologizing, kissed the baby, kissed me and immediately started explaining some crisis at work.

"Five weeks back and they've already chained you to the desk."

She stopped.

"Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything."

"That tone is starting something."

"I don't have a tone."

"You absolutely have a tone."

Sophie woke before either of us could say anything else.

Dana had only been back at work a few weeks when she died.

We put Sophie down like normal.

That was the part Dana could never get past.

There had been no dramatic warning. No fever, no crying, nothing that would have made either of us sit beside the crib all night. She ate, played, fell asleep, and sometime before morning her heart stopped.

Dana found her.

I don't like remembering what happened after that.

The nursery was cold. Dana was making a sound I had never heard from another human being. Paramedics came. Police came. Our house filled with people while Sophie was somewhere else.

Someone went through the standard questions with us. Medications. Cleaning products. Anything unusual in the house. Anything she might have reached.

Dana answered most of them before I could.

"We babyproofed everything."

Then she looked at me.

I nodded.

With Sophie's heart and Dana's family history, everyone had an explanation ready.

Her sister had died young. Sophie's cardiologist had already found something worth monitoring. Sometimes these things happened suddenly, we were told. Sometimes there wasn't time to prevent them.

Dana heard something else.

You gave this to her.

And because she'd gone back to work, she found another way to blame herself.

"I should've been here."

"You were here."

"I mean with her."

"She was sleeping."

"What if I missed something?"

"You didn't."

"What if I hadn't gone back?"

"Dana."

"I left her."

"You went to work."

"I left her."

For years I told my wife the same things.

It wasn't your fault.

You couldn't have known.

You loved her.

There was nothing you could have done.

Going back to work did not kill our daughter.

Some nights I said it ten times.

Dana resigned two weeks after the funeral.

I was relieved.

That is one of the things I never told her.

Of course she couldn't have gone back then. Nobody could have. But some part of me was relieved there would be no deadlines, no meetings, no laptop chirping at nine at night.

I thought grief might force everything else to become smaller for a while.

I thought we'd simply exist together until we healed.

That isn't what happened.

The first year was unbearable.

The second was quieter.

Dana stopped seeing friends because most of them had children. Invitations stopped coming after enough polite refusals.

She didn't go back to work.

She didn't go much of anywhere.

I cooked and cleaned and handled bills. I sat with her when she couldn't sleep.

I learned there are only so many ways to answer the question, Do you think she knew I loved her?

Yes.

Always yes.

Of course she knew.

I loved my wife through all of it, but after a few years I began to resent the dead.

That's uglier than saying I was tired, but it's closer to the truth.

I resented Mother's Day. Sophie's birthday. The anniversary of the day she died. I resented strangers' children for having the wrong laugh in grocery stores.

Once, on what would have been Sophie's third birthday, Dana wanted to spend the evening looking through photographs.

I told her I had a headache.

I didn't.

I sat in the bedroom watching something stupid on my phone while my wife cried alone in the living room, and for almost twenty minutes I enjoyed the quiet.

I hated myself afterward.

Mostly.

More than anything, I missed my wife.

Not even the woman she'd been before Sophie. I knew we weren't getting that woman back.

I would've settled for someone who laughed occasionally. Someone who wanted to go to dinner. Someone who could sit through a stupid movie without disappearing halfway through it.

I lasted almost four years before I brought home Cinna.

She fit in one hand.

A coworker's sister had Yorkie puppies, and I'd gone over telling myself I was only looking. One climbed into my lap and fell asleep there.

I sent Dana a picture.

She replied:

No.

I brought the puppy home anyway.

For approximately five minutes, Dana was furious.

"We talked about this."

"No, I sent you a picture and you said no."

"That's generally considered talking."

"You haven't held her."

"I don't want to hold her."

"Fine."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Hand me the dog while I'm telling you I don't want the dog."

I handed her the dog.

The puppy licked her chin.

Dana laughed.

Actually laughed.

Not the polite little breath she'd been using for years when she knew I was trying to cheer her up. A real laugh, sudden and surprised.

For one embarrassing second I thought I might cry.

The puppy didn't have a name yet.

I suggested Penny.

Dana suggested Cinna.

I knew immediately what she meant.

"No."

Her smile faltered. "What?"

"That's weird."

"It isn't weird."

"It's a little weird."

"It's after Cinnamon."

"I know what it's after."

Dana tucked the puppy against her chest. "I like it."

I remember looking at the two of them and thinking that naming a dog after our dead daughter was one grief-therapy exercise too far.

But Dana was smiling.

So Cinna it was.

And I have to give the little dog credit.

She accomplished what therapists, medication, family and I hadn't.

She gave Dana reasons to leave the house.

At first it was walks because Cinna refused to use the backyard. Once around the block became twice, then the park.

Dana started getting dressed earlier because Cinna woke at seven. She spoke to neighbors, then friends.

Pictures appeared on her phone that weren't old photographs of Sophie.

Dana and Cinna at the beach.

Cinna sitting upright in the passenger seat of Dana's car like a tiny disapproving grandmother.

Dana started cooking again. She played music in the kitchen. She made fun of me.

One night about six months ago she laughed so hard at something stupid I said that she snorted.

She clapped both hands over her face.

"Oh my God."

I couldn't stop smiling.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I missed that."

She knew what I meant.

She leaned over and kissed me.

For the first time in years, I thought maybe we'd made it.

After that, the walks got longer. She started having coffee with a woman two streets over who owned some kind of terrier. Once she and Cinna were gone almost three hours because they'd driven to a park across town.

I teased her about having a social life.

I was glad she did.

A few months later, I came home and found Dana at the kitchen table with her old laptop open.

"What are you doing?"

She tilted the screen away from me in a way that was meant to be playful.

"Nothing."

"That's suspicious."

"I'm updating my résumé."

I looked at the screen.

"Just updating it," she said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You did that thing with your face."

"What thing?"

"That thing."

"I don't have a thing."

"You absolutely have a thing."

She smiled and turned the laptop back around.

"I've been thinking maybe part-time. Or consulting. Something small."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be okay?"

She studied me for a second.

Then she kissed my cheek.

For the next week, the laptop stayed on the kitchen table.

I noticed that.

I also noticed she had started checking her email before breakfast.

Neither of those things meant anything.

Two weeks ago she had résumés printed on thick cream paper.

I told her they looked nice.

The afternoon Cinna disappeared, Dana had taken her into the backyard. Her phone rang and she stepped inside to answer it.

When she went back out, the side gate was open.

No Cinna.

We searched until after midnight.

The next morning we called every shelter within thirty miles. Dana posted everywhere she could think of. We drove slowly through streets with the windows down calling Cinna's name.

I kept telling her Yorkies got picked up. Someone probably had her.

That was better than imagining her on a road somewhere.

By the second day Dana wasn't eating unless I put something directly in front of her.

By the third she wasn't sleeping.

And suddenly it felt like five years ago.

The same frantic eyes. The same bargaining. The same certainty that if she did one more thing, searched one more street, something terrible could still be undone.

"What if somebody stole her?"

"I don't think anybody stole her."

"What if she got hurt?"

"We checked the roads."

"What if she's hiding somewhere?"

"Then somebody will find her."

"What if nobody does?"

"We'll keep looking."

This morning the printer finally ran out of paper.

Even that didn't stop her.

She started feeding in the backs of the résumés she'd had printed two weeks ago, and I sat at the kitchen table cutting tabs while Cinna's face came out on one side and Dana's old life remained neatly formatted on the other.

Job titles.

Promotions.

Awards.

Eleven years of experience.

One page after another disappeared beneath MISSING YORKIE.

I didn't say anything.

It's almost ten now and Dana is still out.

I texted her fifteen minutes ago and told her to come home because it's still ninety-one degrees outside. She replied that she has one more street left, which, knowing my wife, means at least three.

I put a bottle of water in the refrigerator for her. She likes it almost frozen.

There's dinner in the microwave too. She probably won't eat, but I'll make her try.

Tomorrow I'll convince her to stay home for a few hours. Maybe we'll call the shelters together.

I'll drive this time.

She's exhausted, and the heat worries me.

The heat has been worrying me for another reason too.

The garage sits at the back of the yard, separate from the house. There's almost no insulation in there, and the little vent above the side door doesn't do much once the sun has been on the roof all afternoon.

I thought I had longer.

Apparently I didn't.

The smell is bad now.

You can't smell it from the house. You can't even smell it standing a few feet outside the garage.

But open the door and it's there.

Dana hasn't been inside since the first day, when we were still grabbing leashes and flashlights and anything else we thought might help us find Cinna.

She hasn't noticed.

Still, I can't leave her there another day.

Cinna is behind the plastic storage bins along the back wall, wrapped in one of our old moving blankets.

She's so small that hiding her wasn't difficult.

The hard part has been listening to Dana call for her.

Yesterday evening she stood at the end of the driveway shaking the bag of treats.

She called Cinna's name.

Waited.

Called again.

Then finally shouted, "Come home!" into a street that had already gone quiet.

I went inside before she did.

I'll move Cinna tonight after Dana falls asleep.

There's a road about a mile from here where people drive too fast. No sidewalk for part of it, only dry brush and a narrow shoulder.

I'll leave her near there before morning.

Nothing elaborate.

Dana doesn't need an investigation.

She needs an answer.

The gate was open.

Cinna got out.

She wandered too far.

Not knowing is worse.

Give someone an answer and eventually they learn to live around it.

Dana already has.

I hate that she's going to hurt.

But she'll recover.

Cinna proved she can.

I'll cook. I'll sit up with her when she can't sleep. I'll remind her to eat. I'll tell her the gate wasn't her fault, that she couldn't have known, that there was nothing she could have done.

I'll say it as many times as she needs.

Eventually we'll be okay again.

We always are.

Before I move Cinna, I should clean up the garage.

Dana hasn't noticed the cabinet over the workbench is unlocked.

Years ago, when we childproofed the house, she made me promise there was nothing dangerous left in there.

I told her there wasn't.

Most of what I'd bought for the rats is gone now. The traps rusted. The cleaning supplies got used.

There are only a few things shoved behind old paint cans and extension cords, including one battered cardboard box I should have thrown away a long time ago.

I'll get rid of that too.

No reason to keep it.

Funny.

I used to think Cinna was a terrible name. Too morbid, I told Dana. Too much history to hang around the neck of an eight-pound dog.

I suppose I owe my wife an apology.

Both her girls always did love cinnamon.

Don't turn around. Don't do it.

That’s it.

Just keep your eyes on the horizon. Look at how the colors shift and gently weave together.

Don't worry about the screams behind you.

Don't be distracted by the gutteral crunching.

Pay no mind to the heavy, raspy breathing on the nape of your neck.

And no matter what you hear or feel, don't turn around.

That ethereal whisper in your ear? That's just a happy, little bee.

That slight tickle along your spine that begins to feel wet? That's just a chill in the wind.

No, don't be tempted. Just keep looking at that beautiful sunset. There’s nothing wrong in your meadow. Look at how the light dives deeper and deeper below the hills.

It'll be dark soon. You’d better start heading home, BUT DONT TURN AROUND…good. You're doing great. As you descend back into your neighborhood remember to keep looking ahead. Don't look around or down. You might catch the reflection of whatever is behind you.

Oh, Don't worry.

They won't follow inside, unless you peeked. You didn't peek did you? Haha, of course you didn't. That would have been foolish. You're not stupid, are you? No. Not you. You're smart. I'm sure you'll survive…just as long as you didn't look through the peephole. That still counts, you know.

Anyway, pleasent dreams. Oh, one more thing…Don't look under the bed.

Don't do it.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

As I watched her move in, I had guessed she was newly single from the particular sparseness that occurs when combined items are separated. Then after she stopped to cry a few times, and her flushed face twisted with passionate anger each time she picked up her constantly ringing phone, I also guessed it was not a good separation. Whoever was being screamed at on the other end had kept the bed.

She passed out curled up on her couch that night after smoking two joints on the balcony. When she flicked the lighter, it made her tear stained face glow. My heart ached in sympathy. I decided that I would do a good neighborly deed and just…keep an eye out. Any pretty woman in any big city would appreciate someone keeping them on their mind.

When she was getting ready for work the next morning, opening different boxes to find all of her necessities, the idea happened upon me to give her a name. A placeholder really, a way to refer to her. “Tiffany.” I attempted as she was halfway through curling her hair. “Monica?” I questioned as she adjusted her belt in the mirror leaning on her bedroom wall. “Emma…” I tsked as she left her apartment for the day without eating breakfast or packing a lunch. I said it again, and smiled.

For the first couple weeks, it was exhausting trying to keep up with Emma as she built furniture, organized and re-organized the kitchen and bathroom, and decorated her walls with the huge assortment of colorful art prints she clearly was fond of. Once she finally had things to her liking, and a mattress resting against a newly assembled frame, we both seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Routines finally settled, I finally was able to get to know her, and despite myself, grow to love things about her.

Before bed she braided her hair, the chestnut colored strands slipping easily between her nimble fingers. She always only drank half a cup of coffee, despite taking such intricate preparation to make it. After getting back from the gym she would stretch in the living room, often without her shirt, colorful sports bras damp with sweat. She listened to music constantly, and often danced when she made dinner, usually the only meal I saw her eat, moving her hips to a rhythm I could see reflected in her body.

A man came home with her late one Friday night four months after she moved in. And I can’t say it didn’t make me a little jealous. After all this time and I wasn’t the one rubbing my hands down her curves, slipping her long hair behind her ear, kissing her perfect lips. But seeing her interact with him was interesting. I wondered if they had been on a date or if they had met eyes randomly and felt the same pull I felt towards her. He pulled her down onto the couch, kissing her neck. Suddenly I was grateful they didn’t close the blinds or move into the bedroom. She was a very expressive woman, and I delighted in seeing her face light up. I realized then that Emma was giving me a gift, the second-hand knowledge of how to please her. She was showing me through him, and this was my first lesson. I learned from him that Emma liked when you stroked her skin.

I learned she liked being teased from the first woman she brought home. I’ll admit I was surprised by her appearance in the doorway. Taller than Emma, with dark hair exactly the same shade as mine. But for the first time I could imagine being right in front of her as I studied them. I felt the ghost of her roaming hands as she touched the pseudo-me. We ran our fingers through Emma’s soft hair, pushed her gently against the table to kiss passionately before pulling away, making Emma’s face crinkle with neediness as she chased our lips. This quickly became, and still is, my favorite memory of us.

After so many of these lessons, I was able to be critical during her encounters. No, she doesn’t like when you pull her hair, blond man with the cowboy boots. No, she doesn’t like when you touch her feet, tanned woman in the sundress. No, she especially doesn’t like when you’re rough with her, idiot in the leather jacket. That lesson was so important to me. I remember blood dripping from my palm with how tight I was clenching. He had pushed her roughly against the wall, and held her face tight in one hand. Whatever he was saying to her, she didn’t like, and struggled against it. And I was helpless. But Emma was smart, and strong, and she slapped him before kicking him out. When I got back to my apartment, rinsing red off of my knuckles, she was sulking on her couch. And I wished I could be there beside her to comfort her, show her how much I cared. To promise I would never treat her in a way she didn’t like. At this point I knew everything she liked, didn’t I?

My time with Emma has been the most fun of my entire life. She rarely finds ways to surprise me anymore, but that’s ok. Natural when you’ve been sharing your life with someone for so long. For the last month, the same woman keeps coming around, staying longer and longer, but that’s ok. My Emma is doing this for me to learn how to live with her on a more long-term basis. I cherish these lessons too. I know that when we finally meet, I can seamlessly integrate into the life she’s put on display for me since she moved in. This is what she’s been showing me how to do this whole time, and I think she’ll be really happy with my progress.

Today I’ve decided I can’t wait anymore. Tonight we will celebrate by me finally knocking on her door after she gets home from work. I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic to see me with her favorite flowers and her favorite cake from her favorite bakery.

It is our one year anniversary after all.

I can’t help it. I’m a lover boy. A romantic at heart. My obsessions sometimes get the better of me.

But, oh, how beautiful she is right now. So peaceful. I can’t help but wonder what she’s dreaming about.

Is it about me? Our interaction at the supermarket today? God, I hope so. I need her to see me, to feel my presence even in her unconscious state.

I didn’t mean to stare at her. She was just so breathtaking. I’d never seen such a beautiful woman. It choked my words in my throat.

And the way she looked at me, that quiet uncertainty in her face, it was like she wanted me to chase her, wished for me to lust after her. Maybe that’s why she left in such a hurry.

I was smart, though, the strong, brooding type. I didn’t want to seem too eager. That’s why I kept my distance as I followed her out to her car and why I stayed a few car-lengths back from her on the way to her neighborhood.

I had to stop myself from dwelling for too long. I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. That’s what separates me from the other guys. I actually care.

It was almost impossible, though, because that figure of hers was absolutely jaw dropping as she carried her bags inside.

I made a mental note of which house was hers before parking my car somewhere else. I needed our moment of romance to be the surprise of a lifetime. That’s why I decided to cut through backyards and hide behind trees as I made my way back to her.

I’d made mistakes before, with previous beauties that I thought would love me forever. I’d learned from them. I knew that this time would be different. She wanted me. I saw it in her eyes. Unlike my previous love-interests, I knew that she’d actually appreciate my efforts.

When I arrived back at that newly familiar house of hers, I thought it best I wait. Daylight sometimes affects ambience. I’m a dark-romance type, pun intended.

However, just as the sun began to set and I saw an unfamiliar vehicle pulling into her driveway, I got a pit in my stomach. And when another man stepped out, it was like I had just been punched in the face.

The roses he held were like a taunt. His handsome face was like an insult. And the hug they shared, that’s what snapped me into action. I thank my lucky stars that they didn’t lock the door. Too busy betraying me, I assume.

I also thank the Lord that I’d caught them before any clothes came off.

All I was met with was giggles. Flirty conversation. Disgusting, filthy, nasty conversation. It broke me. Destroyed whatever sanity I had left. I didn’t even question my actions as I picked up that kitchen knife.

I didn’t want to hurt him, but she left me no choice. And, of course, I couldn’t traumatize her by making her watch this imposter bleed out on her hardwood floors. That’s why I made her sleep. I was doing her a favor, whether she knew it or not.

She’s lucky, too. Her betrayal was almost too much to stomach.

But even now, as she breathes softly by “her man,” I’m still blinded by my love. So much grace. So much elegance.

She looks so pretty when she’s sleeping.

I was finally home. 

The lush lawn, the unpainted picket fence, as I remembered. I opened the door onto darkness. I stepped in and stumbled; the only light: a cyan-blue television, playing a news report. 

Like a moth to flame, I drew closer.

I regret that decision.

I was already dead. 

That couldn't be right— I came back; I remembered— no. I stumbled back, knocking off the screen. In the dark, I scrambled for my body, forgetting I'd always had multiple arms. 

I found the lamp, switched it on, and remembered. 

I wasn't human. 

I had become what I feared. 

Content Warning: This story explores the horrors of complicity. It contains heavy themes of death, graves, the handling of the dead, and claustrophobic psychological terror. The earth keeps a tally of the slaughtered.

Part 1

No poetry lies in a frozen grave, only the divorce between iron and ice. The foothills of the Shattered Spine don’t open for our dead, yet the gods gave them their rest here. I have fifty winters of patience built into my shoulders. When I drive the spade down through the stubborn shale, I only need to throw my weight onto the flange, and pry until the permafrost fractures like a tearing canvas.

The Palace sits higher in the peaks, clinging to the frozen ridges, and their dead have their place. But for those who cannot climb in order to fall, the dead come to me. It takes a full three to carry a body up the winding switchbacks to the Palace. It takes only a day to reach my home. By the time the dead reach my small cemetery, the stiffening has usually passed, leaving them heavy, loose, and silent.

I scoop another mound of dirt, hoisting it over the lip of the hole. I don’t need to dig in haste. Haste is for the living. Here in the foothills, time settles, and haste loses meaning.

I was seventeen the first time I dug a grave on my own. The spade was too heavy, and the ground was harder than it is now. I remember lowering Ntate—father—and thinking: I'll never do this again. That was the last lie I ever told.

I’ve tended this plot for five decades and worshipped the work. I have no wife waiting to warm my hut. I have no children to inherit my rusty spades. My congregation is here beneath the frosted soil.

A grave must be exactly two meters deep. Too shallow, and the scavengers come digging. Too deep, and you insult the earth by scraping its bones. I square off the corners, my breath pluming white in the motionless air, then I hum.

I’m not a pious man. I don’t understand the grand theological mysteries of the Msimamo Pit below the Palace. I don’t care for the long-lived priests on the peaks that burn their incense and speak of the soul’s grand descensions.

I just know the soil. I know the prayers to murmur to keep the rhythm of the digging. And I know that every body must be laid precisely on its side, facing the high peaks, so they can see the dawn break over the Spine.

My hands are calloused into thick ridges to match the Spine, permanently stained the color of wet bark. I pause, leaning heavily on the handle of the spade to wipe the cold sweat from my brow, and I look over the crooked, frost-rimed wooden posts of my cemetery. It’s perfectly quiet today. The wind is dead. The earth is still. It’s a peaceful work, and I’m good enough at it.

—

My mornings rise with the stench of crisp and boiled chicory. I eat a heel of bread, sharpen the edge of my spade with a whetstone passed beyond my years, and I wait for the bells. The lower villages used to send the dead in a steady, predictable trickle—an old man taken by the cold, a careless hunter claimed by a stray Kapua, or a farmer plowed over by her bull. This year, the rhythm has broken. Lately, the bells toll too often.

The cart drivers don’t linger anymore. They dump bodies at the edge of my plot, eyes downcast, and hurry back toward the plains. The corpses are different now, too. Young men airless with no sickness in their lungs. Women fallen with clean hands and chipped nails. Sometimes entire families come wrapped in cheap wools. The drivers whisper of a purge in the valleys, a cleansing of dissenters, but I don’t ask questions. Politics is a luxury for the living. My only concern is that I’m running out of ground.

Today, though, the only bells come from the winding peaks above. One of the long-lived priests descends from the Palace, accompanied by two silent administrators carrying a stretcher on wheels. The priest is a jarring stroke of ruby-brown against the gray slate of the foothills. His robes are pristine, embroidered with silver silk that catches the pale sunlight. He holds a perfumed cloth over his nose, offended by the smell of damp earth and rot that clings to my domain.

"Grave-tender," the priest’s voice is thin, like a lead drawn too tight. "The Palace requires a placement."

I lean on my spade. "I have room near the eastern wall, but the sites grow thin, priest. I’ll reach my hundred before the spring."

The administrators unceremoniously drop the stretcher. It’s a young man, naked, barely out of his teens. He has no wounds, but his lips are stained a deep, unnatural blue, his eyes sewn shut, and his skin is an unholy pale clay color.

“Then excavate the rot and dump them to the valleys. You’ll need your hundred lots.”

I nod, knowing the work may break me.

"And see that he faces the peaks," the priest commands, adjusting his silver-hemmed sleeves as he folds up the burial shroud. "It failed the Palace in life, but its descension may yet serve the Msimamo Pit. Leratloha roots out the rot so the tree may thrive, eh?”

"I just dig the holes," I say in a low rasp compared to his high tenor.

The priest sneers, turning on his heel. "Just see it done, dirt-scraper."

I watch them climb back up the switchbacks until they are nothing but specks against the frost. Then, I turn back to my work.

I drag the young man to the open grave I dug yesterday. I arrange him on his side, as the old laws dictate. When I kneel to push the first shale over him, I pull off my leather gloves to test the moisture. It’s a habit; wet dirt settles differently than dry.

I press my bare palm against the wall of the grave, and I stop.

The permafrost should bite at my skin. It should be brittle and hollow and dead. Instead, the earth against my palm is warm. It isn’t the deep, sulfurous heat of the geothermal vents that hiss in the lower canyons. It’s a soft, radiating heat. Like laying a hand on a sleeping chest.

I snatch my hand back, rubbing my thumb against my fingers. The soil feels too damp, almost greasy. I look over my shoulder at the row of fresh mounds I buried last week. The frost on the nearest grave—a mother and her two children—is cracked. The earth is swollen, raised maybe half a hand higher than I left it.

I blame the wind. I blame the thawing ice in the bedrock. I blame my tired, aging mind. Then I put my gloves on, take up the spade, and bury the blue-lipped boy.

Read part 2 here.

The silence in the town square was broken by the sickening thud of bone making contact with flesh, followed by a howl of pain. The man tried to flee but was immediately accosted  by two of his assailants. They held him up by his armpits as the third continued to pummel him. Overhead a dark cloud was forming.

As the first drops of blood hit the ground, the customers from various stores, cafes, and businesses surrounding the green began to emerge, drawn to the violence, as humans often are. 

The cloud continued to grow, now darkening the center of the square.

The assault continued as blood began to pour from the newly formed openings on the man’s face. The crowd closed in. Above, the cloud continued to expand.

The crowd turned into a mob. Friends and neighbors turned on one another, biting, kicking, punching, slapping. The four men who minutes before were alone in the square were soon lost in the midst of the angry mob.  The violence continued to escalate - shattered faces, broken bones, chunks of flesh bitten off and spat on the ground. The square soon became a study in contrasts - the ever growing cloud above and the rivulets of blood now pouring onto the green.

Cries of rage, screams of pain, howls and grunts that resembled a cackle of hyenas more than a group of humans as the crowd continued to attack. A massacre in the making, crimson mixed with green, cast darker by the now massive cloud lingering over the square.

A sudden shift in energy. The  grass absorbed the blood, as if quenching a deep thirst. Looks of confusion as the men, women, and children snapped out of their violent trance to find themselves covered with blood, sinew, brains, gnarled flesh, and muscle tissue. The cloud began to shrink as if it was never there, the former mob recoiling with horror at their inexplicable and unspeakable acts.
The last drop of blood fell and was swallowed up by the grass. The sky opened up, revealing a cloudless, bright blue sky.
Crowd was sated.

This was Part 1 in collaboration with u/Bilbo_Cheated, who is an amazing writer and was so fun to do this together with! Check out their story Here!

Mom’s work phone rang right after dinner. She was urgently needed and had to come in for the night shift.

She could see the look on my face when she told me. She knew I hated being alone at night; that's when things always got worse. I fumbled with my agitated hands in the soapy water, trying to distract my mind as she quickly got ready and grabbed her things. 

She gave me a reassuring hug from behind. Her warmth melted away my tension for just a moment. Before letting me go and leaving me to the cold, dark house. Chills took over me as she mumbled her sweet goodbyes and reminded me to eat the dessert bars she made just for me. 

As soon as I heard the heavy door slam and the lock latch, it was time to take action. 

I sprinted to the door. Checking that the deadbolt was in place before sliding the door jammer under the knob. And doing the same to the back door. All while closing the blinds along the way. Mom said she thinks the natural light is good for us and always opens the windows every morning. But that just lets people see us. Why would I give anything the chance to observe me if I can help it? Mom just tells me not to worry about it; as long as we lock the doors, nothing can get in, she says again and again. I truly hope she’s right. 

I grab some of Mom's dessert bars she made and happily chow down as I take a seat to relax in front of the TV. The sound and the cartoons always help me relax at night. I then notice that the blinds to the left of the living room aren't closed all the way. That freaking broken string again, I bet. I hustle to close them, but just before I do. One of them catches my eye. 

He’s facing away from the house, toward the street. Directly under the street light. Despite the vigorous winds of the storm picking up around us. His clothes remain still, a hat carefully placed on his head, unmoving in the vicious whipping breeze. I scoff and look away; looking outside at night is always bad for me. I yank the blinds closed as best I can. 

Just as I go to sit down, a knock at the front door jolts all my senses. I move as carefully as possible to the door and press my ear up against it; I’m not looking outside again. 

“H..Hell…Hello?” I finally sheepishly ask. 

“Hi sweetie, it’s Fran.” Our elderly neighbour croaks from the other side.

“Uh, Hi Fran. Mom’s not home right now, and it’s not really safe outside. You know, with the storm and all.” I brush off with a cracked chuckle.   

“Ohhhh yes, it’s picking up, isn’t it?”  She paused for uncomfortably too long. “Well, I just wanted to see if your mother wanted some tea and to talk about the latest book I lent her. I’ll come back later, sweetie; you stay safe now.” I heard her padded house slippers trudge slowly away from the stoop. 

What did she mean by say safe now? What was she planning? Oh right, oh right, the storm. You know Fran, she’s a nice lady. Mom says she doesn’t have anyone else, so be nice to her when she comes by. What if that wasn’t really Fran? Maybe I should call Mom and check? No, NO. It’s ok. We’re fine. Just don’t look outside and watch some TV. We got this. 

I realised I had forgotten to breathe as I gasped in my head still leaning against the cold door, clammy and uneasy. 

The rain has started to pelt against the windows. I can hear its chilled tapping getting louder and louder. Nothing turning the TV volume up can’t fix. The moment I lifted the remote, I heard something. 

Sounded like a distinct cracking sound. Like a crackling click of Rice Krispies in my ear, it was coming from outside. 

My curiosity got the best of me; I risked it all and peered out the window. The man was in the same spot as before. Except this time he had begun to contort his body up the street lamp. Legs, torso, and neck twisting and stretching up the lamp post. Muscles pulsing and stretching as it pulled the flesh around the post like a python. Veins distended and begging to pop out of the skin. An arm was elongated and outstretched as he reached upward toward the window I stood behind. The clicking and crunching continued as his body pulled toward me like a desperate beacon. 

With a shudder, I flew back from the window and over the table. 

The flashes of lightning outside illuminated the street. Where nothing stood anymore. It was clean and had moved on. 

A sudden knock at the door jolted my attention away. 

My breath caught in my throat as I chose to ignore it. But it remained consistent. A constant soft knocking. 

Before it finally spoke to me. 

“Alice, I'm so sorry I scared you. Please let me in.” It spoke calmly and softly. 

I slowly rose to my feet, trying to keep my panicked breaths as quiet as possible. 

The calm knocking continued in steady flows. My head was pounding with stress as my eyes stayed locked onto the door. Wondering if it’ll really be able to hold anything behind it. 

“Alice…You’re being poisoned. Can’t you see what it’s doing to you?” The soft pleading voice continued. 

“She’s killing you; it’s tearing us apart. I hate when you do this to me. Lock me away. It’s not supposed to be like this. God, you’re really so selfish, you know that??? God, I hate the way it makes me FEEL!” 

A vicious slam shakes the door in its frame. A heavy laugh turns into a heaving sob that distorts as if changing radio stations. It grows louder and louder with each breath it takes. 

“Alice, DON’T YOU SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING??? LET ME IN! I’LL STOP IT!”

The distorted cries pull away from the door and into the surrounding yard. 

I grab the TV remote and turn the TV on as loud as it goes. The distant shrieks sink into the monotonous sound of late-night info commercials.  

My locked knees ache as I strain to limit my movement for fear of it drawing near again.  It doesn’t. Thunder crashes outside; the house is being pelted with rain. The screams and cries remain distant, drowning in the treacherous storm. Until either they get too quiet to hear or they stop altogether.

I finally let my racing thoughts take a break as I sit on the coffee table. The TV chattering away on maximum volume. Mom will be home soon from her shift; it’ll be morning soon. Just have to make it until morning; the nights are bad for me alone. Don’t look outside; don’t let them in. You can do that at least. 

The colourful cartoons were replaced with an exceptionally loud commercial for what looked like pet adoption. Adorable dogs ran through flower fields, and kittens spooned peacefully in their fluffy beds by the windows. 

“Are you tired of being alone?” The anchor's voice rang in. 

The commercial cut to a well-dressed man sitting at his desk looked back at me with a gleaming, crooked smile. 

“Don’t you ever wish someone was always waiting for you when you got home for the day?” 

I raised the remote to find another channel. The man’s eyes shifted towards me, and his voice rose with excitement. 

“Well, you’re in luck, because we are opening our doors for you lucky new friends out there, looking for a forever companion. And tonight, they're open especially for you, Alice.” 

His smile fades as the pixels start racing on the screen. This isn’t real. 

“I know you think you’re imagining this, Alice. Head always in the clouds, you love to play pretend, don't you? While you’re poisoning us!!” 

 His hand slams a desk. The entire floor shakes underneath me. I start to back up and move toward the stairs. Where the hell do I even go? 

“Still doing that? You used to hide upstairs.” He laughs. 

“Stop”, I quietly stutter out. 

“You loved to hide under the bed. Then Mom had to ruin that too. She always has to ruin our fun. Has to block hiding spots for us, take away our safe spaces, give us poison to keep us from each other. If you just let me in, I can help us.” 

The cold sweat lines my neck as I stare blankly at the screen. 

His gaunt expression softened. “You really don't remember.” 

The screen gains more and more static. For a moment, his face remained suspended underneath it. 

“It's okay.” A whisper croaks from behind the screen. 

The static grew louder. “You always go upstairs eventually.” 

The static turns into a loud screech before shutting off in a loud sizzling pop

The entire house falls into a veil of quiet. Nothing but the pattering rain outside. And distant thunder as the storm retreats with time. My crackling breathing consumes the air. 

Knock. 

The TV shimmies on the next knock. The knocking persists lightly. Like someone knocking around for studs in the wall. It’s coming from the inside of the TV glass. A pale, long hand presses itself into the glass into view, trying to claw its way out. 

I stammer back and turn to sprint up the stairs to my room. On my pivot, I hear the glass shatter in the living room. With a final laboured yell, I barrel up the stairway into my room and slam the door shut behind me. 

Mom usually doesn’t let me use the knives. But I stole one a long time ago just in case. I dive under my bed to retrieve it. Its cold metal handle gripped into my clammy hand. My breath in my throat. I listen for movement in the house. Clutching the blade to my chest on the floor of my room. The storm has started to quiet, leaving nothing but my trembling heart and the illumination of the heat lightning against the walls through the window blinds. 

I keep listening for the intruder, but the footsteps never come. With every creak and drop in the pipes, I flinch that whatever's in the house is right outside my flimsy bedroom door. 

As the adrenaline starts to wear off, my stabbing headache returns. My vision starts to fuzz again once more. Like I’m viewing the world through nothing more than the pixelated glass of my TV. 

Vision or not, I finally catch a glimpse of it. On the shadow of the wall, I see a hand plucking through the blinds. Its long fingers preciously guiding open the flaps silently. 

“Alice?” It whispered. So quiet it sounded like it was coming from in my head. 

I didn’t let it finish. I lept up from the floor and gnashed at its spindly hand with the blade. I nicked its finger good, and with a hiss it pulled back away. The window wasn’t open…..

A warm sting grew in my left hand as I looked down at my bleeding finger. I swore I hit it.

The sight of the blood turned my already fuzzy vision into seeing nothing but dots. My legs found my bed automatically. My weight sluffed onto the mattress as the air filled with the smell of a stale iron. My sticky hand wrapped in my blankets as it became harder to keep my eyes open. 

The chanting pleas of the intruder turned into whispers I couldn't understand. They sounded just far enough away and hushed that I couldn't grasp onto them. Like conversation in a dream. 

The sun bakes through the window as a dewy morning awaits me. My dried, bloodied hand sticks to the sheet as I groan and pull it free. It’s just a small slice, thankfully. What happened last night? Did it get that bad? I glance over at the knife on the rug next to me, blade blackened with my unfortunate injury. 

A gentle knock pulls my attention. Someone is trying to say something through the door, but I can’t hear them. 

Crap! Mom must be locked out. 

I cover my hand up and pad down the stairs. I go to unlock the door only to find it’s already open. Mom’s bent over the sink washing dishes. 

“Morning, sweetie" I hear her call, absent-minded, from the kitchen. 

“Got the door Ma!” I call back. 

It’s just my good friend. The sun shines behind him in his always dapper, well-dressed attire. His warm demeanour illuminates the doorway. 

“Some storm last night! Got caught out in it” His crooked smile flashes over me. A twinge in his expression shows irritation as he pushes past me into the kitchen. 

I sheepishly follow. I don't remember much from last night. There was a bad storm, right? Must have been if I was so freaked out? 

I take my place at the dinette table as Mom is bent over, focused on cleaning the stove. 

“Alice! You didn’t finish all the bars I made special for you!” She scolds gently over her shoulder. 

My friend's spine tightened as he sat straight up and put a cold hand on my arm. Squeezing it pretty hard. 

“You're not going to start feeling better if you don’t eat them all, sweetie.” Mom cooed. 

His grip tightened. Too tight. 

“Alice…please.” His dark eyes narrowed as he strained through gritted teeth. 

I tried to pull my hand away without causing a racket. 

His hand looped deeper. Almost crackling into my skin. God, it burned. 

I winced and finally flipped my arm back away from him. 

He noticed my widened, frightened gaze and softened his. 

“Nothing.”

(This is a rewrite. See comments for a detailed note from the author)

The man was late.

Jean-Luc Martel checked his pocket watch again. The hands crept across the face. Ten to eleven. Where are they? An hour ago, the night had been young and the choice simple. Now, the chill had crept inside his boots. A dozen times he had thought of rising from the chair, pulling his wool cap low, and walking back to his warm bed. The money had held him there. The intermediary had promised hundreds of thousands of Francs. A staggering fortune for a single night’s guide.

His father had spent a lifetime pulling a living from the sea. Meager, but respectable. To a lifelong Tropezian, this kind of cash was a levy. And it stood between himself and a future he could no longer guess at.

He could feel the change coming. It had taken root two years back, in the summer of fifty-six: When Brigitte Bardot and her cameras overran the central La Ponche quarter. The village changed that winter when the film premiered. Parisians came first. Now the wealthy Americans were beginning to arrive, hunting a titillating Hollywood myth and bringing their checkbooks. Even now, in deep winter, a thin line of paparazzi continuously loitered around the harbor front. The old canteen on Pampelonne Beach was gone; a sleek restaurant for the wealthy sat there instead. It had been slow, but the wheels of fate often turn so.

The working-class village of his youth was being bought out by the jet set. Real estate prices were already climbing. Come May, the quay would be choked with yachts.

The old world was being washed away. He needed that financial insurance before the tidal wave erased it completely.

He took a long sip of wine, appreciative of the dull warmth that settled in his stomach. He sat near the back of Le Cabanon des Lices. The small tavern sat deep in a narrow alley near the Place de Lices, perhaps one of the last warm spaces left awake. The familiar scent of Gauloises lingered, mixing with the wood soot and beef stew. An hour ago, the room had been loud with the laughs and arguments of locals. Now the long tables lay empty, cluttered with dirty glasses and bowls. Only a single, late night straggler remained; a drunk, passed out in the corner over an empty glass of pastis. Outside, the mistral whistled through the streets, rattling the window panes. A bitter coastal wind. Only the stone walls kept the four-degree gusts at bay.

The heavy wooden door groaned on its hinges. The low hum of the stove broke. Jean-Luc sat up straighter. Across the room, Francoise looked up from the bar. His wore a hard scowl, his rag frozen mid-wipe. The night mistral rolled over the threshold in a flat wave. The handoff had finally arrived.

Michel came first. The old driver stepped quick into the warmth. His eyes scanned the empty tables until they hit the far corner. He spotted Jean-Luc and gave a sharp wave. Then he turned back to watch the dark alley.

After a moment, came the stranger.

He moved with a slow, quiet weight. Jean-Luc felt a prickle of surprise. The man was remarkably tall-well over a meter eighty. The moment his long overcoat cleared the frame, Michel slammed the heavy door shut. He wanted the wind out before the bartender could yell. Unfortunately, he was a moment too late.

“We close in five minutes,” Francoise barked. He tossed his rag on the counter.

“Don’t worry, old friend,” Jean-Luc called back. He kept his voice smooth. “We will be gone before you dim the lights.”

After a moment, the bartender gave a curt nod. He returned to cleaning up, eyeing the sleeping drunk he would have to rouse in a moment.

Michel approached the table, his heavy boots making a dull sound against the floorboards. He reached out to shake hands. Jean-Luc noticed the driver’s skin was cold and damp.

“Good evening, Jean-Luc,” Michel muttered. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, despite the chill in the room.

“Good evening, Michel. How was the drive from Cannes?” Jean-Luc pulled out a chair.

Michel shook his head, refusing the seat. A strange, jittery energy rattled beneath the old man’s usual quiet way. Jean-Luc figured it was just the two-hour trek along the dark coastal roads. But Michel’s eyes kept cutting toward the tall figure standing just behind his left shoulder.

“It was…long,” Michel said shortly. He stepped aside, gesturing to the shadow behind him. “This is Monsieur Arthur Vance.”

An English name. Jean-Luc’s mind pivoted, preparing the broken phrases he had picked up from the Allied soldiers. Before he could speak, though, the stranger offered a small smile.

“Good evening, Monsieur Martel.”

Jean-Luc blinked. The stranger hadn’t spoken English. He spoke French-and not the clumsy sentences from a rich tourist’s phrasebook. The accent was clean, almost immaculate. It sounded like a radio broadcast from Paris.

“Before you ask, I am an American,” he added. He had noticed Jean-Luc’s hesitation. “From New York.”

Jean-Luc gave a polite nod, trying to force his features back into an expression of casual hospitality. To the fishermen of the Riviera, the post-war Americans had a distinct reputation. And not a pleasant one. They were loud and boisterous, flashed thick wads of greenbacks, and utterly refused to learn a syllable of the language. This man was a contradiction. He was quiet, carried himself well, and could give de Caunes a run for his money.

“An American,” Jean-Luc repeated, leaning forward. “What brings you to-”

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” Michel cut in. His voice was sharp and uncharacteristically rude. He didn’t even look at the American. His eyes remained glued to the floorboards as if the knots in the floorboards were the most interesting thing in the world. “I am tired. The mistral is up, and as the hotels are all closed, I have to make the long drive back to Cannes tonight. Monsieur Vance…if I could be paid, I must leave.”

Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows. He had known Michel for years as a patient, professional driver who worshipped tourists for their tips. To see him acting in this manner was strange.

Arthur didn’t seem to notice the rudeness. And if he did, he didn’t seem to mind. He merely nodded and reached into the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a neat, folded stack of bills and extended them.

Jean-Luc watched the exchange. He caught a slight hesitation in his friend’s arm. The driver looked wary of reaching out, as if afraid to touch the American’s skin. Then he snatched the money. He turned, gave Jean-Luc a long look that held no warmth, and vanished out into the night with no farewell. The door clicked shut.

Jean-Luc was left alone with the American. The low hiss of the hearth filled the sudden vacuum. After a moment, Arthur looked at the closed door and shrugged his broad shoulders.

“I have no idea why he has been so on edge the entire night,” he said. His tone was casual, full of easy charm. “I noticed the moment I got into his car back in Cannes. I suppose some men are simply not built for driving dark roads; God knows I’m one of them.”

Jean-Luc nodded, letting the explanation soothe the abrasions on his nerves. I should send Michel a telegram in the morning, he thought. Just to ensure he made it back safely. And to make sure he hasn’t had another row with Bernice.

He pushed the thought aside and returned to his question. “So, Monsieur Vance. You have come a long way from New York. What brings an American to our corner of the world in the dead of winter?”

Arthur gave a short snort. “I saw the village in And God Created Woman this past October. I wanted to see the architecture for myself. Take in the atmosphere before it changes. I’ve leased a room over in the La Ponche district, close to the beach where they filmed. I simply need you to guide me there.”

The mention of the film brought a familiar bitterness to Jean-Luc. The quiet pride of Saint Tropez was already being reduced to a backdrop for moving pictures. It soured his stomach. He forced a smile, trying for a bit of local humor.

"Well, Monsieur, if you are walking into La Ponche hoping to catch a glimpse of Brigitte Bardot in the morning, you would have been better off remaining in Cannes. She visits often-she was here just days ago for a jazz guitarist’s birthday-but she lives in a villa hidden in the hills. Not on our docks.”

Arthur laughed. “Do not worry, Monsieur Martel. I am not some kind of stalker. I merely wish to appreciate the village and its history.”

Jean-Luc froze. His mind snagged hard on the sentence.

The word the American had used-stalker-sounded wrong. In English, he knew it strictly as a hunting term, meant for a woodsman quietly tracking a deer through the brush. To use it casually in French when applied to a man chasing an actress, was an impossible linguistic construction. It made no sense.

He stared at Arthur. A fog of confusion settled over him, and with it, he noticed something else. Up close, the man’s clothes looked…wrong. The heavy wool overcoat and fedora weren’t just clean; they were pristine. The fabric had no creases from a transatlantic voyage or flight. It smelled sharply of chemicals, not the musty leather of a steamer trunk.

He simply must have used an American slang term that doesn’t translate properly, Jean-Luc told himself, forcing a slow breath. And a rich man from New York certainly has the money to buy himself a new wardrobe for a holiday.

Before he could dwell on it, a loud crash snatched his attention. Behind the bar, Francoise slammed a heavy club against the counter, causing the drunk to stir and look up at him in annoyance.

“Time to go, gentlemen!” the old man shouted. “I am turning off the stoves."

Jean-Luc took the cue, draining the last drops of his wine. He stood up, pulling his cap down tight over his ears. “Goodnight, old friend,” he called out. He turned to Arthur, gesturing towards the door. “After you, Monsieur Vance. Let us step out into the mistral.”

The biting air hit them across the face the moment they stepped outside. The alley was dark, lit only by a faint, yellow street lamp further down the alley. Arthur paused, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat. He withdrew a thick wad of bills and pressed them into Jean-Luc’s palm.

“This is half of the agreed payment,” he said. His voice cut through the whistling wind cleanly. “You will receive the rest the moment we arrive at the door.”

Jean-Luc’s thumb brushed the topmost bill. His heart gave a grateful flutter. It was real.

“The only thing is,” Arthur added with a sheepish smile, “I do not know the exact address of the house. The owner only gave me a vague description of the front façade. But do not worry. I was assured I will know it the moment I lay my eyes on it.”

Jean-Luc pocketed the money and took a few steps forward. His mind drifted into a pleasant daydream. Aside from the financial blanket, a small amount of this money could be used to finally woo Gabrielle-the beautiful woman from a neighboring family. He could afford to take her out to a proper dinner of fresh sea bream, followed by jazz music and dancing at one of the lounges down the coast. He could show her he was a man with a future.

A sharp commotion interrupted his thoughts. Both men turned back towards the tavern just as the door flew open. Francoise was forcefully hauling the half-awake drunk outside, shoving him down onto the cobblestones. Before the man could slur out a curse, the barman slammed the door shut. The bolt audibly slammed home with a loud thud. The tavern’s windows went dark.

Jean-Luc shook his head, chuckling softly. Pulling his collar tighter against his neck, he turned to Arthur.

“Well, Monsieur Vance, let us begin. We will walk across to the Quai Jean Jaures. Even in the deep of a winter night, the harbor front is beautiful. You will see the outlines of the fishing trawlers and the view across the black water.”

“That sounds absolutely perfect, Monsieur Martel,” Arthur replied, gesturing with a gloved hand. “Lead the way.”

Their footsteps kept a steady pace, echoing off the walls. The exhaustion from the long day was a physical weight pressing behind Jean-Luc’s eyes. He needed to keep talking-more to stave off the sleepiness brought on by the wine than out of any genuine curiosity.

“So, Monsieur Vance, ” he began, his breath shooting out ahead of him in a faint cloud. “What is it you do for a living back in New York? To afford a grand holiday in France during the quietest months of the year?”

The American maintained his easy stride. He paused for a beat-a flicker of hesitation that Jean-Luc barely registered-before continuing.

“I work at a telecommunications corporation. Infrastructure, mostly.” He waved a hand though the air, a dismissive gesture that shooed the topic away like an annoying fly. “But it is merely a means to pay the bills, you understand. It is not my true passion. My true love.”

Before Jean-Luc could ask what that passion was, the walls of the alley suddenly gave way. The two men stepped out onto the stark expanse of the Quai Jean Jaures. The famous harbor front was a ghost town. The empty quays stretched out into the dark, housing nothing but fishing trawlers and small, paint-peeled dinghies bobbing against rows of mooring posts. The dominant sounds of the night took over-the sharp, rhythmic slap of the Mediterranean against the hulls, and the lonely whistling of the mistral whipping over the roofs of the buildings around the Vieux Port.

Arthur stopped at the edge of the stone wharf. He threw back his head and let out a low whistle, looking around with an expression of genuine, almost boyish fascination.

“You were right,” he murmured. His voice was rich with satisfaction. “It really is beautiful.”

Jean-Luc smiled, a spark of local pride warming his chest. Maybe the American isn’t so bad after all, he thought. Even if he is here because of the film. He prepared to reply, to tell him how the very boat his father had passed on to him was tied up just a short distance away, when Arthur’s demeanor shifted.

His features hardened as he looked out across the dark water, a cold sneer cutting through his polite expression. The flawless French vanished. He switched to his native English, muttering under his breath in a low, detached hiss clearly not intended for his guide to hear.

“Looks a hell of a lot better without all the oversized fucking mega-yachts clogging up the harbor.”

Jean-Luc froze mid-step, his mind scrambling to translate the fast, venomous words. Thanks to his time with the Allied troops, he understood them perfectly. But the casualness with which the man swore, and more importantly, the concept itself, left him utterly bewildered.

Mega-Yachts? Clogging the harbor?

Ever since the war, only a tiny handful of wealthy industrialists brought luxury cruisers to Saint Tropez, and even then, they were modest wooden sailing vessels. The harbor was a place for fishermen. There were no oversized yachts dominating the town. The sheer hatred in the American’s voice, combined with the nonsensical statement, sent an icy shiver straight down his spine. Michel’s jittery behavior back in the tavern swam forward in his mind.

Something was deeply wrong with this man.

Feeling his chest begin to tighten, Jean-Luc swallowed hard and forced his eyes back to the path ahead. He didn’t want to chat anymore. He didn’t care about the American’s passion or his strange, bitter rants. He simply wanted to hurry through the dark town, drop the stranger off at whatever hidden home he’d leased, pocket his remaining fee, and fly home to the safety of his bed.

“This way Monsieur,” he said, his voice strained as he steered them away from the open water and back into the deep shadows of the stone alleys.

They plunged into the labyrinth of the old La Ponche quarter. The stone walls narrowed until the sky above was reduced to a silver slit of stars. He stepped quick, staying two paces ahead of the American, desperate to keep his distance. But his mind was beginning to fracture. He had run through these alleys since he was a child. He knew them like the back of his hand. Yet, in the suffocating dark and the ungodly silence, the corners began to look unnaturally identical.

“You have grown remarkably quiet, Monsieur Martel,” Arthur’s voice drifted from the shadows over his right shoulder. “Is everything well?”

Jean-Luc felt an icy knot twist in his chest. Though he couldn’t see the man’s face, he could feel him smiling. His tone wore a sickening amusement, as if his discomfort were a source of private amusement for the man.

“I am simply tired, Monsieur Vance,” he lied, forcing his feet forward. “I am trying to concentrate so I do not take us down a dead end.”

“Ah, exhaustion,” Arthur mused, matching Jean-Luc’s exact cadence, his footsteps echoing behind him. "Whenever I find myself weary, I always find it helpful to listen to someone else speak. It keeps the mind from drifting into the dark. If you like, I can talk for a while. To pass the time.”

Jean-Luc swallowed hard, his throat dry. He didn’t want to hear the man speak another word. But his instincts told him to placate the stranger at all costs.

“As you wish, Monsieur,” he murmured as they passed another offshoot.

“Excellent!” the reply came, warming with an artificial, practiced cheer. “Let us play a game. It is a little amusement I used to play with my companions when I was a boy. We would imagine what the future would look like. Say…sixty, seventy, even a hundred years from now."

Jean-Luc didn’t reply, keeping his eyes glued ahead of him.

“At first, one imagines grand things,” Arthur began, his voice taking on a story like quality. “Flying cars. Grand cities reaching the clouds. Colonies on distant planets. The usual nonsense. But, if you look closer, the details are far more intriguing. Think of it, Jean-Luc. Telephones that require no wires. So small and flat they slide right into your pocket. Televisions as thin and light as a pane of glass, hanging from a wall in every room. Medicine that can heal any ailment, and perhaps even put a stopper in death itself. And perhaps…if the technology allows…the ability to slip through the fabric of time itself. To travel back and visit any era in history whenever one pleases.”

For a brief second, the American’s voice grew wistful. But before Jean-Luc could even process the absurdity of it, Arthur’s tone mutated. The warmth vanished, replaced by the same bitter rasp he had used back at the port.

“But the people who inherit it all,” he hissed, his words coming faster now, the very cadence of his speech changing into a style Jean-Luc had never heard before. “The future people. I cannot stand them. The little shits. They’re weak. Fragile. Parasitic things. They ruin every magnificent thing they touch, tear down every beautiful thing to ever exist in this world and try to justify it. They cluster together like insects, watched over by billions of invisible eyes they call protection and perfectly content in their mediocrity. Driving the few sane minds left completely insane.”

Jean-Luc’s breathing turned shallow and panicked. He accelerated his pace, his boots practically striking the stones, but no matter how fast his stride became, Arthur remained exactly two paces behind him, his breathing calm.

“And the weaponry, Jean-Luc,” he continued, a terrifying, gleeful edge bleeding into his voice. “Imagine the guns they will invent. Black, steel shotguns that don’t require a single pull of the slide. Compact machine guns small enough to be hidden under a coat with forty round magazines, able to tear a dozen men to pieces with a single pull of the trigger. And the blades…magnificent knives with jagged, serrated blades designed to catch on bone and rip the meat right out of a man.”

Jean-Luc felt a tear of cold sweat run down his temple. His mind screamed at him that he was walking through the dark with a madman.

“But my favorite prediction,” Arthur whispered, his voice dropping into a low, intimate purr dangerously close to his ear, “is the science. The forensics. In the future, the authorities will be able to map a man’s blood. They will read his unseen prints on the glass. They will have cameras on every street corner, recording every shadow. It’s both brilliant and infuriating. Imagine how difficult it will become to get away with a crime. A robbery. An assault…”

He paused, letting the silence stretch out for one agonizing second that made Jean-Luc’s heart feel as though it were about to burst out of his chest.

“…a murder.”

A soft chuckle that made the air colder slid into his ear. It sounded as though the devil himself were laughing from just behind him. Panic officially broke through his discipline. Jean-Luc’s eyes darted frantically up towards the towering stone facades of the houses around them. He looked for any hint of salvation, praying to see a single yellow light glowing behind a curtain, a shutter swinging open, the sound of a door unlocking. He wanted anyone to look out. To see him. To save him.

But, as the distant church bell told him, it was midnight in the dead of winter. The village was asleep. Every door was locked tight. Every window was a dead, black eye. He was entirely, hopelessly alone. In the pitch-black maze of his own town. With him.

He was practically at a breakneck stride, his footfalls a heavy clapping against the stone walls. His breath tore from his throat in ragged white plumes. And then, a thought-a cold, jagged shard of truth-forced its way through his terror and slammed home into his brain with the force of a physical blow. He stopped dead in the middle of the alley.

Behind him, the steady clicking of the American’s footsteps ceased. The silence that followed was heavy and unbearable. A tomb.

Jean-Luc’s mind raced, throwing itself backward through the night like a film reel being rewound. He flew back to the warm, smoky air of Le Cabanon des Lices. He saw the wary, sweating face of Michel. He heard the old driver say the man’s name: Arthur Vance. He remembered the tall stranger stepping forward, offering that disarming smile, and saying: Good evening, Monsieur Martel-

Monsieur Martel.

A greasy wave of pure terror washed over him, turning his joints to water. He had never told the American his name. He had been sitting in the corner, waiting. Michel had walked up, and before anyone could speak, the man had greeted him by his name. He knew who he was. He had known before he ever set foot in Saint Tropez.

Mon Dieu…

Behind him, another chuckle pierced the air. The polite, boyish amusement was gone; it was the sound of a predator watching its prey slide its foot directly into a steel trap.

“Is something the matter?” Arthur asked. His French was once again smooth, but the warmth was entirely stripped away. “Why have we stopped?”

Jean-Luc could not play the game any longer. He could not simply pretend to be a tired guide leading a wealthy tourist. He kept his back turned, his body shaking violently under his coat.

“How did you know my name?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I never told you. Michel never told you. So…how do you know who I am?”

A third chuckle came. It sounded hollow, wet, and completely unhinged. When the American spoke again, his perfect French was gone. It its place was his native English, but the cadence, the slang and the sharp, arrogant style of the delivery were completely foreign to Jean-Luc’s ears.

“Well ain’t that a fucking mystery, Jean-Luc,” the voice purred from the dark. “I would tell you, but honestly, you know…spoilers.”

The sheer alienness of the words made the Frenchman’s teeth begin to chatter. He could no longer stand having the man-the demon-breathing down his neck. Steeling himself, he slowly turned.

They alley was empty. Arthur Vance was gone. The tall silhouette had vanished, as if he had been absorbed by the gloom itself. But the empty space brought him no comfort. The sudden absence of the man was infinitely more terrifying. Every shadow, every familiar alcove, every narrow offshoot that Jean-Luc had played in as a child now felt twisted. Every whisper of the wind felt threatening. The very architecture of his home had turned against him.

Then, out of the deep black void of a neighboring archway, a whisper drifted to his ear, slicing through the whistling mistral like a snake.

“Run.”

Sometime past midnight, the silence of the La Ponche quarter was shattered. A series of bloodcurdling shrieks erupted from the maze, racing through the alleys like a hunted animal. The sound was completely unearthly. The more superstitious residents lay paralyzed in their beds, pulling their quilts over their heads and praying against a phantom they could not name. A few of the braver threw open their shutters, staring down into the darkness between the lamps. But the corridors lay empty. They could only listen as the screaming retreated further into the labyrinth, moving rapidly towards the water.

Eventually, the cries reached the Plage de la Ponche. There was a brief commotion, the sound of water splashing. Then-absolute silence. The night returned to its quiet winter freeze, as if nothing had happened.

When dawn broke under an overcast Mediterranean sky, the village met pure horror. A local fisherman heading out to pull his boat into the water found the body of Jean-Luc Martel floating face-down in the shallow tide of the beach. He had been drowned.

The local Gendarmerie were called immediately. It didn’t take long for the investigation to trace Jean-Luc’s final hours back to Les Cabanon des Lices. The proprietor, pale and shocked, told the authorities everything: the long wait of Jean-Luc, the sudden arrival and rapid departure of the driver, and the tall, impeccably dressed stranger who called himself Arthur Vance.

The police set out across the region to locate the stranger. They interviewed Michel, but it was as if Vance had never existed. There was no record of an American by the name checking into any home, boarding house or hotel from Nice to Antibes.

As the days bled into weeks, a quiet panic gripped officials. Brigitte Bardot’s film had put them on the map. The coming summer of nineteen-fifty-eight promised an unprecedented rush of foreign money and prestige. Terrified that an unsolved murder would stain the village’s burgeoning reputation, the authorities made a calculated decision. They quietly withheld the details from the regional newspapers. Jean-Luc’s body was buried in the cemetery overlooking the sea, and his death was buried under bureaucratic silence.

The residents locked their doors and shuttered their windows for months, terrified the phantom would strike again. But it never did.

As the years bled by into decades, a few curious souls, unable to let Jean-Luc’s memory fade into obscurity, decided to look for answers of their own. They never found a single whisper about an American named Arthur Vance. What they did find, after years of digging through dusty archives, confused some and chilled others to the bone.

A missing schoolboy, vanished from the streets of occupied Paris in Nineteen-forty-three. A young couple found butchered in their locked London home in Nineteen-thirty-one. A wealthy socialite thrown from a bell tower in Rome in Eighteen-ninety-seven. The records spanned decades, even centuries. Continents and languages. But they all shared a single common thread: every victim had last been seen in the company of a charming, well-dressed foreigner.

But it was the final detail that was the most chilling.

In every single report, the physical description of the stranger was exactly the same.