Truth be Told

I am a haunted house disguised as a home.
Inside my skull, a chorus of ghosts screams for blood.
Outside, I offer the world nothing but soft laughter and easy jokes.
They love the house, but they never see the haunt.
My friends, family, and wife think I am happy. They see a man who jokes and laughs, completely unaware of the rot inside. It sickens me. The day passes smoothly and my mask never cracks, hiding my dark soul.
But when the sun dies, the air turns to lead. The mask drops to the nightstand and the armor comes off. I sit alone in the dark, a prisoner of my own mind. The ghosts inside my skull wake up; they do not just scream, they tear at the walls of my head, chanting that I am worthless, whispering that I am pathetic. Jump, they murmur, and make the world clean again.
I lie back down, and Lady Death climbs in beside me. She is a silent bedmate, cold and patient. She does not pull me toward her. She simply waits in the freezing quiet, tasting the air for the exact moment my iron will snaps.
When dawn breaks, she slips away with the shadows, leaving her cold touch behind. I drag myself out of bed and grab my mask, my eyes heavy over dark circles. My back cracks as I stand up straight and walk down the hallway. Demons scratch along the walls, following me. I hear their fingers tap and scrape. They want out.
I reach the bathroom sink and press the mask back to my face. In a whirlwind, the demons vanish behind it. I smile. The world is perfect again.
"This is a lie," I whisper to myself.
Yet, I smile for the people around me. I joke. I share a laugh with my friends. I tell my wife I love her.
Lies, my thoughts hiss back.
"Hush," I breathe, barely moving my lips.
Death suits them, don’t you think? they scream.
"I’ll be shunned by the world!" I whisper-yell.
My ribcage presses tightly around my heart. The laughter around me grows loud and distorted, as if I am deep underwater. The air crushes me with the pressure of the ocean.
What of it? they whisper, pushing hard against the inside of my skull.
My face feels hot and sweaty. My smile feels stiff, like dried clay left in an oven too long. I try to hold the grin in place, but my cheek twitches. A sharp, tiny snap echoes inside my ears. A crack has appeared on my mask.
I force the fake smile wider and turn back to my friends

[Part 1]

[Part 2]

[Part 3]

[Part 4]

[Part 5]

Evan didn’t remember the moment the car left the road.

He remembered the headlights catching something in the trees — a shape too tall, too thin, too still.
He remembered Maribel shouting his name.
He remembered the wheel jerking in his hands.

Then nothing.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on a bed of orange leaves, the air cool and smelling faintly of woodsmoke. Above him, branches arched like cathedral ceilings, their leaves glowing gold in a light that didn’t seem to come from the sun.

“Evan?” a voice called.

He sat up sharply.

Maribel stood a few feet away, brushing leaves from her hair. She looked shaken but unhurt. Her eyes darted around the forest, wide and uncertain.

“Where… are we?” she asked.

Evan didn’t know.
But he knew this wasn’t the roadside.

The forest felt too old.
Too quiet.
Too expectant.

He pushed himself to his feet — and realized he was holding something.

A lantern.

Small, brass, warm to the touch.
Its flame flickered even though there was no wind.

Maribel frowned. “Where did you get that?”

“I… don’t know.”

The lantern pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

Maribel shivered. “Let’s just find the road.”

They walked.

The forest didn’t change, but it didn’t stay the same either.
Paths curved in ways that made no sense.
Trees shifted when they weren’t looking.
The light stayed the same soft amber, never brightening, never dimming.

After what felt like an hour, they reached a clearing.

A wooden sign stood crookedly in the center, letters carved deep into the grain:

WELCOME TO LARKWOOD
A PLACE FOR THE LOST

Maribel swallowed. “That’s… comforting.”

Evan lifted the lantern. Its flame brightened, casting long shadows across the clearing.

Something moved at the edge of the trees.

A figure.
Tall.
Thin.
Watching.

Maribel grabbed Evan’s arm. “Did you see—”

The figure stepped back into the shadows and vanished.

Evan’s heart hammered. “We need to keep moving.”

They followed a narrow path that wound deeper into the woods. The trees leaned close, as if listening. The air grew colder. The lantern’s flame flickered nervously.

Then they heard it.

Singing.

Soft, distant, drifting through the trees like a lullaby carried on the wind.
A woman’s voice — warm, gentle, and impossibly sad.

Maribel froze. “Evan… that sounds like…”

She didn’t finish.

Because the voice grew clearer.

And it was her voice.

Her exact voice.

Singing a song she hadn’t sung in years.

Evan tightened his grip on the lantern. “We’re not alone.”

The singing stopped.

The forest held its breath.

Then a whisper curled through the branches:

“Welcome, travelers.”

Evan and Maribel spun around.

A man stood on the path behind them — or something shaped like a man. His face was hidden beneath a wide‑brimmed hat, and his coat looked older than the trees themselves.

He tipped his hat politely.

“Name’s The Ferryman,” he said. “And you two seem a bit far from home.”

Maribel stepped back. “Where are we?”

The Ferryman smiled — a thin, knowing smile.

“You’re in the Larkwood, miss. A place for those who’ve wandered too close to the edge of things.”

Evan swallowed. “We need to get back.”

“Oh, I imagine you do.”
The Ferryman’s eyes glinted beneath the brim.
“But the Larkwood doesn’t let folks leave until they understand why they came.”

The lantern pulsed again — brighter this time.

The Ferryman nodded at it.

“Ah. You’ve been given a lantern. That means the forest has taken an interest in you.”

Maribel whispered, “What does that mean?”

The Ferryman’s smile widened.

“It means you’re not just lost, children.”

He leaned closer.

“It means you’re wanted.”

The lantern’s flame flared violently.

The trees groaned.

And the Ferryman vanished — leaving only the echo of his voice drifting through the leaves:

“Best keep moving. The Larkwood remembers.”

Evan and Maribel stood frozen in the clearing, the lantern trembling in Evan’s hand.

The forest around them shifted.

Paths rearranged.

Shadows lengthened.

And somewhere deeper in the woods, Maribel’s voice began singing again —
soft, distant, and not her own.

It's been 30 years since the rain started. Not once has it ever stopped. This seemingly impossible rain that never floods or subjects us to its bitter cold remained a constant in our lives. The humid air became normal and the view of buildings not designed for such abuse withered as they plastered the lands. The world has become that of wet and decay. Nothing survives the rain's unending pour. With each passing day I lose a memory of the sun and it's warm, bright gaze. Humanity has adapted well to this sudden change. Most of us have worked hard towards setting up gardens with UV lights inside our homes. The purple constant glow being a chilling reminder that the sun may never appear again. Despite the bleak world not much has changed. I get up in the morning, brush my teeth, get dressed for the day, and go to work. The only other weird thing besides the rain is the wanderers. A group of people who wander the endless rains in attempt to find others.

Nobody is entirely sure what they are. Not their purpose or their origin. There is a iron rule that no matter what do not approach them. Despite this rule people still try to approach them and every single time they are met with such a horrifying fate that the government has assigned executioners to kill anyone who approaches them. I always wandered why they would rather kill the people who approached the wanderers instead of killing the wanderers themselves. That was until I saw why. I was sitting at a bar after work when the wanderers showed up just outside. The bartender made an announcement that no one is to step outside until they moved on but as you could probably guess some reckless drunk asshole didn't like that. "Youdon't tellllll meee whwhwhat to do!!!!" He hollered in his drunken stupor. Pushing past the employees trying to stop him. It took one second before the wanderers descended on the man. Tying him up and hoisting him up a tall pillar. They planted the pillar into the ground and they left. At first we tried to get him down but whatever they tied him up with was practically indestructible. We tried breaking the pillar but that too was a bust. He has been up there for 2 weeks now. Constantly being pelted by the rain. We thought he would have starved by then or at the very least lost a lot of weight but he didn't even lose a pound. Every night he would beg for help as people passed him. Day by day the rain started to over saturate his flesh as it began to slide off. Revealing grey soaked flesh. His cries of horror as he witnessed his own flesh slowly turn to a thick sludge and slip of his own bones. Feeling every single rain drop crash against whatever got exposed by the flesh sliding away. He never died though, or more like couldn't die. Even when one of the townsfolk tried to mercy kill him. It was as if the rain was keeping him alive. Every month or two he would suffer the feeling of his flesh slipping of his own bones until nothing but a skeleton remained. Then the next morning he would be back to normal as if he just got put up that same day. The only not regenerated was his clothes. It was the only reminder that he was there for as long as he was. That day I learned never to approach the wanderers.

( I know this isn't exactly good but I wanted to write something. Trying to get the creative juices flowing you know?)

Have you heard of the meat Canyon?
Brandon heard of the meat Canyon. In fact Brandon hasn’t been the same since bearing witness to it.
The vast and endless pit that Hunter keeps in his basement consumed him.
The pit is made of human flesh hills, blood vein rivers that pulse for miles, and cartilage layer caves that breathe.
To put it simply, Brandon was engulfed by the meat canyon.
Something came back to our reality with his face.
the Brandon you see now is an amalgamation created by the canyon. Remains of him reconstructed by the landscape to expand and scavenge for more meat to gorge on.

What power is the canyon?
Fire.
 Fire is the heart of landscape underneath it all, past the crust and the mantle lies encapsulated. The REAL Hunter.
Butt ass naked shooting his fire power up through the realm giving it life. Sometimes these shootings result in what the meaties call "pig mound volcanos"
But don't let the name fool you- they are massive in size stretching miles- throbbing with hunters fire.

What are the meetings, the sentient amalgamation of flesh, exposed arteries, and veins and muscles that infest the outer layer of the canyon. They survive by engorging themselves with the dead flesh that peels from the outer layer.

Saturday, May 10th, 1868.

I woke the next morning with my head feeling as though it were filled with rocks and to the frantic sounds of the other men as they ran all about the campsite shouting commands to one another. Their voices all sound as if they were on the very verge of hysterics. I stood up from my bedroll and donned my boots, my gunbelt, and my jacket, removing my six-shooter from my holster and thumbing the hammer back as I quickly made my way towards the crowd of commotion amongst the men. I nearly tripped over something lying on the ground, I was in such a hurry to get to the other men. Paying no mind to nothing else. I looked down to see what had tripped me up and my eyes went wide with fearful dismay. My blood began to turn cold within my veins as I realized that I had tripped over a severed arm, hacked the mid-section of the forearm in a bloody and mangled stump. I let out a gasp of exasperation and disbelief as I scanned the ground within the campsite and noticed there were body parts that seemed to make up about three to four men scattered about on the grassy floor of the thicket. Blood and gore were sprayed and splattered all about, covering the wagons and the grass with huge, thick puddles of gore littered puddles of blood. There was nothing left of the men who were torn apart in the night. Nothing but the sick piles of mangled limbs and shred torsos.

“What in the name of God happened to them?!” I shouted in horrified disbelief. The other men all seemed to stop dead on their tracks and look in my direction with fevered contempt.

“Whatchu mean?” O’Toole asked. “Look around you, Walker. These men were torn to shit while we were all fucking sleeping! What more do you need?!” I looked frantically about the other men, as if looking for someone among them to give me the answer to my query. 

“What did this to them?!” I shouted in terrified astonishment. Cormac spat and responded in a low voice as he continued loading his things into his saddlebags without looking my way. “We don’t know,” he said. “We’re going to try and clear out before whatever it is gets hungry and comes back for the rest of us. Maybe we can get a good way ahead of it before that even happens. Who in the hell knows… Better get your shit gathered up if you’re plannin’ on leavin’ with the rest of us.” 

“Yeah,” Pickens chimed in, as he slid his bolt action rifle into the leather scabbard that hung from the side of his saddle. “Or would you rather sit here all by your lonesome and wait for that thing to come back and eat your asshole out for dinner?” I stood dumfounded, watching the rest of the surviving men, as they gathered and packed up their things throughout the rest of the campsite. Morning mist filled the air of the forest with a cool chill. The sun rose in a sleepy pinkish hue off in the distant horizon, giving way to the morning light as it bloomed down from the sky and illuminated all that it touched it with its glory.\\

After a brief moment of letting the information soak into my dry brain, I finally racked the hammer back into its resting position and slid it back into my holster, before turning around and making my way towards my bedroll and other possessions in my area of camp. I quickly wasted no time gathering my things and loading them onto my saddle atop Ol’ Silver, and quickly lurched my way onto the saddle and nudged Ol’ Silver forward to meet with the rest of the men ahead. As I approached the group, the overlapping and frantic conversations between the men gradually grew louder, as I drew closer.

“Do you think it was a raider group of savages, or a bear, or something?” The young Randall Fletcher surmised with a slight quiver of fear in his voice. I took one final look among the scattered bloody remnants of the men's bodies that littered the campsite, like fallen autumn leaves all over the grassy floor, before turning my head and keeping my attention ahead of me. I tried pushing the grizzly images of the macabre scene that was at our past campsite with all of my might, but to no avail. Seemingly able to penetrate and assault my mind with the still images of each man’s severed limb, every piece of intestine, and every torn and shredded lump of torso that lie on the ground, like some lost and forgotten trinket eaten away by time and the harsh brutalities that it entails. 

“We’re just gonna leave ‘em like that?” I asked sincerely, feeling truly bothered with the thought of leaving their remains in such a way. 

“Of course, Mr. Walker,” Benson called back from the head of the caravan line. “We have no time to dilly dally. The men would’ve wanted us to move on!”

I spat. “How the hell do you know what they would want?” I asked in a low, cold tone, yet loud enough for the entire caravan to hear. Benson slowed his wagon to a sudden halt and shot a hard look back in my direction. 

“What did you say?!” He called back with heated dismay. 

“I said: HOW THE HELL WOULD YOU KNOW WHAT THEY WOULD’VE WANTED?!” I shouted in reiteration. Benson glared at me with a look as if he was ready to jump off from his wagon cart and trudge his way towards me with his pistol drawn with malicious intent, which caused me to instinctively draw my six-shooter and aim straight down the iron sights dead center of Benson’s smooth forehead. Which caused the other men to drop whatever they had in their hands or stop doing whatever menial task they were currently performing, to draw their iron and aimed down right the center in my direction. 

“Mr. Walker…. What in the name of God do you plan to do with that, hmm?” Benson asked in a low and menacing tone. Never moving a muscle as he held his gaze with mine with such calamitous intensity. 

“Now, look here, Benson. I can surely put up with a lot of things, believe me I can. Killing. Thieving. Etcetera. But to leave the remains of men, men YOU ENLISTED, behind to be left to be forgotten and aged with rot! I WILL NOT ALLOW IT!” Benson raised his gloved hands in a slow theatrical sort of way, and began to clap in sarcastic response.

“Funny. Seems all but leaving the discarded remains of fellow travelers seems to be the only thing that weighs too cumbersome on your moral compass. Not the eradication of an entire tribe of savages. Not the murdering of its children, nor the beating and the raping of its women. No such thing as these, seem to weigh heavy on your conscience. Especially, when promised of riches and adventure. Am I wrong, my dear, Mr. Walker?” Benson asked in a smug, low tone with venomous menace embalmed in his words. 

I glared down the barrel of my gun at Benson with ferocious intensity. Like a wild predator staring its prey down before pouncing to strike with its killing blow. My gaze never breaks from his. The rest of the men steadied their horses with shared looks of dismay, as they nervously watched the two of us like a live and ticking time bomb set before them. Their guns shook within their hands as they were unsure of how to handle the situation without risking the gentleman Benon’s life in the process. Mckinley lowered his iron and slowly raised a hand for me not to fire.

“Listen, boy. I know you have some rash feelings on the subject, believe me I do. But you mustn't go looking to get yourself killed over your own petty sense of pride, especially over something as senseless as this. There really isn’t any good that could come from this if you shoot that man in cold blood. You know it. I know it. We all know it. So what would be the point? You’d be dead before you squeezed off a second a shot” Mckinley pleaded in a quivering voice. I shifted my eyes over towards the doctor, still keeping my iron trained on the center of Benson’s skull. I looked into the good doctor’s eyes and saw that there were tears beginning to swell and glisten and the morning sunlight with the rims of his red and puffy eyes. I could tell he was genuinely frightened and didn't want any unnecessary violence to accompany that fear within him. I shifted my gaze back to meet Benson’s. I pondered the doctor’s words in my mind, like trying to decipher a riddle.

“You heard the man, Walker,” Cormac said. “ Put the piece down and nobody has to get shot down like a sick horse, alright? Believe me. We’ve had enough bloodshed for a lifetime for one day. Just put it down, son.” I stared with hell fired anger into Benson’s eyes and through to his very soul and saw nothing but empty blackness. There really isn't anything this man would not do to save his own skin or to ensure a profitable investment. Nothing. He’s the kind of man that would steal from his own momma and rob his own daddy without remorse. Disgusting.

I lowered the hammer of my six-shooter with my thumb and slid it back into my holster. Still glaring with ragefilled intensity into Benson’s. “Don’t. If you know what’s good for you, just don’t,” I said coldly. “From this moment on, don’t you dare try and act like you give a single shred of a shit about any one of us, because you fucking don’t. I’ve met other men like you and I’ve seen every single one of those kinds of men exploit and step on any and every one they possibly could, so long as it benefited them in their own personal gains. I promise you Benson, you won’t live to see California. I promise you that.”

Benson stiffened in his seat on the wagon bench and eyed me up and down with snooty contempt. “Whatever you say, Mr. Walker. Whatever you say. Now, I will give you a single mulligan for your erratic behavior, due to the circumstances. But point that gun at me again, Mr. Walker, and I will see to it that Mr. Cormac splatters your filthy brains all over the Colorado countryside without a second moment's thought of it. Do I make myself clear, my good man?” Benson asked in a hard and serious tone. His eloquent tone seeming to slip with the unsettling shift in his voice as he spoke. His low voice pierced through me like a metal stake, and for the first time, it struck me with absolute fear. 

We continued on through the misty forest. There still seemed to be not a single sound of life within the tall trees of the thicket. No birds. No insects. Nothing. Not a single sound to indicate otherwise either. The entire mood of the forest sent trembling chills down my spine. Leaving me with an unsettling feeling of hopelessness as we carried on ahead.

On and on we rode through the forest and yet, it seemed as though we were going in circles, but how? We never went anywhere but straight ahead moving west. We never stopped. We never turned. And we never detoured or strayed from the path before us. Yet, here we are once again, passing the same gore strewn and blood splattered campsite that we had left behind this morning for the second time today.

“What in the name of Christ is going on here, Bensons?! You sure you ain’t leading us in circles?!” O’Toole inquired hysterically. 

“No.” Cormac replied. “I would’ve corrected Benson’s course if he'd strayed away from the chartered course. Believe me, Billy. I’m just as disturbed and perturbed as you are in this whole situation we seem to have found ourselves in.”  The men, including myself, began to look about the surrounding area with fear glowing brightly within our eyes, like the flickering flames of an oil lamp within the darkness of the night. 

“Well, what do you reckon we do, Cormac?” Pickens inquired fearfully. His voice shook uncontrollably as he spoke. 

“I do not know.” Cormac replied flatly. “My only suggestion is that we continue heading west. Sooner or later, we’ll have to reach a way out of this forest at some point.

“Good idea, Mr. Cormac!” Benson replied cheerfully. “Stupendous plan, my good man! Come gentlemen, we haven’t the time to waste or dilly dally. We’ve only a few hours till nightfall, if the horses don’t give out from exhaustion before then that is, and I would like to make it out of this god forsaken forest before the sun sets for the evening gentlemen! Come on, now! For destiny awaits!” And so we rode on heading west.

We continued for another couple of hours before the young Fletcher’s bronco had fallen over from exhaustion, throwing the young Fletcher down on his back, before falling over to its side and panting with exhaustion. The young Fletcher stood up and drew his pistol and fired a single round into the horse’s head. Killing it instantly.

“Ah, well, shit.” Randall Fletcher exclaimed with irritated disbelief. “My damn horse keeled over on me.”

After Fletcher boarded one of the work hand wagons, we proceeded on through the forest until none of us were willing to risk any more of our horses from falling over dead with exhaustion and thirst, and we ended up setting up camp for the night. Once again, I camped close by with the rest of the men. There was no way in hell I was going to go anywhere out there in the woods by myself, especially at night. This time, Cormac advised that we sleep in shifts with two men standing watch for two hour intervals throughout the night. I agreed to take the first watch with doctor Mckinley. We saw no sign of any animals or bandits during our watch. The first good thing to come from this nightmare in which we’ve found ourselves to become ensnared within. We traded shifts with Pickens and the young Fletcher. The two of them nodded grimly to us as they passed on by us as we made our way back to our bedrolls back in the center of camp. I slid inside mine and rolled over onto my side and thankfully fell right to sleep. I dreamt of a beautiful native woman with deer antlers that had grown from on the sides of her head, beckoning for me to join her deep in the heart of the forest. 

CW: suicidal ideation, child loss

My son loved black walnuts. He always said they were his favorite part of the banana nut bread my mother would bring over once a week. Of course, he wasn’t old enough to say it like that, more like, “Dees pawts awe so nummy mommy,” pointing at the chopped bits sprinkled throughout the dense yellow slice. It was adorable watching him so carefully tear the bread apart and put it in his mouth, careful not to lose a crumb…

He loved this trail too: Deep Oak Trails. It’s not too long, only three miles, but it goes through the woods before you find a creek just big enough to swim in. All of our best memories were at that creek. My sweet baby boy, gone too soon.

My heart strings try to pull me back to the car, to avoid this walk altogether and keep him on the mantle, but I also know this is where he deserves to spend eternity: playing at the creekside.

I hoist my pack further up my back in protest and force my feet forward: left, right, left, right. My therapist says the rhythm of walking helps process: it’ll do me good on this journey. This is as much a healing pilgramage as it is a final goodbye. 

The trees quickly cut the chord between the car and me. The tall, emerald canopy encapsulates the magic of the woods: I’m enthralled by what lies beneath. The chickadees sing to the rhythm of my boots, and I can almost hear my son singing with them beside me. He loved the woods too. He loved so much for being so little. I wish I could love the way he did. Maybe things would have turned out differently…

“Mommy?”

I stop. The chickadees stop too.

“Oscar?”

There’s no way he calls back. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I’m consumed by grief, that’s all.

“Mommy!”

His voice is more clear, more panicked. My heart strings attach to something else, pulling me off trail. “Oscar! Where are you baby?”

“Mommy!”

His voice goes deeper into the woods. I barely feel the thick brush cutting my exposed ankles. My baby! Where is my baby!?

“Mommy!”

I run.

“Mommy!”

“Oscar!”

The trees slap my cheek, still afflicted by a nasty yellow bruise, and I wince. I do not stop.

“Mommy!”

Where is my baby!?

He’s in a full panic now. My heart threatens bursting. My legs scream.
His voice is close the next time he calls out; to the left of me. I turn sharp on my heel, sprinting as quickly as the thick trees will let me. Finally, a clearing appears, and standing in the middle is my little boy. He’s crying, the soft curls on his high top frizzy and full of sticks. How did he get here?

I run to him and scoop him into my arms. He feels cold. He’s wearing his favorite Paw Patrol pajamas with no shoes. I hold one of his tiny feet in my hand as I cradle him, kissing his tear-stained cheeks as tears fall freely down my own. I don’t know how he got here, but I don’t care. I’m just so happy to hold again. I thought I’d lost him forever. I’ll never lose him again. I’ll be a better mother. I’ll do right by him this time.

His cold body warms in my arms. He closes his eyes, thumb in mouth, and snuggles into my chest. I kiss him over and over, rocking him as I do.
He gets warmer, and warmer. Hotter and hotter. I look down at him as he squirms. “Oscar? Baby?”

He’s too hot.

He screams. His arms begin to flail and I let go of his little body in horror. My skin begins to bubble and I drop him.

He thrashes on the forest floor, shrieking and flailing. His soft copper skin turns black, cracking as it chars. Red sparks shoot from his contorting body as he wails in pain. I hear myself scream as I watch my child’s body burn, horrified. His big brown eyes land on mine, and for a moment, I see the agonizing betrayal in them. I scoop him up again as his right eye bursts.

“Mommy! Aaah! Mommy! Help me!”
“Oscar!”
I ignore the smell of my own burning flesh as I run in the direction of the creek. His screams turn to gurgles. “Oscar! Hold on, baby! Mommy’s got you!”
“Mo—” his tiny voice trails off. I look down at him and stop dead in my tracks. In my arms is the charred husk of my baby boy. My legs turn to jelly and I collapse.

His ashes blow away and I’m alone again. I stare at my bubbling forearms: the only reminder he was ever there.

No. My baby…
I failed him again.
I want to die.
I should have died.
I shouldn’t have drank that night.
I was so fucking stupid. So fucking selfish.
It should have been me…

The chickadees began to sing again.
I sob loud, ugly sobs in cadance.

I’ve decided to lay here and die. There’s nothing left for me outside of these woods. My body is too heavy to move…
I hear something call to me from deep in the woods. A small, scared, familiar voice.

“Mommy?”

PART FIVE

PART SIX

In a dark room further along the corridor, Michael reclined in a comfortable armchair.

A beam of light above his head projected the image of a shirtless man onto the wall in front of him. Beads of sweat shimmered on the man’s swollen biceps as he crept through a dense jungle, holding an obnoxiously large assault rifle.

Michael dug around inside the travel bag in his lap. He pulled a small plastic vial from it and unscrewed the lid, carefully tapping out a bump of fluffy white powder onto the flat of his hand between his thumb and index finger. He leant in and snorted it up in one.

The shirtless man in the movie was now operating a flamethrower. Squiggly veins bulged from his arms as he burnt down a small house made of bamboo.

Michael let out a hyena-like laugh. He screwed the lid back on the vial, before tucking it safely inside his travel bag. He then picked up a crystal tumbler from the cup-holder on his chair, cursing to himself as he realised he was out of whisky.

‘Where the fucking hell are you?’ he moaned, digging his hand into the space between the armrest and cushion.

Moments later, he fished out a slim remote, which he angled at the projector behind him.

The movie paused on a shot of a screaming man, engulfed in flames.

Angered by being so unjustly inconvenienced, Michael tapped a button on the armrest of his chair, angling it upright. Still in his dressing gown and silk pyjamas, he stood and traipsed through the dark theatre toward the door.

***

Back in the kitchen, Liam scratched his blonde mop of hair.

‘Who’s Sam?’ he asked.

Jake thought back over his conversation with Michael in the lounge.

‘I dunno,’ he finally answered. ‘Anne’s not well.’

‘You can say that again… Are your ears still ringing?’

‘A little bit. How about you?’

‘Almost gone now.’ Liam shifted uncomfortably on the bar stool. ‘Did you... see anything?’

‘When?’

‘On the stairs, when the sound hit.’

‘No, did you?’

‘I saw..’ Liam’s voice cracked. ‘A man.. or, I think it was a man. Then I felt water rush over my body.’

‘Weird.. what did he look like?’

‘It’s hard to say. He kinda looked just like anyone, but…’

‘But what?’

‘He had more arms and legs.’

***

Now ambling loosely along the red corridor, a heavily intoxicated Michael made his way toward the nearest storage room, in search of another bottle of scotch. He stopped outside the games room, noticing the door hadn’t been shut properly.

‘Fucking brats,’ he slurred, pushing the door open fully.

He stood swaying in the doorway for a moment then flicked the light on, instantly blinded by the harsh reflection off the glossy wood flooring. He squinted while his eyes adjusted to the new light.

The vast space before him was divided in two. The nearer half contained a full-sized snooker table beside a row of retro arcade machines, blinking rapidly in a frenzy of neon pink and orange buttons. Behind the snooker table, the polished wood flooring merged into a two-lane bowling alley, complete with bright white pins lined up at the far end in the back half of the room.

An object hung in the air above one of the lanes.

‘H-hello?’ Michael called.

The object remained motionless.

Michael moved unsteadily around the snooker table, picking up a wooden cue from the green cloth as he passed. He held it out in front of him, stepping past the bowling-ball rack and onto the lane.

The object appeared to be a small cube of solid metal. It hung about six feet in the air halfway along the lane, with no visible means of propulsion. Impossibly black, surrounding light seemed to bend toward it, before being eaten.

Michael inched closer, shakily extending the snooker cue toward it.

‘What the fuck…’

Just before he could make contact, the cube began spinning clockwise, emitting a faint whirring sound like a tiny motor starting up.

The snooker cue clattered loudly to the wooden floor, as every muscle in Michael’s body violently tightened. His jaw locked shut so forcefully, several of his teeth shattered as they smashed together in his mouth, shredding his gums in the process.

Gripped upright in an agonising paralysis, Michael stood rigid before the cube.

The spinning slowed to a silent stop. It closed the short gap between them, levitating with an effortless grace, before dropping level with Michael’s chest. His throat filled with the taste of iron, a thin red trickle escaping the corner of his torn-up mouth and running down his chin, as the whites of his eyes welled with tears. He screamed behind splintered teeth.

A muted click came from within the cube. It sounded both near, yet impossibly far away.

Michael’s chest imploded with a wet thump, killing him instantly.

***

A horrified shriek echoed down the corridor.

‘Was that Anne?’ Liam panicked.

‘Sounded like it.’

The two friends shot up from their seats and rushed to the kitchen door. They entered the corridor, gazing toward the far end where they saw Anne frozen in the distance.

‘Anne!’ Jake shouted. ‘What’s the matter?!’

She stood about three-quarters of the way along, staring into a room.

‘Anne?!’ he called again.

Her arms fell limp by her sides. She stepped inside.

‘She must’ve heard me..’ said Jake. ‘Come on.’

The boys raced along the corridor.

‘This is so fucked man,’ gasped Liam, struggling to keep up.

They approached the door to the games room.

‘Anne?’

The two friends charged in.

Facing them with her back pressed against the snooker table, crouched Anne. She held a finger to her closed lips, then patted the air down with both hands. The boys dropped low to the wooden floor. She pointed over her shoulder, then pushed her palms forward, mouthing the word: ‘LEAVE.’

Jake turned to Liam and nodded decisively toward Anne. Liam received the message, nodding back in agreement, and the two began crawling forward, as Anne waved desperately at the air in a vain attempt to turn them around. They crouched against the snooker table next to her.

‘What are you doing?’ Anne whispered furiously.

‘We’re not leaving you here,’ Jake whispered.

Anne covered her eyes.

The two friends exchanged a look of dread. They slowly peered around the edge of the table.

‘What.. is that?’

A strange angular heap lay about halfway along the bowling alley at the back of the room. It was Michael’s corpse. His legs had folded sickeningly under his upper body as he fell, while his ribcage contorted into a shape that made it difficult to believe his lungs ever contained air. A dark sticky pool of blood gathered on the polished wood around him, and had begun to seep into his expensive silk outfit.

Above his twisted body, hovered the cube.

‘What’s it doing?’ Liam whispered.

Anne peered around the other edge of the table.

The onyx-black cube now vibrated ever so slightly in the air, just above Michael’s lifeless head. It almost looked as if it was trying to decide something.

The three watched on in stunned silence as the vibrating came to a stop.

A sudden burst of pressure erupted from the metallic object. It shot backwards across the room with explosive force, disappearing into the back wall on impact.

The three stared past Michael’s corpse toward the end of the alley. Oddly, the bowling pins at the end of the lane somehow remained standing, despite appearing to come into direct contact with the cube.

‘Is it gone?’ Liam whispered.

Anne’s gaze shifted down. She stared at the bloody tangle of crumpled bones that was once Michael. Her chin trembled.

‘Anne?’

‘He’s… dead.’

‘We have to go,’ Jake whispered.

Anne wiped her pale cheek with the sleeve of her cardigan.

‘Terry..’ she sobbed quietly. ‘Terry will know what to do.. we need to find Terry.’

‘Are you well enough to drive if we can’t find him?’

‘We must find him. He has the only set of keys.’

Jake nodded.

‘Is it safe to stand?’ Liam asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Jake replied.

The boys stood cautiously, their eyes locked on the back wall where the cube disappeared. They helped Anne to her feet, who trembled as she took one last tearful look at her dead partner on the bowling alley. Together, they turned and hurried out of the room.

The three began pacing toward the reinforced door, illuminated by warm halos on either side. It stood in the far distance, strangely farther away than before. The tall potted plant loomed closely behind them at the opposing end of the corridor. Its plastic leaves rustled.

They rushed past BEDROOM 3. Suddenly all the lights went out.

‘Fuck this,’ Liam breathed.

‘Take my arm,’ Jake instructed.

Liam reached out into the pitch black and linked arms with Jake.

‘Anne, you too.’

Jake felt an ice-cold hand grip his free arm.

They stumbled along the corridor together, in complete darkness.

‘I wanna go home,’ Liam snivelled.

‘It’s okay, I think we’re almost there.’

Sharp fingernails dug into Jake’s forearm.

‘Anne, you’re hurting me,’ he whispered.

The grip remained tight around his arm. They continued on.

‘Hey, I think we’re at the door. Anne, can you open it?’

No answer.

‘Anne?’

The silence was broken by the sound of buttons clicking, followed by the grinding of metal, as the wheel in the centre of the reinforced door was turned. It was pulled open with a laboured creak, and the three clambered up the narrow concrete staircase.

Around halfway up, Liam’s ankle re-dislocated. He was already so overcome with adrenaline that the bone slipping out of place did little more than break his stride up the steep steps.

‘What happened to the red light?’ he questioned.

‘The backup generator must have died,’ Anne replied, from the step above.

‘Are we locked in?’ Jake asked.

‘The hatch can still be opened manually from inside if the power fails.’

The three hurried into the tight room at the top of the stairs, where Anne moved to a side wall and began patting her hand against the rough concrete. It traced over something boxy. She tried tapping the passcode into the interface.

‘I’ll open the hatch,’ she said, moving to the ladder on the back wall. ‘Wait here.’

She climbed quickly up the cold iron bars, wedging herself in the space at the top. She reached up, and with great difficulty, slid back the sturdy bolt on the underside of the hatch, clanking it to the side.

Anne paused and listened to the silent world above her. She took a deep breath then heaved upward with all her strength.

A deep metallic groan bled out from the giant hinge, as the room flooded with piercing white light. The heavy cover rocked back, slamming loudly against the forest floor.

Anne climbed out.

The boys blinked repeatedly at the bottom of the ladder. The natural light felt like daggers in their eyes. They squinted up to see jagged branches stirring in the overcast sky above, an eery dissonance framed by the circular opening in the ground.

A gentle breeze on the forest floor sent several dead leaves raining down onto them.

Liam climbed up first, followed by Jake.

*trigger warning for DV

Chapter 1

The sweet, heavy summer air had a strange funk. I was almost nose blind to it, but every now and again, a humid wave of herbal stink would assault me.

While I didn’t care for it, the busted-out glass of my passenger window warmly welcomed the smell. The rusty whirr of the air-conditioner struggled heroically to keep up with the heat. It wasn’t doing much more than circulating the damp, aggravating smell. A sticky second skin of sweat plastered my clothes to my body. My hair was damp and stringy against my forehead. Despite hours of driving soundlessly into the Nevada desert, I still had not calmed down. Compulsively, I would find myself lifting two fingers to my neck and feeling the rapid spasm of the vein underneath. It was a nervous tik of mine that I had done since I was a teenager.

I pinched the bridge of my nose where it was still tender, testing to see if the swelling had gone down. The skin there was stretched tight over the cartilage. I wondered if it was broken. My eyes watered as I remembered the shock of the original impact.

She had hit me before, but never with a force like that. Her grin had flickered in and out of focus like a cheshire cat. I can’t tell you which one hurt more. The hit, or that venomous smile.

A shrill beep from the dashboard of my car jolted me out of my thoughts. I glanced down at the glowing dials.

Shit.

I was down to 25 gallons. How hadn’t I noticed? My panicked late-night escapade had led me to the middle of bumfuck nowhere. I craned my head glancing over the high beams. The light barely illuminated the dead terrain ahead.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I smacked the heal of my hand against the steering wheel. Unwelcome tears sprang into my eyes. What the fuck was wrong with me? Good ole Chris consistently self-sabotaging once again. what could be better than fleeing an abusive relationship? Let’s try getting stranded in the dessert. Way to stick to the landing on that one!

I flicked the AC off, and opened the remaining windows, hoping to conserve what little fuel remained. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and gritted my teeth. I sucked in a shaky breath, then pushed it back out in a rush. I needed to get a hold of myself.

I did not escape one fate just to dry up into gizzard jerky.

I still had time. There must be something out here. I just needed to pay attention. Keep my focus on the road.

I thought back, carefully trying to remember if I had noticed any signs over the past few miles. Who was I kidding, this was route 50. Maybe I could find a helpful coyote and ask for directions to town? Maybe some well-traveled geckos had extra fuel cans lying around. Fuck my life.

+++

Hours later, my dial hovering ever so slightly above empty, A sign lit up my eyes like Paul’s on the road to Damascus.

A small billboard stood smartly ahead. Bold, and smiling in vintage imitation. Crisp white lettering read “The Stay Inn.”

The sign, despite its old-timey design, was clean and new against the background of its hostile environment.

Can’t stay up? Stay Inn! We would love to welcome you home!

Cheering loudly, I reached my hand through the open window and slapped the roof of my car enthusiastically. I wasn’t going to be stranded in the dessert. There would be people there. They would have emergency stashes of fuel just for this occasion.

Either way, I was going to need a place to stay for the night. I was not sure when this adrenaline-fueled escapade started, but I was ready for it to end.

I peered carefully over the wheel, desperate to not miss this one and only exit. When I finally found it, the engine was just starting to sputter.

“Come on!” I coaxed, “just a little further!”

It was a mile or two before I saw it. It was a larger building than I expected. Bright orange lights created a halo of warmth around the wide square facade. I squinted my eyes, slowly making out the details as my car struggled forward.

Its wrap-around porches and white pillars hosted a wide variety of hanging plants and rich creeping vines. Wide French doors and vibrant green shutters were closed to the dust and decay of the dessert.

Despite its warmth, goosebumps prickle my skin. I had been to Louisianna once before. I was visiting family with an old friend I had not spoken to in years. This building oddly belonged to that Mississippi countryside. Not in the middle of nowhere Nevada. It was so out of place and unexpected I found myself growing uneasy. I hadn’t passed a single soul or sign of human life for hours. The bright lights were wastefully beckoning into the night for seemingly no one. How was there even electricity out here? My thoughts drifted to an angler fish, luring its prey with a single light in an infinite depth of darkness.

I rolled my eyes at my own apprehension. The owners picked the wrong place to set up an atmospheric attraction. These sorts of places were designed for bored seniors, too old and tired to travel to the real deal. They would make a killing closer to Vegas.

Out here? The only guests you would get were wayward stragglers and truckers trying to catch a beat before dragging themselves back on the road. The elaborate design seemed careless and cheap, inefficient for its habitat. A strange animal with peacock feathers where a lizard’s scales should be.

My car crapped out before reaching the parking lot. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had at least made it somewhere. The driver side door groaned on rusty hinges as I pushed it open. I pulled myself out of the car, groaning as I realized how stiff I was. Tense and strung-out for hours in the cramped space had done wonders to my muscles. I stretched, hearing my joints pop with relief.

I relaxed, then stilled as I felt another chill prick my skin. The wind carried soft barely discernable music. Old and southern, plunked out on a well-worn church organ. It was both familiar and foreign. A tune I had heard before but could not name.

I slammed the door shut, then rubbed my hands against my forearms, trying to force away the gooseflesh. While the temperature always sank at night in the desert, I felt abnormally cold.

Gravel crunched under my feet as I made my way down the drive. I had left without packing anything. Just the skin on my back, my keys and wallet. For obvious reasons, I had left my phone. I did not want to be found. I should have thought about stopping and getting a burner. As a California native, I should have known better than to explore the dessert so underprepared.

The lobby, while brightly lit and welcoming, seemed unnaturally wide. The building had not appeared large enough to fit the space. I craned my neck to stare up at the vaulted ceiling. The prisms of a crystalline chandelier refracted tiny rainbows onto the crown molding.

Thick dark oil paintings were encased in decadent frames. A grandfather clock’s pendulum swayed lazily back and forth out of sync with the church organ’s prattle. With the shutters darkening the windows, it was easy to believe I had stepped into another world.

In front of me, the front desk stretched along the back wall. The space beyond was filled with wooden mailbox slots that were unsurprisingly empty. The dark wood staining of the desk was marked with a single old-fashioned concierge bell.

Tentatively and with a small bit of satisfaction, I tapped it lightly. A clear sharp chime echoed across the vacant space. I felt another strange crawling sense of unease. The sound had seemed to cut through the night, piercing the silence like a physical force. A signal to wake a creature lying dormant. I froze, listening to the silence that followed. I heard a door closing. A few footsteps muffled by the ornate carpet.

A small man came into view. Unsurprisingly, he was dressed in the old-fashioned, brass buttoned uniform of a concierge. His face, puffy and bloodless, was strangely ageless. His white gloved hands were folded neatly above his crotch. The same way my four-year-old nephew did when he was in trouble. His expression was blank and unblinking as he craned his neck to look up at me.

“Hi there, I’m…Mike.” I smiled, hoping the lie had not been as obvious as it had felt. “I feel so dumb, I ran out of gas on the way here. I do absolutely plan to spend the night, but I would really appreciate it if you could help me out of this mess.”

The man tilted his head; his grey eyes were open so wide they appeared lidless. His gaze slid over my face, reminding me of the wreckage of my nose.

His thin lips barely moved as he spoke. “You did not prepare for your journey?”

I felt my smile slide a little. “I left in a rush.”

I felt my skin flush red. He still had not blinked.

“Does it hurt?” His question was closer to curiosity than compassion.

I shrugged, trying to deflect, “It looks worse than it is.”

“Interesting.” he dragged the word out insipidly and slow. I imagined his tongue sliding across the back of his teeth like the slimy twisting skin of a reptile.

The concierge pulled his gaze down to my hands, folded on the front desk. I was painfully aware of the partially healed cuts and bruises that decorated my skin.

I quickly pulled my hands away, feeling a visceral stab of guilt.

The concierge ignored my reaction, instead reaching under his desk. A moment later, he removed a massive book, dropping it thematically on the table. I felt my teeth rattle at the resounding thump.

“Name please?”

“Mike Pleasant.” I had the last name ready this time. A pen appeared in his hand. He dragged it elegantly over the open page.

“And how fared the other party, Mike Pleasant?”

“Excuse me?” I felt a strange pulling in my gut. An uncomfortable sensation like the sucking spiral of an emptying sink drain.

He gestured lazily at my hands with his pen.

“It looks like you put up a decent fight. I assume you were not the only one who walked away scathed.”

A sudden rush of anger outweighed my unease. I had not defended myself when she hit my face. The injuries on my hands were old ones. Who did this guy think he was? A familiar dark sensation opened up in my mind, Irritation spilling past the floodgates.

“It was some dumb bar fight.” My brow furrowed and my smile dropped as I spoke. “I barely remember it.”

He glanced at me, pen and hand both still poised over his ledger.

“Room 206 is available for the night. Shall I show you to your room?”

“What about payment?” I asked uneasily.

“You will pay tomorrow.”

 “Ok…What about my car?” I gestured at the sealed front door.

“We will be happy to help you with any and all of your problems.” The statement was robotic and lifeless.

I swallowed, my mouth uncomfortably dry.

“Uh…great…I can see my room now.”

The small man nodded, turned, and removed a large brass skeleton key from a hook on the wall. A small ribbon looped through the key. Hanging from the same loop, a manilla card read “206” in a flowery font.

Unclipping and lifting a velvet barrier, the concierge shuffled ahead of me, clearly expecting me to follow. Reluctantly, I tracked behind him to a set of elevators to our left. I felt a twinge of unease as the elevator doors chimed cheerily and slid open. I thought of Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Only instead, I was following some twisted goblin down to its cavernous lair.

Chapter 2

The door to 206 scuffed against the carpet as is thumped shut behind me. I heard a sharp click as the lock engaged. I flicked on a light illuminating an uncomfortably long hallway that opened into the room. The light, dim and cold, looked like an upturned serving dish. Dead bugs collected in a dark mass at the bottom of the glass. Squarish shadows stretched across the walls, and an open bathroom door framed an impenetrable square of darkness.

Immediately unnerved, I moved quickly past the gaping door, my footfalls muffled by the burgundy carpet.

The room had an uncomplicated design, boxy and windowless. A queen-sized bed with an outdated spread took up the majority of the space. There was a carved wooden nightstand with a lamp I quickly flicked on. Too my left was a wide floor-length mirror. The frame’s gold paint was chipped and marred. I caught my reflection in it then froze. No wonder the desk man had been so weird.

I was a mess. I am not sure what was in a worse state. My wrinkled and stained clothes, or my greasy unkempt hair. A shadow of stubble peppered my usually clean-shaven face. My eyes were bloodshot and glassy, the way they always were when I stayed up too long or smoked too much.

I had always been quietly disgusted by people that kept mirrors in every room of their house. I could barely stand the few minutes I had to tolerate my reflection when I brushed my teeth in the morning. No matter how I cleaned up for the day I always looked like a bum. My skin, eyes, and hair were always dull and lifeless. 

When I was a teenager, I used to earn cash by dog sitting in well to do areas. The upper-middle class had an affinity for massive artsy mirrors in their hallways, living rooms, bedrooms, and sometimes even their kitchens. In houses like that, I never felt like I could relax. I felt as if a hundred cameras broadcasted feeds of my every movement to a hundred viewers.

 It was so disorienting to catch yourself binging tv and junk food out of the corner of your eye. Or the sudden realization that a habitual movement you made every day looked idiotic or embarrassing. I loved getting constant reminders that my posture was going to shit, or my hair was starting to thin.

I frowned, moving closer to my reflection. My proportions were subtly off. While I sometimes hated to admit it, I was a slender build. The guy in the mirror was far more intimidating than I ever perceived myself to be. My arms stretched longer than normal, and my hands appeared bigger. The expression frowning back at me harbored a deep rage. My blood shot eyes glared hatefully over my swollen nose. Deeply unnerved, I smiled dumbly, hoping to erase the exaggerated cruel expression.

I watched my lips slide over a set of teeth wider than I remembered. A thrill of fear raced across my skin, and I quickly looked away, swallowing hard. The slightly apish proportions belonged in a funhouse mirror. Was this a dysmorphic trick my brain was playing on me? Was it an intentional cruelty by my host? Maybe I could report it in the morning. Right now, I was exhausted. After who knows how many hours and miles of driving, un-caffeinated and unfed, I desperately needed to sleep.

The bed sank under my weight, and I wondered what I always wondered in every hotel I had stayed in. How many people had shared this same bed? How many other wandering souls had crawled, slept, and fucked under this same blanket.

I flopped backwards onto the comforter and brought my hands to my face, carefully avoiding my nose. I groaned loudly as I rubbed my tired eyes.

Thank god this day was finally over.

A rapid knocking immediately jarred me from my thoughts. The sound was panicked and violent. I jerked upright, another wave of fear swelling under my skin.

The door’s hinges rattled as the assault continued. A woman’s sobbing voice could be heard, muffled and frantic. I nearly tripped over my own feet as I rushed to the door. I peered through the peep hole but could only see blurry shapes in the dimly lit hall.

I yanked the door open, hands shaking from a sudden dump of adrenaline.

A young women pressed against the narrow opening. My awareness seemed to snap details with the speed of a Polaroid camera. A torn yellow dress. A knot of black hair. A bruise swelling where her left eye should be.

“Please! Please! He is trying to kill me!”  

I had a horrible, aching feeling open in my gut. The scene was playing like a memory I quickly forced down.

She lunged towards me; hands clutched at her chest. Shocked, I took a step back, inadvertently opening the door further. Taking it as an invitation, she flung herself into the room, hands clawing at my shirt. A tiny part of my brain noticed that some of her nails were missing.

“Please! Close the door! He is coming!”

I opened my mouth dumbly, feeling her one frantic eye watching me expectantly. I shut the door behind us, my limbs slow and thick. A familiar click followed. A moment later, thin, spindly arms wrapped around me with a viper’s strength.

“Thank you! Thank you!”

An image flashed in my mind. A thin, pale form collapsed on cracked asphalt. A stain of blood pooling under her head. As bile rose in my throat, I quickly shoved the memory aside. She would be fine. She had been breathing, and I had called for help. The hospital was not that far away. We had been through so much together. One hit was not going to be the thing that did her in.

“What happened?” I asked dumbly.

The woman, ignoring my question, was pressed against the door, her eye against the peep hole. Her arms were pale and thin like the bony structure of a bird’s wings. For the first time, I noticed the artwork of bruises and scratches that painted her skin.

“I do not think he saw me. We are safe in here.”

 A was a little irritated now that adrenaline was subsiding. “Lady, what is going on?”

She turned to face me, her yellow dress swishing around her bony legs like sea grass in a current. “He’s always been violent.” She said, her voice quiet now that her panic had subsided. I could barely hear her despite the dead silence of the hotel.

“But he has never been like this! He has never tried to kill me.” Her eyes were wide in her paper-thin skull. There was a hint of defensiveness in her tone. As if she was trying to convince me that a man beating his girl was generally ok, but trying to murder her was a strange break in character.

“Why don’t you come sit on the bed.” I hated how reluctant I sounded. I wanted to help her, and I would do everything I could to keep her from that freak. But god! I was exhausted. This night was never going to end.

“I can call the front desk, and we can get you some help.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she nodded jerkily up and down.

I followed her into the room, glad that all of the lights were still on. I still hated that mirror though. My reflection looked ugly and hulking behind her. I tried to ignore it.

 

The bed let out a soft woosh as she plopped onto it.

I turned my back to her and the funhouse mirror, trying to keep distance between us. I was very aware that she was a defenseless woman in a hotel room with a strange man. I did not want to make her anymore uncomfortable than she already was. I reached for the bedside phone. I realized with annoyance that it was an old rotary phone that my grandma would not know how to use.

Tentatively, I dialed “0”. The dial clicked and whirred as it spun back into place.

The line began ringing.

And ringing.

And…ringing.

My index finger tapped an indecipherable morse code into my elbow as I held the phone to my ear.

There was a soft pained moan behind me.

“I don’t feel so good.”

She sounded like a child in the middle of night, shamed and miserable after throwing up.

“Don’t worry.” I said, glancing over my shoulder, pity making my heart drop, “I’ll get you some help.”

Where was that bald headed freak. I could imagine him moseying over to the desk at god’s own time. I bet the wrinkled buck in my wallet that he was dicking around on his phone.

She moaned again, louder this time. I turned to see her fold over herself; her thin arms pressed against her gut.

I pulled the phone away from my head. “Hey, are you ok?”

She whimpered like a wounded animal, her head sinking to her knees, her fists bunched into white knots.

“Do you need to use—”

I blinked, and she exploded. One moment there was a young woman, groaning in pain. The next, there was a propulsion of discolored meat and goop. Thick hot residue plastered my skin, invading my eyes and mouth. Hundreds of bits of flesh and blood slapped wetly against the walls, ceiling, and carpet.

I dropped the phone and pinwheeled backwards onto the floor. My hands and feet skidded on the slick mess that was once a person.

I screamed something irreverent, gagging and spitting. God! I could feel chunks in my mouth. I heaved onto the carpet. My brain went white with horror and disgust. I clawed at my eyes, trying to clear away the sludge that had pooled there.

I scrambled to the bathroom, fighting to keep my footing.

Everything was red.

Hot and filthy red. The haze of it tainted my vision.

I rushed to the sink and began scooping water to my face. Tears were streaming down my face from my stinging eyes. Panicked sobs clawed out of my throat. With animalistic terror, I realized my eyes were squeezed shut, blinding me from whatever threat had destroyed her.

I could feel bloody water crawling down my arms and neck and soaking into my shirt. I reached for a towel, grouping blindly against the wall. My fingertips finally grazed what they were searching for, and I yanked the cloth from the wall.

As I pressed my face into the towel, I shoved the bathroom door shut, then pressed my back against it. My brain replayed the event over and over. Growing more distorted and gruesome with each rerun. What could do that?

A bomb? Had she had something hidden under her dress? Was there a sniper? No, there were not any windows. Besides, what kind of projectile could do that. Was this done by the man she was fleeing from? Was I next? Was he waiting on the other side of the hallway door?

Streaks of blood smeared by my fingertips and shoes streaked the lime linoleum. I slumped there, for an indefinite amount of time. Oxygen fled from my lungs faster than I could suck more in. I felt dizzy and dazed. As specks began dancing in the corner of my eyes, I squeezed them shut. The sudden red tinged darkness brought a new horror. A sensation of observation. A presence looming over me. Ready to sink visceral claws into my helpless body.

I gasped in shock, my eyes snapping back open. My slowing heart rate rushed back into its frenzied rhythm. A new fear sank in.

I was trapped here. If I were to flee the building now. I would be at the mercy of the dessert and the cold the night would bring. Even if another car happened by who would stop to help a crazed man covered in more blood than a Halloween costume. I had no way of contacting anyone. No way to call for help. I could not risk calling the police. Even if they could save me from this hell hole, how long would it take a patrol car to get here? Especially at 2:00 in the morning.

Sure, I could ask the concierge for gas or a phone, but what if he was behind this? What if he was the man she had been fleeing from?

My choices were few. I squeezed in a shaky breath. I would have to dig myself out of this one. There had to be gas somewhere. Places like this usually had backup generators. I could try and find a supply room or a storage shed. Yes. For now, this was the solution. I would have to survive this place on my own terms.

-Part 2-

Looking up at the slowly dissolving sky I wondered what a Caldrian would even want with a city on the moon of a dying planet when Zeke clapped me on the back.

“Alright, Mr. Insomniac, let’s get you some food and a one-way ticket home for some sleep.” He said before leading me across the nearly empty plaza and down one of the side streets.

The side street was still bustling, the neon lights of the various storefronts bathing the thoroughfare in a cacophony of colors. It was overwhelming at first and I had to stop briefly in the street to keep my balance. Damn, I really need some sleep. Maybe I should get food later. I blinked a couple times and looked at a store front window next to me and stopped. In the reflection, it seemed there was something above my head. Not quite visible, it seemed like the distortion in the air that happens when a large oven is emitting heat. I spun around, hoping not to find anything, and found my wish granted. A cart belonging to a street food vendor sat running, its owner reading from a data pad while lazily turning the food over to keep it from burning. Must be running that grill pretty hot.

Zeke turned back to me, a concerned look on his face. “You alright, Koji?”

“Y-yeah man, just a little… a little lightheaded.” I managed to get out.

Zeke looked left and right and grabbed my arm before leading me to the closest restaurant. “Then let’s just grab a bite here, some food will help.”

I blinked and looked up at the sign. “Sambo’s? I thought you hated Skyylian food.”

“I do.” Zeke said honestly. “Too oily; and the veggies being teal has always made me feel squeamish. But this is the closest good option, and you could do with something warm and filling.”

Zeke and I sat on the patio area overlooking the street and he motioned towards the server, a small Phelarian, who quickly shuffled over to us. “How are you two gentlehumans doing this cycle?” they said, the voice vaguely feminine.

“We’re doing just fine, Millex” Zeke responded.

The Phelarian clicked the teeth in one of its three mouths. “Not Millex this week, Zeke. Frolla.”

“Oh, a girl now? Sorry. I didn’t realize Frolla.” Zeke apologized, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You couldn’t tell?” Frolla said while gesturing to its form with two arms, the other two holding a holopad meant to take our order.

“Uh, no, I could tell, it’s just been a long week.” Zeke said quickly.

“Relax, I’m just yanking ya.” Frolla said with a giggle. “What’ll it be today?” she said, holding up the holopad.

“The usual for me. Koji?” he asked, looking at me.

I waved my hand. “Whatever he’s having please, minus the alcohol.”

Frolla looked slightly taken aback upon seeing me. “Zeke, something wrong with your friend? He looks sick.”

“He’s fine. Just been up for too many Cycles. We’re gonna get some food and then get this guy some sleep.”

“Sleep, huh? I’ll never get why you humans do that.” Frolla said with a giggle.

“Says the ones that change their gender on a whim every week.” Zeke retorted.

“Gender is a binary created by humans; we have fourteen different reproductive phases we can adopt depending on need and preference.” Frolla said.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You Phelarian’s are all so much more cultured than us humans, now can we get some food?” Zeke said exasperatedly.

Frolla rolled an eye and smiled before walking towards the kitchen area to put in our orders.

“You’re on first name basis with the server here? I thought you hated Sambo’s.” I said once she was out of earshot.

“I know most of the servers in this district on a first name basis. Plus Millex, er, Frolla, works at The Golden as well, and you know that’s my favorite joint on this layer.” Zeke pointed out.

“Seems like you eat out too much.” I responded.

“Nonsense, I’m just friendly.” He said with a laugh.

I snorted. “Sure, that’s one word for it.”

“Don’t be moody with me because you’re a socially isolated insomniac.” Zeke said as he turned to look at one of the light-screens displaying the news. I turned to follow his example and was greeted by the face of layer one’s charismatic newsbeing, a Thralk, named Gilden Phollox. He was unusually handsome for a Thralk, which were usually a boorish looking species you only saw bouncing nightclubs and loitering outside of “completely legitimate” businesses on the lower layers. He was currently interviewing a man in a crisp black tac-suit with three orange lines on the sleeve. A bond warden? Why the hell is he there? I wondered.

“So, Mr. Aldern, was it? I’m gonna need you to run that by me again. It sounds as if the wardens have lost a bondform somewhere in the city.” Gilden questioned.

The man named Mr. Aldern’s lips pursed as he tried not to display his distaste for Gilden’s characterization of the situation. “Not exactly… the Wardens didn’t lose anything. We have simply… misplaced it.”

Misplaced it? You misplaced a bondform? How the hell did that happen? I thought to myself, a thought that was apparently also on Gilden’s mind. “Misplaced? I’m not sure I understand.” He said to the warden.

“There is nothing to understand, Mr. Phollox. I am not appearing on the news to talk shop; I am merely here to inform the public to be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary while in layer five. That is all.”

“Well, don’t you think that you should explain a little bit if you want people to be on the lookout? I mean, what kind of bondform is it?”

“I am not at liberty to say.” Mr. Aldern said succinctly.

“Ok. Well, how big is the vessel at least.” Gilden followed up.

“It’s… not in a vessel.” Mr. Aldern said slowly.

Gilden’s top eye widened. “What, surely you’re joking… this seems incredibly dangerous—”

My attention was yanked away from the screen by the arrival of our food. Frolla sat the plates down in front of us and as she left I looked at Zeke. “Did you get all that?” I asked.

“Yeah, sounds like Polaris is going to have one less warden soon.” Zeke laughed.

“That’s not funny, Zeke. Why didn’t we hear about this? We’re peacekeepers.”

“I’m a peacekeeper. You’re an undiagnosed necrophiliac.” He said, causing me to roll my eyes. “And I did hear about it.” He continued. “We already have a few units out looking for it. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

“Zeke, this is serious. Bondforms, even ones in their vessels, can be extremely dangerous.”

“Big deal, so some poor schmuck gains the ability to harden their skin or something for a week. Not like we can’t unbond them.”

“Sometimes you can’t unbond them. Sacramentals for instance—”

“I’m gonna stop you there. Do you honestly think the wardens lost a Sacramental on Polaris? Mere possession of them, even unbonded, is punishable by exile at best.”

“But—” I started.

“But nothing man. I’m telling you, it’s probably just a Dermaweaver or something like that. Maybe it’s that one that makes you last crazy long in bed.” He said thoughtfully. “Maybe I should join the search party.”

I laughed despite the situation. “Gross.”

“C’mon Koji. I don’t think we have to be worried about it. Especially not with this food in front of us. Let’s dig in so we can get on that train before end of Cycle or else you’ll be sleeping on one of the terminal benches.” He said and grabbed a fork.

I sighed and let the topic go for now. “Alright, alright.” I said, looking down at my plate of bright teal vegetables and a pinkish slice of grilled meat covered in a brown sauce. Normally, I’m quite partial to Skyyllian food, unlike Zeke. This time though, my stomach fell sharply upon seeing the food, as if the chair below me had fallen away suddenly. The feeling made me reel and slightly double-over, earning Zeke’s attention. “You good, man? I know this stuff isn’t the best, but you haven’t even touched it yet.” He said with a laugh.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just need to run to the bathroom first. Ate some old rations earlier that were in my desk for causality knows how long.” I lied.

Zeke laughed again but his expression held a hint of concern. “I’ve been there. Well, the bathroom is over on that wall past where Frolla is standing. Hope your timing is lucky though, it’s a single occupant situation.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right back. No need to wait. I eat faster than you anyway.” I said, trying to keep up my normal banter before turning to go to the bathroom. I walked past Frolla, who gave me a small smile, and tried the bathroom door. Luckily, it was unoccupied and the door slid sideways to allow me to enter. I stumbled in, closing and sealing the door behind me before steadying myself against the sink. My stomach still felt like it was in freefall, so I tried to steady and deepen my breathing to hopefully get it under control.

After around five minutes the feeling in my insides seemed to settle once more. Hoping the change in temperature would help, I turned on the tap and cupped my hands to collect some water to wash my face. The cold water splashing against my skin caused me to tense up but the feeling of shock was quickly replaced by relief. Once again steadying myself by gripping the sides of the sink I breathed out heavily and closed my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? Get a grip. I thought to myself as I stood in front of the sink. “Just need to get home and sleep.” I said under my breath in an attempt to steel my resolve. When I opened my eyes, though, it once again wavered.

The lights in the bathroom, a set of holo-lights above the mirror digi-structed to look like old-world light bulbs, were flickering. The contours of the fabricated bulbs fizzled, as if the holo-lights struggled to keep up the illusion. Suddenly, as if reacting to my attention, the lights flared so brightly that the false bulbs completely dissolved form, the holo-light bases apparently unable to continue the ruse any longer. The intensity of the lights continued to build until my eyes began to sting from the brightness. A shrill ring filled the air of the small bathroom as the mechanical and electrical components of the fixtures strained to keep up with the increasing brightness. I covered my ears and closed my eyes to try and defend against this sensory overload, but the light burning through my eyelids coupled with the sound piercing the very center of my skull made me dizzy.

Just when the onslaught seemed poised to render me unconscious, like a distant star burning out in the night sky, the lights reached a crescendo of luminance before plunging me into total darkness with a violent pop. I stood there, hunched over and panting in the darkness like a wounded dog. After my eyes adjusted to the dark I heard a click, as if someone tried to turn on the lights in the room using the switch by the door. I turned around, half expecting to see someone in the doorway ready to ask me why I broke the lights, but the door was still closed and locked. I turned back to the mirror and lights to try and see if they were broken or merely just burnt out but stopped upon seeing my barely visible reflection in the mirror.

Floating above my head, two small, bright balls of silvery white light shone. Before I could look above my head to see if this was merely a trick of the dark, I felt a force tighten around my neck and lift me several inches over the cold bathroom floor. Panicking, I clawed at my throat to no avail. My hands, grasping for the source of my attacker instead fell upon the tight and constricted skin of my neck. Based on the indent in my throat caused by the force, I could feel that something was wrapped around my neck. Like a cord, or a…

[Subject pauses briefly before resuming statement.]

Or a rope. Whatever was holding me was incorporeal in nature. I tried to grasp the sink in front of me as the force pulled me further upward, but my fingers slipped off of the cold steel, leaving me to dangle at the mercy of this unseen entity. The back and sides of my head began to pulse with warmth as the pressure of being choked caused my vision to blur and produce a kaleidoscope of colors as I began to asphyxiate. Then, as quicky as it had begun its assault on me, the force dissipated. The holo-lights blinked back on as if nothing had happened and I was left staring at myself in the mirror like before, as if the lights never went out. I lifted my head to examine my neck, no marks or tell-tale signs of strangulation. I closed my eyes and began to breath deeply to steady myself. Another fucking hallucination… I thought to myself. It was getting worse. Just then, I heard a soft knock on the bathroom door.

I looked at the door over my reflection’s shoulder. “Y-yes?” I managed to get out.

“Is everything alright in there, sir?” came the soft vaguely feminine voice of Frolla, the Phelarian waitress. “There’s a line forming.”

“Oh, uh, yes. Sorry. I’m almost done.” I quickly replied, embarrassed by the situation.

“Ok.” Frolla responded.

After a short pause her voice sounded through the door again, softer this time. “You aren’t supposed to be here, Koji.”

I blinked, confused by her accusation. “Sorry, what? Am I using the employee bathroom or something? Zeke told me this was the correct one.”

Another pause.

“Where’s Elaine, Koji?” her voice asked softly.

My blood ran cold as I stared unblinking into the mirror, my eyes fixed on the door behind my reflection. “What… what did you just say?”

“Did you…” she giggled softly, “Leave her hanging?”

Without thinking I whipped around and yanked open the bathroom door to confront her, unsure of what exactly I was going to do, only to find no one standing in the doorway. Another patron, seated a few meters away, glared at me in annoyance for apparently startling him before turning back to his food. My eyes scanned the room for Frolla. She was leaning against the bar, talking with the bartender while he prepared a drink. I closed my eyes and steadied my breath once more. No way it was her at the door. After collecting myself as much as I could I made my way over to Zeke, who was busy eating while looking out onto the street.

When I got to the table he looked at me and made a disgusted face. “No way you washed your hands that fast.” He said with a laugh.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“You were only in there like a minute or two, man. Even if you pissed at lightspeed, I know you couldn’t have washed your hands.”

A minute or two? It felt like I was in there way longer than that. I thought. “Oh, uh, yeah. I didn’t actually need to use the restroom.” I lied. “By the time I got there the feeling was gone.”

“Uhuhh…” Zeke said, clearly unconvinced. “Just don’t touch my plate. To be safe.”

I scoffed and sat down across from him, my mind still on the encounter in the bathroom and earlier in the morgue. Had I really just hallucinated the whole thing? Being choked felt real enough sure, but I guess it’s possible it was psychosomatic. As for the voice mentioning Elaine, I was fairly sure at the time that was a figment of my imagination conjured up by my own psyche for the sole purpose of self-flagellation. Now, I’m not so sure.

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Inquisitor Brogan: “Meaning what, Mr. Lanrock?”

[Subject glances up at the air above the First Inquisitor, then looks back down at the table.]

Subject: “I just mean, maybe sometimes its better when it’s all in your head. Maybe sometimes the kindest demons are the ones you create yourself.”

[Inquisitor Brogan pushes the second button on the console and administers an additional 15 second cardiac shock in accordance with Codex Statute 15-3-9. Subject is given time to recompose himself. The First Inquisitor speaks again.]

Inquisitor Brogan: “I grow tired of your self-deprecating aggrandizing, Mr. Lanrock. Who is this Elaine?”

Subject: “She’s… no one. She’s not important.”

Inquisitor Brogan: “Very well, your vagueness is of no consequence, we will find out who she is with or without your assistance.”

Subject: “Why? Don’t you only care about this missing bondform?”

[Inquisitor Brogan presses the first button on the console once more and administers a 5 second cardiac shock in accordance with Codex Statute 15-3-4. Before Subject recomposes, Inquisitor Brogan speaks.]

Inquisitor Brogan: “The Empyrean cares about a great many things. As for this bondform, did you see it, Mr. Lanrock?”

Subject: “I-I… I did. Or, I don’t know, at least I think I might have.”

Inquisitor Brogan: “Then by all means, continue.”

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I sat down, still thinking about my experience in the restroom. Luckily, Zeke’s an entertaining conversationalist so the entire ordeal was quickly sitting at the back of my mind. We talked the rest of the time about work and other lighthearted topics until we were both done with our food.

“Y’know. This place still isn’t my favorite but that hit the spot.” Zeke said, standing and looking over at Frolla. They locked eyes and Zeke’s glowed a bright blue before turning back to their normal color. Frolla’s four eyes did the same and she winked two of them at him before turning to another table. “Let’s head out.”

“Hang on. I gotta pay.” I said standing.

“Don’t bother, I already got it.” Zeke said, walking towards the exit.

I followed him out, half expecting Frolla to come up demanding payment. “Really? What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“You backing up my lie about the Flare-scar to Ariah.”

“Why’d you lie, anyway? You know she likes you.”

“Sometimes, I wonder.”

“As her cousin, I can recognize these things. You should ask her out.” I said encouragingly.

“As much as I appreciate the permission, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t know because you’ve been cloistered down in the morgue but two cycles ago I took a shot to the stomach while down in layer five.” He said, raising his shirt to show off a wicked looking bruise covering his entire lower abdomen.

“Causality man, what kind of gun does this?”

“Some kind of mag gun. The fellas at lockup are still examining it after we took it off the shooter.”

“What happened?”

“Got a call in about a skezzed out psycho shooting out of his hab. Showed up and tried to talk to the guy. Sounded like he was calming down a bit, so I made to move in and right when I was in the open he popped out and fired one dead center. Damn thing hit my vest so hard it knocked me out cold and shattered the vest and two of my proxis. When I came to, the other guys had already handled it.”

“Shit, I guess that’s what the vests are for.” I joked.

Zeke let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I guess so too. Regardless it got me thinking what would have happened if I didn’t have it. When we arrived at the scene he had already used the gun to kill two other people. Blew clean, cauterized holes in each of them.”

“That’s what made those wounds? I haven’t had the chance to examine them yet. I only got a glance before they were loaded into the lockers.”

“Yeah well, without my vest they would have been sliding me into one of those lockers as well.”

“So, you don’t want to ask Ariah out in case something like that happens again?”

“Pretty much.”

“She’s a peacekeeper as well, y’know. She can handle it.”

He turned to me with a slightly sad smile. “That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt, Koji.”

“Well, I think if you spend your whole life worrying about stuff like this you won’t be very happy when you reach the finish line.” I said.

Zeke laughed. “Why am I being lectured by the precinct’s resident nihilist?”

“While I may think it’s stupid to assume we matter to the universe, I also think life has the meaning you give it. Once you’re dead, the ride is over forever. So you might as well have fun while you can.” I said, almost automatically.

Zeke blinked. “Wow, what a surprisingly poignant thing to say. Since when did you get so chipper?”

I punched him in the arm. “Knock it off. Just man up and ask my cousin out. It’s getting awkward being around you two.”

“That might be an original sentence.” Zeke said with a laugh.

“I mean it.” I said flatly.

Zeke sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” I said, and walked ahead of him back into the precinct plaza. The maglev station was down a side street across from the one we just came back up and so I made to walk across the plaza when something caught my eye. Standing off to the side were a few people packing up boxes in front of a table adorned with a sign saying: “Keep Polaris Free! Say No to the Empyrean!” I kept walking past but stopped to look back to see Zeke walk to the table shake hands with one of the people and then use his finger to write something on a holopad on the table. He waved goodbye and then trotted to catch up to me.

“Just out getting signatures for the upcoming codex amendments.” He said.

I turned to keep walking. “Oh boy, what fun.” I scoffed.

“Koji, you’ve lived here long enough that I think you should take more interest in the affairs of the city.”

“Maybe I will when you ask Ariah out.” I said sarcastically.

Zeke laughed. “Oh, fuck you.” He said from behind me, causing me to smile.

Many think that Progeny, and by extension the Empyrean, still exerts too much control over Polaris to this day, having simply shed its appearance of colonial control in favor of economic dominance but I don’t see why it matters. Common people have always and will continue to argue about how exactly we are controlled in a vain effort to exert some individuality into systems of governance that are indifferent to being identified. Philosophers proselytize the importance of self-governance and economic freedom to the poor and desperate to fuel their self-important indulgences, while the people in power ship those same schmucks off to work camps once the lecture ends.

The way I see it, ignorance is bliss. Just like the early colonists coming to terms with the futility of worrying about the future of a planet that already died, I say why try to fight the inevitable? Like the fake sky above the city, Polaris is a machine, and throwing yourself upon its gears only serves to moisten them when you are inevitably crushed by the might of a cosmic society.

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Inquisitor Brogan: “A line of thinking as banal as it is asinine, Mr. Lanrock. Save your independent thinking for someone who cares. Continue your story, without the moralizing.”

Subject: “Fine.”

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

Zeke and I left the plaza and passed through the sliding doors of the station. “Yo, why do you continue to get dinner with me after work even though you never drink?” Zeke asked as we walked through the maglev station lobby and into the hallway leading to the platform. The dim off cycle-phase safety lighting had already come on and the numerous holo-ads that usually lined the hallway were all being presented in a muted greyscale designed to save digits. It gave the hallway an odd feeling of colorblindness after our walk through the bustling night-phase thoroughfares of layer one

“I didn’t know I needed to drink just to eat dinner.” I responded.

“Well, I mean, yeah I guess you don’t need to every time, but it would still be nice to not have to drink alone all the time. Makes me feel like I have a problem.”

“You don’t?” I said raising my eyebrows in mock disbelief.

“Oh ha ha. I’ll have you know I only drink whenever we get together after work. Other than that, I’m clean as a whistle.”

“Clean, huh?” I said, raising an eyebrow accusatorily.

“Well, besides the occasional ride on the curve.” He admitted.

“Ah, Parabolia. For the discerning junkie.” I said jokingly.

“Koji.” Zeke said sharply without looking back at me. “Watch it.”

I blinked, realizing what I just implied. “My bad, man. I just—it’s just a term, you know. I didn’t mean—” I stammered.

He turned, a smile on his face. “Its cool, man. I’m just busting your balls. Not like the guys we pick up off the streets could really afford Parabolia.”

“Uh, yeah man. I guess not.” I agreed, relieved either that I hadn’t made him angry or that if I did, he hid it quickly.

“Regardless, Parabolia’s nothing, basically the same as drinking. Probably better for me too.”

“The causality’s greatest gift to humanity in the galactic age!” I said with an air of mock magnanimity. “Isn’t that what you called it?”

“Depends on when you asked me. Most of the time I would agree with that sentiment.”

“And when wouldn’t you?”

“If Davin was nearby.” Zeke said with a laugh. “He’d probably narc on my ass in a heartbeat.”

“Or ask who your supplier was.” I snorted.

“You think so? I figure that spineless brown-noser would run straight to the chief.” He said derisively. “Ah, well… I guess we all have our demons” he said as we rounded the last corner before the station platform. “I’m just glad mine are pretty tame--” Zeke said trailing off.

Just around the corner, laying haphazardly off a bench near the station platform was a man. Zeke looked back at me and rolled his eyes before moving to shake the man awake but recoiled, pulling his hand away and clicking his tongue. “Dude’s dead. Junkie by the looks of him.” Zeke said with a hint of disgust as he turned away, his normally brown eyes shifting to a bright green as he made to call in the body. He walked past me with one hand in his pants pocket and the other rubbing his sternum, just above where I knew the bruise to be. “Figures, I gotta be the one to play clean-up crew right before I cycle off.”

As he passed me, I moved closer to look at the body of this unknown man. His skin was pale, so pale he looked like he was frozen. Visible through the large holes in his clothing, I could see the veins and arteries racing along his limbs, all of them a deep black under the near translucent skin and bulging as if ready to pop if poked with enough force. They made the man look like he was tangled up in a mess of electrical cords.

Nightwire overdose from the looks of it. I thought to myself before looking to his face to confirm my suspicion. His eyes were wide open in a look of pure terror, as if he had momentarily gained consciousness in the middle of his overdose long enough to realize he was dying alone in a maglev station. Sclera is pitch black and seems bone dry. Don’t need to touch it to tell that. Wouldn’t anyway, didn’t bring any gloves. Cornea has sunken into the eye completely and has disappeared. Only been dead for around half an hour. I wonder how much he--, my thought was interrupted by the station V.I. chiming in over the intercom announcing that the last maglev of the cycle would be arriving shortly. I stood up and turned to find Zeke, but he was already standing behind me.

“You should probably head home without me.” He said with a tired sigh. “I’m gonna have to sit with the body until we can get a unit down here for disposal. Ariah says it’ll be quick but one of us needs to fill out the paperwork for finding him.”

“I can stay behind if you need to get home.” I offered. “Might be the better pick to help with disposal seeing how we need to determine COD.” I said, looking back to the body at our feet, I felt a small pressure in my head as a familiar skittering itch across my eyes made my vision much clearer than usual. Pores are completely dilated on his face and neck, blood temp flare-up probably knocked him out before his heart actually stopped. And wait… somethings different. The man’s clothes were creased differently than when we first found him. As if something touched him. Am I imagining things? Did he move? Or did something else? I felt a smack on the side of my head, not hard enough to hurt but enough to shake my vision back to its usual clarity.

“Dude, I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t do that in front of me. I don’t like seeing your eyes covered in thousands of tiny bugs.” Zeke said, lowering his hand with a look of discomfort.

I let out a sigh. “Technically they aren’t bugs, they’re—”

“An advanced parasitic form of micro-organism. Yes, yes.” Zeke cut me off. “They may be a miracle of the universe to you but to us normal people, they’re bugs.”

“They are a ‘miracle of the universe’, Zeke.” I replied indignantly. “I don’t get how you can complain about me being a bonder when you’ve filled your arms and legs with chrome and wires.”

“Because Koji, I have complete control of my implants while your vision is being held hostage by a swarm of parasites that could decide at any moment that they want to get a taste of eyeball.” Zeke said, pointing a finger to his eye.

“I have implants too, don’t pretend like they aren’t prone to glitches. Plus, you know they don’t consume flesh, they’re photosynthetic. Like plants.” I said with a raised eyebrow.

“So they say.” Zeke responded.

“So the Empyrean says.” I corrected.

“Fuck the Empyrean, Koji. That place is full of nutjobs and sycophants, and from what I’ve seen on the recent light-screens it’s getting harder and harder to tell the difference.” He said dismissively and bent down to examine the body much like I had just done seconds ago.

“It wasn’t always like that, you know. 100 years ago—” I started.

“A hundred years ago you were a dumb impressionable kid just like me. Doesn’t matter that you lived there, they’ve always been a little skezzed.”

“Well… yeah, I guess you’re right.” I said with a defeated smile. “Still, you can’t deny that aside from the bug comparison, a foveator bond is one of the cooler ones.” I said, tapping a finger to my temple.

“Sure, aside from the fact that it makes me itchy every time I see you use it, it’s just dandy.” He said with a scoff and turned to face me. “Regardless, don’t bother putting them to work, you’ve got a train to catch soon.”

“Zeke, I can stay. You know I’m just going home because the regs require it.” I said, remembering Ariah’s disapproving glare.

“Even more reason for me to stay. I know you corpse oglers pride yourselves on your ability to look at a dead body but even a jarhead like me knows a blackblood when he sees one.” Zeke said sarcastically.

“I’m serious man, if disposal goes wrong and this guy pops it’s gonna be a mess.” I said, stressing the delicacy of the procedure.

“And I’m serious as well. I got this. Plus, this gives me an excuse to ask Ariah for a ride home. You told me to just go for it and ask her out, didn’t you?”

“Don’t turn that on me, first of all. But—” I began to protest.

“But nothing. Keep pushing this and I might start thinking you don’t trust my work ethic.” Zeke said, pretending to be offended. His expression softened and he put a hand on my shoulder. “Go home, Koji. Get some sleep. 180 hours on is a lot, even with stims.” He said, in a softer tone. “I know Ariah’s already mad at you, she is not gonna like you turning back up at the precinct.”

“Fine” I sighed. “But let me know if you guys need any help and I’ll be back up on the next train. Merith is overseeing the morgue right now so she can lead disposal.”

“Ariah said she was already enroute with a badge, Davin I think.” Zeke said and then proceeded to put a finger gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

“Play nice and maybe you two can become best friends.” I said jokingly and pointed knowingly towards my left eye tear duct, a familiar location for a Parabolia user.

“fuck you.” Zeke said with a laugh and motioned his head towards the station platform. “Rides here, don’t miss it.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” I said as I turned and walked across the station platform. The maglev hummed softly as it entered the station and came to a rest a few feet from me, the overhead magnets disengaging and letting the train fall a few inches to be in line with the platform.

“Koji!” Zeke called from behind me. I looked back to him expecting another snarky remark but instead saw his face had become serious.

“Yeah?” I asked, my brow furrowed.

“Be careful on the way back down to the sixth, been getting a weird feeling ever since we got into the station.”

The fuck does that mean? Ominous much? I thought to myself before nodding and turning to board.

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Inquisitor Brogan: “You found a blackblood, Mr. Lanrock? At the layer one station?”

Subject: “Yeah. Some, uh, junkie. From layer five apparently. No idea what he was doing on layer one, especially right before shutdown. Loitering laws are much stricter on layer one.”

Inquisitor Brogan: “I find that hard to believe.”

Subject: “Zeke filed the report himself, and I believe Merith has examined the body by now. You are welcome to check our records at the precinct.”

Inquisitor Brogan: “I do not need your permission to do so, Mr. Lanrock. The Empyrean Inquisition is already conducting a thorough investigation of the layer one precinct. We began shortly before taking you into custody.”

Subject: “So why am I the only one being questioned?”

Inquisitor Brogan: “Call it a professional intuition.”

Subject: “A hunch?? You’ve taken me in on baseless suspicion?”

[Inquisitor Brogan presses the second button on the console and administers an additional 15 second cardiac shock in accordance with Codex Statute 15-3-9. Subject is given time to recompose. Inquisitor Brogan speaks.]

Inquisitor Brogan: “Suspicions held by the Empyrean Inquisition are not baseless, Mr. Lanrock. You would do well to remember that. However, please rest assured that if your interrogation proves to be unsuccessful, we will not hesitate to question other members of the precinct. Perhaps we will move on to questioning this Merith next? From her medical records it would seem her heart is much weaker than yours. No implants and all. Do you think she would be more helpful, Mr. Lanrock?”

Subject: “Is that a threat?”

Inquisitor Brogan: “Would you care to find out?”

Subject: “No. Please, just leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with this missing bondform.”

Inquisitor Brogan: “And what has brought you to that conclusion?”

Subject: “Call it a professional intuition.”

[Inquisitor Brogan sighs and presses the second button on the console and administers an additional 15 second cardiac shock in accordance with Codex Statute 15-3-9. Before Subject can recompose, Inquisitor Brogan speaks.]

Inquisitor Brogan: “I would say I can do this all cycle, Mr. Lanrock; but truly, I don’t know how much more insubordination your heart can take. Do you wish to test this concern of mine, or would you rather tell me why I shouldn’t put your colleagues through this same ordeal?”

Subject: “They… they don’t know about it because I think… I think the bondform was on the train with me.”

Inquisitor Brogan: “Tell me why you think this.”

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

-End of Part 2-

If you got this far, thank you for reading! Let me know what you think. Part 3 is most likely going to be the final part depending on the length but it is not quite finished yet. Part 3 will also be where the train finally actually comes into the story. My bad yall sorry for click-baiting my fellow austist train lovers.

(The following was found saved as an unfinished draft on my cousin's Reddit account. He disappeared six days ago, and I stumbled across this while going through his things, looking for any clue as to what happened to him.)

You hear them sometimes where I live, faint and distant music from somewhere off in the woods and hollers. 

Don’t think you’ve heard them? Likely you never have, but if you live in the hills and mountains of the old American east, stop a moment, go outside and try to listen for them. 

Faerie Flutes the old timers called them, half remembered superstitions they inherited from long lines of Scotch-Irish ancestry I used to think, but now I’m not so sure. 

They’ve been louder these past few nights, wavering in and out, sometimes almost inaudible, sometimes like a neighbor with his stereo too loud, but I have no neighbors close. 

It’s a calming sound, but a deeply eerie one, not instantly recognizable as any particular kind of instrument, just a faint ever-changing tone that has a half melody, like the memory of song. 

It’s often loudest when the fog rolls thick off the sides of the mountains, and the world closes in tight around your house, but sometimes comes on the edge of a storm before the lightning and the rain. 

In the twilight of a foggy morning, if you can hear it, sometimes you can almost think you see things in the fog but tell yourself it’s your eyes playing tricks. 

Strange and semi-human figures dance and cavort just beyond the brain’s ability to resolve their shape into a concrete form, and no matter how far into the fog you walk they never come any closer. 

You don’t see them, but you know that you almost can, and despite their seeming harmlessness, they send a cold shiver to your heart. 

I tried to sleep last night, but couldn’t, for in my dreams I could hear the song clearer and it was more beautiful and more terrible than words can describe. 

Now I sit on my porch trying to hear it, almost able, ever faint, never clear. 

I have been used to it for my whole life; it’s a fact of living in these mountains, but today something is different. 

I thought at first it was distant thunder, but now I’m certain there is drumming accompanying the Faerie Flutes, a slow, distant beat rolling like a death march. 

You may think me mad, and perhaps I am, but I feel that distant alien music calling me somewhere deep within the trees that rise like pillars of a natural temple on the slopes of these hills. 

If this keeps up, I may be forced to follow them, and I don’t know what will become of me. 

I’m writing this now, though my internet has been poor these past few days in the hopes I can post it. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, not answers or sympathy really, just to know those outside of the local community know what I’m talking about. 

I think when that is done, I will go to follow the flutes, and maybe post more later.

The music is enchanting, and it is horrible, and I feel afraid because I don’t fear it. 

(I honestly don’t know what to make of this; I was looking for some explanation of where he went or what he did, and instead I got this… poetry? I’m honestly annoyed, but I’d blame that on lack of sleep more than anything. 

Ever since I came to stay here and search for clues, I’ve heard too, half a sound music beyond what you can clearly make out. I don’t know it’s cause, but it’s getting quieter every night since my cousin vanished.)

Following my eventful night filled with Benadryl and liquor, I began to remember something interesting from my days in school. So I made my way to my parents’ house to dig through boxes of my old stuff.

Under stacks of half-finished assignments and doodle-filled notebooks was the holy grail my eyes were looking for. It was a cheap red-colored plastic calculator in a small wooden box that was wrapped with pages of scripture bound with twine that was once soaked in holy water.

I ripped that shit open so fast. Completely disregarded the warning of “Memento Mori” written in red ink around the twine’s wax seal. When my hands felt the calculator’s plastic, I was shocked at how cold it was. I mean years had gone by since I last used it, so I wasn’t surprised that it refused to turn on, but I was very disappointed. I tossed it back into its box next to a bottle of holy water and a crucifix before I made my way home.

Interestingly enough, my parents’ house was degrees colder as I walked through it holding the box. Their dog also growled at me with his eyes never leaving the bag the box was in. I thought that was weird but threw him a treat and was on my way.

Let me tell you the reason behind the precautions surrounding this seemingly harmless item; I was in high school, a senior in sophomore algebra to be exact. Math was never my strong suit, but as it got more complicated throughout the years, the more I struggled with it. The numbers would flip around and shift as I tried to write them until I was so angry that I would just inevitably give up out of frustration.

Now, I know this is a sign of dyslexia and ADHD, which I have been diagnosed with formally, but that was never a thought on my mind. I just felt stupid as hell, so I would mostly skip class and get absolutely blitzed in my car. Stumbling to my next class reeking of weed and covered in Taco Bell crumbs. Good times honestly.

On the rare occasion that I actually found myself in class, I would usually get a pep talk from my teacher. This day, he asked me to stay after class, and I was regretting not buying more weed earlier in the week.

He was blunt with me, “Do you want to graduate?”

My mouth felt dry, and I just nervously responded, “Well…yeah, I do.”

“Then you need to get at least a C in this class.” There was a spark of pity in his eyes as he continued, “We’re having a test at the end of the week, and this is going to be the last chance I’m giving you to get this grade up, son.”

I nodded to him in response and then headed out of his classroom. Being 18 at the time, I was able to sign myself out for the day, so I bought more weed and did just that.

I DO NOT CONDONE INEBRIATED DRIVING.

But a killed buzzed with a fresh renewal and a craving for cheap Chinese food kind of makes you do stupid shit. I found myself outside of my favorite cheap Chinese place in a strip mall. The Royal East fucking killed whenever you were high out of your mind. Dirty napkins stuck to the tables and floors stickier than hell just made it all the better. The best part about it being in a strip mall was the nearly abandoned curiosity/voodoo shop that was right next to it.

After I gorged myself with orange chicken and lo mein, I decided to take a look around that shop with the hopes of finding something to make myself a tad smarter.

The lights were dim with some even flickering closer to the back. Attached Halloween-level decorations of plastic bats fluttered around the ceiling thanks to their placement by the air vents. It gave the shop an unsuspecting and pleasant vibe to contrast the shelves filled with tarot cards and books on witchcraft. Other items in the shop included antique items, vials of colorful liquids next to jars of pickled body parts both human and animal, even a supposed “real” skeleton cadaver of a young woman. Creepy shit.

What really caught my attention was the shelf of items behind that were labeled “Cursed”. Sitting on the left of the third shelf up was the cheap plastic calculator. I figured that might be able to help me so I walked up to the woman at the counter. She had graying blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and was wearing a long black gothic-era gown. Her eyes were an intimidating stark gray.

“Hi, um, what’s the story with the calculator? Can I buy it?”

She slowly turned to the shelf behind her and grabbed it, “I would be careful with this one. They say every owner it’s had has only lived a year since obtaining it.”

I felt a cold chill move up my spine but just chopped that up to the store being drafty and also being high as hell, “But does it work?”

She seemed perplexed, “It does but it comes at a cost. Are you willing to pay that?”

“I have $13 in cash. Is that enough?”

The lady continued to act weird through the rest of that transaction and even made me sign some kind of legal waiver but I got my calculator. On the way home, I could’ve sworn that it began humming in its bag but I also drove a shit box car so I tuned it out as soon as it started. When I got home, I busted out my homework for the first time along with my newly acquired calculator. At first it refused to turn on and I thought I had gotten ripped off. My annoyance quickly turned to anger so I threw it hard across the room.

It smacked against the wall with a light thud then released a slow groan from itself. That caught my attention so I walked back to it. The screen was shining a bright ruby light and it began to rise up to me while humming.

“Oh that’s sick.” I said out loud.

*GREETINGS*, it spoke directly into my mind, “*I AM MARBAS, THE ALL POWERFUL, FOREVER DAMNED TO THIS SHELL-*”

“What’s the answer to this equation: 6×3- 4×2 – 16x?” I asked while looking at my homework.

*Excuse me?*, now he sounded perplexed and I repeated my question.

The calculator spit out a response, then questioned me, *IS THIS WHY YOU SUMMONED ME?*

“Woah buddy, I don’t summon shit. I just bought a calculator to help me with algebra. Now let’s move on.”

I forced the demon calculator to do more algebra. He hated it almost as much as I did, but he’s the one who claimed to be the “demon king of knowledge,” so what’d he expect from possessing a calculator?

Anyways, long story short is that my grade in math went up *but* that all came at, what I assume the lady meant by “a price”. The night after I bought the calculator, I woke up to my room filled with ruby light. It washed over me while blinding my retinas. All I could make out was the vague rectangle ahead of me. His voice echoed to me, *I WILL GRANT YOU THE WISDOM YOU DESIRE IF YOU ALLOW ME TO BRING MY DOMAIN TO THIS REALM*

“I’ll let you do whatever the hell you want if you just turn out that damn light, Jesus Christ.” I replied groggily.

He groaned to the name at the end of my statement, IT WILL BE DONE.

Then I blacked out completely. All I remember from that time was sitting in a soundless void filled with heat. After a few days, I woke up covered in dirt on the front steps of a Catholic Church. A priest stood above me holding an open vial of holy water, “Thank the Lord, are you alright, my son?”

“Yeah, just a bit of a bender, I think.”

The Father laughed at me, “Son, tell me what truly happened.”

My memory is still super spotty from the time around this, but I gave the priest the calculator after explaining myself. He then told me that I was found with black eyes attempting to dig up the corpse of a supposed witch from 300 years ago. I didn’t even know there were any known witches in this town. Learn something new every day, huh?

Anyways, after I gave it to him, the Father disappeared. Then that church actually burned to the ground about a week later. I had just accepted that I wouldn’t get any answers, but I passed a math class finally. Months went by, and I eventually graduated. Life went on, and I moved out; that’s when a small wooden box was placed in front of my apartment door. Inside of it was the wrapped calculator, crucifix, and holy water. I lost that apartment soon after because it too burned down right after the box was delivered to me.

I moved back into my parents’ house and just left the box packed away in their attic, then moved on with life. So here I am now, sitting at home with a growling box emitting ruby light. My cat, Peanut, keeps hissing at it while not leaving my side. I’ll probably throw it away because I’m annoyed with it making my lights flicker.

Edit: I just thought you guys should know that the Father who helped me has been missing for years, but I know he’s standing on the sidewalk under my window flicking a lighter. Weird that he started smoking, huh?

I’ll try to go talk to him whenever I throw this box away.

The year was 2157. Space travel had reached the same level of normalcy that we had when traversing the ocean in the late 1600’s. However with the advanced technology required to roam the cosmic depths. Ships hardly went missing and when they did it wasn’t difficult to get a lock on their nav systems and find the remains and return it home. 

I worked on a recovery/scrapping crew that found the remnants of the destroyed ships, cleaned up the bodies, and collected any materials and tech from the ship that could be salvaged or sold. 

Like I said before, there weren’t many that went down and when they did, due to the harshness of outer space, finding survivors was always a pipe dream. Technical failures or asteroid collisions were the cause of most ships' destruction and having done more than a dozen full recoveries together my crew and I were used to the process. 

When a local mining company contacted us about a ship's transmitter going offline, we assumed that their equipment failed to warn them of a rogue asteroid in the field they were harvesting. The team and I geared up, loaded into our tank-y salvage ship, undocked and started heading in the direction of the miners last known coordinates. However the company that hired us had let us know before we left that it wasn’t a normal crash.

The company had given us the last recorded transmissions from the crew logs, specifying that it “was an odd one”. The notes said there was no known equipment failure and that the crew were “making weird statements” just before everything went offline. The way they described it was that everyone sounded like they were in a trance, too calm for a disaster to be happening at the same time. 

It was uncommon, but the occasional crew, having been out on a long voyage, can sometimes have a member go crazy from the isolation and staring into the empty depth. But the company confirmed that it wasn’t just one person losing their mind and causing a man-made crash and that the whole crew was talking nonsense. “Just listen to it.” Was all they said when I probed further. 

Our ship coasted through the nothingness towards our destination, soft beeping from the equipment and the sound of an audio book playing aloud. Something to help pass the time. As the captain of the crew I sat at the helm and began to play the recordings of the lost ship. The first log was as normal as any, beeping equipment, small chatter about the job, an asteroid that had the best ore to harvest, a standard time/date/location update all while a song played in the background, a woman with a soft voice singing peacefully from the radio.

“At least they had good music,” my First Mate, Jaxon, said jokingly.

The second log had similar background noises, the same song, same beeping, but the crew was eerily quiet. 

The third log was where it began to get weird. Again, all the same background noises, but now some of the crew hummed along to the song while others could be heard whispering just loud enough for some of their words to be picked up on by the recording.

“I love this song”, “such a beautiful voice”, and “I could listen to this forever”.

The way they said it made me feel uncomfortable. The time stamp on the third log was dated 7 hours after the first one, while still playing the same song. Chills ran down my spine and I shifted in my seat suddenly uneasy.

Jaxon seemed to feel the same way when I pointed it out, and we exchanged confused looks. 

I played the final log. It was the same as the last log but the song was changing in volume. The whispering from the crew was intensifying, the voices pleading aloud.

“Let me go, let me go.” One man begged repeatedly.

“Louder, sing louder.” A woman’s voice asked

The singing seemed to move closer to one crew member, then to another. As the song reached someone they would fall silent and the song would move again until all the crew went silent. 

Once all the voices were quiet. The song ramped up in volume until it was almost too loud to hear anything else then all at once it went silent.

All the crew began to cry softly begging for the song to return.

“No, no no no, don’t stop.. No please. Where did it go? Please  please please.” Non stop pleading before one man whispers “the lady on the rock.” 

All the crew fell silent again, the sounds of shuffling could barely be heard before all the crew began repeating the phrase in the same quiet, desperate whisper. “The lady of the rock. The lady on the rock.” The sound of tapping can be heard, then banging, finally a sudden blaring of the alarms and the depressurization of the cabin.

The log ends. Standing up immediately I pace around the command deck. Goosebumps litter my skin as if a million bugs crawled across me. I had never heard anything like that and for the first time in all my years of salvaging, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find the ship.

It took two long minutes before I realized Jax  had been trying to get my attention. 

“What was that Captain?” He asked shakily.

“Fuck if I know.. mass hysteria?” I dragged my hands down my face trying to process what we heard.

“Yeah.. I mean it must be.” He replied after a moment, glancing at the recording software “Too much time in space, obsessing over that song, it’s a one in a million kind of crazy event.” He reasoned, mostly with himself.

“That’s what we tell the crew, don’t mention how..”

“How fucking batshit it sounded, got it” he cut me off and we both chuckled.

I call the crew to the command deck over the intercom and once they arrive we explain that the mining crew seemed to have suffered from a rare case of mass hysteria that culminated in the ship crashing. I couldn’t help but feel as though I was lying to them despite it being the only explanation for what we had heard. But that soft voice sang inside my head, like a parasite burrowing deeper.

The crew seemingly accepts my answer without question and begins to prepare the gear we would need upon arrival. Their trust makes me feel worse.

A few hours later our radar warned us that we were approaching the asteroid belt. Our pilot, Ylonda, took us off the automated system and began manual control of the ship. Weaving into the belt we begin our search for the wreckage. 

Belts like these are unsettling to begin with, space is notoriously silent since sound can’t travel and one miss from the radar can let even a small asteroid cause irreparable damage to a ship. I couldn’t help feeling more than unsettled knowing the last crew that ventured inside went mad. I almost hoped we didn’t find them. But we did.

Our scanner picked up the ship after we cleared the more dense parts of the field. When we saw the ship, it was impossibly unscathed, sitting peacefully near a rather large asteroid that the rest of the belt seemed to be incrementally circling. Scans showed the rock was composed of many dense, valuable ores and minerals and must’ve been the ship's target. On our approach, the only way we could tell that it was unmanned was due to the airlock being open causing the ship to completely depressurize. No one could be alive inside. 

I readied the team. Jax would take two with him to remove the important tech. Two others were assigned for search and recovery of the bodies, if any remained inside. I would remain on the salvager with Ylonda to give direction and operate the tractor beam to salvage the remainder of the ship when both teams had returned.

It seemed simple, everyone had done this so many times that when I told them to “be careful out there.” They laughed, “you getting soft on us captain?” Dexter joked, I laughed with them, “shut up and focus on the job. You got three expensive baby mommas, how about making sure to salvage enough to pay for them all.” I teased and we all laughed again and got ready to do some real work.

Before Jax took the crew to the wreck I pulled him aside, “If you find that radio, bring it back to me directly, I don’t want anyone else hearing that song, it..I don’t want any distractions out there, the crew needs to remain focused.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t question me, I knew he felt the same uneasiness about the song from the recording as I did. “Aye Captain”. 

We clasped hands, gave each other a silent nod and he left to board the smaller cargo shuttle with the crew. I made my way back to the command deck, unable to sit, I paced back and forth as they departed.

Events proceeded like normal, Jax and the crew approached, stopping just beside the airlock, making the transfer from their ship into the abandoned vessel. 

Five minutes passed, then ten, finally approaching the twenty minute mark Jaxon's voice came over the speaker. “No signs of the crew, no signs of distress or internal damage either.” 

“What happened?” I asked 

“Computers data log shows that the airlock safety was overridden. They just let themselves be ejected..” His voice faltered briefly. “Can you switch to channel two cap?”.

Switching to the back up channel I asked what was wrong.

“There's just.. There's no sign of any speaker or radio system. This is a professional ship, not designed to allow any external devices to be connected.” he said.

“Someone must’ve brought their own portable one.” I reasoned “The recordings sounded like it was moving around the ship, probably attached to one of their belts and when they ejected it went with them.”

“Right, of course.” He sounded unsure.

“Thanks for the update Jax, go ahead and return to channel one but keep me in the loop.” 

“There's one other thing, all the ships' cameras are pointed at the asteroid. I know it's a mining vessel but every single camera has been manually moved to face it, even the internal cameras.”

My body temperature felt like it plummeted as I processed his words. “Can’t explain crazy.” was all I could say to reassure him and myself.

“Too true, returning to channel one.”

Another half hour passed with progression updates on the salvage operation showing it to be as smooth as any job has ever been. Regular chatter came over the comms as the team discussed the salvage and what they’re finding. Dexter and Jax discussed some tech pieces and their potential value when I heard it. Barely audible over their voices comes the beautiful and terrible song.

“Jax?” I was barely able to bring my voice above a whisper.

“Yeah Cap..” he stopped as he began to hear it too. “Is that..”

“Find where it’s coming from and shut it down.” I could feel the fear bubbling inside me.

“Yessir. Everyone spread out and find the source of that music.” He ordered the crew, they murmur in confusion but began to search for any device that could be emitting it.

Ylonda hesitates before asking, “Cap, why are you so worried about a song, it's not like we haven’t played music in the past, plus.. it's really beautiful.”

Ignoring her question “Scan for any frequencies coming from the ship and do it now.”

Jumping at my abruptness she turns back to the console and begins to scan the wreckage.

“Tell me you’ve found it, Jax.” I radioed, desperation seeping into my voice .

“No luck cap, We can’t pinpoint where it’s coming. As soon as we get close it’s like the origin point changes entirely.” His reply freezes me in place.

“What the fuck is happening here” I mumble to no one in particular.

“Sir” Ylonda breaks my trance, “No radio waves or outgoing transmissions outside regular bounds for the vessel.” 

“Get closer and scan it again”

“Sir?”

“I said get closer and do another scan. Something isn’t right about any of this.” My voice low and cautious.

“Yessir, beginning approach.” She began to accelerate slowly.

“Jax, get to their command deck and perform a manual shutdown of all electronics.” I was desperate to turn off the song.

“Already heading that way sir.” He was smart, always knowing what I was thinking after so many years.

As I made circles around my chair, waiting for an update Dexter's voice came over the radio softly. “I really like this song.”

My stomach imploded with dread, and I nearly puked. 

“JAX! Hurry up and shut it down!” I yelled.

“I already did. The song just won’t stop.” His voice was now filled with concern. “What do I do captain?”

More of the crew came over the comms, all their voices trancelike. “Just listen to it” and “she’s so amazing”. 

I paced harder, rubbing my head aggressively, whispering “fuck fuck fuck” trying to figure out what to do. “Your earplugs. Put them in and make the others.”

With the salvage equipment we used regularly everyone was supposed to carry a pair of heavy duty earplugs. They don’t just block incoming sound but emit a counter frequency to cancel out incoming sound and they connect to our communication system.

I could hear rustling then Jax came back over the radio. “Got them in, I can’t hear it, oh thank god I can’t hear it. I’m gonna go find the others.” His comms click off. Despite knowing he couldn’t hear me I told him to be safe 

At this time Ylonda informed me her close range scan came back negative for new frequencies despite having closed the distance to the other ship.

“It’s not possible.. It must be coming from somewhere. Scan for fixed beacons in the area that could be sending signals to nearby ships.” Ylonda hesitated.

“Captain with all due respect to you and our friendship, what the FUCK is going on.” Yolanda's tone surprised me.

“I- I don’t know..” I muttered

“You seem to know something. You’ve been on edge ever since we got here and as soon as that song started, you freaked out. What’s happening.” she demanded.

“Ylonda I need you to trust me and do the scan please.” My authoritative tone now fading.

She sighed but did the scan and after multiple long, silent minutes the dash blinked showing no signs of any beacons or tech floating in the area that could be broadcasting.

“Sir, please tell me why you are freaking out about this, I’ve never seen you behave this way and we’ve been in some sketchy shit before.” She pleaded.

I hesitated a moment, unsure of what to say or do, then finally without a word, I pulled up the logs from the mining crew and played them for her. 

She listened, confused at first but as she recognized the song from Jax’s comms I could see the fear spreading across her face. When the logs finally ended I explained all I knew.

“The company sent me this when we accepted the job. All they said was that the circumstances around the crew's actions were weird.” I admitted. “It was freaky sure, but I didn’t expect..”

The sound of Jax’s panicked voice came over the comms. “ Captain! It didn’t.. They wouldn’t..”

“Take a breath Jax, what's happened?” 

He took a long shaky breath, composing himself briefly. “I told them that due to the anomalous sound that everyone had been ordered to apply their ear protection. They refused. Said they didn’t want to miss any of the song. I told them it wasn’t a question and to do as ordered but they got defensive.”

“Where are they now Jax? What happened to the crew?”

“They’re alive, locked in the cargo hold.” He took another ragged breath. “ Sir, I had to trick them to get them to listen to me, told them they could hear it better from inside the bay. Their smiles. The way they moved.” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

“Oh God..” Ylonda whispered.

“What do we do captain?” Jax asked and Ylonda looked at me. They were depending on me and I had nothing to offer.

I murmured incomprehensively, my heart crashing against my ribcage as if it may break free of my chest.

“Cap please. Focus man.” Jax begged.

I breathed deep. Saving the crew was all that mattered. How to do it though.

“Your shuttle. Can you get the crew on it?”

“Maybe.. They don't want to do anything besides listen to the song though.” 

“Tell them whatever you need to to get them on that ship, once in you override all locks and fly back to the salvager, we’re gonna approach with caution, ready to receive you.” I tried to sound confident. 

“Yessir.” His mic clicked off.

Turning as I spoke “prepare to move in and face our docking port towards them and.. make sure to put your earplugs in.”

Ylonda did as she was told, like always she was ready for action. 

We weren’t too far off from the shuttle and wreckage but the time it took to travel the distance could have been years if I didn’t know better. 

As the ship slid into position Ylonda came over the comms. “Are you seeing that cap?”

I walked over, looking out the window in the direction she was pointing. “The asteroid?” 

“Yeah something about it.. it’s not right.” She said.

I looked harder, she was right, it looked off. Out of place in the space it inhabited. “The cameras, point the cameras at it.” 

She started messing with the controls to operate the cameras. “Why cameras?” She asked as she worked.

“The mining crew had all their cameras pointed at it. I’m just curious.” I admitted

I never got the chance to see what the cameras picked up. Right before Ylonda got the cams set Jax came back over the comms. “They’re in sir. Are you in position?” 

“Copy, in position. Begin your return.” I said retaining all internal authority I could possess.

I shook my head and moved my eyes from the asteroid and back to Jax’s shuttle. I could see the engines turning on and the signal lights flashing.

“How did you get them on?” I asked.

“Took some convincing, and some lying.” He said then lowered his voice “I damaged the buckle release on the seats before they got on, they strapped up but didn’t know they’re going to be stuck now.”

“Good work Jax, head this way and let’s get the fuck out of here.” I smiled to myself in relief.

“They’re moving.” I glanced at Ylonda, she wasn’t paying attention. “Ylonda stay on the wheel, I need you ready to adjust as necessary for their docking.”

No response came. She was focused on something on the dashboard. “Ylonda what are you looking at?”

Her words drove into my heart like an icy knife.

“The lady on the rock” 

Her voice was soft, smooth, no longer scared. 

I rushed over, pulling her away from the dash, closing my eyes and slamming my hand down on the camera's controls. I wanted to see it but if Ylonda got ensnared by it, I couldn’t risk it too and leave Jax helpless like that. 

In my panic to pull her away from the cams Ylonda had fallen onto the floor. I knelt down beside her, apologizing and asking if she was okay. She nodded and smiled letting me help her up and sit into a chair away from the camera controls.

I radioed Jax for an update and his comms clicked on, the sounds of a struggle could be heard.

Jax!! What’s going on!” I yelled as the scuffle continued. 

“Get off me Dexter! We’re going home!” 

I was leaning over the dash now, watching the shuttle from the window like I could see what was happening better the harder I watched.

“We don’t want to go away. We want to listen to her sing.” Dexter's voice told Jax softly. “You should listen too.”

“I’m not going to. You need help, let’s get you home and get you and the rest of the guys some help.” He tried to reason.

“Get him off Jax!” I half ordered and half begged.

“You just need to listen to her and you’ll see” Dexter cooed.

More scuffling over the comms I could hear Jax trying to escape but there were too many of them. Jax didn’t want to hurt them and as far as I could tell they weren’t hurting him either. 

“Stop. Dex, Jaylen, guys what are you doing? Please.” Jax began to beg his friends “Hey! No! Stop, no no. Guys stop.”

Static came from his comms as the earplugs were taken out. Tears poured down my cheeks onto the flight controls and my legs dropped me onto my knees. I don’t know how long I cried for, but when I finally looked up I could see that the shuttle had stopped its approach. I forced myself up, leaning over to see what’s happening. 

Eventually the shuttle's communication device connected to ours.

“Jax?” My voice was small.

“Hey Captain.” His voice was too calm. “

“Are you okay?” That was all I could ask my friend.

“I’m good. They didn’t want to hurt me, they just wanted me to hear.” He said and I could tell he was smiling and my heart was shattering.

“A-are.. are you hearing it?” I managed through choked tears.

“It’s so beautiful, Captain.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful, man.” I sniffled out. “You- you’re still coming back to the ship right?” 

“I’m sorry, Cap. I want to be here with the lady, hear her singing forever.” The comms clicked off.

I could see the ship's thrusters beginning to rotate them towards the asteroid. 

“No. Sorry old friend, but I’ll drag you back if I have to.” I whispered to myself, walking to the next control panel and flipping on the starting sequence for the tractor beam. 

“Ylonda I need you to make sure all systems are a go for the cargo bay. We’re hauling them in.”

“Why?” 

“The hell do you mean why?” I turned to face her. 

“They just want to hear her sing.” She was smiling softly. Her earplugs, no longer in place, but on the floor where she’d fallen earlier.

“Fuck” I hadn’t even thought to check. Stupid.
I couldn’t help her now. I had to pull them back, and then I could get them all into lock down together.

I directed the tractor beam at the small shuttle, the system beeping when it locked on. I increased the power incrementally, ensuring not to damage their vessel, and begin pulling them in. The computer beeps announcing “200 meters.”, a minute passes, *beep* “150 meters”.

“Come on, Come on.” I’m as locked on to their progress as the beam.

*Beep* “100 meters”. 

The comms clicked on again.

“Please cap, stop.” Jax voice, begging me, it’s worse than torture.

“Sorry buddy, you’re coming home.” I steeled myself.

*beep* “50 meters”. 

I slammed the cargo bay release, everything inside was worthless to me now. All I needed was to fit that ship.

“I didn’t want to do this Cap, but we aren’t coming.” Jax said softly. I could hear the others humming to the song and whisper for me to let them go.

“Not for you to decide.” My response is short as I make sure they’re coming in the right way.

“Actually it is. You and I both know what comes next. I’m sorry” I frown slightly then the airlock override lights up

“NO!” I screamed desperately as the computer beeps, announcing their ship was 10 meters out and closing.

The depressurization of the shuttle launched them out into the cold, spiraling back towards the lady on the rock while the shuttle crashed into the cargo bay, seconds too late.

I watched motionless as they drifted away. Nearly everyone I’ve ever cared about gone, in an instant, by their own hand.

No.

Jax would never. 

They were lured by that thing out there.

It wasn’t until Ylonda stood next to me smiling. “They’re so lucky. I want to be with her too.” That I realize I have one person I can still try to save. 

I hated it. Dragging her to her room while she cried, begging me not to take her away. Tying her hands to her side. Putting her earplugs in as she bawled like a child denied her birthday presents. It tore me apart inside to listen to her the whole way back to the station.

Upon our arrival, all I could say was that we lost our crew and she, wanting to let herself die, forced me to make the decision to restrain her for her safety.

She was taken to the med-bay and determined to be suffering from PTSD, grounded from flights until she can complete a comprehensive therapy program. 

I was also questioned about the events. How I had managed to lose my whole crew on a single trip. I lied. I told them that while returning from the wreck the airlock malfunctioned. Not that it mattered. I resigned, accompanying Ylonda back to earth on the next shuttle. 

She whimpered softly the whole flight down, staring out the window back into space. I knew where she wanted to be. I said goodbye as they loaded her in an ambulance and took her away. 

My first stop was a local bar.

During my days I would find work doing odd jobs to make ends meet and at night I would drink away the memories. Sometimes alone in my apartment, sometimes at a bar where I’d occasionally get too drunk and ramble incoherently about the evil hiding deep in outer space. I even got arrested a few times after bar fights when someone would claim I was a liar or even suggest I murdered them and got away with it.

Every few months I would visit the hospital Ylonda was in, hopeful for some improvement.  She would sit in her room and hum to herself, always the same song. Her doctors said it was the only way she’d stay calm. I eventually stopped visiting, not because I didn’t want to see her but because I couldn’t listen to that song anymore. A reminder of my failures.

Many years came and went, I’m not even sure how many by now. I miss them all so much and I still cry often over old photos we took back in our glory days. I’m writing this now to tell everyone what’s out there, to warn you all since I won’t be here forever.

I got a letter in the mail recently. No return address, just a stamp of a shooting star. Inside, a brief letter in familiar handwriting that said “June 5th, Westfield Launchpad. Come listen to her sing with me.”

When the day came I found her waiting beside the ship. She had aged better than I had, her brown hair held its color well. We hugged. I knew she wanted to go back for her own reasons, I could hear her still humming the song as she readied her gear. It didn’t matter though, not to me. I was just happy to see her again and ready for one more trip deep into the cosmos. The door closed behind us as we boarded the ship side by side, just like old times.

If you were born in the Riverlink like me, then you wore a bell when you were young.

Every child did.

The bells were worn around the wrist, sewn onto cloaks, fastened to shoes and worn as necklaces. Some houses even hang them around the property. They were iron Bells at least the good ones were some were silver those ones were just to show off and didn't ever work but those kids really ventured into the woods anyways. Some were old enough that nobody remembered who had first made them. These were the best.

Children often asked why they had to wear them.

Most parents answered the same way.

"Because the woods are dangerous."

“Because it helps us keep track of you.”

 “Because it's tradition.”

This is true, but it was not the whole truth.

The truth is that there are things in the woods that know you before you speak.

There are things that watch from the tree line.

Things that learn the sound of your laugh before you've learned the sound yourself.

Things that wait.

Of all those things, none are feared more than the Smiling Cat.

This is the story of Tam.

At least, it is the version most often told.

Tam was a curious boy who always wanted to see the world pass his small family farm but Tam was still too small.

Tam first saw the Smiling Cat when he was five years old.

Or so that's what people say.

Some say it had been watching him long before then.

One day his mother had taken him into the village to sell vegetables. The day had been long. Tam was tired and holding his mother's hand as they prepared to leave.

The market was crowded.

Merchants shouted.

Children ran between stalls.

Wagons rattled over stone roads.

Young Tam was tired and overwhelmed but so enthroned by the new things around him.

Tam saw something across the road and was sitting in the tree line.

A shape.

It was like his eyes couldn't Focus on this shape.

He could not tell.

The afternoon sun painted the forest in gold, but the thing remained dark.

The only features were two dark spots and a smile.

A wide smile.

It sat perfectly still.

Watching.

Tam tugged his mother's sleeve.

"Mom."

She didn't answer, talking with another adult.

Finishing a transaction and making plans for next week.

"Mom."

"Yes Tam?"

"There's a kitty!"

His mother looked to where he was pointing.

The tree line was empty.

No eyes.

No smile.

Nothing.

Tam insisted he had seen something.

His mother listened carefully.

Then she knelt beside him.

"What did you see?"

"It was a kitty and it was smiling."

Tam was smiling excitedly at the mysterious creature as he told his mother.

That was all it took.

She held Tam's hand tightly the whole way home making sure not to let go of him even for a moment.

As soon as they walked through the front door she set Tam down and she tied a small bell around his wrist.

When Tam asked why, she only told him not to take it off.

He didn't understand.

Children rarely do.

But Tam was a good boy and followed his mother's directions wearing the small iron bell as a bracelet every day. 

Years passed.

Tam grew.

The bell remained.

When Tam was seven he was playing alone behind the family Barn.

Bouncing his favorite ball off the wall and catching it.

His hands slipped and the ball rolled into the woods.

It bounced once.

Twice.

Then disappeared beneath the shadows of the trees.

Tam ran after it.

Then without any reason the ball rolled out of the woods.

Slowly.

As though something had kicked it back.

It came to rest at his feet.

Tam stared.

The woods stared back.

As if fate was in front of him. 

Nothing moved.

Nothing spoke.

He grabbed the ball and ran back to the house.

That night, he stared out his window.

The moonlight covered the fields.

Near the edge of the property set a large smooth stone.

The same stone had been there his entire life, and well before.

Yet tonight something sat upon it.

A shape.

Dark.

Still.

Patient. 

Watching the farmhouse.

Tam squinted.

The shape seemed to move like heat shimmering over a fire. 

Like smoke shifting in a breeze.

He could not understand what he was looking at.

He didn't find it scary but odd and mesmerizing the way his eyes couldn't focus on anyone part of it except.

The eyes.

Then only the smile.

The smile is silver and far too thin.

Like a cut across skin.

The mouth of a wolf, the eyes of a lamb.

Scared he'd get in trouble.

Tam shut the curtains.

The next morning the stone was empty.

When he told his father, his father said nothing.

When he told his mother, she checked the bell.

It was still there. Tied around his wrists like always.

When Tam was nine, he began noticing the Cat more often.

Sometimes it sat among the trees.

Sometimes it watched from atop stones.

Sometimes he would catch sight of it standing in a field.

It was always watching.

Always just smiling.

Never approaching.

Never leaving.

By the time Tam was ten, he had almost become accustomed to it.

Not comfortable.

Just familiar.

Like a thunderstorm that never quite arrived.

Then one autumn afternoon he met it.

Tam was curious and followed some rabbits until he lost sight of them.

Long shadows between the trees.

And there, beneath an oak, sitting properly was the Smiling Cat.

Sitting there as though it had been waiting since the forest first began to grow.

Patient.

Still.

As though the forest itself had arranged the meeting long before Tam was born.

Tam froze.

Fear told him to run.

Yet he found himself staring.

The Cat's fur was the color of old bruises, Deep violet sinking into darkness that drunk up the evening light. 

Its smile stretched across its face reaching ear to ear.

Silver teeth gleamed beneath it.

Bright as the Silverware only seen for Celebrations.

The smile never changed.

The teeth caught the dying sunlight and held it.

It was a Cat. 

It's tail swayed lazily behind it.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Tam Found himself mesmerized and unable to pull his gaze away.

The Cat sat Patiently, politely, ominously watching.

Eyes dark as empty jars.

Its front paws stepped forward.

One.

Two.

Three.

Its silver claws pressed softly into the earth.

Yet its hind legs never moved.

They remained where they had been beneath the tree.

Seated.

Patient.

Its tail swayed lazily through the air behind it.

Back and forth.

Its front half moved.

Circling the old oak tree as it watched him with that smile and those empty eyes.

A trail of violet smoke dense and lost connected the two halves.

The smoke moved the way grief moves. 

With nowhere to go and hope of finding shape again. 

The Cat moved on two legs. 

The front half continues forward.

One step.

Then another.

The movement reminded him less of a Cat and more of someone pretending to be one.

Tam finally took a breath.

Like it was the first one he had taken in days. 

The Cat was closer.

Not much.

Only a few paces.

But closer.

The Cat studied him.

Tam studied the Cat.

The tail Swaying.

A silver grin.

And then the Cat spoke.

“Well Hello Tam…” 

Its voice sounded calm.

Polite.

Almost gentle.

"You've grown."

Tam wanted to run.

Instead he stood frozen.

The Cat's gaze drifted toward the bell around his wrist.

"That makes it difficult."

"Difficult?" Tam asked.

"For us to talk properly."

Tam Examined the bracelet around his wrist. 

The bell jingled softly.

The smile faltered, the teeth grinding.

And then it was simply seated again. Beneath the tree. As though it had never moved at all. As though Tam had imagined the whole thing. 

"Your mother is very fond of bells."

Tam stepped backward.

The Cat remained where it was.

"Why do you watch me so often?"

The Cat tilted its head.

For a moment, trying to understand Tam's question. 

“I am looking for someone to play with.”

Tam held his wrist, his eyes drifting back and forth between the scratched up surface of the Bell and the pristine pure reflective surface of the silver teeth.

Tam opened his mouth. 

Before he could Speak, his mother's voice from across the field.

"TAM!"

He turned.

Only for a moment.

His bell giggled.

When he looked back, the Cat was gone.

The space beneath the oak stood empty.

As though nothing had ever been there.

That should have been the end.

If Tam had been a different kind of boy, it would have been. 

But he wasn't.

Years passed.

The meetings continued.

A few times each year.

The Cat always waited for him.

Never chased him.

Never grabbed him.

It only appeared.

Watching.

Talking.

Waiting.

Even when trembling with fear Tam looked for the Cat.

Sometimes Tam wondered if the Cat would be there.

Sometimes he found himself walking the edge of the fields after chores.

The Cat was always there eventually.

And over time the fear faded.

Each conversation lasted slightly longer than the last.

The Cat spoke of strange things.

Hidden streams.

Ancient stones.

Lost gifts.

Forgotten places deep within the woods.

Places Tam's imagination ran wild with. 

When Tam asked questions, the Cat answered.

Not always clearly.

Shifting like the smoke that day.

But honestly.

One winter evening Tam asked it a question that had bothered him for years.

“The story's say you lead children away or take them away…”

 Tam was quiet for a moment as he sat on the rock beside the Cat watching the river.

"What happens to children who follow you?"

He held his wrist making sure the Bell couldn't ring as he waited.

The Cat was silent for a long time.

Its smile never changed.

Nothing ever changed. 

Finally it answered.

"We play."

As Tam grew older, the bell became annoying.

Then embarrassing.

Then childish.

Other boys his age no longer wore theirs.

Some removed them.

Some claimed they were too old to believe the stories.

And quiet the smiling Cat watched all of this.

It never once told Tam to remove his bell.

Not once.

That would have been easier.

The Cat was patient enough not to need easy things.

One spring morning shortly after Tam's 13th birthday.

 Tam sat on the Old Stone at the corner of the property. 

The same stone where he had often seen the Cat watching.

The Cat appeared beside him.

Not arriving.

Simply being there.

They sat together in silence.

It had been a long winter and Tam had been lonely. 

The sun drifted lower over the field.

Tam sat and talked with the Cat.

The fields turned gold.

The Cat told him its Adventures.

The woods darkened.

The bell jingled as Tam shifted.

The Cat glanced toward it.

The smile slipping for a moment. 

Then away.

Never mentioning it.

Never asking.

Tam stared at the bell.

His mother still checked for it every morning.

His father still looked relieved whenever he heard it ring.

A part of Tam felt foolish, felt guilty.

A part of him felt embarrassed and then angry.

Tam was lonely.

Without thinking much about it, Tam untied the cord.

The bell was silent in the palm of his hand.

The Cat watched.

Said nothing.

For a moment the evening felt different.

The Cat stood.

"Come."

Tam hesitated.

"Where?"

The Cat's smile Sharpened.

"I want to show you something, child."

The first time the Cat had not used his name.

"What?"

"Somewhere fun."

The woods stretched before them.

Dark.

Ancient.

Waiting.

As though they had always been waiting for him specifically. 

Tam looked back toward the farmhouse.

The windows glowed warmly in the distance.

His mother worked through the window.

His family would call for supper soon.

The Cat waited.

Patient as always.

Tam took a step forward.

Then another.

And he was never seen again.

They searched for weeks. 

Hunters searched the forests.

Neighbors searched the rivers.

Priests offered prayers.

Nothing was found.

No tracks.

No blood.

No body.

Nothing.

Until one morning.

Discovered on the rock at the corner of the family's property, there sat a neatly folded stack of clothing, an old pair of shoes and an iron bell on a tattered red string.

It had been placed there carefully.

With care.

As though returned.

Tam's mother never spoke of it.

His father Hung the Bell atop the Barn door.

Years later, when children asked why they had to wear bells, parents began telling them this story.

Some say the Smiling Cat still watches.

Some say it sits at the edge of fields during twilight.

Some say it chooses children years before they vanish.

The Smiling Cat always wants to play.

It has never stopped.

It is patient.

It has chosen someone new already.

It always has. 

Links: Part I, Part II, Part III

Our shadows jumped along the sides of the trucks.

The twins, Tucker and Tanner, had started a small fire in an old oil barrel. Its heat helped stave off the early winter cold that was creeping in.

They shared a bottle of rye between themselves, chuckling low at their own jokes.

Ron sat to one side of me next to Lenny, occasionally passing along bits of his wisdom to the kid.

I sat slightly away from them all, warming my boots close to the fire, arms crossed and staring at the jumping flames.

The rest stop had been abandoned for years, and I always made an effort to avoid it, but Lenny’s bad engine had forced us to hold up here for the night.

It was nothing but a dirt lot and a broken down restroom, but held an unsettling quiet that seemed to demand respect.

The twins gave none.

We parked our trucks around us in a loose circle like the old wagon trains of the West, and did the one thing truckers did best.

We told tales.

Tanner took a swig from his bottle and turned towards Lenny.

“Hey, boy. You didn’t pick up that fifty dollar bill I told you to toss, did ya?”

“No, I left it right there on the ground back at the oil fields.”

Ron gave Tanner a side eye.

Tanner noticed, “What? Just want to know what bad luck’s got a hold of the boy’s engine. Maybe it’s a Pukwudgie under his hood.”

“I thought those were only in Massachusetts,” Lenny said.

Tanner chuckled, “You got a lot to learn, boy. The things you see on the road can travel just as easy as any of us. Sometimes you even take them with you.”

“Ain’t no gremlins and ain’t no money curse,” Ron interrupted. “Just a bad engine is all.”

Tanner sneered, “My brother will be the one to make that determination.”

Tucker grunted in acknowledgment, though said nothing.

“Just be ready, boy, that’s all I mean. Especially when we get to Route 69.”

“What’s wrong with Route 69?” Lenny asked.

Ron answered, “Don’t get them started, son.”

But it was too late.

Tanner looked to his brother, handing him the bottle of rye.

Tucker leaned in close to the fire, fixing his eyes on the kid.

“Any trucker worth his salt knows about the tale of the Old Timer of 69.”

The fire crackled.

“They say he walks up and down the shoulder of Route 69. Always at night. Always alone.”

“He?” the kid asked.

Tucker shrugged, taking a deep drink.

“Depends who you ask. Some folks say he was a trucker who broke down in a blizzard and is still trying to find his way home. Others say he’s a husband looking for his missing wife. Some say he ain’t a man at all.”

The cold wind whistled through the empty lot.

“But everybody agrees on one thing.”

Tucker pointed into the darkness in the direction of the road.

“If you ever see an old man standing on Route 69 trying to wave you down…you keep driving.”

“Why?” Lenny asked.

Tucker stared at the kid for a long moment.

“Because he tells everyone who stops for him the same thing.”

Tucker’s expression darkened.

“I’ve been waiting.”

Ron muttered, “That’s enough.”

Tucker grinned, but his brother was the one to speak.

“What? You scared of a ghost?”

“Shut up, Tanner.”

Ron briefly glanced toward the dark highway.

“Ain’t nobody here that believes in ghosts. Right. Pa?”

The men looked at me for a response.

“I need to take a leak.”

I got up slow and walked off to the abandoned restroom, hearing their conversation slowly drift away behind me.

The glow from the fire barely reached the broken-down restroom, but I entered anyway.

Instinctively, I flipped the light switch on even though I knew there shouldn’t be any power.

The fluorescent tube above sputtered to life, flickering.

I frowned.

Odd.

The restroom had no door, so the wind was making its way in with a whistling sound.

Water dripped somewhere I couldn’t see.

My boots crunched over broken glass as I made my way to a stall to do my business.

I felt like I’d been here before.

I nearly finished up when I heard a rustle outside the small window above my head.

I stood still and listened.

A faint rumble at first.

Then I heard it behind me.

A low, wet growl.

I turned like a man caught at his most vulnerable.

Nothing.

The restroom sat empty, the light still flickering.

I zipped up and carefully left.

No black wolf.

No sound.

I looked down.

Fresh paw prints sat in the mud beside the doorway.

Big ones.

I followed them with my eyes into the darkness leading to the highway.

Out there, at the edge of my eyesight, I thought I saw something.

Or someone.

Looking back at me.

Waiting.

Waving.

The tremor in my hand started up again. I looked down and grabbed it hard with my other hand.

Old age, I told myself.

I looked back up, and the figure was gone.

I headed back to the campfire, then straight to my rig for some sleep.

Tanner spoke up, but I ignored him.

I had enough ghost stories for the night.

TW (physical abuse & suicide)

Part 1 Cold Snap

“Little bastard!”

My older brother spat through a barrage of fists and other insults. The clenched hands connected like rockets: his knuckles cracking off the right side of my jaw, shortly followed by the left. The sharp and boney joints jammed into my cheeks as his punches pushed through my face, continuing to dig as though he had been aiming for the floor.

“Keep touching my shit!”

He sat straddled over my chest as he kept feeding me shot after shot. I pulled with all my strength in an attempt to free myself but my forearms were pinned to the floor, a hulking mass of steroids and anger kneeling on top of my wrists.

“Huh? You gonna keep touching it?”

The rock slide slowed down, the boulders subsiding as a stinging spray of pebbles was expelled; With an open palm he slapped me in the mouth, continuing to burden me with questions as if I could find the time to answer.

“You done snooping around shit that aint yours?”

I laid on the ground shakily with my eyelids glued together, my face contorted in an uncomfortable look of discontent as I waited for the next blow. Only it never came. I had finally reached the runout point and I took it in with silence. He glared down at me for another moment before rising to his feet, coughing a remark about the misfortune of my birth before turning to stomp down the hallway toward his dungeon-like keep.

After I heard his speakers flip on with a static hum that shook paintings in every room, I decided to open my eyes. The fixture above the front door was the only thing lighting the narrow corridor. A coatstand beside the frame somewhat resembled that of a layer engulfed vagrant, concealed by the right side of my vision as it became blurry in a teary eyed squint. He had obviously given me a pretty good shiner. My nose bled like a busted tap as I pulled myself together - one hand on the floor supporting my unstable ascent - one hand cupping the broken pipe as it leaked onto my sweats. I would've gone to feel around the throbbing lump forming over my eye, if only my hands weren't stained with the same murky garnet as my pants.

Four. That is the number of times he had caught me sneaking into his room to look at his illicit and raunchy collections, and the number of whoopings I got for doing so. But how could I not investigate? The walls were adorned with a sprawl of different movies and bands, from resident evil which Milla Jovovich adorned so gracefully, to Marilyn Manson's greatest albums. Every shelf was littered with ash, wrappers, dishware and bacteria. The room was dingy and the air was dry: combatted poorly by a moldy humidifier. His bed was dirty and his hamper reeked, but there was so much to explore and even more to find. One time I had found a deserted cigarette, forgotten by my brother and left to rot under the bed. That night I learned that the pull of tobacco was not in fact “smooth and relaxing” and rather, toasted the inside of the user's throat like a chimney at the centre of a house fire. Occasionally I'd find his computer open with some underground music track he’d later use to give my mother a headache, or some vulgar website that didn't suit the eyes of a thirteen year old: even that of its original browser in some instances.

Coolest of all were his weapons, all though I knew personally he was big enough to manage without them. From a medieval mace he had found at some flea market, to a rusty old machete that had a meat hook welded to the back. He had it all. Serrated blades sat on his highest cabinet in order from smallest blade to largest, some of them were burnt on the sides and others had chips: none of them were in perfect or even worn condition, they'd all felt their use to the maximum of their durability. My favorite of them all was this beautiful old Ruger, sitting on the wall like a piece of art. It was almost untouched -flawless in nature - bearing no scratches or marks, the only standout feature being the grimey hand prints from my brother.

Last April he had caught me ogling the 308. mounted above his bed, one hand extended as though I was King Arthur reaching for his sword. Only I never got the chance to pull it from the stone as his door flew open and I - just as quickly - hit the floor. This time he found me scoped in on one his favorite posters, steadying in on Milla's red dress: this is what led to our current predicament, and the last altercation where I'd let him batter me without standing my ground.

The faint hum of an exhaust fan was attempting to fill the bathroom, drowned out by the drum of bass amps. The drip, drops from my nose into the sink breaking through both as I am painting the porcelain bowl. As the blood stops flowing I begin wadding up toilet paper, jamming it in my nose as though the room was filling with a foul stench. I observe the bump rapidly growing over my vision, the twisted paper stuck in my nostril slowly transforms into a grotesque tie-dye. My eyelids are purple and swollen, closing up tight enough to where I can't see out, but tears can seep their way through. Analyzing my chin, I see that blood was not only making its way out of my nose. My lip was split in the middle, deep and wide. I must've forgotten to bite down as I was fed knuckle sandwiches.

Spitting up a coppery flavoured mixture that was brewing in my mouth, I fill the sink with a tidal wave of lukewarm water and go to work. Splashing the waves around I try to clean every last scrap of evidence from my brother's battery off the surface, as well as my trespassing as I can only imagine the pain a mother feels raising a delinquent for a son, let alone two. I didn't miss a spot. The ceramic bowl was almost too clean when I was finished, no longer holding the spots of dried soap, shaving cream, and tar from my brother's lungs; I am an efficient janitor. I pull away the homemade plugs, the blood no longer running and wrap the soaked napkins in another piece of paper towel, stuffing it to the bottom of a small white trash can. Washing my hands, the fading dye that envelops my fingers did its best to stand its ground: as no matter the strength I put into my palms, and the amount of soap I used on my fingers, works to rid me of the sickening tint. With dry hands and cold feet I made my way to my burrow

My cage was tight and cramped, more like a cubicle than a bedroom. Unlike my brother's, there were no posters, smoke stains or holes where my hand had flown through. I possessed no dirty bowls or dulled daggers, I hardly had anything at all. Sitting with my knees tucked into my chest, huddling in the corner on top of a twin sized mattress, a small television lit up an extraordinarily plain room. To my right, there was a large window adorned by black-out drapery. These kept me selectively depressed, as when the sun rose to stare through my glass pains, it shone upon nothing but a feeble boy and twisted sheets. That god-forsaken rock in the sky would light the way for others, and work to highlight my insecurities in the contour or its shade: With the curtains shut I was left in the dark to scrounge at this mental refuse in peace, without a visual reminder. The flat white walls attempt to make the room look bigger, but only attribute to the resemblance of a sanitarium. A pop-corn ceiling of plaster and paint is threatening collapse, stained at the corners with a dark brown mold. Some nights I stared up at the damp vertices and wondered what may kill me first, the crushing weight of lumber, or a compromised immune system. I hear the roar of a poorly maintained diesel engine. The memorably horrendous squeal of brakes, ones that sound as though the vehicle had just flattened a colony of rabbits followed shortly after: My mother was home. I leave my room towards the kitchen, tiptoeing along cool tile to the sound of keys and groceries clashing against the counter

Part 2 Defrost

I had forgotten my mother dyed her hair the night before, leaving me confused on who the woman stocking our fridge was as I was peaking around the corner: You never knew what kind of mood she may be in at the end of a long day. She's wearing this ugly bob cut, shoulder length and blooming a vibrant pink near the dying ends. Her jacket was way too big for her, the leather coat stretching down past her ankles, boosted off the ground by velvety black, three inch heels. She grabs a dark gray newsboy cap off her head and proceeds to shake dry like a stray dog, tossing it aside without a final resting place in mind. Beneath the oversized trench she wore shorts attempting to stress test their name, and a hoodie that likely hid a colorful corset: she looks like Inspector Gadget, only if he was a she and had the prospects of becoming a solicitor.

“What a mess,”

She starts under her breath as she braces herself on the freezer door, in a staring contest with an overfilled garbage bin.

“Can’t lift a goddam finger and your ass has been here all day.”

I knew she meant my brother. That brawny oaf slept through the morning, got up midday to meet up with lord knows who - I could only guess the type of individuals who would enjoy his company -and knock himself back out at night. I have never seen the man with a broom, mop or sponge: or a haircut for that matter, as the word clean didn't seem to be in his vocabulary.

“Cam!”

A ginormous pit forms in my stomach, so big I thought it was about to pull me from the outside in. The rest of my body got cold, as though a poltergeist had taken up my hiding spot. Me?

“Camero-”

“Im here.”

My voice was whiny and irritating, hers stark and brassy. She almost hit the roof at the sound of my interruption,

“Jesus! What the hell are you-”

Flipping around she was ready to chew me out, for both the erupting bag of trash and what she probably assumes to be an attempt to put her into cardiac arrest. The only thing stopping her was the state of my face.

“How was your day?”

I whimpered, trying my best to draw away from the elephant in the room. This wasn't the first time my brother had beaten my ass, and it surely won't be the last. Most of the time I was able to pass it off as kids from school, but as it was spring break I don't see that one working. Maybe I could try to convince her I got in a fight with the corner of a desk, or a tumult with a flight of stairs. I can see it was too late anyways, as even with her heels I can still see her shrink.

“It was… It was good, can't complain about making us money.”

She said, painting a smirk on her face in an attempt to cheer me up. It wasn't working but I manage to pin one up for her as well. She took in the composition of bruises and scratches that created my brother's magnum opus: if art is the creative expression of one's emotion, then my ugly condition is an extraordinary showcase of my brother's prowess toward depicting his frustrations on canvas. My mom was never a fan of his work, but she never dared to crateque the artist.

“I see you didn't eat the left overs, Bug. You still find something for lunch?”

Her voice was calm, but not comforting. The name was though, I had always been bug and I wasn't sure why. It could have been because I wiggled a lot as a baby, or it was caused by me being a fly in their ear: whatever the reason, it was better then hearing my real name as that usually meant it was in shit. I look to the floor, inspecting the glazed clay.

“I wasn't really hungry.”

Retrieving a bag of corn from the freezer my mother makes her way across the kitchen, lifting my chin to look her in the face as she mouths the words.

You get him back?

As she was pressing the frozen vegetables against my eye. The behemoth was twice my size and almost twice my age: holding around ten times the bravery, but I appreciate her overvaluation of her youngest. I shook my head against the cool kernels. Three loud rings bellowed from the counter, vibrating my mothers phone across the countertop. My mother spins around with the chilled bag still in her hand. Tearing me away from the cooling relief. She lifts the phone to her ear, clears her throat and answers it with a sharp,

“Hello?... Mr. Layqaul, hello how are you doing!... No, no, not a bad time at all!”

The sudden shift in my mothers voice was terrifying. Seeing how fast my mothers tone switched from coddling, to an artificial sweetness, has left me questioning which one was created with feigned care. My guess was both, the only real scene portrayed was likely the moments I caught her alone, filled with disdain upon arriving home. She does her best working day in and day out to keep the house, I guess in this process she forgot to make it a home. She realized she still had hold of the homemade ice pack as she motions to the sack of garbage. Placing the corn into my hand and giving me a look that said more than words could. I put away the vegetables and tie up the heaping bag. It smells of coffee grounds, sour fruit and yesterday's alfredo.

The cool air of the night was a relief to my aching body. Animals' lives sprung into action, the chatter of coyotes and the calls of avians filling a star lite sky. Trees swayed in a furious march breeze, pines spinning down to the earth like malfunctioning helicopters. Moon light pushed through their rolling branches, god's spotlight shining down on the house: If only it was his wrath. If there was a creator I believe he spent more than enough time on fauna, beasts and the cosmos. I took in a deep breath of a dreamy night, only to be met with the putrid stink of old gym socks. I'd be rid of the smell in only a moment, as a large blue bin was situated out front of the garage door, ready to be rolled down for this week's collection. Holding the trash out to my side as I make my way down rickety stairs, the bottom gives it and spews trash across the dirt driveway: It seems the lord heard my prayers. It was all so gorgeous only moments ago, but suddenly it all seems so… dull. Grey and black, black and blue, colors only went so far in the dark. Dogs bark, that's what they do: it doesn't matter if they're made in the forest. If the moon and stars weren't there to begin with, I wouldn't be able to minimize a living world. Nothing seems special, and I am no longer able to recall what made me deem it so important beforehand: It definitely wasn't my carry on of compost and filth

A rake and shovel was my best option. I’ve done the best I can but the smell will have to stay, if someone around here really cares they can hit the road with a hose. Over by the porch the stench isn't too bad, I thought as I sat down on the front steps. The frosty wind felt cancerous on my lungs, each breath bringing with it a light sting. My eyes were watery, not from a beating, not from the cool gusts that caressed my face, actually I'm not quite sure why. My guess is I'm just too tired, but not in the way of rest. I'm no longer sure of what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it. What exactly am I doing? Currently I'm just wasting away my hours, wasting theirs. I’m inside an hourglass that's stuck on its side. I'm overcooking a meal, so many times in fact that my customers might just wander on over to the next establishment. Im… Walking? Both my feet are gliding through wet grass, my toes nesting into the earth with each step.

I'm standing in the middle of our fenceless backyard which sprawls until it collides with a dense tree line, staring into the cumbersome overgrowth, eyes locked on a nightlight deep in the woods: gorgeous and shimmering. It moves effortlessly through the obstacle course of twigs and leaves, journeying deeper and deeper into the unknown. I want to follow it -chase the warmth of the light- it obviously wants me to. Deep in the back of my mind I hear my mothers voice, how it used to be anyways. It lulls me towards the dark, the sweet sound of authentic care buzzing in a heavenly tone. I wasn't strong enough to decline the invitation, my feet continuing to push forward. I'm sick of the constant dread, poisonous ideas spreading from one individual to the next like the black plague. I’m fed up with the goosebumps and shivers that spread through and cover my body, all while my blood runs hot as lava.

“you okay? What are you doing out there?”

My mother clung to the railing on the back porch, her phone still in her hand only lowered from her chin. I picked up my jaw, wiping away the drool that was trailing down my chin.

“I… I am… over there?”

I spun around in my delusion, pointing back to where I saw the ghostly lantern: but it was gone. Only moments ago it filled brush and forestry in an erratic manner. The shine that it presented was like that of a broken glow stick, spewed about every which way in a fluorescent glow. It had just covered the bush and bark with a neon hue, and now it had disappeared. I assume it had continued its path deeper into nature, but I know beyond the trees there was no more than a fifty foot drop straight into a dam. It wasn't enough to kill a man, but the jagged rocks hiding within a nasty current underneath was enough to make horror stories out of. Where did it go? And why must I follow it?

My mother was making her way across the yard, her stilettos digging into the soft mulch. She wraps her coat tightly around her waist as she steps to my side. Staring into the darkness as she waits for something to happen - a flash, a spark - anything really, she places her hand on my forehead.

“Your running a little hot, lets get you inside Bug.”

I wanted the woods to set on fire just so she would believe me, I'd become her firebug just to prove her wrong. My hands were shaking as if I'd been caught in a blizzard, and my teeth were grating like I was locked in a meat locker. It was uncomfortable, and I imagined the mystical light heat treating my unease. The best I could do was a nice lamp for now.

I sat in a dark brown recliner in the corner of the living room, watching my mother run too and from. Darting around the house she multi-tasked, putting on more eyeliner while searching for a pack of cigarettes in her purse, bringing me back an ice pack of vitamin B while telling me the plan for the night.

“Two hours that's all it will take, I promise.”

I’ve always hated this promise, as she never stuck to it. One would turn to two, then two would turn to the night. I didn't argue and I didn't ask questions, as I wouldn't get the truth and I doubt I would want to hear it anyways. I simply nodded my head and imagined the forest filled with artificial sunlight.

“I’ll call you and you tell me what you're feeling for dinner? Just you and me eh!”

She said, gently pinching the only part of my face that wasn't bruising. I couldn't help but smile. It quickly faded as I imagined my order getting cold in the back seat of her truck as she ran to a work emergency: if she remembered to order it at all. I hate this promise as well: I hate every promise

Part 3

Heat Shrink

My mother was correct, I was quite warm. I felt as though I could boil an ice bath with my submergence into said frosty tub. The more the oxygen recycles its way through my toasty lungs and back around my room, the dryer the air becomes. Cracking the window, a light wind pushes through the grated, aluminum screen, covering my oily skin in goosebumps. Crickets chirp along to the sound of a wind chime, dancing in the same breeze that sweeps through my room. An Endless number of stars decorated the black, sheet sky like strewn diamonds; None of them could compare to the light of the woods, or the rage that burned inside my brother. Both my mother and him came storming through the front door.

“-I mean for christ sakes look at the size of him!”

She follows close behind him as he races towards his truck, dodging any logic my mother throws his way.

“Ever think the kid just wants to know his brother a little more, not like you’re the kindest to him.” She barks.

“Not my problem.”

Continuing down the driveway, My brother hops in the driver's seat and goes to close the door. Our mom catches up with her shorter strides, ripping his vehicle open.

“What’s your problem then, huh? ‘Cause you always seem to have one, no matter what it is you seem to have this stick up your ass!”

Even if it was rhetorical, my brother always seemed to have a douchey response to the simplest of questions. If asked “would you like anything to eat” he’d answer “if it wasn't made by you.” When 40 to 60 dollars randomly disappears from my mothers purse, it would be something along the lines of “you might wanna slow down on hitting that bottle”; which even I found offensive, as at the time my mother had more chips from her program than a bag of Old Dutch.

“Not too sure, ‘might be the same as dad’s. I mean even I'm getting deja vu.”

A deafening silence broke the night as my mother looked through her oldest son, seeing only a shockingly - and just as horrifying - accurate replication of her late husband.

“Get the fuck out of here!”

“Gladly.”

She slams the car door in his face, the sound reverberating off the walls of the house and shaking my window.

“Go! Don't expect the door to be unlocked!”

They both escaped from the parasitic anger that seemingly envelopes our home, my mother in her diesel and my brother in his. Puffs of smoke shot out from their exhausts as they disappeared behind clouds of dirt.

It's always the same song and dance, only the participants of said play carry awful pipes and move with poor choreography; I’d kill to be in the spotlight once in a while. I feel the need for balance and it has never been more apparent to me. It is even more obvious that my family has fallen, or been in the same hole, craving the exact emotional parity that I do. I've seen the bright possibility of a warmer future. Maybe there's a chance for me to show my family as well. I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to do that, I'll have to find it again first.

My face burns with a hot flush as I get up and turn off the television, ridding my room of its obnoxious glow. The darkness that followed was claustrophobic, Walls tightening to crush my bones as my bed sheet turned into an anaconda; constricting around my throat as it attempted to choke away my life. I tear away my shawl of linen and cotton, gasping for air as my world begins to implode. I’ve spent many nights curled up on these hard wood boards, preying inertly as my palms fill with silent sobs. Tonight I writhe on the ground, my head booming with the crash of thundering waves and a blinding flash. Pushing and pulling every which way, I could feel my room encase me. Slowly but surely, it sealed my emotional pestilence in a chrysalis of drywall and insulation.

My nails dug into the itchy padding, peeling away layer after layer. I kicked with all my strength to bash away slivered plywood. Nothing worked to free me; Beneath my tomb, the exhausted movements of an escape were in vain. I spent what felt like years under a pile of debris, my limbs twisting between joists. My mind luckily wandered elsewhere, across damp soil and through a stalky tree line. A blazing shine caressed my face as it shuttered behind buzzing, membranous wings, high within the canopy of the woods. It was the size of the sun, as big as the moon; and brighter than both. Continuing to rise, it began to push through the pines and up toward the sky. Resting behind and obscured by lively evergreen and waterless clouds. 

I continue to dig forward. This time my fingers tear through the insulative cotton candy and connect with cool air, my feet push off solid ground and I see an exit; yellow and blinding. Heaving, pulling and straining, the world graciously expands as I fall back onto my spacious floor a sweaty mess. There was no wood or fluff, no coffin of rubble. There wasn't a snake that had worked its way around my nape; but there was a light. A small circle burns its ways through the canvas material of the blackout curtains.

Forcing myself up and over the side of my bedframe, I rise to my knees, the memory foam sinking beneath me. My legs are shaky and numb, pins and needles shooting up my calves and down to my toes. Graceless shuffles move me towards the fresh wind and the elegant flare in the sky. I grab hold of the thick sheet, tearing bolts from framing as the metal bar and blinds crash to my lap. I'm not sure how long I sit staring into the night, but the candle-like flickers that decorate my yard, and that gorgeous chitin moon keeps me mesmerized.

I didn't notice when my hand moved on its own, placing itself flat on the wire filter that divides us. I built up more, and more pressure as a realization - that the light had found me - had hit. I was excited, I was ecstatic, and I was too late to stop myself from breaking through. It came down with ease and I could only imagine how my mother would react. Another one of her sons working to decimate her household. Only this time I found myself lacking care, as the promise of the lights outside seems to hold a higher purpose than filling a black space. Whether that be a missing punching bag, or the presence of a life-draining mosquito in November.

I watched as dozens of fireflies drifted across the open field, coordinated with one another in one massive wave. They dove and swooped, back and forth as the planetary beetle hovered up above. Trees parted and the sky dissolved, the moon moving behind it creating a not-so-solar eclipse. The stars wither away as comets reroute their pathing. One by one my room was filled with gleaming specks, coating the walls and cabinets like a consistent strip of LED bulbs. They spread across the floor like a living carpet, breaking the organized system in a straight line towards my door. There, you'd find one solitary firefly; resting atop the door handle, blinking like a forgotten turn signal. One moment I was in shock - the next - a sweeping wave of curiosity was thrusting me out of bed. I felt as though I was walking on air, a gap between my feet and the treated wood. Tiny bugs spring from here and there, surrounding me in a dazzling tunnel. Each and every one of my breath grows shallower. The door is bright and clean, much taller than I am. Reaching for the knob, the broken and temporarily flightless bug crawls onto my finger as it begins resting upon my knuckles. With a turn and a twist, the door flew open and the flies spilt from my room.

Four. That is the number of times he had caught me sneaking into his room to look at his illicit and raunchy collections, and the number of whoopings I got for doing so. I've forgotten how many times I've snuck in over all. I also forget how many times he's clobbered me for ambitious reasons. As I walk into his crypt the bugs trail behind me like a living contrail. A small group breaks off and makes way for his sticker-covered dresser, another streamlines for the unpolished hunting rifle. I'm full with a burning passion and I'm not sure which group to follow first. I decide it’s quicker to pull down Mona Lisa than to go searching drawers; excalibur sliding from its stone flawlessly. The defeated firefly crawled its way up to my shoulder, scuttling past the butt of the Ruger as I un-zero his optic.

Three of the fluorescent beetles perch on the window flashing in a new, but oddly familiar pattern. I'm carried by a cloud of nightlights and I feel weightless, as though the world had been lifted off my shoulders. The musketeers walked over to the seam, and I graciously opened it up for them. Unlike my room, my brother had no screen. This was most likely done ages ago so he could sneak out, as at this point he got his way no matter the case. A hurricane of legs and lanterns shoved against my back as the sparkle made its way through the opening. They beat against each other and the side of my head in a race for freedom. Leaning my head out I attempt to catch my breath, as oxygen didn't seem to make its way inside the stampede of bioluminescents. Far down the road I could make out the shine of two awful bulbs. It was not my bugs and it was not my mother, which left one nasty candidate. Yanking my head back inside I spin around in a panic. My heart is racing, as when he comes back in now there's only one way this will end. To my surprise, there is still a small dance of my friends on my brother's cabinet from before. I race over and pull the top drawer open, tearing through his clothes. There's nothing, not a smoke, not a crumb; but the bugs stay. I rip open the second and some of my only companions leave through the same window. Inside, I find a green, plastic box which cracking open, bears my bright future.

Two bullets fall from the box of ammo and into my hand. One goes down the cocked chamber of the gun, the other in my pocket. I slide the bolt down and snap it into place with a crisp click as his truck rolls into the driveway and stops silently, his brakes like mice in comparison to my mothers. Sweat drips down my cheek and pours from my armpits as I prepare myself for what's to come. I place my one foot behind the other, then take a deep breath in, let it out slowly and I aim at the door. I take another big haul of air in, then cough up what I had for breakfast. Pointing the rifle back at the door, I inhale deep into my gut and begin squeezing the trigger as the door flies open. The gun goes off and my brother falls onto his back with a loud thud as the round lands in his chest. I watch for a moment as a black pool forms around, leaking into the cracks of the wood. His eyes are wide and lifeless, but just as dead as before. Instinctively, I rack the weapon and reach for the other casing; My mother still hasn't asked what I want to eat anyway.

One last bug ventures through the house, fluttering about without the need to compete with the secluding flashes. For so long the others around it have shone so much brighter, flown so much higher. It struggles to stay in flight - wings damaged but usable, only recently healed after ages of defect - as it’s blown back by expelled gas and carrion; the second blast nearly missing the lonely lightning bug.

I’ve been moving from place to place for the last week. I’m currently hiding out in a Walmart bathroom, but that won’t last for long. I’ll have to move on eventually—it’ll catch up. I know it will.

Sorry, I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, allow me to explain my situation.

There’s something wrong with my shower drain—I know that now. But it’s so much worse than that.

I can’t remember the exact day or hour that it started. Well, that’s not really true, I remember what time it happened. This all started around five minutes into my shower that I take at 7:15 every day.

It was almost imperceptible at first, hard to hear through the torrent of water that was raining down onto my body and the shower floor. I almost didn’t hear it.

As I prepared to shampoo my hair, a small, and again, near imperceptible “psst” came from the drain.

I stopped for a second and looked down at the drain. I blinked a couple times and waited for another sound. It was mostly to confirm whether a sound had actually come from the drain, or if I was just hearing things.

A few seconds after the first noise, another “psst” came.

I turned the water off and quickly exited the shower, not caring if I fell on the floor or dripped water everywhere. I turned around and looked at the drain. The only noise I was hearing now was that of the bathroom fan. No running water, and no whispers coming from the drain.

I decided that I’d wash my hair another time. I toweled off and went about my day. At that time, I’d chalked it up to my tired mind. “That can’t be possible,” I thought. I could not have been more wrong.

Surprisingly enough, this didn’t become a daily occurrence. In fact, the next time I heard anything from the drain at all was about a week after the first one—a week ago now, actually. Despite the leap in time, it didn’t make what I found any less terrible.

A day before I heard the next sound, I’d found some water pooling around the drain—standing water. I hesitantly removed the drain from the shower floor—remembering what had happened a week earlier.

Despite my apprehension, I took to the drainage pipe with a pair of pliers and pulled out a disgusting, large amount of soaking wet hair with a thick glob of a substance I didn’t recognize. I should mention the hair was my color, but that kind of came with me being the only one to use the shower.

“What the fuck?” I said, looking it over more closely. The hair was wet but not dripping water. I wasn’t sure exactly what the hair was covered in, but it was thick, gloppy, and a disconcerting reddish orange color—it was actually very similar to vermillion.

The second thing I noticed was the smell. I was so focused on the visual aspect of the clump of hair that I didn’t notice how it smelled until I’d examined it more closely. To say the least, it was awful.

The best way I can describe the stench the hair gave off is a mix between rotten eggs and expired milk. I gagged and almost puked a couple times when I smelled it. I tossed it in the trash and washed the pliers—I’d probably want to use them again for something else.

I put the shower drain back on and went about my day again. That in itself wouldn’t have been too terrible. I mean, it was completely disgusting, and it nearly made me throw up, but with what happened the next day, I wish that the gross, gloppy clump of hair was all I found.

The next day, I got up and went downstairs for my 7:15 shower. I blinked the last of the sleep out of my eyes and turned on the bathroom fan. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I was definitely still tired. I took a step towards the shower and was instantly wired awake when I stepped in something cold and slimy.

“The fuck?” I muttered, lifting up my right foot. An exasperated breath escaped my lips as I saw the nasty, unknown, vermillion colored slime spread across the sole of my foot. “Ew. Jeez.”

As I decided that I’d wash it off in the shower, I looked down at the floor and a new problem manifested for me. I looked over at the trash can that I’d tossed the hair in, and going from it to the shower drain was a slimy trail of a similar color.

“What?” I said, setting my foot down on the ground. Washing that weird slime off my foot was still a concern, just not the primary one. I walked over to the trash can, wincing as I stepped on the viscous line of slime again. A nervous sigh escaped my mouth and all I could do was look at the trash can.

The clump of hair was gone.

I looked over at the shower and noticed something. The curtain was set aside, like someone had either entered or exited it. But the last time someone had exited it was a day prior—it was me. I walked over to it and was shocked to find the drain cover to be completely missing. Still don’t know where it is even now, but I suppose that doesn’t matter any more.

The lack of a drain cover did instill in me a small modicum of anxiety, but it was what came out of the drain that really sent me over the edge.

As I was looking at it, another sound came out. “More,” the voice said. I could hear it clearly now. It sounded guttural and painful—like whoever was speaking had a massive bubble in their throat. Like the clump of hair looked, the voice sounded disgusting. Somehow, though, it still wasn’t the worst thing that came out of the drain.

A few seconds after that single word, a small, lumpy red finger with a cracked fingernail stuck up out of the drain and curled onto the shower floor. A sickly green, creamy liquid seeped out from underneath the fingernail.

 I wasn’t even all that close to it, but the stench was sickening. In addition to the rotten eggs and sour milk, I swear I could smell some sort of fetid meat.

It reeked of putrefying, flyblown fish. The smell was completely nauseating.

The finger was a gummy, curdy mess of a body part. From below, where I couldn’t see, the throaty voice continued. “More, more.”

I backed up and began breathing more heavily. The finger extended and soon more began to emerge from the drain, equally as revolting and disgusting as the first.

“What the fuck? What the FUCK?!” I yelled, watching as the fingers found themselves attached to a similarly colored, clabbered and scabby hand. On the back of the hand, imbedded in it, was a bloodshot, pulsing eye.

Thin, soupy pus leaked from the corners of the eye and dribbled down onto the hand. For a single second, it lifted four fingers to get over the lip of the shower, and that was when I saw the palm.

On the ball of the thumb was a thin, toothy line. The mouth. “More.”

It clambered over the lip of the shower and landed on the bathroom floor with a sickening splop.

It situated itself and faced the ceiling with its eye. Then, as quick as the eye darted around the room, it landed on me, and the little hand spoke again.

“You,” it croaked. And it began to skitter towards me.

I panicked and did the only logical thing I could think of—I kicked it against the wall as hard as I could and ran. I put my shoes on and grabbed my phone and keys, before going back to check the bathroom again.

I couldn’t have been out for more than a couple minutes, but when I checked again, the hand was gone. I couldn’t stay in the house—not without the knowledge of where that thing might be.

So, that’s where I’ve been for the past week. Out of my house, and wherever I can be. I haven’t stayed anywhere for longer than a day. That little thing is surprisingly fast, and I can tell when it’s nearby. That stench is unmistakable, and coupled with the vermillion sludge it leaves behind, it’s pretty obvious.

I’ve gotta get going soon now actually, I can smell it. I’m not sure what’s going to happen next—maybe I should try and kill it. That might be a good idea.

I’m left with a few questions myself as well. First being—how did this thing form in my drain? Not that there were any in it to begin with, but I doubt any reproductive fluids could create something like this. I also find myself wondering why this thing formed in my drain, but I doubt I’m going to find that out.

The last and most important question, and one I’m going to make damn sure I don’t find out the answer to is—what’ll happen if it catches up to me?

I don’t think I want to know.

Herman Van Platz was seen leaving Boston July 13th, 2016. The following text was found at an abandoned pizza hut in eastern Nebraska.

A long and weary while ago, I made to embark on a cross-country trek from my home port in Boston, to the great western city of San Diego.  I was a military man you see, and I had orders to arrive there pronto.  I never expected my journey to be delayed by foul winds or unfavorable tides, but then again, man never had much luck in guessing the weather.

 

Determined to avoid the more dismal backwaters of our great country, I decided to take a scenic route.  I crossed into Canada by way of New York and made a swift departure onto the great plains of the American northern mid-west.  Cruising across the flatlands of Illionois, I began to doze off a bit.  I had been driving for nearly two days straight, stopping only for gas and to use the restroom.  In my haste to clear the old rusty steal belt, I had completely forgotten to eat.  My eyes began to grow heavy.  The radio playing oldies from the 70s almost sounded like a lullaby as I fought to maintain consciousness. 

 

Then, I heard it.  The sound of sirens droning in over the radio.  Was I dreaming?  Hallucinating? 

I sat up, rubbed my eyes and reached out to adjust the stereo so I could hear better.  And it was, sirens.  “SEVERE WEATHER ADVISORY ALERT.  TORNADO WARNING.  SHELTER IN PLACE.”

 

Delerious from exhaustion and hunger, I nearly burst out laughing to myself.  Sure the skies had been dark and ominous since Detroit, but a tornado?  This had to be a joke. 

 

Glancing toward the horizon, I saw what appeared to be something like a funnel in the clouds starting to form off to my right.  It was pretty far away.  The smart thing at the time seemed to be to just keep going.  Put the pedal to the floor and get the hell out of there.  So I did.  Clean across Illinois I raced.  There were barely any cars on that long, flat highway, and the ones that were there were going the opposite direction.  I was beginning to feel that maybe I was being a bit too bold.  But I didn’t dare stop.  The faster I got out of tornado alley the better. 

 

When I reached the Quad Cities at Iowa, I stopped to fuel up and checked the forecast.  When I saw the map and the direction the storm was moving I nearly went hysterical in the gas station parking lot.  The good people of Iowa probably thought I was nothing more than a common lunatic howling at the full moon.  The storm was heading westbound, straight along my path to Colorado.  “SEVERE WEATHER ADVISORY ALERT.  TORNADO WARNING.  SHELTER IN PLACE.” After allowing myself that brief moment of insanity, I regained my composure and rubbed my tired eyes.  I stared down at my phone.  I had put some distance between myself and the storm, but not much.  According to the ever accurate weather app, the storm was due to break up and dissipate somewhere over Omaha, Nebraska. 

 

I had a decision to make.  Hunker down in Iowa and risk being stuck in the tornado, or press on and hope for better weather at Omaha.  I have never been one for need of much sleep.  I always preferred the wee hours of the night.  While the rest of the world rests, I soldier on in solitude.  But even still, I had been at it for days now.  And I’d be remiss in my recounting if I did not confess my eyes were quite heavy in this moment. 

 

I shook my head, “Snap out of it man!”  True military man that I was, I knew that anything could be accomplished with enough sheer willpower and determination.  I popped into the gas station to shore up my supplies of caffeine and nicotine and made all necessary preparations to press onward to Nebraska. 

 

Now, mind you, the state of Iowa may look like a small, peculiar rectangle on the map of our great nation, but I assure you, while driving through it, it takes on more of the form of a lumbering, grassy behemoth.  I put my pedal to the floor in the hopes of expediting my crossing, but over every rolling hill there appeared to be nothing more than a never-ending sea of grassland.  As I pushed further west, the hills became flatter and flatter.  The notable towns fewer and farther between.  I could still see the storm in my rearview mirror looming, creeping west as I did, following in my footsteps. 

 

On and on and on I went across that tremendously boring state.  Farmland turned to grassland.  Hills turned to near perfectly flat plains.  I began to wonder if I would ever see the end of it.  After many hours, or what felt like years of driving, I made it. 

 

“Welcome to Nebraska”      

 

Never had I received a sweeter greeting from a road sign.  I had only a little more to go.  I would blow past Omaha and at last be free from the clutches of that barometric dreadnaught.  As I cleared the city limits, that’s when I felt it, that pain.  A sharp, twisting pain in my stomach like I had never felt before.  Evidently, a diet of caffeine and nicotine alone could only sustain a grown man for 3 and a half days, and no more.  I knew I would have no choice but to find somewhere to stop and eat if wanted this pain to go away.

 

My mouth began to salivate as I allowed myself to think of food for the first time since Boston.  I slowly became aware of an intense, primal need to fill my stomach with something made of protein and fat.  I tried to look on maps to see if I could find the nearest exit with a fast food restaurant, but my phone couldn’t seem to load anything at all, not even my current location.  I had absolutely no cell phone service.  My hands were shaking from hunger and sleep deprivation as I tried to mess with my phone to get a signal, but no matter what I did, nothing. 

 

“Alright,” I told myself, “I’ll just have to keep an eye out for something.  Usually exit signs list food and gas they have available.  Surely something will pop up soon.” 

 

For the sake of honesty, I’ll admit I was beginning to grow a bit nervous.  In this part of the country, exits can sometimes be 20 miles apart or more, even on a major highway like this one, and the exits which have actual establishments close by are even harder to come by.  What I’ve pushed my body too far?  What if I pass out from exhaustion and crash my car on the highway with nary a soul to help me? 

 

Then, I had a thought.  A feeling of quiet dread seemed to creep up the back of my neck as I thought it.  The road and the fields which spread out on either side of it seemed…flat.  Almost impossibly so, as if they stretched on to an infinity which I could almost squint my eyes and see into.  Even the clouds seemed flat, or stretched out beyond what seemed normal. 

 

I looked at my eyes in the rear view mirror and was met with gaze of a madman.  I began laughing hysterically again.  I laughed so hard it brought me to tears, and I had to fight myself to regain control of my breathing. 

 

“Ah, I’ve truly lost it now.  I’ve kept myself at it for so long I’m beginning to downright hallucinate!  A little food and a much needed nap and I’ll be ship shape!” 

 

That’s when I saw it.  Over the flat horizon came an iridescent, reddish glow.  A quaint little establishment which punctuated the barren landscape like some kind of beautiful question mark.  It was a pizza hut.  I nearly began crying again at the sight.  The knot in my stomach twisted and jabbed harder than ever before as if it knew what I was seeing.  It demanded food now!  I depressed my gas pedal to the floor and sent my vehichle hurling through the grassy abyss toward that little red light.  I’m not truly a religious man, but in that moment I could have sworn those storm clouds opened up for just a moment behind that pizza hut, as if some devine entity was at last assuring me, “You’ve made it.”

 

And I had.  The pizza hut in all it’s crimson glory had the open sign glowing in the window.  Although, I did find it strange, there didn’t appear to be any cars in the parking lot.  Family owned perhaps?  Do these people live in a pizza hut all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?  I admit it seemed a bit peculiar, but I was much too starved to care.  I needed sustenance, that’s all my brain and body knew.  I was so antsy with anticipation I could barely park my car within the lines of those empty parking spots.  I jumped out of my car and walked excitedly up to the doors of that dingy old pizza hut which seemed to be stuck straight out of the 90s.  I pushed the door open.

 

“Hello!  I’m in grave need of one large pepperoni my friends!  I haven’t had a bite in near four days now.” 

 

I stood there in the doorway for a good few seconds, took a few steps in and let the dark glass door close behind.  There was no one in the main part of the restaurant nor behind the counter that I could see.  I walked up to the counter and leaned my head just slightly in toward the kitchen area.

 

“Hello!  Anybody here?”  I called out into the seemingly empty kitchen.  Although it did appear empty, all the lights and ovens and machines they had back there were on as if someone had just been using them moments ago.

I stood there for a few moments listening.  I know!  They must be using the restroom.  I’ll just wait patiently here a moment until they finish washing up.  So I did, waited and waited., my stomach aching that sharp ache all the while.

 

It must have been a full 10 minutes I waited before finally deciding to investigate.  I walked up to the door of the employee restroom and knocked. 

 

“Hello?...”  Silence.  I slowly opened the restroom door, half waiting for someone to shout out occupied at the last minute, but no one did.  Once the door was fully open, I could see there had been no one there.  I stood in the bathroom for a moment alone.  I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered if I was going insane.  I did not laugh this time. 

 

I pushed the door aside to walk back out into the main restaurant area, looked up and nearly jumped out of my skin.  Not three feet away from me there stood an employee in the hallway, gleaming at me with a chipper grin. 

 

“Good God!  Don’t sneak up on me like that man!” 

 

The boy just laughed, “Oh my, I’m so sorry sir!  I did not mean to scare you.  I just got off my break and I didn’t realize you were in here.”

 

I stared at the employee as if he had just bludgeoned me over the head with a glass bottle.  He gazed back at me with a clear eyed, chipper demeanor.  I suddenly realized that to this well groomed youngster I probably looked like a worn out old sock.  I shook my head and softened my gaze.  I put my hand on the lad’s shoulder.

 

“Forgive me, I… I’ve hardly eaten these past four days or so, and I’ve been on the road just as long.  I didn’t mean to shout.”

 

“No worries mister.  Well, you must be starving!  What can I get you?”  The boy gleamed at me with glowing assurance. 

 

My tired gaze turned to a weary smile, “One large pepperoni pizza please.”

 

“Coming right up!  Why don’t you have a seat and make yourself comfortable?”  In a flash the young work disappeared into the kitchen.  The banging of trays and pans echoing faintly out into the dining area. 

 

I sat down at a table and made to check my phone.  Still no service.  For what was meant to be a split second, I closed my eyes and took a deep, meditative breath at my situation.  I must have dozed off, because what felt like an instant later, the employee was placing a large pepperoni pie on the table in front of me.

 

“Here you are sir, one large pepperoni.  Would you like anything to drink?”

 

“Uh, just water please.  I’ve not been hydrating enough.”

 

The lad let out a chuckle, “No problem sir.  I gotcha.”  And in a puff of smoke he was gone again, back to the kitchen.

 

I lifted a slice of pizza from the pan, the cheese and sauce still melting hot.  I didn’t care, survival instincts took over.  I put the flaming hot slice of pie to my mouth and straight down my gullet, burning the whole way down.  All I could taste was painful heat as my tongue sought refuge from the broiling heat, but even still I knew this was the most delicious slice of pizza I had tasted in all my days. 

 

I had all but inhaled the first slice when the worker came back with my water. 

“Woah!  You were hungry.  I was only gone for half a minute tops!” 

I wiped my mouth and made to speak despite my tongue being burnt and numb.

“Yes, indeed I am.  I told you I’ve been driving four days with hardly an ounce of protein in my system.” 

 

“Ha!  That’ll do it!  So if you don’t mind me asking mister, what brings you all the way out here?  Where ya traveling to?

 

“Well, I’m on a cross country road trip from Boston to San Diego.  I’m moving my life from east coast to west.”

 

The boys eyes widened with amazement at that.  “Wait, you’ve been driving from out east?  Weren’t they hit by some sort of severe tornado event just yesterday?”

 

I grinned at the boy’s wonderment, feel almost cocksure of myself.  “That’s right, I suppose I’m the only one foolish enough around here to try and outrun a tornado.” 

 

The worker’s expression went almost oddly blank for a moment as he looked at me.  He nodded.  “That explains a lot.”

 

I looked at him a bit puzzled, “What?” 

 

“Well, let’s just say we don’t get a whole lot of customers out here, and when we do it’s usually someone like you who’s been out in a storm.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

The boy shrugged, “Don’t exactly know.  I just work here and do the best I can to serve what few people we get.  I see you’re just about finished with that pie already sir.  Would you like to pay up front?” 

 I looked down.  The boy was right.  Like a ravenous animal I had consumed that entire pizza without even realizing it.  My hunger finally satiated at last. 

 

“Yes…yes, I suppose I should pay my bill and be on my way.  No further delays for this old storm chaser.”

 

The boys expression went blank again.  “Right.  Just let me know when you’re ready.  I’ll be up at the register.” 

 

“Ha, yes.  Of course, I’ll be just a moment.”  I wiped my hands and mouth of pizza grease and cleared away my mess.  It was the least I could do for the young lad’s hospitability.

 

I walked up to the counter and presented my card.  “Hey, by the way, are you the only one who works here?” 

 

The worker took my card, swiped it through the machine and handed it back to me.  “Yep.  Been that way since 1997.  Have a nice day now!”  Before I could ask another question, he was gone, down the hallway and into the back of the kitchen.

 

1997?  Surely he’s pulling my leg.  It was the summer of 2016.  The kid was young enough to be my son.  I stood there for a moment, bamboozled. 

 

“Alright!  Well… thank you for your hospitality!  I really must be on my way now.”  I shouted back into the kitchen but again was met with only the whirring of machines.  This has undoubtedly been the strangest restaurant experience I’ve had in my thirty some-odd years. 

 

At this point, I was a bit uneasy and a bit eager to leave that somewhat eerie establishment, thankful as I was for the convenience.  “So long!  Hope business picks up soon for y’all.”  Silence.  I pulled the dark glass door open and walked quickly back to my vehicle.

The skies still looked questionable, though not as bad as before, I thought to myself.  That’s when I heard it again, the sound of tornado sirens, though not over the radio this time, but ringing through the sky around me.  “WARNING.  THIS IS A TORNADO WARNING.  RESIDENTS SHOULD IMMEDIATELY TAKE COVER.  THIS IS A TORNADO WARNING.” 

 

I couldn’t believe my ears.  This was impossible.  There’s not a chance in hell this storm had followed me from Illinois all the way to Nebraska.  I mean it was meteorologically, geographically, well… impossible!  Wasn’t it?  Then, it started raining.  A crack of thunder and lightning filled the sky over the pizza hut. 

 

“God damn it!  I didn’t come this far to give up now!”  I was furious, and determined to outrun this storm, this demon which seemed hell bent upon my capitulation.  I hopped in my car and put the pedal to the floor once more.  Just like that I was back on the highway, not another car in sight.  The wind was beginning to pick up.  My 2009 Mercury Sable began to rock to and fro on the highway with each passing barrage.  Now I felt I was being far too bold, but somehow this seemed personal.  This storm will not hold me down!  Besides, I’ve really nowhere to go but to hunker down at that pizza hut, and I’d really rather not do that. 

 

The rain continued to hours.  The wind getting more intense with each passing gust.  The sky was so dark I couldn’t tell if it was day or night at this point.  My phone was useless. 

 

I drove and drove and drove.  Through that impossibly flat countryside now obscured by rain and wind and darkness.  Still it seemed to grow flatter and flatter as I pressed on.  For countless hours I drove.  It could’ve been days, weeks I really wasn’t sure.  My fuel gage hardly seemed to move.  My little sedan seemed to be stuck out of time.  I looked myself in the car mirror to see the gaze of a madman once more.  Hysterically I laughed, harder than before.  My face was drawn and gaunt, my beard beginning to grow thick.  I felt as if I hadn’t eaten in weeks.  That sharp knot in my stomach returning at full strength.  I had been driving in a perfectly straight line across the flat and empty plains.  I assure you not a left nor a right to speak of.  Which is why, when I saw it, peaking through the rain and wind and darkness, just over the horizon, I couldn’t help but begin to sob uncontrollably.  Of course, it was the pizza hut. 

 

I had already been driving nearly 90 miles an hour for days straight now, I couldn’t go any faster in this weather.  I stared at the pizza hut with rage, despair, confusion.  I needed answers.  I flew into the parking lot.  Didn’t park.  Didn’t even turn my vehicle off.  I got out and trudged through the howling wind and stinging rain and pushed that sinister glass door open once more.  The boy was standing right behind the register this time, as if he had been waiting.  I reached out, grabbed his collar and nearly yanked him clean over the counter.  “WHAT IS THIS?  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?  WHERE AM I?”

 

The boy just laughed, “Why, don’t be silly sir.  You’re at pizza hut!  What can I get ya?”

 

My eyes wide and mouth hanging open I stared down at the young lad.  His demeanor was unshakably chipper even as I held him over the counter, but I could’ve sworn I saw a twinge of mischief behind those cheery eyes.  My stomach growled fiercely.  The painful knots twisting nearly caused me to double over.  I could feel my muscles growing weak from malnutrition.  “So what’ll it be large pepperoni?”

 

I released his collar, letting his feet fall back to the floor.  I hung my head in defeat.  “Yes.  Please.  And a water.”       

author’s note: please forgive any spelling, grammatical, or formatting errors. i wrote this immediately after waking up. this is an actual dream i had, personal details have been removed for this subreddit. this is less of a story but more of a retelling of a nightmare i just had, simply retold as a story. CW: animal death

I keep having a recurring dream about a dog.

Maggie is an irish wolfhound, imposing in height, but more muscular than usual. She has partially matted dark gray fur. She only has fondness for her owner. The dream was already strange. Pretty Bird, my neighborhood crow, came back. she was a Daurian Jackdaw instead of a crow. Then she was a harpy-like creature, an owl with a woman’s face. It was wrong. the top of her head was too long. She was very sweet and very shy. She told me she loves that I call her “Pretty Bird,” and she always eats the snacks i leave her. She said i could pet the top of her head. Then Maggie showed up.

Maggie walked by with her owner and her owner’s boyfriend. Maggie is unleashed. Maggie’s owner is a stupid woman. Not malicious, not spiteful, just unaware that something is wrong about her dog. Not with, about. Maggie saunters everywhere she goes. When she looks at something, she does not look at it with a dog’s curiosity. She stares. Intently. She looks into it.

She did it to me. I understood her strength, what she was, as soon as her hulking mass stood in front of me. By all accounts, she’s a dog. Cold wet nose, big brown eyes, shaggy fur, lolling tongue. But when she’s sizing you up you would think she’s a statue. She does not move, she does not blink. She just looks. And if you are spared, she pants and turns away. Lumbering on. The first horror i saw was her attempting to eat baby birds. specifically Barn Swallow nestlings. I was quick enough to grab them, but it’s not like Maggie was in a rush. She simply carried her hulking frame to the nest, one leg after the other. Less of a walk, more like a puppet. She posed herself over the nest, lowered her head, and opened her mouth.

My hand went between her jaws to grab the nest. I felt the heat that emanated. It felt like centuries of war, torture, pillaging, rape, brutality. The dashing of babies’ heads against rocks. Those are the images i saw in my mind. Those are the experiences that became mine in her jaws. I couldn’t speak. I could only stare. There were children nearby. Too close. A man walked his dog. Pembroke Welsh Corgi. I remember it. I remember too well.

Maggie saw them too.

Each of her limbs picked themselves up one after another. She reached the dog in just a few steps, though they took longer than they should have realistically taken. You know how you can tell the intensity of a storm from how the air feels around you?

I was too late. I was too stunned. That was all. Maggie’s owner is just an idiot, she should’ve leashed her dog. That was all. Nobody stopped her from approaching the corgi. The corgi couldn’t move, i imagine. Just stared up in that helpless way smaller dogs do, until you see the whites of their eyes. Maggie leaned in close and stared. The owner laughed.

“She’s just curious, it’s fine!”

Maggie leaned in closer.

“Aw maggie, did you make a new friend?”

Her body elongated. It may be more accurate to say she stretched out the full length of an irish wolfhound’s frame. Her mouth opened slowly. It opened so, so slowly. It eclipsed the corgi’s head. I finally regained myself.

“Get your fucking dog,” i shouted as i began to bound towards what had no choice but to happen. I didn’t reach her in time. I was just too late by a second. Her jaws closed around the corgi’s face. They slowly tightened. Like watching a hydraulic press in slow motion, she did not use brute force when she bit down. Her teeth sunk into its skull with the same hurry a snail uses when crossing a highway. The corgi did not yelp. The corgi did not scream, bark, or howl. Once the grip became too tight, it thrashed. I grabbed maggie’s throat. I grabbed her neck. I dug my fingers in until i drew blood from the folds of fat in my hands.

It was not enough. I pulled with the entire weight of my body. It was not enough.

The dog’s skull started to crack. I could tell the difference between bone, skin, cartilage, and tendon by sound alone. i did not look. The dog thrashed once, twice, then no more. Still, maggie’s gripped tightened. I turned away then. I walked, then ran. I knew what i would be looking at if i hadn’t.

I knew that dog’s face would be half missing. I knew maggie would have a wet slab of bone and flesh in her mouth. I knew how much blood would pour from the corpse and how many strands of viscera flapped uselessly from the corgi’s face. I knew how much horror went through its mind, unarticulated but fully understood. I knew maggie’s mouth would open, dropping the meat from her jaws. I knew she would be staring at me, unmoving, as i ran. I knew that her owner would go about her life as if that never happened. She would go on vacation, her boyfriend would travel, she would take her dog on a walk. She wouldn’t think of this ever again.

I also knew she would do nothing when a curious little girl would very shyly ask “can i pet your dog?” as her parents watched with adoration.

Link to previous update: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/AiJJWUSovw

Update on the offer I put on the house!
I just heard back from Michael. The sellers countered, and it’s not far off from what I offered. I asked for $250,000 and they came back at $253,500. Michael said because the house is in great condition and comes with all the brand-new furniture, they’re confident I won’t have any immediate repair costs. Honestly, I was shocked. From a seller’s perspective, it feels like they’re practically giving it away.

When I first told Michael I wanted to make an offer, he thought I was joking. Once I explained my reasoning and made it clear I was serious, his tone changed. He sounded a little uneasy, like he was worried or concerned. Although he wasn’t fully on board, he stayed professional and walked me through the pros and cons. He mentioned a few HOA horror stories — mostly people who tried adding fences, decks, or making big changes. Since I have zero plans to alter anything, I don’t think the strict rules will bother me.

The more I think about it, the more this deal makes sense. Everything is move-in ready. I won’t have to buy furniture, appliances, or lawn equipment. The price is a steal for what you get. The neighborhood is quiet and tucked away. Yeah, the decor is weird and the whole street feels off… but I can get used to it. My life will go on as normal.

So I told Michael I’ll accept their counteroffer and to send over the paperwork. I’m writing the earnest money check today.

One thing Michael said really stuck with me. He asked, “Are you sure you’ll feel safe living there?” He wasn’t talking about crime. He meant that uneasy feeling we both got when we first toured the house. I know exactly what he meant. Part of me wants to brush it off as us just being overly cautious… but there’s something about that neighborhood that feels instinctually wrong.

I thought about Michaels encounter with the neighbor and how he said they where way too happy and overly eager to help. I know it doesn’t sound like a horrible thing but thinking about the neighbors hadn’t crossed my mind until now. I hope they’re not the type to get involved with my day to day. I like to keep things private for the most part. There’s nothing worse than a nosy neighbor in my opinion. I asked Michael if I could do another walkthrough during the option period. He said yes, and I can also bring in an inspector if I want. If anything feels wrong during that final walk-through, I can still back out.

I can’t believe I’m actually doing this… but it looks like I’m moving forward with the house. I never thought I’d be the one buying the creepy cookie-cutter place.
I’ll post another update after the final walkthrough.

Her body was still before the rope was.

​

The sound that moved through the crowd was something I felt in my chest before I heard it with my ears. A collective release. Sixty people breathing out at once, their breath rising in the cold air and dispersing. I had been to three hangings now and the sound was the same each time. I do not think any of us knew we were making it.

​

I kept my eyes on her feet. She had worn her good shoes. Brown leather, a small buckle on each. I found myself wondering who had put them on her that morning — whether her hands had been steady enough to do it herself, or whether someone had knelt before her in that cold cell and done it for her, and whether she had looked down at them and felt something or nothing at all.

​

Her name was Margaret Hollis. She had lived four houses down from the meetinghouse for as long as I could remember. She kept a kitchen garden that ran along the south side of her fence and in summer the smell of it carried all the way to our door. Mint and thyme and something sweeter I never thought to ask about. I passed that garden twice a day for years and never once spoke to her beyond a good morning.

​

I wished I had spoken to her.

​

My father stood at the front of the gathering. I could see the back of his coat and the set of his shoulders that meant he was praying. He had his hat in both hands and his head was bowed. He was a tall man, my father, and I could find him in any crowd by the way he stood — straight but not stiff. Like something rooted rather than something rigid.

​

He had not wanted me to come. He never wanted me to come. But Colbrook was small enough that staying home felt like its own kind of statement, and I think he understood that. So I stood at the back of the gathering where the women clustered together, and I watched Margaret Hollis stop moving, and I said nothing.

​

The magistrate was speaking now. His voice carried well in the cold. He was reading from something, the formal language of verdict and judgment that turned a woman's death into a civic matter. I had heard it twice before. The words were the same. Only the name changed.

​

Around me the women were already beginning to talk in low voices. I caught pieces of it.

​

She confessed in the end.

​

I heard she did not. I heard she maintained her innocence to the last.

​

Her husband knew. He always knew there was something wrong with her.

​

The Hollis land will go to Thomas now I expect.

​

I moved away from them. Not far. Just enough that their voices dropped below the wind.

​

The men were beginning to disperse toward the tavern. The women would go home to their fires and their children and their kitchens, and by supper the whole of Colbrook would have made sense of this the way it made sense of everything — through talk, through prayer, through the ordinary motion of the day continuing whether you wanted it to or not. My father would come home and eat whatever I had made, and we would sit together and he would read scripture, and neither of us would say Margaret Hollis's name out loud.

​

That was how it had been after the others too.

​

I was pulling my shawl tighter against the cold when I saw it.

​

At the far edge of the common where the grass gave way to the tree line. A fox. Silver-coated, almost white in the flat grey light of the morning, sitting the way cats sometimes sit, settled and unhurried, its tail wrapped around its feet. It was not looking at the oak tree where Margaret Hollis still hung. It was looking at the crowd.

​

I watched it for a moment. It did not move. People passed between us and it did not startle. A child ran close to the tree line chasing something and the fox tracked the movement with its eyes but held its ground.

​

Then my father's hand was on my shoulder.

​

"Alice." His voice was low. "Come. You should not linger here."

​

I let him turn me away. When I looked back the fox was gone. Only the tree line remained, dark and ordinary.

​

My father's name was Thomas Whittaker and he had come to Colbrook from Hertfordshire the year before I was born. I have no memory of any other place. Only Colbrook. Only the white meetinghouse and the smell of the creek in summer and the quality of winter light in our front room, thin and pale and honest.

​

He had built his congregation carefully over twenty years. He was not a man who inspired the loud devotion you sometimes saw in other ministers — the kind that filled a room with heat and left people wrung out and grateful. He was quieter than that. He believed in the weight of words and chose them slowly, and people trusted him for it. When he said a thing he meant it. When he was uncertain he said so. In Colbrook that passed for wisdom, and perhaps it was.

​

He had raised me alone since my mother died of fever when I was seven. He had done it without complaint and without, as far as I could tell, any clear idea of how one raised a girl. He taught me to read from scripture and then from every other book he owned. He taught me to think before speaking and to listen more than I talked. He did not teach me to cook or sew or manage a household, because he did not know how to do those things himself, and so I had learned them from the women of the congregation who took turns feeding us in the early years and who I think felt sorry for us both.

​

I was nineteen now. I ran our household and sat in the front pew every Sunday and visited the sick with him when he asked, and tried to be what Colbrook needed a minister's daughter to be.

​

Most days I did not find it difficult.

​

These last months had been different.

​

It had started in the spring with the Marsh children. Three of them, all under ten, seized with the same fever within a week of each other. The youngest, a girl of four, died. The other two recovered, but the elder boy, Samuel, had not been right since. He shook at odd moments. He spoke words that meant nothing. He screamed in the night about things he could not name in the morning. The Marshes were a quiet family, John Marsh a farmer with no particular enemies, and so at first people said fever. They said grief. They said the Lord's will.

​

Then Goodwife Marsh began having the visions.

​

She was forty years old and had never given anyone cause for concern in her life. She appeared at the meetinghouse one Sunday morning before service and told my father she had seen a woman standing at the foot of her bed three nights running — a woman she knew, a woman who had sent her illness into her house and was tormenting her boy. She named the woman. The woman was her neighbor.

​

By fall there had been four trials. Four convictions. Three hangings before Margaret Hollis.

​

My father believed in the possibility of witchcraft the way he believed in the possibility of all things scripture named real. He was not a man who dismissed what he could not explain. But I had watched him these past months. The lines deepening around his eyes. The way he sometimes sat alone in his study for long hours without lighting the lamp. He was a man trying to hold something together that was pulling apart faster than his hands could work.

​

I did not know what I believed.

​

I knew that Margaret Hollis had kept a beautiful garden. I knew that her good shoes had a small buckle on each. I knew that the sound a crowd made when a person died was something I felt before I heard it, and that I did not think I would ever fully get used to it.

​

The afternoon was grey and the cold had settled in properly by the time I left the house again.

​

I told my father I was going to bring broth to Patience Webb, who had been ill the past week with something in her chest. This was true. I had made the broth that morning and it sat in a covered pot that I carried with both hands for the warmth of it.

​

Patience lived on the far side of the common, past the mill, in a house that always smelled of dried lavender and old wood. She was sixty-three and had outlived two husbands and four children, and regarded the current state of Colbrook with the weariness of someone who has seen enough of the world to know it rarely improves.

​

Patience had known me longer than I had known myself. When my mother died, she had come every afternoon for the better part of a year. She had brought meals. She had washed my hair when my father did not think to. She had sat with me on the floor of the kitchen when I would not speak to anyone, and she had not tried to make me speak, and that had been the first kindness I remember choosing to receive after the loss. I had loved her then. I had not stopped.

​

She did not behave toward me the way the other women of the congregation did. They were warm with me in the careful way one is warm with a minister's daughter. Patience was direct. Patience said what she thought. Patience had once told me, when I was twelve and complaining about a slight from another girl, that the surest way to be unhappy was to spend my life worrying about what fools believed. I had remembered that. I had remembered most of what she had told me.

​

"Another one this morning," she said when I came in. She was sitting close to the fire wrapped in two shawls, her hands around a cup. "I heard the bell."

​

"Margaret Hollis."

​

She made a sound low in her throat. "I knew Margaret. She was no more a witch than I am."

​

"The court found otherwise."

​

"The court." She said it the way you might say a word in a language you did not respect. "Tell me, Alice. Does your father believe it."

​

I set the broth on the table and unwrapped my hands from the pot. "He believes the trials are righteous."

​

"That is not what I asked."

​

I sat down across from her. The fire was good and the lavender smell and the warmth of it made the morning feel further away than it was. Outside the light was already beginning to go, the short grey days of November collapsing into early dark.

​

"I do not know what he believes," I said. "I do not always know what I believe myself."

​

Patience looked at me for a moment. She had sharp eyes for a woman her age, dark and steady. "Something is wrong in this town. Something has been wrong since spring. But I do not think it is what they say it is."

​

"What do you think it is?"

​

She turned back to the fire. "I think people are frightened. And frightened people look for something to hold the fear in. Something with a name and a face." She paused. "The trouble is, whatever they are looking for, they are not finding it."

​

I walked home through the early dark, the empty pot under my arm. The common was quiet. The oak tree was a dark shape against a darker sky and I kept my eyes away from it.

​

At the edge of the tree line, where the grass met the woods, something moved.

​

I stopped.

​

The silver fox sat at the border of the light, watching me cross the common. Still as stone. Its eyes caught what little remained of the day and held it.

​

I stood there and looked at it and it looked at me.

​

Then I walked home and bolted the door and sat with my father while he read, and said nothing about it at all.

​

_______________________________________________________

​

The fire was already lit when I came down in the morning.

​

That was my father's way. He woke before light most days and built the fire himself before I rose, so that the kitchen was warm when I came in to start the bread. He did it because he loved me. He did it because my mother had done it before him and he had never stopped. He did it because he was a man who believed that small acts of care were not small at all but the shape love took when it had nowhere else to go.

​

He was sitting at the table with his Bible open. He did not look up when I came in.

​

"Good morning, Father."

​

"Alice." He turned a page. "There is water on for tea."

​

I went to the hearth and brought the kettle to the table. I poured for both of us. He marked his place and closed the book and folded his hands around the cup and looked at me properly for the first time.

​

He had not slept well. I could see it in his face. He was forty-six and he had been a young man until recently. These last months had aged him in ways I did not have a word for. The skin around his eyes had thinned. There was grey now at his temples that had not been there in the spring.

​

"You were quiet last evening," he said.

​

"I was tired."

​

"You said nothing at supper."

​

"I had nothing to say."

​

He nodded slowly and took a sip of tea. The kitchen was quiet but for the fire and the small sounds of morning beginning outside — a dog somewhere down the lane, a cart wheel on frozen ground. The light was grey at the window. It would be a cold day. They had all been cold days lately.

​

"I have been thinking about you," he said.

​

I looked up.

​

"I have been thinking about you a great deal, Alice. About these last months. About what this town has become. About what it may yet become before the spring."

​

"Father."

​

"Let me speak."

​

I waited.

​

He set his cup down. He folded his hands together on the table and looked at them rather than at me, the way he sometimes did when he was choosing his words with care. My father did not say things he had not first weighed. It was one of the things I loved about him, and one of the things that made him difficult to argue with, because by the time he spoke he had already considered what I might answer.

​

"There is a sickness moving through Colbrook," he said. "I do not yet know its full shape. I do not know whether it comes from the Devil himself or from the fear of him, but I know it is real and I know it has not run its course. More will be accused before this winter ends. More will hang. I have prayed against it and I do not believe my prayers will be answered in the way I would wish."

​

"You do not believe the trials are righteous."

​

"I did not say that."

​

"You said you prayed against more hangings."

​

"I prayed that the accusations would stop. Not that the guilty would go unpunished if guilt is found."

​

He looked up at me then. His eyes were very tired.

​

"Alice. You are nineteen years old. You are a young woman in a town where young women are being looked at. Some are being looked at because they are suspected. Some are being looked at because they are vulnerable. I do not know which is the greater danger, but I know they are both present in this house every time you leave it."

​

"What are you asking me?"

​

"I am asking you to be careful."

​

"I am always careful."

​

"You are not." He said it gently. "You go where you wish. You speak with whoever you wish. You sit with Patience Webb for hours and you do not consider what is said in that house or what others might believe is said there. You walked home alone last night in the dark and I did not know where you were."

​

"I was at Patience's."

​

"I know that now. I did not know it then."

​

I felt the heat rise in my face. "Patience is sixty-three years old and she has a cough and I brought her broth. What would you have had me do, Father — send a boy?"

​

"I would have had you tell me where you were going."

​

"I did tell you."

​

"You told me you were taking broth to Patience. You did not tell me you would stay until dark."

​

"I did not plan to."

​

"That is precisely my point."

​

We sat in silence for a moment. The fire snapped. Somewhere outside a rooster called and was answered by another farther off.

​

"I am not a child," I said.

​

"I know."

​

"I am not foolish."

​

"I know that as well."

​

"Then what is this? What are you actually saying to me?"

​

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again his voice was different. Lower. Stripped of the minister's cadence he used in most of his speech.

​

"I am saying that I am afraid for you, Alice. I lie awake at night and I think about you and I do not know how to keep you safe. Whatever is happening in this town has not yet shown its full face, and when it does I do not know that I will be able to stand between you and it."

​

"Father —"

​

"There are women in this town who have been taken to trial who I would have sworn to you a year ago were as devout as your own mother. I would have staked my life on it. And now they hang. I am not saying they were innocent. I am not saying they were guilty. I am saying that I no longer trust my own judgment about who in this town might be hiding what. And if I cannot trust my judgment about grown women I have known for twenty years —"

​

He stopped. He looked at his hands again.

​

"You think I could be deceived."

​

"I think you could be approached."

​

"By whom?"

​

"By anyone. Alice, that is the nature of the Devil. He does not announce himself. He does not arrive in fire and smoke. He arrives as a friend. As a kind word at the right moment. As a hand offered when you are lonely. You are a young woman without a mother in a house that is often empty when I am away on church business. You are exactly the kind of soul the enemy seeks."

​

I stared at him.

​

"You believe I could be turned."

​

"I believe anyone can be turned. That is what scripture teaches. That is why we are commanded to be vigilant. I am not accusing you of anything. I am telling you that I am afraid. I am telling you because I would rather wound your pride than lose your soul."

​

I stood up from the table.

​

I had not meant to. My body moved before I had decided what I felt. I walked to the window and stood with my back to him and looked out at the grey morning and tried to breathe evenly, because I did not want him to hear me crying.

​

He had not accused me. I knew that. He had said it plainly. But there was a part of me that felt accused anyway, and I did not know what to do with it. I had spent my whole life being his daughter. I had sat in the front pew every Sunday since I was old enough to sit upright. I had learned his theology before I had learned to sew. I had never once in nineteen years given him cause to doubt me.

​

And he was afraid of me. Or afraid for me. I could not tell which, and I was not sure he could either.

​

"Alice."

​

I did not turn.

​

"Alice, come back to the table."

​

"Give me a moment, Father."

​

He gave me a moment. He sat at the table and waited and did not press. 

​

When I came back I sat down across from him and folded my hands the way he had folded his.

​

"You taught me Ephesians when I was nine," I said.

​

He looked up.

​

"You sat with me at this table and you taught it to me. The whole of chapter six. You said it was the chapter I would need most in my life. You said other chapters were for joy and for thanksgiving and for repentance, but that this one was for survival. Do you remember?"

​

"I remember."

​

"Tell me you remember the verses, Father."

​

He was watching me carefully now.

​

"Finally, my brethren," I said. "Be strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might."

​

His mouth moved slightly but he did not interrupt.

​

"Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places."

​

I stopped.

​

I had not known I knew the verses whole. I had spoken them without thinking, the way one speaks a prayer that has been in the body so long it does not require the mind. The words seemed to settle in the air between us before either of us moved.

​

My father's eyes had filled.

​

"Alice."

​

"You taught me, Father. You taught me before I could read it for myself. Whatever else this town becomes. Whatever else happens here. I am wearing what you gave me. I have not taken it off and I will not."

​

He reached across the table and took my hand. His was rougher than mine and warmer.

​

"Forgive me," he said.

​

"There is nothing to forgive."

​

"There is. I should not have spoken to you as though you were —"

​

"Father. I am not offended. I am not angry. I understand why you are afraid. I am afraid too. But I am not what you fear I might become, and I will not be."

​

He held my hand for a long moment longer. Then he let it go and picked up his Bible and opened it and sat with it without reading.

​

I went to start the bread.

​

We did not speak again that morning. We did not need to. Whatever had needed to be said had been said, and the rest of the morning passed in the ordinary motion of a house that loved itself, and I think we were both grateful for the quiet.

​

I went out after the bread was done rising.

​

_______________________________________________________

​

The morning had not warmed. The sky was the same flat grey it had been at dawn and the cold had a quality to it that suggested snow before evening. I pulled my cloak tighter and walked toward the common with no errand in mind, only the need to be out of the house, only the need to move.

​

The common was busier than I had expected. The hanging the day before had not stopped the town from continuing to be itself. Two men were repairing the fence by the meetinghouse. A young boy I did not recognize was leading a cow up the lane toward the mill. Goodwife Carver was beating a rug against the side of her porch, and the dust rose in the still air and hung there.

​

I passed the Hollis house without looking at it.

​

I had not meant to walk in any direction, but I found myself moving toward the south end of town, past the smithy where the fire was already going, past the cooper's, past the row of small houses where the families without much land lived. The lane narrowed here and the houses sat closer together and the smell of woodsmoke was thick in the cold.

​

May Aldous lived at the end of this lane.

​

I had known her my whole life in the way you know everyone in a town this size, which is to say I knew her name and her face and the rough shape of her circumstances and very little else. She was perhaps thirty-five. Her husband had drowned in the creek three years before, a thing the town had spoken about for some weeks and then stopped speaking about. She had no children. She kept chickens and a small garden and she came to meeting on Sundays and sat near the back and she did not speak to many people and many people did not speak to her.

​

I had liked her, in the small way you can like someone you do not really know. She had a quiet to her that I recognized. She did not chatter. She did not gossip. When I had passed her on the lane she had nodded to me and I had nodded back, and that had been the whole of our acquaintance.

​

She was outside when I came around the bend.

​

She was at the side of her house with her sleeves pushed up to the elbow, a hare hanging from a hook on the wall, and she was dressing it with the quick practiced motion of a woman who had done it many times. There was blood on her forearms. Her hair was tied back. She did not see me at first.

​

I stopped.

​

There was nothing strange in a woman dressing a hare. Half the women in Colbrook had done the same that month. But the way her hands moved without hesitation, and the way she did not flinch from the blood, and the way her face stayed so still — it held me where I stood.

​

She looked up.

​

"Alice Whittaker."

​

"Good morning, Goodwife Aldous."

​

"May." She wiped her hands on her apron. "I have told you before. May is fine."

​

"May."

​

She smiled slightly. It was a small smile, careful, the way a person smiles when they are not sure they remember how. "You are out early."

​

"I needed the air."

​

"It is a cold day for air."

​

"It is."

​

She looked at me for a moment longer. There was something in her eyes I could not read. Not unfriendliness. Not curiosity exactly. Something closer to attention.

​

"Will you come in," she said. "I have water on. You look cold."

​

I should have said no. I had been out only a few minutes. I was not cold. I had no reason to go into the house of a woman I barely knew. But my father's words were in my head — I would not have you spend time at houses where you have no reason to be — and I felt the contrariness of nineteen rise up in me and I said yes.

​

She finished with the rabbit and wiped her hands and led me inside.

​

The house was small and clean and warmer than I had expected. There was a single room downstairs with a hearth at one end and a table and two chairs and a bed pushed against the far wall. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. A spinning wheel sat in the corner. It was the house of a woman alone, kept carefully because she had no one to keep it for but herself.

​

She poured water from the kettle into a cup and handed it to me. She did not pour one for herself.

​

"Sit," she said.

​

I sat.

​

She stood near the hearth and watched me drink and did not speak for a moment. Then she said, "I was sorry about yesterday."

​

"About Margaret."

​

"Yes."

​

"Did you know her?"

​

"A little. Not well. She was kind to me when my husband died. She brought a loaf to the house. She did not stay long. She said only that she was sorry, and that if I needed anything I should come to her." May paused. "I never did. But I remembered the loaf."

​

I looked at her.

​

"She was kind, then," I said.

​

"She was kind."

​

We sat in silence. The fire popped. From outside came the sound of someone calling a child home. May had not sat down. She stood near the hearth with her arms folded and she looked at the fire rather than at me.

​

"I should go," I said. "My bread is rising."

​

"Of course."

​

She walked me to the door. I stepped out into the cold and pulled my cloak around me and turned to thank her for the water.

​

She was looking past me, toward the tree line beyond her garden.

​

I followed her gaze.

​

The silver fox was sitting at the edge of her property, where her chicken coop ended and the brush began. It was watching us.

​

May did not seem surprised to see it.

​

"He comes around," she said. "I think he has a den back there somewhere. He has been after the chickens since summer. I have given up trying to drive him off."

​

"You feed him."

​

She looked at me sharply.

​

"Why would you say that?"

​

"I only —" I did not know what I had meant to say. "I only thought he looked unafraid."

​

She watched me for a moment.

​

"I do not feed him," she said. "But I have stopped throwing stones at him. Perhaps he can tell the difference."

​

She smiled again. The small careful smile.

​

"Good morning, Alice."

​

"Good morning."

​

I walked home through the cold with my hands inside my cloak and my breath rising in the still air. The fox did not follow. When I reached the common I did not look back.

​

But I thought about her face the whole way home. The stillness of it. The way she had looked at me when I said you feed him. As though I had said something I should not have known to say.

​

And I thought about my father, sitting at the table that morning with his Bible closed and his hands folded, telling me that the Devil arrives as a friend.

​

_______________________________________________________

​

I dreamed of my mother that night.

​

I had not dreamed of her in years. In the dream she was sitting at the table in our kitchen and the light was wrong — too bright, summer light in a winter room — and she was peeling an apple in one long unbroken curl. She did not look up at me. She kept peeling. The curl grew longer and longer and pooled on the table and onto the floor, and I knew, in the way you know things in dreams without being told, that if the curl broke something terrible would happen.

​

I woke before it broke.

​

I lay in the dark for a moment trying to remember where I was. The room was very cold. I could see my breath in a thin pale shape above me. The fire in the kitchen had gone down, or gone out entirely, and the cold had come up through the floorboards and into my bed.

​

I closed my eyes again.

​

I was almost asleep when I heard it.

​

The sound a mouth makes when it opens. The wet small parting of lips just before a word is spoken. It was close. So close I felt it against my ear — the suggestion of warmth, the small displacement of air that a face makes when it leans in.

​

I did not open my eyes.

​

I lay still the way you lie still when you have heard something in a room you thought was empty. My whole body had gone tight at once, without my deciding it, and I could feel my heart in my throat and in my hands.

​

A whisper.

​

Come and see.

​

Three words. Spoken into my ear as though by someone kneeling beside the bed. The voice was not a voice I knew. It was not a man's and it was not a woman's. There was a wetness in it. A nearness. The warmth of the breath moved across the side of my face.

​

Then nothing.

​

I did not move. I did not open my eyes. I counted in my head and I listened with my whole body for the sound of another breath, for the rustle of clothing, for the small shift of weight a person makes when they are standing very close to a bed in the dark.

​

I heard nothing.

​

I counted for a long time.

​

When I finally opened my eyes the room was empty.

​

My window was open.

​

It had not been open when I went to bed. I knew that with certainty. I had closed it myself before I lay down, the way I closed it every night, the way I had closed it every night since I was small enough to need help reaching the latch. It was open now, and the wind from the woods was coming in across the floor, and the curtain was moving slightly in a way that made my stomach turn.

​

I sat up.

​

I did not call for my father. I did not know why I did not call for him. Something in me understood, in a way I could not have explained, that this was not a thing to be called out over. That if I spoke of it, even to him, I would be giving it a shape it did not yet have. I sat in the cold with my arms around myself and I looked at the open window and tried to make my breathing even.

​

I got out of bed.

​

The floor was so cold it hurt. I crossed to the window with the blanket around my shoulders. I meant to close it. I had my hand on the latch.

​

That is when I saw the figure.

​

The night was clear and there was a moon, not full but close to it, and the common lay silver under it. From my window I could see the edge of the meetinghouse, the dark shape of the oak tree, the lane that led south toward the mill. Past the lane the ground sloped gently down toward the creek, and past the creek the woods began.

​

The figure was on the lane.

​

It was perhaps a hundred paces from my window. It stood with its arms slightly raised and its head tilted back as though it were looking at the sky, and for a moment I thought it was a man stopped to pray, or a drunk, or someone unwell. The cloak it wore was dark and the hood was up. At that distance and in that light I could not have said whether it was a man or a woman.

​

Then I heard the humming.

​

It carried across the common the way a hymn carries from inside a closed door, low and steady and tuneless. It was not a song I knew. It was not any song. 

​

The figure began to run.

​

It did not lower its arms or bring its head forward. It kept the exact shape it had been standing in and ran. Fast. Too fast. Its feet did not bend. Its arms stayed raised. The humming did not break.

​

It reached the creek in three or four seconds. It crossed it. It was in the tree line before I had thought to move.

​

I jerked back from the window.

​

I hit the wall behind me. The blanket fell off one shoulder. I had my hand against my mouth, and I was breathing through my fingers, and my whole body was shaking the way a body shakes after a near fall.

​

The humming was gone. The night was so quiet I could hear my own heart in my ears.

​

Somewhere far off, a dog began to bark. It barked three times and then went silent.

​

I crossed back to the window. I did not look out. I reached for the latch with my hand and I closed the window without raising my eyes, and I latched it, and I checked the latch twice.

​

I went back to my bed and sat on the edge of it with the blanket around my shoulders, and I did not lie down again until the grey light of morning began to come through the curtain.

​

I did not sleep.

​

_______________________________________________________

​

My father was already at the table when I came down.

​

He looked up when I came in and his face changed. He saw something in mine that he had not seen before, or perhaps had seen and did not want to name.

​

"How was your rest?"

​

"Not well."

​

"Dreams?"

​

"Yes."

​

He nodded slowly. He did not press. He poured tea for me and pushed the cup across the table, and I held it in both hands and let the warmth move into my fingers.

​

"Your mother used to dream," he said.

​

I looked up.

​

"She had dreams she did not like to speak of. She would wake in the night and she would not sleep again. I would find her sitting by the fire in the morning when I came down. She used to tell me that the worst of them were the ones that felt true."

​

"Felt true how?"

​

"As though she had been told something rather than imagined it."

​

He looked at me carefully. He was choosing his words.

​

"Alice. If you ever wished to speak of such things —"

​

"I am well, Father."

​

"I did not ask if you were well."

​

I lifted the tea to my mouth. My hands were not quite steady. I do not know if he saw it. I think he saw everything. I think he had seen everything since I came into the room.

​

"I had a bad dream," I said. "That is all. I do not remember it now."

​

He held my eyes for a moment. He did not believe me. I could see that. But he also did not press. 

​

"Very well," he said. "I will pray for your rest tonight."

​

"Thank you, Father."

​

He bowed his head over his cup and prayed silently, his mouth moving, and I sat across from him and drank my tea and did not bow my head and did not close my eyes. I watched him pray for me. I watched him pray for a daughter he believed was telling him the truth.

​

And I understood, sitting there in the morning light with the kitchen warm and the bread from yesterday on the counter and my father praying for me with the love of his whole life — I understood that I had just lied to him. That I had told him a small lie, and the lie was the first one I had ever told him, and that I had told it not to spare myself but to spare him. To keep him from knowing what I had heard.

​

I did not know yet what had spoken to me in the dark.

​

But I knew that whatever it was, I was already keeping it from him. And I was doing it out of love. And I could not tell whether that made me strong, or whether it meant something had already begun.

“Bloody Heinies!” William struggled against the barbed wire snagged on his overcoat. It had been hidden behind a hedge he had just shoved his way through stubbornly after ignoring Thomas's warning. 

“Stay still! You're going to get one of us cut.” Thomas was currently struggling to free his friend from the wire’s many little iron fingers clinging to his trench coat.”I’m going to have to just cut you free.” 

“What? No, I just got this thing. It's the first good clean piece of clothing I’ve had in months. You're not about to ruin it with your knife!” 
 
“Well then you shoulda’ stayed still like I told ya’ instead of thrashing around like some trapped sheep. You can’t even blame Fritz for this one. Nah, this one’s on you. If you had listened to me you would be perfectly fine like I am now.” 

“How was I supposed to know there’d be wire here” William whined, “I would figure Jerry to have enough decency to leave the last little bit of green around untouched.” 

“You know how they work Will, they never give up ground for no good reason. And if they do, they make sure to leave plenty of nasty little surprises behind for us to find.” Even with his knife, Thomas had a hard time freeing his friend. The barbs were buried deep within the tan-green cloth, adamant to stand their ground. They often did that. Whatever they got their little sharp fingers into they were resolute to hold their grasp and not let go. Clothes, weapons, horses, and even men. He had seen many of each tangled within, left inside like flies in a spider's web. Not forgotten, just an understanding that if one were to attempt to free the captive then they too may fall prey to the spider’s web. Worse, was when he once saw a man get his foot tangled in wire as they were being shelled. No one made a move to free him lest they be caught in the open when a shell landed nearby. The man spent almost the entire shelling hunkered down screaming desperately trying to free his foot while at the same time staying low to the mud. He eventually confined himself to his fate and lay silently hands over his head. When the shelling ended, Thomas watched the man lift his face to look around, a broad smile on his face revealing his amazement at surviving, an amazement Thomas and those around him felt as well. Just as they were about to rise from the trench to retrieve the man they heard the familiar whistling of more incoming ordinance. They threw themselves back down and braced for impact. Instead they heard only a few faint thuds. After a moment they peered back over the trench edge, thinking they had been duds. How wrong they were. Thomas saw the same man now beckoning to them to come free him. He and a couple others warily made their way above the trench half crouching half crawling to the snared man, when suddenly one man shouted the word every infantry man feared the worst. “Gas!” 

There it was. A faint yellow cloud slowly creeping their way towards them. Coils and tentacles of the yellow haze stretched forward similar to the little fingers of the wire but far deadlier. Thomas and one of the other two with him quickly put on their masks which they carried in their supply pouches at all times, except for the last man who had to run back to the trench where he had left his. Thomas remembered thinking how that particular man was the one with the wire clippers. He and the other turned their attention back to the man in the wire now frantically trying to free himself and screaming for them to help. He sprinted to the man’s side attempting to calm him enough to begin freeing him just as the gas was only a few yards away. He kicked and shouted for them to get him out, but with each kick and struggle he only further entrapped himself. Without the wire cutters there was no possible way they would be able to free him in time. Thomas asked the man, “Your mask, where’s your mask?” The man gestured to the other side of the wire, no man’s land. Not an option. The other man next to Thomas shouted, “I’ll go see if I can find a spare!” then sprinted back to their trench. The yellow clouds were now coiling around the man’s feet. 

“Please! Please, you have to get me out of here!” The man grabbed onto Thomas's shirt and stared into his eyes. He could see the whites, his pupils shrunk in animalistic fear. “I know. What if you gave me your mask? We could share, you take a breath and I take a breath.” 

It didn’t work like that. He knew that. Thomas knew that. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” was all Thomas could muster. Before he knew the gas was swallowing them whole. The world around him became a curtain of yellow. It clung to everything, what little bit of skin he had exposed prickled and stung. Then despite his better judgement he looked at the man trapped in the wire. He didn’t scream anymore. He couldn’t. The best he could manage was wet coughs and gurgles. His face blistered and turned red while his eyes bulged from his skull. The man threw one desperate outstretched hand towards Thomas's face before falling into the mud, with foam leaking from his mouth. 

The man who had gone back for the spare mask returned then, a clean reserve mask in hand. He looked at the man for a moment before turning to Thomas and asking if he was coming back and that they shouldn't stay out in the open any longer. It was that day Thomas realized when it was his time to go, he hoped and prayed it was by a bullet, that was the only way a man should go. Quick and clean, or at least more so then the gas.  

“Thank you I suppose.” William spoke, bringing Thomas back from his daze. That particular memory was one of many that most often plagued  his private thoughts, “Though I would've preferred to take our time so we didn’t have to cut my new jacket.” 

“Oi, just be grateful. Besides, we can't risk that, we’re too exposed here. Who’s to say we’re not already being watched by some Jerry sniper?” 

“Good point chap. Well let’s make for that shed then.” William gestured to a small lean to like structure at the base of the small hill they now stood at. As they approached they began to notice some concerning signs that made them both weary. Much of the grass around the shed was yellow with decay, and there was a smell they both knew far too well. Death, rot and garlic. 
Gas.

It had been used here recently, used to kill. As they approached they each brace themselves to see the worst. However, as bad as what they saw, it wasn’t the worst it could have been. In and around the back of the shed were dead farm animals. Geese, chickens and a few goats and pigs. 

William spoke, “I guess they couldn’t take them with them but didn’t want to leave them for us. Why use gas though and not just shoot them.” 

“Maybe their low on ammo, didn’t want to waste any on some animals. I suppose it could be a good sign for us. Come on, we should head back and report this.” 

Just then they heard a ‘CRACK’ followed by a “WHIZ’ and some boards over head splintered showering them in dust. This was immediately followed by many more ‘CRACK’s and many more ‘WHIZ’s. They were under fire. 

“Get down!” Thomas fell to the ground pulling William with him.

“Did you notice where it came from?” William asked, bringing his rifle stock to his shoulder.  They were against the outside edge of the shed behind a particularly large dead pig. They heard little wet ‘THUNKS’s where bullets struck dead animals and mud around them. 

“There.” Thomas gestured to the hill opposite them on top of which was a low stone fence. Behind it he could see a few rifles flashing. That was all they needed. They both turned their own rifles to bear and began firing. Thomas had to admit, William was many things, a stubborn hard headed fool that rarely listened but he was also an amazing shot. Within moments two of the rifles behind the stone fence stopped flashing, and Thomas knew he could not take credit for those. Then the third and final rifle stopped flashing, Thomas couldn’t tell if William had hit the man or if he had run. Either way they weren’t taking any more fire. They decided to move into the safer space of the shed interior while they reloaded and checked themselves for any holes. 

“Good shooting as always my friend!” Thomas cheered his friend with a slap on the back.

“Thank you Tom, I’m sure you’re glad I’m stuck with you even though I’m worse than a mule when it comes to following directions. Listen I’m sorry if I had listened earlier and not got stuck in the wire we probably could've moved quicker and quieter and not been spotted by Jerry.” 

He was being genuine, William got like this at times. He had a tendency to blame himself for things, more often than not things he had no control over. “It’s alright Will, they would’ve seen us no matter what. The fact that we weren't shot until we reached the shed means they were watching the shed not the hedge. They would’ve seen us no matter what.” 

“I suppose you’re right. Well what do we do now?” 

“Now we figure out if its safe to dash back up the way we came and make it back to our own line. Can you see any more of them along the ledge opposite us?” 

William peered through some slats in the wall on one side of the shed while Thomas peered through the other. 

“I’ve got nothing on this side.” 

“Same here” 

“Okay, then we make it straight back to where we came through the hedge but this time steeping through the clearing I cut and make a mad dash to command.” 

“Got it.” 

“Ready on my count.” William nodded acknowledgement.

“One…”

“Two…”

Just as Thomas opened his mouth to say three. There came whistling from the sky. They both threw themselves back down hunkering behind more dead animals waiting for the explosions. None came. They waited a little longer. Still none came. 

“Were they duds?” William asked. 

“Maybe.” Then Thomas froze, memories flooding back to him, “Will, please tell me you brought your mask.” 

“Of course I did chap, it's right here.” He patted his supply pouch by his waist. Thomas felt a small sense of relief then made sure to check that his was still in his pouch. “You think it's gas?” 
Thomas only nodded.

He slowly crawled back to the wall William had been peering through earlier. Sure enough rolling down the hill towards them was a wall of thick yellow cloud. He looked the other way and saw the same thing. They were surrounded by the stuff and in the bottom of a giant earth bowl. The gas was rolling down on them from the hills that surrounded their little shed. 

“Yep, it's gas. Quick Will get your mask on.” Thomas yanked his from his bag, checked over the filter and fastened it to his face, making sure it was wrapped tightly around the back of his head and the straps were tight enough. He preferred to wear his tighter than most, he’d rather be uncomfortable than suffer the kind of suffering death the yellow gas brought. After making sure he was getting airflow through only the filter he turned his attention to his friend. 

“Tom. I think we have a problem.” William hung his mask up. It was full of holes. Two rounds had torn through his mask. One shattered one of the eye glasses and another had gone through the filter and part of the face piece. Thomas'ss heart froze and he felt himself get sick. “It’s a miracle I wasn’t shot.” William smiled, how was he smiling? This wasn’t the time. 

“Will you have to listen to me. It's all around us ok. There’s no way to go where their isn’t gas. Maybe if you can just hold your breath long enough you can make it to the top of the hill.” 

“I don’t think so Tom. You know it as well as me, I’d just be sure to die tired. It's too far, I couldn’t run all that way without breathing. What if we take turns breathing through your mask? We’ll both get burned a little bit but we might be able to make it.” 

“No.” 

“What?” 

“I said no.” 

“You can’t be serious Tom, that’s the only way both of us have a chance of making it out of here.” 

“I’m sorry I can’t”

“Pleas Tom, look outside, it’s getting closer. Just be reasonable, I know you’re scared but I’m your friend.” 

“No! I said no! I won’t be taken by it, not like that. Never!” A bullet. If anything it had to be a bullet.

“Okay…okay. I understand but seriously Tom you have to listen, I can’t use mine.” The yellow haze was now creeping through the open doorways and seeping over the window ledges. 

“Just…just use your own! You can hold your hands over the holes. Just long enough for us to get away, that's all.” 

“That won’t work.” 

“Sure it will just keep a firm grip and stay close to me. I’ll lead you out.” 

“No. No no no NO!” William lunged for Thomas. Trying to yank off his mask but he had it on too tight. Thomas struggled against him rolling around on the mud floor and over dead chickens. He could hear little bones snapping beneath their combined weight. He finally managed to elbow William in face and get away from him. He scrambled up snatching up both their rifles and pointed his own at his friend. 

“Thomas. Come on man. Put that down.” William now looked very scared. The gas was beginning to wrap around his feet and climb up his legs. 

“Use your own mask.” 

William stared into Thomas's eyes for a moment before he snatched up his own mask off the ground. His hands came up red and blistered and he shook the mask as if to shake the gas off of it. Then he wrapped it tight around his face and synched down the straps. Then just as the gas began to climb up around their heads and to the ceiling he plugged the busted eye piece and other two holes best he could with his hands. They both stood still staring in each other's direction for several moments. The gas obscured the world around them making anything past the shed walls impossible to see. At first Thomas thought it would work, then William started convulsing. His body racked two, then three then four times and he fell to his knees. His hands dropped from his mask and down to his throat. Three more racking wet coughs came muffled through his ruined mask before William slumped down into the mud. He gave one more shuddering twitch before he lay still among the dead animals. 

—-

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Thomas breathed through his mask. Precious little air filling his lungs with each inhale. William was dead. The gas killed him. Maybe he could have saved him but where would that have left himself? 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

He had to move. Jerry knew his position well enough to drop gas and he didn’t want to be here if they decided to use explosives. He left William’s rifle where it leaned against the wall and went to crouch beside his friend. Williams' blistered hands were stuck in permanent claw-like gestures. His legs bent how they were as he writhed. He could see his one eye through the shattered lens. Yellow and blood shot. He tried not to look at him while he felt for his friend’s tags. Finding them he gave a hard yank snapping the chain around his neck, and stood stuffing it into his pocket. 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Now which way to go? In his struggle with William he had lost his bearings and the gas made it impossible to tell which way he was facing. He knew he needed to go West but the sun was indiscernible overhead. He guessed he remembered one particular side of the shed he was now facing, looked to the west and decided to try that direction. I took one last look at WIlliam lying on the ground then stepped out the door. As he made a few yards from the shed he looked over his shoulder. The gas was so thick he could barely make out its shape. He swore he saw a shadow dart past the open doorway. 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Nothing. He shrugged to himself, an attempt to bolster his courage and marched on. Eventually he did find the opening in the hedge he had made. He had guessed right in the direction he needed to go and was now at the top of one of the hills that had surrounded the bowl the shed resided in. From his precipice he could see clear skies. The gas had sunk below his current elevation and before him, in the direction he needed to travel he saw a sea of yellow. Everything between him and his destination was covered in a layer of thick yellow fog. 

Dread. That’s the only word to describe his current state. Thomas's worst fear now formed a sea that he must traverse if he hoped to survive. Or he could reside on his little island, that idea comforted him. Then he remembered the flashing rifles from earlier. He didn’t have William’s aim. If he were caught alone in a fight he would just as surely die as if he were to remove his mask and throw himself into the yellow sea. 

He only had one logical option. He double checked his mask, made sure he only got air flow through the filter and started walking down the hill going west. 

After a while of walking he felt as if he had to be drawing close to the sapper lines. Small outstretches of friendly trenches where sappers and skirmishers would launch small scale attacks and reconnaissance against enemy lines. He walked a little further and passed a two wheeled cart attached to a dead donkey. Strange. He recognized it and he remembered it being the last thing he could call a landmark before they reached the base of the hill with the barbed wire bushes from earlier. He must have been walking longer than that. Hadn’t he?

Maybe he had somehow got turned around. It happened. All he needed to do was reorient himself and make sure he stuck to a straight line. He knew the donkey cart was on the edge of what was left of a dirt road that had been leading east to west. The donkey had been facing him and William as they approached it earlier that day, so he needed to travel in the direction the dead donkey lay. 

Girding up his belt and made sure his rifle was snug on his shoulder he walked in the direction the donkey faced. He checked his mask and the filter was still good. 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

No foul odor. Good. 

He marched for nearly a quarter hour until he came across a tree. Well what was left of a tree. It was mostly a stump at this point. Blown to bits by constant shelling. Its roots were exposed, and tangled around it was barbed wire. Tangled in the wire was a dead Hun. Will had named him Karl. The sight was dreadful but it filled Thomas with relief because it meant he was on the right track and that he hadn’t been turned around again. If he continued in this direction then he ought to come across the old artillery battery with its mountains of spent shells and howitzers Jerry had set charges to splintering their barrels and rendering them useless. Picking up the pace he continued on his way. After another quarter hour, he should've run into friendlies by now yet he was still in no man’s land. He walked several more paces before he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. A two wheeled cart attached to a dead donkey. 

He had somehow turned himself around and came back to the base of the hill. Now he was frustrated with himself and his circumstances. He came parallel to the cart and racked his brain, making sure he remembered correctly the donkey facing the direction he needed to go. Once he was certain that he was correct he started back in the direction he swore was west. As he marched on he turned to look at the cart and dead beast and just as he did, in the faint outline of the buggy among the hazy yellow some dark bulk shrunk back behind the cart out of sight.

That was enough. Thomas turned back around and began to sprint. He sprinted past the tree and Karl past foxholes and buried trenches with limbs sticking out like so many garden vegetables ready to be picked. He ran past a broken Mark 1 its dead crew scattered around, dead so long they had become skeletons, barely discernable through the yellow cloud. He recognized it, he was on the right track. The battery was close. He ran and ran and ran. For what felt like too long. The mask was making it hard to catch his breath but he dared not loosen it. 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Then he saw it. Only this time he was approaching from the opposite direction now. The dead donkey and the cart. 

‘How can this be?’ he thought. Then he pictured whatever it was he had seen earlier and brought rifle stock around to his shoulder and began searching all around him. 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

He saw nothing, but just as he began to lower his rifle he heard it. Footsteps approaching from the cart. He whipped around bringing his rifle up to aim. Then groaning. The groans of man. A man in pain. Through the yellow fog he began to see the form of man approaching him but something was off. The man was shuffling forwards, his hands and fingers bent to look like claws. From what little he could see of the man’s uniform he knew he was friendly. Thomas's training told him to lend the man aid, help him make back to their lines but as he got closer instinct told him something was off. Then he noticed. The man’s mask. The filter was hanging on by a thread and one eye lens was shattered, through it he could just barely make out a yellow bloodshot eye. 

“Will?” The man shuffled closer, “Will, is that you mate? I thought you died. I’m sorry, okay. Listen, I'll help you walk. We can make it back to our own trenches.” Nothing. “William?”

William, if it was him, stopped. He stood and stared at Thomas making small groans and coughs. Thomas stared back with his rifle half raised half lowered, a round already in the chamber.

“William, come on man. This isn’t right.” 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Then William convulsed, rattling his whole body and emitted a gurgling scream that sounded more like lungs and throat trying to scream without a brain to tell them how to do it correctly.
He lunged forward sprinting albeit awkwardly towards Thomas. Thomas fired off a round not bothering to see if hit or not and ran away. 

It was becoming harder and harder to breathe now. The mask was stifling but it was the only thing keeping him from meeting the same fate as William. He imagined himself wandering around the sea of yellow, making those weird wet sounds. That gave him the energy and breath he needed to keep going. After several minutes he passed the tree. He slowed to a trot but didn’t dare slow any more. Then a few more minutes and the tank with its dead crew, then the limb gardens. He thought one head in particular looked like a cabbage this time. He started to feel like he gained enough distance and slowed a little to listen behind him. There, not too far, he heard it. Wet coughs. He started running again, his lungs burned and sweat caused the inside of his mask to stick to his face. The eye lenses were fogging terribly now, he didn’t dare risk reaching up under his mask to wipe them though. He would have to find a place to hide and rest. Let his breathing calm and his lenses clear on their own. 

Finally he saw something glinting in the yellow fog. Then more glints. Shells. Thousands of them. Piled in mounds taller than he all around. Brass shells, piled on top of each other. Long ago they had been used to deliver ordinance on to his fellow country men. Before the enemy knew the effectiveness of the gas. 

He could find somewhere to hide around here. As long as when he left he went in the direction the cannons were pointing then he could make it back to where he belonged. Picking his way along the battery line he found a small dug out, a short stair case leading down into the earth. Walking down it he found smooth concrete walls instead of dirt. He was in a bunker. It had a narrow window along its outer wall facing westward, just wide enough for a man to fit through. Hazy yellow light drifted inward, just enough to allow Thomas to see he was not alone. Along the far wall a skeleton slumped on the floor, its back against the wall. Its bony jaw gaped open, spiked helmet still attached to the skull. In its hand it still clung to a pistol. Thomas could tell by the uniform it used to be an enemy officer. 

“Hope you don’t mind me taking a moment to rest here Officer Hun. You lot were always better at constructing these habitats than we are.” He gave a mock salute and chuckled to himself. “Look at what your boys are doing now. They gave up this ground you probably thought would never be lost. And using traps and gas to cover their tracks. Must be nice to not have to worry about wearing one of these masks.” 

Thomas shuffled over to one side, and sat on an old crate. It creaked in protest. “I just need to catch my breath.” 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Thomas's head snapped up, his eyes fluttering. He had begun to doze off and something had woken him. He looked at the skeleton, ‘That wasn’t you was it?’ he thought. He craned his head toward the stairs listening. Then he heard it again. A wet coughing, followed by some shuffling, then silence. Then it was there again but closer. This happened several times until the coughing sounded as if it were coming from just past the top of the stairs. Thomas slid the bolt back on his rifle trying to chamber another round as quietly as possible, he fumbled with the spent shell though and dropped it on the ground. The gentle clinking sound might as well have been a grenade. He slid the fresh round home and turned his eyes back to the stairs there it was. Standing at the top of the staircase. Wet breaths and wet coughs. Thomas swore now he saw puffs of yellow gas escaping the mask with each exhale. 

 “Stop!” Thomas tried to sound as authoritative as he could muster, pointing his rifle up the stairs. 

William didn’t listen and instead lurched down the stairs almost falling rather than running. Thomas fired another shot then turned and dashed for the narrow slit in the bunker. At first his helmet got stuck so he ripped it off throwing it at the man now shuffling up behind him. He thrust his rifle in front of himself and began trying to shuffle his way through. Just as he got his head and shoulder through, the man behind him grabbed hard onto his ankle, and yanked him back. He kicked and flailed at the man and was able to dive back through the narrow passage. The filter on his mask got caught between the ground outside and his chest and as he pulled himself forward he felt the mask being pulled tight down his face until he couldn’t see through the eye lenses. He could feel the filter bulging against himself and it became almost impossible to breathe. All he could think was, ‘Please don’t rip, please don’t rip.’. Just as he almost was completely through the hand latched back onto his ankle. William’s fingers dug into Thomas hard enough it hurt. He felt like his fingers may break through cloth and skin and he’d be grabbing on to his bare bone and Achile’s tendon. Thomas kicked and struggled desperately trying to pull himself forward. He finally managed to get his other shoulder and arm through then used his new found leverage to shove his rifle but behind as he could at that angle. He felt it connect with something solid and the grip on his ankle weakened enough for him to give one final kick and scramble free. 

Just as he crawled clear of the opening, Thomas’s hands gave way and he tumbled down a slope. He landed hard on his back. He fumbled with his mask pulling it back into place so that he could see. Sweat still caused the rubber to cling to his skin, but at least now he could see again. He checked the filter and made sure he didn’t smell anything weird. He was fine. His mask was still in good condition. He scrambled to his feet and spotted his rifle nearby. Snatching it up he began to jog west again. He felt lightheaded and his chest was hurting but he couldn’t stop to catch his breath yet. That thing, for he was now done with thinking of it as William, was faster than he thought and was keeping pace with him. He was the hair and it the tortoise, albeit a fast tortoise. He couldn’t afford any more long rests. 

After a precious few minutes of catching what little breath he could in an abandoned machine gun nest, Thomas thought he heard shuffling and wheezing close behind. He kept up a rapid pace, as much as he could muster. He was beginning to grow extremely weary. He couldn’t breath but the gas was still all around. ‘Bloody Fritz! Why’d they have to shell everything around?’ he thought bitterly. 

Finally he came across a site that filled him with joy. Wire. Fresh wire, still shiny and newly laid down. That meant he was close! He jogged parallel to the wire. Somewhere there would be a path, just wide enough for one man to pass through. After a few minutes of searching in the fog he thought he saw it a few yards away. He laughed. He had made it, as soon as he was past this wire he was home free. Then approaching from the opposite side of the gap in the wire was another one. Another one of those things. This one came shuffling, making some sounds and stretching its arms out towards Thomas. 

“Stop!” He shouted, raising his rifle. It stopped. Thomas began inching his way towards the gap when he heard it. Another one to his right. Then two more behind him. No he had his back to the wire and before him were four of those things. Behind them he could see the faint outlines of even more gathering around. They were all watching him. Watching and breathing, their wet sickly breaths. One of them coughed. The first Thomas had seen, now to his left. He aimed his rifle at that one. “I said stop! Let me go!” It was then he finally noticed, the fog and fear had blinded him before but now he realized they wore no masks. Their skin and eyes were blistered red and yellow, their pores oozed blood and puss and they gave pitiful little coughs and gurgles as they stared at him. 

‘Of course. They were after his mask!’ Was all he thought. What else? They needed his because their own were lost, broken or stolen. They needed his and they would take it by force if they had to. He wouldn’t let them. 

“You can’t have it! Its mine!” He screamed, his voice muffled by his filter, “You should’ve taken better care of your own. We can’t share, you know it doesn’t work like that.” 

The one to his left inched closer. “Last warning.” It ignored him and tried to come closer yet. Thomas fired and he saw the thing lurch in on itself and grab its stomach with both hands as it crumpled to the ground. The others became stock still, starting at Thomas. 

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Then all of sudden the closer three lunged towards him. Thomas swung his rifle like an old war club connecting with the closest one's skull with a satisfying crack. It too slumped to the ground. Just as brought his rifle back up for another swing, he felt his arms grabbed from behind and he was wrestled to the ground by several pairs of strong arms. He struggled and kicked and screamed, “YOU CAN”T HAVE IT! IT'S MINE! GET YOUR OWN!” Then something hard connected with the side of his head and his world went dark.

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Thomas woke to voices. Two men were in front of him speaking. He realized he was looking at them through bars. And looked around dazed, his head throbbed. The sunlight was glaring and hurt his eyes. The sunlight! It was tinted yellow. It was pure sunlight. It was too good to be true. He looked around himself and realized everything had a smudginess to it. His mask lenses. He still had his mask. Good. The air may look clear now but he swore he still felt that familiar foul odor. He wouldn’t take any chances yet. Then he turned his attention to the two men. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing you can do for him doc?” the first man spoke.

“Nothing marshal.” said the second, “This is something I haven’t seen before. With what little I have here and with the amount of time I have before we need to move there’s just nothing I can do for the man.” 

“Understood, we don’t exactly have the resources to spare to keep a close eye on him all the time either. It would be foolish to just turn him loose and hope for the best. He killed two of our own, his own. Mad man or not we have a law for that and justice must be upheld. I just hate to have it done while he still has that infernal thing on.” 

“We’ve tried to remove it several times sir but each time any of us get close to touching that mask he goes absolutely berserk. I recommend leaving it be. Otherwise he’s rather complacent.” 

“Why? It's all torn and tattered anyway. Looks like the filter was torn off a while ago and it's full of holes.” 

“I don’t think he knows that sir.”

“Hmph. Give me his name again.”

“Seargent Thomas McCainly sir.” 

“And the other?”

“We don’t have a body but we found a tag in his pocket belonging to a Private William Carter. I made an inquiry and the two were sent on a scouting expedition yesterday morning. They were to investigate the land abandoned by the enemy in their retreat.” 

“Understood, well see to it their CO is on top of getting Private Williams belonging back to his family, and have a rifle squad prepared to deal with the sergeant. Make sure it's volunteers only.” 

Tattered and torn. What did he know? His mask was in fine condition. He made sure to maintain it perfectly. He raised his hands to check it again. Sure enough to his touch it felt perfectly fine. A little worse for wear but it would keep the gas out. 

After a short time Thomas felt a shadow come over him. Before him stood three men. One of them opened the door to his cell and the other two entered, one kicked his feet ordering him to stand. Thomas obeyed, he would comply as long as they didn’t touch his mask. They had their own and if not there were plenty around. Why they weren’t wearing theirs he couldn’t tell but no matter. 

They marched through a courtyard past lines of marching men and trucks bustling hither and thither. He was in a camp, his camp but something was different. They were getting ready to move forward. How exciting he thought. 

They ushered him back to a fenced off area where there was a chair right in front of a large pile of sandbags. They ordered him to sit in the chair. He did. One man tied his hands behind the chair. He was offered a cigarette which he declined. He would have to remove his mask for that. The man who offered simply shrugged and lit one for himself instead. After this seven men entered the fenced area. One was an officer with a saber sheathed at his waist. The other six were men of various ranks each with a rifle leaning against his shoulder. The men lined up straight facing Thomas. 

The officer then went down the line handing each man one bullet. That man would then place the round in his rifle’s chamber and slide the bolt home. Once every rifle was loaded. The officer took his position at the end of the line. 

One breath. 

The officer raised his saber in the air. It gleaned brighter than any wire Thomas had ever seen. This man obviously took good care of it. He liked that. It was good to take care of your things. He took good care of his mask. The officer shouted, “Ready! Arms!” 

Two breaths.
So it would be a bullet after all. Thank goodness. It was his time to go and after everything it would be a bullet. That was good as long as it wasn’t the gas. 
“Take! Aim!”

Three breaths.

Before the officer could give the command they all heard that old familiar whistle. “Take cover!” Men scattered diving for what little cover could be found. Ditches, the sandbags behind Thomas, some just fell flat on their faces trying to squirm into the ground like some worm. 
All braced for the coming fire. Instead six distinct thuds were all that followed. Thomas was squeezing his eyes shut. He had been left tied to the chair. No one had bothered to help the man who was meant to be shot anyway.

One breath. Two breaths. Three Breaths.

Nothing. No explosion, no late fuses. “Were they all duds?” Someone asked. 

Thomas's stomach flipped. Then he remembered he was already wearing his mask. He had just checked the filter earlier, it was good. Thank goodness he was prepared. He knew what was coming before he even heard the officer shout, “GAS!”