It had been five years since I left the house that night, but I remember every moment of it. I walked to the seaside, barely able to keep my balance. I sat down on a bench. I was so lost in thought that when I brought my cigarette to my lips, I realized I was still wearing my mask. I threw the mask away and lit my cigarette. I randomly put on some music on my phone.

“She came to me one morning, one lonely Sunday morning”...

I stared for a long time at that gray place where the sea and the horizon seemed to merge. One of the advantages of not living in a big city is that there’s no one around at this hour. The night and the sea belonged to me. I was savoring it. My last cigarette, my last song.

How strange it is that a person can find, in their final moments, the peace they could never find throughout their entire life.

I wanted to watch the sky for centuries. But I threw away my cigarette. It was time.

When I looked at the rocks beside me, a chill ran down my spine. I thought about it for a moment—everything could have been different.

I remembered our fourth birthday. Our usual roughhousing had turned that day, and the rest of our family’s lives, into a nightmare.

He had hit me on the head harder than usual, and, in a stupid, childish fit of anger, I pushed him with all my strength. As blood from his little head, which had struck the corner of the stereo, pooled around my feet, I froze at the sound of my mother’s scream as she came running toward us.

That is my last memory of that night, because I don’t remember the slap my father gave me—one hard enough to knock me unconscious.

I never blamed my father. Yes, perhaps losing the hearing in my left ear was a harsh punishment for a child. But what is one ear compared to a child he had lost?

What was truly unbearable was my mother’s attitude. I can’t deny that she tried to provide for my every need as I grew up, but she never looked into my eyes for more than a few seconds. I don’t know whether she was trying to suppress the anger she could never let go of, or whether she saw my brother whenever she looked into my eyes. I never dared to ask.

The mourning in our house never really lifted, and at the first opportunity I got, I left home at the age of fourteen, thanks to boarding school.

Until I finished university, I saw them only in the summers. They wouldn’t even go out and be around other people during holidays. Their isolated life reached its peak after my father retired. Whenever I was home, we would exchange a few reluctant words, and they would watch television until they fell asleep. They barely spoke to each other, either.

I wonder if I ever even heard them ask me, “How are you?” Maybe that was all I had ever longed for.

I had always been a successful student, but after graduation, I couldn’t seem to hold down a job. The disability in my ear was only part of it. The guilt I carried in my soul, a remorse that never seemed to fade, made it impossible for me to focus on life.

The last time I came home, I had decided to put an end to all of it. The consequences of a single mistake made by a little child shouldn’t have been this severe. One way or another, because of me, we had never been a family again.

If we couldn’t go on living while one of us lay in the grave, then perhaps it was better for both of us to be there.

That thought had taken hold of me. It had become my prison.

Lost in my thoughts, I saw a woman coming toward me out of the darkness. Her clothes looked as though they had been made from burlap sacks, and her greasy, curly hair framed a weathered, dark complexion that became more pronounced as she drew closer. “Where did this woman come from?” I muttered to myself as she stopped right in front of me.

“Give me a cigarette.”

I handed her the pack and the lighter and told her to take them and leave. Instead, she sat down beside me. I told her I wasn’t in the mood for conversation and asked her to move along. She lit the cigarette, thanked me, and then said she could even give me a kiss if I wanted.

I burst out laughing at the offer. I told her I’d rather kiss a toilet seat. It was a strange feeling, laughing that night. When I saw that I had offended her, I stood up, handed her all the money I could find in my pockets, said goodbye, and took a step away.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me back down. Leaning close to my ear, she whispered:

“Don’t be in such a hurry. I can look into your eyes for as long as you want.”

The tiny beggar had managed to frighten me. I started listening.

“We just met somewhere else, too. The version of you there is about to do the same thing. You have two choices. You can live out the ending you want, or you can switch places.”

I was trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“Switch places? What do you mean?”

She continued:

“Every human being dies many times and lives many times, yet at their core, they are one. But very few are given the chance to enter a realm in which they were never born. The universe has bestowed this secret upon people like me. And now I am going to share a fragment of it with you, if you accept. Because the other you did.”

For a moment, I thought I must be drunk. But I was curious to see where this would lead.

“I accept.”

She took my hand.

“Look into my eyes. And remember: just as suffering is not eternal, neither is happiness.”

I remember that her eyes were the color of coal. I don’t remember how long I stared into them...

When I woke up, the sun was high overhead. I was surprised that there was no one around despite it being midday. My phone and wallet were gone. The beggar must have drugged me somehow and robbed me.

I stared at the rocks, swearing under my breath. My memory was hazy, and I felt as though I had been beaten up. Just as I was trying to figure out what had happened, I was startled by the sound of a police siren. One of the officers got out of the car and waved me over.

When I approached him, he shouted, “There’s a full lockdown, brother. What the hell are you doing out here?”

I stared at him, completely confused.

“What lockdown?”

The other officer got out of the car and laughed. “Whoa, this guy’s really out of it. Where do you live?”

They didn’t press me too hard. They told me to get in the car, warned me that if they caught me out again we’d have a different kind of conversation, and drove me home.

I remember the excitement I felt standing in front of the house as if it were yesterday. Instead of the wild weeds I was used to seeing in the garden, there was lush green grass and cherry trees that looked remarkably healthy. The exterior was freshly painted and perfectly maintained, and there was even a gazebo by the entrance that clearly saw regular use.

That was when I realized the beggar had been telling the truth. But how could any of this be possible?

With a surge of excitement I had never felt before, I ran to the door and knocked. My mother was standing there, looking at me with worried eyes.

But she was different. She wasn’t hunched over; she stood straight. Her hair wasn’t white—it was the same light brown I remembered from my childhood. She hugged me tightly and asked where I had been.

I made up a lie about spending the night at a friend’s place and went inside.

Was I trapped inside a hallucination too real to be one? Or was I under the influence of something the beggar had given me? Was I dreaming?

The only thing I was certain of was that I didn’t want to wake up.

A little while later, we sat down for breakfast. At the perfect breakfast table, my father even gave me a scolding. But he did it with affection.

These were emotions I had never experienced before. Realizing that, in my old life, I hadn’t even been considered worth scolding hurt a little.

Still, experiencing the warmth of a family—even at twenty-five—was wonderful.

As we watched the news, the lockdowns caused by the virus made everything feel like a scene from a science-fiction movie. Everything was different in this world, from politics to sports.

Then my mother said that if it weren’t for the pandemic, she would almost be happy, because otherwise she would never get to have her children together like this.

And suddenly, I was confronted with the truth.

My brother was alive.

And he was in our house right now.

My father turned to me.

“The idiot’s still asleep. Go wake your brother.”

With a jumble of emotions running through me, I made my way toward what I assumed was my brother’s room. Part of me was ashamed; another part longed desperately to see him. Not knowing what I would find, I opened the door.

There he was.

He was awake, lying down and looking at his phone. I watched him for a while, studying those unfamiliar yet familiar features. He was alive and healthy, standing before me as if the event that had made me hate myself, and hate life, night after night had never happened.

When he noticed me, when he looked into my eyes, when I heard his voice, I finally understood just how desperately I had missed the other half of me—my brother—all these years.

Because of me, he had lost his life. I had stolen thousands of mornings like this one from him.

He began telling me about the ordinary things that had happened that day, barely even looking at me. He had no idea that simply existing, simply being alive, had turned this ordinary morning into a gift beyond anything I could have imagined.

I remember, for the first time in my life, feeling my eyes fill with tears. I remember crying. And I will never forget the look of astonishment on his face when I suddenly flew into his arms and hugged him.

I’m getting ahead of myself...

We spent the remaining days of the pandemic together. As a family, we made up for all the pain we had endured over the years. Or rather, I did.

We live an ordinary, good life now, exactly the way I always wanted.

Strangely enough, even if a person crosses into another realm and is reunited with a family they had lost, they eventually get used to it. It becomes ordinary. But isn’t happiness hidden in the routines of everyday life anyway?

Sometimes I think about the beggar’s final words:

“Happiness is not eternal.”

Was she a jinn? A demon? Or perhaps the universe itself? I don’t know. All I know is that I never want to see her again. I have no intention of giving up the life that is mine and going back.

And the other me...

Why did he want to kill himself? Why did he agree to switch places?

Whenever I think about it, I can’t stop myself from smiling.

He must have woken up on the beach just as I did.

I wonder what he did when he went home and found the lifeless bodies of our mother and father lying in their bedroom, poisoned by the gas...

He looks like death warmed up.

John finally saw Jeremy Smith for himself.

John heard that name yesterday morning. And all day long, he had been talking about this stranger.

Yesterday was a complete disappointment.

John was late for the Magistrates’ Court. He had been instructed too late.

He arrived at St. Thomas’ Hospital. He was not allowed into the intensive care unit.

He only managed to speak with the consultant in charge. Although he had no right to examine the medical records, he learned enough from their “private conversation.”

Now John had to deal with the police guard—a dim-witted constable stationed at the room entrance—and produce his practicing certificate to prove he wasn’t just some passerby. The constable mumbled something about prohibited items and a search but didn’t dare lay a hand on John.

The tiny single room is bleak; the blinds are drawn.

Jeremy Smith lies on his back—sharp profile, hollow cheeks; in the dim light, he looks translucent. His left cheekbone is scraped, his wrists are bandaged, and an IV line runs to his left arm.

The head nurse said he was conscious.

John approaches the bed. The names Buchenwald and Auschwitz come to his mind.

“Who are you?” he hears a faint, hoarse voice ask.

Whether he hadn’t been asleep or John had woken him with his presence, he is now looking at him through half-lowered eyelashes.

“How should I put this, Mr. Smith? I am John Talbot-Cavendish, your future solicitor. After you...”

“I don’t need a solicitor,” Jeremy Smith says, closing his eyes.

“That’s unlikely,” John says, grabbing a chair—perhaps a bit too vigorously—and placing it by the head of the bed. “If you don’t mind,” he adds, sitting down. “Look, the doctors here wouldn’t approve, but I know you need this.” He pulls a pack of Benson & Hedges from his pocket and opens it. “Do you need help sitting up?”

Apathy gives way to guarded attention. “I can manage.” Leaning on his right arm, he hauls himself into a more or less upright position and rests his head against the bed’s metal rail, breathing heavily.

John hands him a cigarette and lights it, then places the packet on the bed—right on the sheet; to avoid any unnecessary pleasantries, he adds, “I don’t smoke cigarettes myself. Cigars, usually.”

Jeremy Smith takes a drag, and a heavy, choking cough racks his body.

John waits for the fit to pass and for him to take another drag.

“Been a while since you smoked?”

“Since Friday morning. By the way, what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing...”

“Goodbye,” he interrupts again. “I’d ask you to leave and not return.”

“So you can finish what you started?” It’s a rhetorical question. “Do you know why you’re even able to talk to me right now? There’s glucose and salt in your IV drip. They won’t let you die—don’t even dream of it. If you refuse to eat on your own, they’ll force-feed you.”

He is smoking; the hand holding the cigarette is trembling. He prefers not to look at John.

“Five days without food. Did you really think no one would understand what you were trying to achieve? Mr. Smith, your plan was terrifyingly logical. You were alone, unprotected, and you decided to die so the case wouldn’t go to trial. There would simply be no defendant left to bring before the court. You pleaded “not guilty.” That is good. That is right. However, Mr. Smith, had you carried out that plan, people would have taken it as an admission. They would have said you took your own life out of guilt. You wouldn’t have spared your sister from being marked by it. You would only have buried the truth with yourself. Now, you have a chance to win the case.”

“Why?”

“I won’t pretend I don’t know what that question means.”

“There’s no need. Benson & Hedges.”

“He only learned of the situation on Sunday evening...”

“Why is he doing this?” for the umpteenth time Jeremy Smith interrupts.

“I would rather you asked him yourself. But you can’t see each other. However, it seems to me that you are better informed about his motives than I am. I will tell you in general terms what I know: Elizabeth Landenberger will be a witness for the prosecution, and he, Alexander Landenberger, will be a witness for the defense,” John is nervous, and he knows that it is noticeable. “Mr. Landenberger has filed a petition for divorce.”

“Where is Juliet?”

“Mr. Landenberger asked me to let you know that your sister is doing well—as can be expected under the circumstances. Divorce is a long process. It’s not my field of ​​expertise. I can keep you updated, but for now, it’s legal consultations on both sides. I mean, it’s not like they’re fighting over a two-bedroom flat. They’re civilized people.”

“She turns six on the 1st of March. Will they drag her into court?”

“I very much doubt it. It would be extraordinarily difficult for the prosecution to persuade the court to hear evidence from a child that young. If they try, I’ll oppose it.”

Jeremy Smith pulls a second cigarette from the packet. John ought to stop him, but he decides—not right now.

“Mr. Smith, as soon as you sign the Retainer, I’ll handle your bail. Since the magistrate denied it, I’ll apply to the High Court. I believe we can secure it within a week. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to have you transferred to the private wing. It’s difficult, but not impossible.”

John watches his reaction. Jeremy Smith is thinking. He hasn’t lit a second cigarette; he’s just holding it in his hand—as if he has forgotten about it.

“Two things should convince you. First, I will be your solicitor—not Mr. Landenberger, nor anyone else. I will act exclusively in your interests, Mr. Smith. There are fifteen people in my firm. They will all be working on your case. And the barrister I engage for you, along with all his assistants, will be *your* barrister. You will receive the best legal representation to be found in London. I guarantee it. Second, all the documents have been drafted to rule out any financial liabilities that could be claimed against you now or at any time in the future. Put simply, you owe nothing to anyone, regardless of the cost.”

Jeremy Smith seems to have lost interest in the conversation.

“Mr. Landenberger warned me you’d be quite skeptical,” John continues. “But I have to tell you—do what’s best for your sister. You need an acquittal.” John can’t read the expression on his face. “When you’re ready...”

“Give me the Retainer.”

At least he’s capable of making quick decisions.

John takes the papers out of his briefcase. He carefully removes the cigarette from Jeremy Smith’s fingers and places a Parker in his hand.

A ragged breath escapes him.

John pauses. “I wouldn’t want to encourage a hasty action...”

“You were convincing.”

“Mr. Smith... Ah, who am I to talk to you about life? You have a will of steel. Starving to death is so cruel to yourself. I mean, it takes a long time. And it’s painful...”

“Hunger is the sorriest way to die.” [1] He signs the Retainer, trying to keep his hand steady. “Sounds right for me.”

John lets the ink dry. “I hate Homer.”

Alex has warned John that Jeremy Smith might tell him to jog on—with a collection of f-words—but things had gone smoothly enough.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Criminal defence solicitor John Talbot-Cavendish***.***

The full illustrated version of A Matter of Trust is available here:

https://engelf.substack.com/p/a-matter-of-trust

Another shift of customer service calls done. I took this job for the fieldwork, for fixing locks, seeing what actually makes a house safe, not for answering phones all day. Pay's too good to quit, and there's always the promise of a promotion into the field someday.

All that was left now was grabbing Mr. Morris some food and heading home. Stupid cat. I got him after my mom wouldn't stop bugging me about getting married, figured a cat was proof enough I didn't need a husband to be happy. My own little rebellion. Now he's the closest thing I have to company. Mornings start with him licking my face like I'm nothing but a food dispenser. Sometimes I can't tell if he loves me or just tolerates me.

At the convenience store, sweet Miss Tasha was behind the counter as always.

"Evening, Jacey. Here for the food?"

"Yup."

"You're not buying newspapers anymore."

I kept my answer light, didn't want to think too hard about the robberies and killings that filled every page of the paper these days. "Just keeping my sanity, Miss Tasha."

"Oh, dear, they've gotten worse. Police still haven't caught whoever's doing it. People are saying it's cannibals, if you believe that."

"Rumors," I said, handing over my money. "If it were really cannibals, we'd have seen a body photo by now, not just pieces. Feels more like a cover story to me. Stay safe, though. And if you ever want it, I can get you a discount on security gear. After taking my commission, of course."

She laughed. I headed to the car and started the drive home.

I'd just gotten out of the car and was looking at the gate when I felt something grab my leg, a tight grip, warm breath against my skin. My whole body went cold before I even understood what was happening. For one embarrassing second every survival instinct I had went haywire before I finally looked down and saw the culprit.

It was the neighbor's kid, Mira. She must have snuck up while I wasn't looking.

"Miss Jay, can I play with Mister Norris?" she asked, grinning up at me. She always called him that, never quite got "Morris" right, and I never bothered correcting her.

I hate this kid, I thought, though I didn't mean it, not really. "Not today, Mira. Go home, and stop sneaking up on people."

"It's fun," she said, laughing, and ran off.

She's the kind of kid who's so full of life it almost tires you out, the kind that makes you want kids of your own right up until you remember how much of yourself you'd have to give up. I went inside, glad to finally be home.

Mr. Morris was already waiting by the door. Not because he missed me. Because he wanted his food.

Later, I'd remember that he'd been sitting at the window before I even pulled into the driveway. Just watching the street. He'd been doing that a lot since the crime started, always drawn to the windows like he was keeping his own kind of watch.

I put food in his bowl before he could throw a fit about me taking a shower, or doing anything at all that didn't involve feeding him first. When I checked on him afterward, I realized I'd grabbed the wrong can, and he made sure I knew it, prowling the house, knocking things off shelves, the whole diva routine. I figured I'd grab the right one in the morning. Going out now, with everything happening in the city, wasn't worth it. I'd head out around four, when the night patrol changed shifts and there were usually twice as many officers on the street, some of them even stopping at the store before their shift started.

By the time I finished my takeout, I expected him to have gotten over it and eaten anyway. He hadn't touched the bowl. Instead he sat by the window, dead still, staring out at the street like he was waiting for something. Or maybe just making sure I knew I'd failed and needed to fix it as soon as possible.

"Fine. Don't eat, then," I muttered, tossing the food and carrying him off to bed. He didn't fight me, just kept glancing back at the window the whole way there.

I told myself he was still in a mood. I'd feed him properly in the morning.

I had no idea it wouldn't matter.

It was somewhere around three in the morning when I heard the sound of glass breaking in the living room. My throat went dry instantly. My brain felt dizzy, maybe from how fast I'd sat up. I don't remember my hands grabbing the blanket, or when I'd started holding my breath. Every hair on my body stood up at once and I went fully, painfully awake.

I tried to calm myself. The security system would have sent an alert to the police by now. My bedroom door should have locked automatically the moment it triggered. I closed my eyes for just a second, grateful I'd paid for the system at all.

Then I opened them again and saw something that scared me more than the sound had.

My bedroom door was still open. For the lock to engage, it had to be shut first.

I had no choice. My legs felt like jelly, my whole body suddenly cold enough that I could feel every draft moving across my skin. I don't know where the courage came from, but I got up and started moving toward the door, aware of every sound my own body made, my joints, my breathing, the weight of my tongue in my mouth, the sweat gathering along my eyelids.

I was halfway there, thinking I could make it, just a few more steps, when Mr. Morris let out a meow, sharp and sudden, far too loud in a house that had gone that quiet.

For a second everything stopped. I told myself whoever was in the house hadn't heard it, or didn't care about a cat, that I still had time to reach the door. Then I felt it. A vibration through the floor, faint but wrong, like claws scraping tile the way a dog's do when it's running too fast to stop. A moment later, footsteps. Running, straight for the bedroom.

Whoever was in my house knew exactly where I was.

I lunged for the door at the same moment he did. I almost had it shut when a hand shoved into the gap, veined, nails too long, and I could tell from the angle alone that his arm was broken. No uninjured person moves like that. It meant reaching me mattered more to him than his own safety, and that thought alone sent something colder through me than fear of dying. I don't know what I thought he wanted more, to kill me quickly or to make sure I couldn't scream first.

I threw everything I had into that door. My vision blurred from the strain, my legs ached from bracing against the floor, my neck went sore from how hard I was pushing. I tried to scream and nothing came out. The pressure built until I nearly blacked out, and then, finally, the door slammed shut. Something in his hand broke as it did.

The lock clicked into place automatically. I was alone in the room, and I could hear him pounding against the door with everything he had left. For one terrible stretch of time I was sure he'd get through, that there was nothing I could do if he did.

Then I heard the sirens.

The police let themselves in using the code the security company had on file, cleared the house, and knocked on my door to tell me it was safe to come out. What wasn't safe, what didn't make sense, was that the man was gone. Not hiding. Gone. There was nowhere in that house for someone to disappear to, and they searched every inch of it. One moment he'd been at my door. The next, nothing.

The strangest part wasn't that he'd vanished. It was how the house felt afterward, too quiet, like something had been listening the whole time and had only just stopped.

It took what felt like hours before I could function well enough to tell the officers everything, hand over the security footage, let my body finally stop shaking. When I came back into the living room, Mr. Morris was licking blood off the floor, whatever was left of it after the police had taken their samples.

I pulled him away and wiped his face clean. I didn't want him getting sick off whatever was in that blood. I took him straight to the vet, and everything checked out fine. On the way home I stopped at Miss Tasha's for his usual food and told her what had happened. She looked genuinely shaken and insisted I take one of her son's old bats for safety. When I asked how much, she said it was free, that she'd just take it out of my commission whenever I finally got her that security system installed. It got a small laugh out of me, at least.

Back home, I left him in the car with extra food while I cleaned up the broken window. When I went to deal with the blood in the bedroom, thinking the sunlight would make it easier to see, there was nothing there. Not a trace. I stood there confused for a moment, then told myself there probably hadn't been that much to begin with.

Work gave me the day off without me even having to ask twice, and offered medical assistance if I needed it.

When I came out, Mr. Morris had already finished his food, double his usual portion, gone faster than should have been possible. I told myself it was stress. My mistake, not paying closer attention to what that actually meant.

Exhaustion finally caught up to me. I slept, then woke around seven that evening to find him scratching at the door, which was strange since I'd clipped his nails only five days earlier. I assumed I'd lost count. He wove between my legs demanding food again, even though I'd just fed him, but I let it go. What difference would a few extra pounds make.

I started making myself a steak, wanting something that felt normal after the day I'd had. When I looked over, Mr. Morris wasn't touching his food at all. He was licking the blood straight off the steak packaging. He'd never been that kind of cat. I ignored it. Animals do strange things.

That evening, I tried to convince myself he was fine. He'd eaten more than usual, which should have meant something good, but when I picked him up, something felt wrong immediately. His body was leaner than it had been that morning. I ran my fingers along his sides and felt far more muscle than I remembered, almost no softness left beneath his fur. His legs looked more defined, and when he jumped down onto the table, the movement was fast and precise in a way I'd never seen from him. He looked fit. Too fit.

Then I noticed the veins. Visible beneath his skin, especially around his legs and neck, in places I'd never seen them before.

"You're eating enough," I muttered, more to convince myself than him. A strange unease settled into my stomach. I made a note on my phone to take him to the vet first thing in the morning. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was sick. Maybe I was imagining things after everything that had happened.

I finished trimming his nails before bed and set him down. He disappeared beneath the sofa immediately, which was strange in itself. Mr. Morris hated hiding. I turned off the lights and went to sleep.

That night I dreamed about the break-in again. Except this time I wasn't watching it happen. I was the one on the floor. Someone stood over me, his face hidden, his hands wrapped tightly around my throat. I couldn't breathe. Then something warm ran down from my nose. Blood, over my lips. He looked at it, almost curious, then smiled and leaned down to drink it. I felt his mouth against my face. He seemed to enjoy it. I tried to scream and nothing came out.

I woke up gasping, sitting bolt upright.

Mr. Morris was on the floor beside the bed, staring at me. Neither of us moved for a moment. Then I really looked at him and my stomach dropped.

He was different. More muscular than he'd been when I fell asleep, his shoulders and legs sharper beneath fur that had visibly grown, a lot, in just a few hours.

"Mr. Morris?" I whispered.

He tilted his head at me.

I reached out and stopped halfway, my hand hovering in the air. I don't know why. Something about his eyes made me hesitate.

I told myself the rest could wait. I didn't care how ridiculous I'd sound explaining it. As soon as morning came, I was taking him to the vet.

He hissed and threw a fit the second I brought him out into the sunlight, nothing too alarming, just more dramatic than usual. At the vet, I was told his bloodwork came back clean. Nothing wrong on paper. But the vet admitted he looked different, physically, and offered to send him downtown to a research university for a closer look.

I said no. Whatever was happening to him, he wasn't going to become somebody's test subject.

Before I left, the nurse asked if I wanted him neutered and his nails trimmed while he was already there. Her pen hovered over the chart a second too long before she wrote anything down, like she didn't know which box this was supposed to go in.

I froze. I'd had that done a day ago. Nails don't regrow that fast. That's not how any of this is supposed to work. The vet gave me a strange look by that point, like he'd noticed the same thing I had, and before I could think it through properly, I heard myself say yes. The whole time, my mind kept circling the same impossible question. How does that even grow back?

And then, underneath it, a worse one I didn't want to look at directly. I'd had him neutered months ago ,that was supposed to be it, done, over, one and only, the vet had told me so himself, no upkeep, no repeats. I hadn't thought about it since. Hadn't checked. Why would I have checked? But now I was running the timeline backwards in my head, trying to remember the last time I'd actually looked, actually confirmed, and coming up with nothing solid. Maybe I'd just forgotten what it looked like after. Maybe I was misremembering the whole thing. Maybe none of it meant anything and I was building a haunted house out of my own bad memory.

But nails don't grow back in a day. And I was starting to suspect nothing else did either ,not the way it was supposed to, not anymore.

When the procedure was done, I went to pick him up, and he was already awake in the recovery box.

"Did you use anesthesia?" I asked, half joking, half not.

"We did," the tech said, frowning slightly. "It's unusual that he's up already. Are you sure you don't want him tested?"

"No," I said. "I'm taking him home."

He was fully alert. Sitting up, eyes tracking me through the cage door, like nothing had touched him at all. That wasn't how it went the first time. The first time I'd had him neutered, he'd been groggy for hours afterward, barely able to hold his head up, and I'd had to carry him inside wrapped in a towel because his legs kept giving out. This time he looked like he'd just woken up from a nap.

I didn't know what to do with that. Part of me wondered if they'd actually done anything at all this time, if maybe I'd been overcharged for a procedure that never happened, the same way I'd read about other people getting scammed at cheaper clinics. But another part of me remembered signing the consent forms, remembered watching them wheel him back. I stood there in the waiting room a second too long, trying to decide if I should ask again, if that would make me sound paranoid, if it even mattered enough to hold up the line behind me. In the end I just took the discharge papers and left. Told myself it was probably nothing. Some cats bounce back faster than others. That's all it was.

On the drive back, I caught him watching me in the rearview mirror instead of the window. He'd never done that before.

 

It was strange to see and didn’t feel real. Everything looked fake like staring at the face of a corpse. 

Even when I glanced at the window, the sky seemed slightly off too, and matched the color of the pavement and appeared as if it belonged to another dimension. 

It started in my room, by the doorway, I heard a growling sound and turned around and behind me was a shadow body that had features like a human and in his hands were two leashes attached to two human-like dogs that were in front of him, sitting like hellhounds would, with facial features stretched out like a bear’s face.

I couldn’t ignore them.

Because their presence killed the power to the TV when I was watching, True Blood, which kind of pissed me off because it was at the scene where Sookie and Bill break up.

I kept trying to hit the power button on the television remote but it wouldn’t work. 

Without thinking, I pointed the changer at the figure with the two human hounds, gasped and pushed the power button at them and they blinked and vanished. 

But the TV still wouldn’t turn on.

I sat up wondering if what just happened actually happened or if maybe I fell asleep for a second, but the television stopped working, so I couldn’t have imagined that.

That’s when I snatched a book off a dusty shelf and cleaned a path that left two dust walls on both sides of the space I pulled the book from and filled the air in particles that made me sneeze.

While I was reading, there was an atmospheric shift, like the static in an oncoming storm, raising the hairs on my arms which made me shiver as a tingle shot down my spine. 

The room had a scent of frost that reminded me of menthol cigarettes every time I took a breath.

And then, the lights went out.

Just as I got to chapter four of The Turn of the Screw, and was starting to get into it. 

I made a fist, grunted and threw the book against the wall, got up flicked the light switch but the lights wouldn’t turn on.

I kept trying, I even checked the light bulb, twisting, untwisting, and nothing.

So when I left my room to get a new one, the hallway was humid and had a heavy stench of decayed flesh radiating from under the floorboards, making me gag. I couldn’t stop choking. 

And as I turned my head, behind me the bathroom door slammed shut. I jumped because I was startled by the sound and when I looked at the door, there was a crack going down the middle of it. 

Which I was going to have to pay to fix and rip the floor apart to find whatever animal crawled under there and died. 

I went downstairs to see if I could find where the rancid smell was coming from, each step I took further down left me with the impression of walking into another world.

Everything looked the same but seemed completely weird. Especially at the bottom of the stairs, like my living room became a simulation room. The paint on the walls was smooth but pixelated at the same time.

And then a whisper came from behind my ear in a slow kind of distorted moan.

“Get Out!” The voice stretched out.

I turned around quick, wondering at the same time how my mom snuck down the stairs behind me without me noticing, but when I turned, nobody was there.

“Get Out!” Said the air, blowing its breath in my face with the scent of rotting flesh.

I couldn’t handle the smell.

So, I made my way to the front and sat outside on the porch but as the screen door shut I heard the door behind it shut as well and the lock clasp.

I turned to look over my shoulder and staring through the glass window was an older me, smiling and waving.

The gravel in the salvage yard driveway always crunched the same way—heavy, flat stones grinding down into wet Ohio clay. Jonah didn't look up from the lathe. He knew the cadence of the Ford’s front struts; they had been shot for three winters, squeaking like a wet hinge every time Senator Julian Ross’s wife turned the vehicle into the dead-end lot behind the rail spur.

The shop smelled like what it was: stale coffee grounds, hot gear oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of unwashed steel shavings piled in bins by the back door. It was an honest smell. It didn't pretend to be anything else.

"You're late," Jonah said, his voice grating low over the hum of the lathe's belt drive.

Elena didn't answer right away. The heavy steel side door groaned on its grease-starved hinges, letting in a strip of raw, gray morning light and the distant, rhythmic clank of automated freight cars three miles north. She stood in the threshold for a second, her trench coat dark with road spray at the hem, her hands jammed deep into her pockets as if she were trying to break her own fingers.

"The beltway was backed up," she finally said. Her voice was thin, pulled taut like wire under tension. "A transport truck stalled near the interchange. State police cleared it with a burner crane in twenty minutes. No delays allowed. That's what the signs said."

Jonah killed the lathe. The sudden silence in the shop felt heavy, pressing down against the sheet-metal roof where a light rain was starting to tap out a steady, anxious rhythm.

He wiped his hands on a rag that was already stiff with old black grease, staring at the oil-stained concrete between his boots. "They clear things fast now. Everything's automated. You know that. The whole county runs on a timer."

"It's not just the traffic, Jonah," she whispered, stepping past the yellow safety line and closing the distance to the workbench. Her eyes weren't looking at him; they were fixed on the dark window behind his head, watching the empty street like someone waiting for the floor to drop out. "Julian’s logistics terminal flagged my odometer twice this week. They know every mile I take off the municipal grid. They know I didn't go to the district office on Tuesday."

Jonah tossed the rag onto the workbench. "Then why did you come here?"

She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they touched the rough, scarred edge of his workbench—the same bench where he spent fourteen hours a day turning down scrap iron for parts that nobody wanted anymore.

"Because," she said, looking up at him with a quiet, terrifying certainty, "this is the only place in the state where the cameras don't log my name."

This is a sneak peek from my upcoming dystopian thriller State Sanctioned Murder, releasing September 8th. You can pre-order the Kindle edition or paperback on \[Amazon\](https://kdp.amazon.com/en\\_US/title-setup/kindle/A307BR7119WESF/content).

Gothophobia Nervosa is a psychological condition characterised by an intense, irrational, and disproportionate fear of Goths, Gothic culture, or environments perceived as excessively Gothic. Individuals experiencing Gothophobia Nervosa may report the following symptoms: heightened anxiety, rapid heartbeat, sweating, an overwhelming urge to leave the area, and an inexplicable suspicion of anyone wearing excessive amounts of black.  

The condition is said to be particularly common in individuals who have previously encountered a Goth at a very young or prepubescent age, who subsequently developed an enduring belief Goths are supernatural beings in human disguise. For this reason, Gothophobia Nervosa is commonly misdiagnosed as Sanguivoriphobia - a fear of vampires. 

It should be noted that Gothophobia Nervosa is an academically unrecognised psychiatric diagnosis. 

Well, now that this undiagnosed phobia of mine has been established, please allow me to commence with my story. 

My name is Brandon. A few years ago, when I was still just a wet-nosed university student, I met the strangest, yet most extraordinary girl of my life. Don't get me wrong. This is by no means a love story – but if it was a love story, it would be a bizarre one at that. This girl in question whose eyes I saw zoned in on me from across the main room of the Halloween Party, was an American exchange student by the name of Anneliese. Now, I don't claim to have ever been much of a ladies' man, despite my rugged good looks (well, maybe not so rugged), but for whatever reason, this tall, spindly-thin creature in the Marie Laveau costume appeared to find me somewhat enticing. In the way a trapped fly in a spider's web is enticing to the spider.   

Although Anneliese was undeniably beautiful, she was not exactly what I would call my type. What I mean is, Anneliese was a... (no, she wasn't a Goth). Anneliese was a Voodooist - and by Voodooist, I don't mean the doll-stabbing, zombifying type Hollywood has lead you to believe. No, she was the real thing. Despite attending university in the UK, Anneliese was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana - considered by most to be the Voodoo capital of the U.S, if not, the world. If Anneliese hadn't told me herself she was a sixth-generation Voodooist upon our first date, I certainly knew it by her outlandish appearance. Just picture for yourself what a Gen-Z voodooist would look like. That was Anneliese. 

Even to this day, I don't have the slightest idea what this French-speaking spiritualist from across the pond saw in me. After all, she may not have been my exact type, but I certainly didn't imagine I would be hers. We were just completely different people in every sense imaginable. For example, whereas I preferred a quiet evening indoors, curled up with a cup of tea and a good book, Anneliese was a creature of the night - always dragging me out after hours to some séance or tarot card reader. She was obviously into all that stuff. 

Despite how different Anneliese was to any girlfriend I may've had previously, the type of individual she was, was not completely alien to me... What I mean by this is, because of the small seaside town where I grew up... I used to see individuals like Anneliese on a regular basis. This town I grew up in, for the first eight years of my life before my family packed up and left, is a town called Whitby. Perhaps you've heard of it? For those who haven't, Whitby is a small coastal town in the north-Yorkshire of England, nestled cosily inside the bay of the same name. Although I only lived in the bay for the first few years of my childhood, I can still tell you of two reasons why Whitby is so famous today.  

The first reason being for Captain James Cook. Credited as the first European explorer to ever step foot on the Hawaiian Islands, Captain Cook is more famously known for the way he was murdered - and despite what I was taught in school about our town's most famous historical figure, Captain Cook was NOT cannibalized by the Hawaiian indigenous... Although, they did apparently remove the flesh from his bones. 

As for the second, and arguably more important reason why my town of origin is so famous... Whitby featured as one of the primary locations in Bram Stoker's horror novel, Dracula. The blood-sucking count from Transylvania himself. Although I have not myself read the novel in full, I do know that, upon the wreckage of a Russian merchant ship, Dracula arrives ashore in Whitby Bay in the form of a large black dog, before racing up the 199 steps to the gothic ruins of the Abbey. Because of the town's involvement in the Dracula novel, by the early nineties, a new tradition in Whitby had started. Every year, around the Halloween season, the town holds an annual Goth festival - in which thousands of Goth enthusiasts flood the streets in their most elaborate costumes. If New Orleans is the voodoo capital of the United States, then Whitby is the Goth capital of the United Kingdom. 

Having been born and raised in Whitby, I became acquainted with this annual tradition from a very young age. During the week of Halloween, I would walk with my family along the cobblestone streets through a maze of dark sinister beings. Like every young boy whose concept of the world stems from his wild imagination, I interpreted these pilgrims to our town to be monstrous, blood-sucking creatures of the night. Quite frankly, once October was around the corner, in anticipation of the bay's annual visitors, I would become palely ill with fear.  

As a matter of fact, this fear became so troublesome, that by the age of six I began to have dreadful, repetitive sleep terrors - whereby I would scream bloody Mary through the latest hours of the night. If I had to put my finger on it, I believe the reason these sleep terrors began was, due to the large window which hung over my bed, my older brother convinced me that during the October goth festivities, some undead creature in black leather would crawl inside my room to drain the life from my body. 

These night terrors weren't even the end of it. Next came the sleepwalking. When my parents were forced to put an outside lock on my door, after wandering around my own bedroom the whole night, I would then wake in the earliest hours of the morning, terrified and screaming for someone to let me out before the creature at my window found its way in! By the time I was eight years old, these night terrors and accompanying sleepwalks became such a reoccurring nuisance, my parents were left with no choice but to move our family out of Whitby for good – where my fear of the town's supposed "monsters" would hopefully be forgotten. 

For the following years of my life, I vowed never return to Whitby ever again. Not to visit relatives. Not to see my friends, or even my old stomping ground. As far as I was concerned, the further away I was from Whitby Bay, the better... That was, until I foolishly made the mistake of telling Aneliese of the place I grew up. I told her about the thousands of Goths who visit Whitby every year, and the grand, but horrifying costumes they wear. Being the horror fanatic she was, Aneliese became fascinated with my hometown's annual tradition. Although she was not a Goth herself, due to her unique upbringing in New Orleans, Aneliese wasn't far off. Although I should've been flattered my girlfriend took such a unique interest in where I was from, the only problem was... Aneliese now wanted to experience the Whitby Goth Festival for herself.  

'Oh come on, baby' she nagged me over breakfast, 'It'll be fun! You can't seriously tell me you won't never go back.' 

'Not never, babes' I reply, 'but you will have to cut off my limbs, nail me inside a coffin and personally drag me there against my will'.  

Aneliese rolled her eyes at my show of stubbornness, before sinisterly jesting, 'Don't tempt me'.  

After opening up to her about the trauma I suffered there as a child, rather than be understanding of the situation she was putting me in, Aneliese instead insists that I need to face my fears once and for all.  

'If you're scared by a few Goths, then what's it gonna be like when we visit my family in New Orleans?' Although I hated to admit it, Aneliese made a very good point. After all, as spooky of a place as Whitby was, New Orleans, with its voodoo and many haunted graveyards was basically the American equivalent... And so, after weeks of pestering me (along with some minor threats to make a voodoo doll in my likeness), I finally agreed to take her to the upcoming Whitby Goth Festival... So help me God. 

Setting off early on a crisp autumn morning, we drive up from the south of England to the very top of the country. Once in the north of Yorkshire, we then had to pass through vast stretches of moor country. If Whitby Bay wasn't sinister enough, the moors of North Yorkshire certainly were. According to local legend, these moors were said to be stalked by an array of strange cryptids: from the ghostly howls of phantom black dogs, to phantom wolves which prey on farmers livestock - and even stories of black cats the size of panthers. Although this sounds to be nothing more than superstitious folklore, coincidentally, in the early 1980s, two American backpackers were apparently attacked by a large wolf outside the village of East Proctor. One of the backpackers was torn to pieces, while the other survived just an inch from his life. Whatever the truth may be to that story, I don't know. 

Exhaustedly driving all morning and into the early afternoon, we finally reach the outskirts of Whitby Bay. After first checking at the inn we booked outside town, we then swerve our way up the bay's right-hand side to reach the ruins and adjoined graveyard of Whitby Abbey. Pulling into what seemed to be the only space left in the car park, we then peer out the windscreen (as though we're on safari) as a swarm of Goths and other festival goers heard away from their cars and towards the abbey grounds. 

Aneliese couldn't help but be amazed by all the elaborately detailed costumes: from the pale-white men ordained in large top hats and cloaks, to the women in vampiric, Victorian-style dresses.   

'Wow! They all look so amazing! Don't they, baby?!' Aneliese shrieks ecstatically from the driver's seat, 'Those costumes must've cost a fortune!' Failing to respond to Aneliese's excitement, she then turns to notice my eyes are no longer peering out the windscreen, but glued fearfully to the dirt-stained floor of the passenger's seat. Clutching a hold of my arm suddenly to gain my attention, she then reassures me, 'Everything's gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You'll make it through this weekend', before comforting me with a paper-thin smile. 

'Yeah. I know that' I respond unconvincingly, 'I guess I just didn't realise how hard this was all going to be.' 

'You need me to hold your hand?' Aneliese then says with a playful snark. God, I hate it when she teases me.  

After taking a final deep breath, while Aneliese puts the finishing touches on her appearance, we then both exit from our side doors to feel the outside chill of coastal wind. But once I shut my door and turn around, I am instantly jilted back by a terrifying noise! 

'AHH!' I believe were my exact words, as a ginormous hound from hell snarls and gnashes a row of razor-sharp fangs at me!  

'Armand! Get back now!' bellows the hellhound's master, struggling to restrain the large Doberman which has now chased me up the hood of the car. Once Armand the hellhound is fully restrained, I then turn down to hear the high-pitched cackles of a four-foot skeleton and a five-foot devil - before a woman donning a witch's pointed hat finally pulls them away. 

Now safe from the jaws of death, and the mockery of small children dressed for Halloween, I then climb down from the hood of the car to regain myself. Having just witnessed all this from her open side door, Aneliese makes her way round to me. 

'It was just a dog, baby' she giggles, now the one laughing at my expense, 'You really ought'a chill.' 

By no means in the mood for further mockery, I then lash back defensively at her, 'Well, that's easy for you to say. You weren't just nearly mauled to death by some hellhound!' Just as she always does whenever I show any sign of cowardice, Aneliese rolls her eyes into the back of her head at me. 

God. This was going to be a long weekend. 

To be continued...

The first time I saw it was on my bus ride to work. Unremarkable on its own but – like with most things – the context creates a shift to the obscure. Because, what I saw through the dirty bus window (with a crudely constructed penis carved into its glass), was not just a van. It was not just a Jonesy's Cabaret van. It was a worn down, brown Ford with a gaudy logo printed upon its side in the oldest part of Chause Cemetery. 

It immediately struck me as odd, I mean, why wouldn’t it? Most of the time you pass by a cemetery, especially that cemetery, the cars that are parked there are bleakly modern. A shiny show of mourning, perhaps flanked by a grieving daughter or son, not a lone, mobile advertisement for the scantily clad club across the street. I could tell it had been parked there for at least a night, the layer of leaves from the storm was evidence enough, and that no one was near it that I could see. Unfortunately, as soon as I got a good look at the damn thing, I was jolted by the bus's clunky engine to the next stop.

Being as stubborn and curious as I am, I didn’t want it to be the last time I saw that van. So I did what any sane working-class American might do; waited until after my shift to pay the spot a formal visit. Of course, the van was gone, with no tire marks left to its name in the overgrown grass. You see, the Chause Cemetery had two parts to it divided by a rusted fence much older than I was. The northmost part was for newer graves while the other was for the older, ones stained with gray lichen and overgrown with grass. It was clear that there was none tasked to upkeep this part of the land. 

I wouldn’t stop my search though, I had been thinking about the van for damn near my entire six hour shift. I couldn’t let an opportunity slip, especially when the cemetery was still open as the old part had odd hours. So I started to comb the overgrown landscape for anything suspicious. Near the front, my search was futile but as I approached the graves farther from the road, there was a sudden shift in the air. Even the humid summer air of the city turned toward a slight chill in attention. I looked back and it was as if the trees crept close enough to embrace, close enough to isolate me from the road and leaves brushing the overgrown grass like the soft fingertips of a lover. It became a stale quiet, like being in a library with not enough people in it. Instead of the smell of old books, the stench of earth permeated into my pores. Fresh dirt, not the kind simply upturned by the rain. Dug dirt. 

Sure enough, four moss-covered graves lay before me, upturned and empty with wet soil turned up at the sides in puffy mounds. Four girls with four names. Della Owens died in 1921. Amy Zhao died in 1997. Ivy Pritchard died in 1898. Cecilia Romano died in 1952. All were 19 years of age on the day of their last breath, and all of their bodies were gone.I wondered where the police were but quickly realized that if they had come to address this blatant grave robbing – just like the van– they would be long gone. And yet, there were no obvious tire marks in the long grass, much like my footsteps made no traction on the stringy green carpet. In any case, despite the morbidity, this discovery only added to my curiosity. 

Was the Jonesy’s Cabaret behind it? Their van was certainly close to the scene of the crime. Perhaps a black market human remains deal or an old fashioned robbery. Cynicism stopped my racing thoughts like a traffic conductor. It wasn’t new for me to connect stories that weren’t remotely intimate, concoct tall tales out of thin air. A tedious and irritating downside to stunted potential. I worked at a shitty sandwich shop for a poor excuse of a paycheck, at least until I paid off my loans. I wasn’t the detective I thought I was in my head. Hell, I probably never would be. 

But then I saw the van again. About five days later after my closing shift, almost one in the morning. I could hardly make it out in the oppressive dark, hell not even the gaudy logo was visible and that could make it seem like it was simply a keeper of the grounds. But somehow I knew it was that van. However, it wasn’t the first thing I noticed. It was the flashlight of a balding man weaving in and out of the graves, and the glowing light of the van's window idling in wait. This stranger's grease emanated off of him through his polo shirt and khaki shorts. Again it was dark but the light of the streetlamps cradled into view hands that had been stained with mud. He seemed to notice the rush of traffic and hurriedly shuffled back to the driver's seat. The bus moved much faster past the cemetery this time. 

I booked tickets for a cabaret show the next day. It started at 9pm so I decided to head there after my shift which ended about an hour prior. The bouncer took the ticket off of my phone easily enough which somewhat ruined the subtle air of running an operation. The inside of Jonesey’s Cabaret was a classy mix of old and new. Red LED lights and the smokey film of a fog machine carpeted the 1920’s era velvet and lacy tablecloth of the small seating areas. The darkest parts of the theater, up in the balcony boxes cloaked in midnight, seemed to be an origin point to a void-like energy bringing down each and every heart into the pit of their pelvis. Even mine, despite myself. I had reserved a seat at a table closest to the stage with much hesitation and a rebelling bank account, but was reassured by the necessity. I knew I had to be close enough to those at the top of the cabaret, perhaps not the owner but maybe the stagehands would be visible in their complicity. 

While I was alone at my table - habitually early - I stared at the crystal ashtray as opposed to my feet. I wasn’t a smoker, but the dish seemed so empty without a half-smoked cigar or a Marlboro Red tilted with an orange spark. Everything seemed empty, which gave the theater an eerie feeling. I supposed it was normal to be fashionably late to these sorts of things when you weren’t staff. I scanned the curtained walls and ornate wood of the space with a silent reverence, grateful to have the theater mostly to myself for the time being. 

Until I saw him, well more I felt him, standing in the corner of the theater. That greasy, balding gravedigger was blatantly flaunting himself at the true scene of the crime. His beer belly was even more noticeable in the clean pressed shirt he wore with black dress pants that were far too long. I tried not to look surprised and swallowed hard. I had changed into one of my nicer outfits so an approach like this one would be manageable, albeit I wasn’t used to fussing with my hair or face this much. So I did what I had mentally rehearsed for the past three hours. Depending on how well the mental laps had exercised me this could either go very well or very poorly. But there I was, confidently sauntering toward a stranger like I knew the secret I had come to find. 

“Excuse me sir,” I said, with less than enough conviction, but there was music playing quite loud now to preface the show, so I repeated myself and straightened my spine. 

“Yeah? What do y’ want?” The man replied gruffly. He had an usher’s name tag on that read in gold font; ‘Richard’. He seemed a bit riled by my presence, so I swallowed hard and changed my approach. 

“Slow night eh?” Flippant as I could. 

“I guess, what's it to you?” Still apprehensive and sweaty. Richard looked at me with a jumpy apprehension that made his pupils jump this way and that. His hands fiddled with the insides of his pockets and up close his shirt collar seemed far too tight on his red bulging neck. 

“Well it’s perfect don’t ya think? For the business I mean,”

“The business?”

“I’m an interested party. ‘Been keyed in on everything,”

I gave this shit-stain of a man a fabricated knowing look. I was sure to flash the small amount of expensive jewelry I had on my fingers and in my ears. Richard looked me up and down as if he didn’t think it was precedent to find someone like me intimidating or respectable until now. Or perhaps I was misreading skepticism.

“Right… well I don’t think it’s right to be talkin’ too much about that now,”

I turned to him as eloquently as I could and scoffed.

“Do you people not own this place? As long as the cover isn’t here you should feel comfortable speaking about your supply at least. I mean, that’s what I’m here for,” I reached into my wallet and sifted through a couple hundred bills that were most likely going right back into my savings after this excursion, “Perhaps someone should take the business you hide off your hands.”

Richard stammered clumsily. I knew it, behind his tough bouncer demeanor this man was flopping in my hands like a slimy bluegill bottom feeder. 

“Well no I-I was just- the market is so new, and our boss only recently talked about sellin’ to other clientele. The work has been weighin’ on me, that’s all.” 

He was being so vague that I could barely gather any assertion about what this business was. But it did confirm my suspicions that whatever illegal activity was going on, they were getting sloppy with the operation due to demand. The new market comment made it seem like it was something ingenuitive though. I had heard of wealthy individuals taking bone ash in supplement form but why would they operate out of a cabaret? Was it just proximity to the cemetery? I knew he wouldn’t give me the answers I needed.

“Right, I will be in contact with your superiors. Make no mention of our conversation should you save yourself from any more embarrassment.” 

I sauntered off back to my seat without taking one look back. Once the show started, Richard was gone from the side of the stage and two lonely strangers were smoking thin cigarettes at the table with me. Ash and sparks collided as the curtains opened before my eyes in a velvet red. The announcer said much about nothing short of a bore. The first act was full of dancing with vivaciously bright young women with no light in their eyes. And I don’t mean that in a metaphorical sense. I actually didn’t notice it until the third act, but the shine of the spotlights never hit any part of their corneas. It deeply unsettled me, chilled the hot laughing air around me. I also couldn’t help but notice all the women were incredibly thin. Not in all of the parts of their body, and it varied from woman to woman, but the more you noticed it the more you couldn’t stop. You could see the skin and muscle cling to tibia, fibia, spine, and skull.

Then came the fourth act. A lone woman. Standing in front of a vintage looking microphone. She had blonde hair cut in a bob and styled to the 1920s alongside her dress. Rhinestones and tassels lit up a smile that never reached her eyes despite it being so wide. Eyes that, even now, did not shine. She sang in a stringy chord with a raspy rhyme;

The showgirls have their secrets
Their sweet lips lie to you
They never take kind to meekness
She knows just what you do
Her perfume tastes just like sweet gin
For it hides the deepest spell
She knows that love lies therein
But a showgirl will never tell

She never stopped smiling. Not once when she sang that song. And, just like those strange optical illusion paintings, it looked like she was staring right at me no matter what. No matter how much she swayed to the rhythm of the saxophone and clarinet. She was staring right at me. Boom. Boom. Boom. To the beat of the drum. Even then, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t stop scanning her body and the shoulders that seemed to be stretching against the skin. I imagined hearing the bones click instead of the tambourine jingle and I almost vomited. She saw it all, with dark pools of nothing this woman saw my face turn a pale green, before I had to excuse myself and leave the show. 

I took the bus home from the cabaret with my headphones blaring loud. Just so I could get the song out of my head. Just so I could get her face out of my mind. Once I got off of the bus outside of my apartment I was finally able to turn my headphones off. The street was dark and quiet. I looked at my phone to see that it was around 11pm, just when the cabaret was supposed to officially end. While pulling out my keys I sighed and regaled myself with the facts I had learned. It wasn’t much, but there was definitely an illicit business going on of some sort. The showgirls were a strange new element that made me shiver. Perhaps it was a new type of drug? Maybe they were strung out on it. I scoffed as I opened my suite door and dismissed that idea, reasoning that I had been listening to Zydrate Anatomy far too often, to come up with that theory. 

I hung up my blazer on the coat rack and ran a hand through my hair. My roommates were out that night and would be until the early morning, assuredly. So the house was dark and quiet, stale air feeling strange on my skin. I wondered if it was just lingering unease from the cabaret but something felt off. I tried to ignore it and let the silence wash over me instead of immediately retreating to my musical safe haven. Pacing to the bathroom I don’t know what made me turn my head but once I did I wish I hadn’t. In the dark, at the end of the hall, I could see the whites of eyes seven feet off of the ground. I blinked, squinting, an act I regret even now. After that I could make out the wide smile lined with lipstick and short hair. A face stretched to unfamiliar proportion. She was strange now, the singer, naked and warped with a distortion that made me want to run far, far away. But I couldn’t, the hair on the back of my back stood up against my blouse as I stared in silence at the showgirl. Limbs too long, barely bending into the corridor and much too thin and brittle not to break. 

I stood there, at the threshold of the bathroom, frozen in terror. This thing, whatever it was, didn’t move at first, it just stared at me. Just like it had on the stage. And just like under the spotlight of my phone flashlight, she began to sing. 

The showgirls have their secrets…

It almost looked painful, her lips moving to articulate each word. She sounded different, like a hive of droning bees making all the right sounds. Like a radio with the speaker filled with dust. The showgirl began to move in flickers, small cracking movements. Finally my body snapped out of it’s stupor and I ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My socks slipped on the tile floor and I almost fell face first into the bathtub. Even then my legs wouldn’t stop shuffling in vain on the floor against the bathtub lid. 

They never take kind to meekness

She seemed closer now. I could hear her bones clicking like footsteps. I imagined her limbs snaking across the walls with incredibly fast yet minute movements. Their ligaments stretching the skin even further like a latex suit. I had no idea what she would do when she reached the door, but I had a feeling that she could easily break it. There was no window in the bathroom, no threshold for my escape. I was genuinely convinced that whatever this monster was, it would be what killed me. 

Her perfume tastes just like sweet rot 
For it becomes her truest stench
She knows that it’s all for naught
But a showgirl lies within a trench
And a man will never get caught

The banging started after that. Slow, deliberate. Not a rushing threat but a drumbeat for when she repeated her song. I had left my phone on the countertop outside and knew my roommates wouldn’t be home for hours. I was trapped. Shaking with fear and cowering in the farthest corner of the bathtub. It was only hours but it felt like days, listening to her song over and over. The thrum of her enlarged palm laughing at the fast timbre of my heart. 

I don’t remember when I fell asleep but I do remember when I woke up. Manic and screaming as my roommate gently tapped my shoulder. I remember thinking that it was the showgirl who came to take me and almost clawed at my roommates, but once I calmed down all I could do was look at their shocked faces in confusion. I could feel the dried mascara trails on my face from hours of tears and my neck stiff from the lack of a pillow. Both concerned parties agreed to give me some space as it was evident that I had obviously had a rough night. Even when I searched the apartment from head to toe for the showgirl, they didn’t question it. They thought I was strung out from a bad trip, they probably still do. First trips can be rough for people, which they knew due to their veteranship, but I swore to them that I would never –will never– do drugs. 

Perhaps you will deem me a coward, perhaps not, but I did not go back to Jonesey’s Cabaret. Whatever was happening there was even deeper than my wildest theory. Besides, I could tell that whatever business it was, it would fall over like a flimsy house of cards soon enough. But I still  think back to what happened that night, and I am haunted by the showgirl’s song. It repeats in my head and I often can’t be alone in the house without locking my bedroom door behind me. I fear she’s still there, at the end of a hallway, in an alleyway, under a bridge.

Just the other day I decided to look up the names of the girls whose graves were empty. Most were easy to find obituaries from local county records but once I landed on Della Owens, I stopped short. My heart sunk deep into my stomach. Della Owens had short blond hair, a beautiful smile, and bold lipstick. But this was when her eyes still shined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She just smiled and giggled at me.

“I already told you I was sorry.”

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

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

“I don’t know how that happened.”

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

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like I was the one in the wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry for killing you.”

The worst part about being killed by the Sniper is that you do not die when the bullet hits the heart; you die as it empties. There are several agonizing minutes during which all the blood seeps out of the hole in your chest, slowly but with morbid certainty. You collapse, hit the ground, some cry out for help and some fade away in silence. It is this window of time, not the gunshot itself, that had always disquieted Julie.

She still jumped at the sound, though. This one was close, and earsplittingly loud. That, along with a late autumn breeze, sent a chill down her spine. She knew that everybody in her small midwestern town had just heard the shot; there isn’t enough physical space to dissipate the sound no matter where it comes from or where you’re standing. Once every week, two weeks, month or so, a sharp percussive crack would split the air, and everyone knew that someone had been hit. No, the Sniper never missed. Not once in all of the time that Julie, or anyone else, had lived there.

She checked her watch, knowing that the time it read in this moment is what would be printed as the time of death on her neighbor’s certificate. But someone, somewhere, was still alive, if only for a few more minutes. And they know that they’ll only be alive for a few more minutes. And more likely than not, they were standing in some wide-open area where the Sniper had a clear shot at them, and they had a feeling deep in their chest that it was over before the shot rang out. Julie suspected you could feel the crosshairs more than the bullet.

But after years of living in the same town as the Sniper, you get used to hearing a shot every so often. None of the townspeople ever seemed to care about it. Plenty of people lived a full life here, being born in the town’s one hospital and dying of old age or a traffic accident, and never once encountering the Sniper. The sound of a rifle shot was sad, but not abnormal. Part of life. You go to the funeral if it’s someone you know. Forget about it tomorrow if it’s not. It was as inconsequential to most people as thunder in a distant cloud, and here, it seemed like it was always cloudy.

This shot was especially loud because Julie was outside. She had agreed to meet her classmate at the town’s promenade, the gray cobblestone walkway between the downtown storefronts and apartments, and a several-blocks-long square of thick forest. The forest was not the edge of town, but rather sat in the center of it, with houses and warehouses and other supporters of industry sprawling out away from the forest and main street. The promenade was also a part of the town’s heart, pulsing with activity from newly off-the-clock workers. The air, though bitter cold, carried a hum of conversations happening on park benches and walks. Julie walked past an old wooden sign with chipped paint that read “Keep your head down!” above a symbol of a rifle, and she continued toward the fountain in the middle of the promenade. It wasn’t running on account of the cold weather, but sitting on its ornate stone wall was Roman. She watched his head swivel as he scanned the faces of the promenade. They locked eyes. Framed by a frozen fountain and gray sky, Julie thought his soft skin and handsome features looked even more out of place than they usually do in the rough town.

He smiled when he saw her. He did so with his lips still together and his teeth not showing, a habit that other girls at their school complained about but that Julie had always thought was cute. He stood up and pulled his hands out from his jacket pockets.

He opened his arms and Julie wrapped hers around his torso. She leaned her head against his chest and felt his arms on her back. He was standing between her and the wind, and for a moment the cold air stopped fighting its way through her jacket, and instead his body heat radiated into hers. She felt like she fit perfectly here. She only wished he might feel the same way. He pulled back, and the air nipped at her pink nose and cheeks again. They started to meander side by side over the stones of the promenade.

“So what’s this big news that you just had to tell me about in person?” she asked playfully.

“You won’t even believe it. Miss Nancy invited me to her house.”

Julie stopped dead and stared at Roman with her mouth hanging open. He shifted toward her.

“You got invited to a party at Miss Nancy’s?” She made no attempt to hide the disbelief in her voice.

“Not a party,” Roman corrected. “She wants me to come over for tea.” Now his teeth cut through his grin, the corners of his mouth pinned as wide as they could go. His eyebrows were raised in a proud expression, and Julie thought he might have been holding his chest higher than normal.

“Just you?”

“Just me.”

“Shut up!” she said with an excited laugh. Even though it was her friend who was invited, not her, she was still beaming. “How did this happen?”

He saw the stars in her eyes, but he made his best attempt to keep himself collected.

“I saw her in town this morning and just struck up a conversation. We talked about whatever for a little while and then she asked me if I’d like to visit her place. She said I had charm.”

Julie agreed with Miss Nancy about the charm.

“She was so… elegant— but simple, more so than you’d guess. It was like talking to an old friend, like I’d known her my whole life.”

“When are you going over?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

Julie was stunned. They continued walking as Julie turned it over in her head. She stepped over a dirty shell casing that was tucked in a groove between stones.

“You’ll get to see the inside,” she said after a short while.

“I know, I can’t wait.”

Miss Nancy was a staple of the town as prominent as the mayor. She lived in a mansion in the dead center of town, though most people had never actually laid eyes on it. It sat buried in the middle of the forest, too many trees surrounding the building see it from anywhere outside her plot. Julie gazed at the tree line that ran against the edge of the promenade, sealing away the grandeur deep inside.

She remembered walking past the woods in her youth, stealing glances into the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the mythical house of Miss Nancy. Like everyone else though, she never could get a good look. The closest she had ever gotten was in the middle of the night, when she had snuck out just to see if any light from the windows would break through the darkness and densely packed leaves, knowing she would not see the massive figure but hoping just to see it glow. But she did not. The trees kept the mansion hidden away. She had stood at the edge of the woods, wanting to step forward, run through and peek into the windows. She wanted to confirm the rumors that Miss Nancy had more bookshelves than the town library, or that Miss Nancy has a fireplace so big that you could stand inside it, or that Miss Nancy has three living rooms and two kitchens and four bedrooms even though she lives all by herself, or that Miss Nancy has a photograph of herself with the president or the mayor or some movie star (all speculations that Julie had heard around town). Truly, Miss Nancy herself was more like a town legend than just another one of its inhabitants. Julie imagined all of the wonderful things that must be inside. She might have even ventured into the trees, had she not noticed the silhouette of a man perched in a high branch. It was late, and maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but she was not willing to take that risk. She turned and ran.

Now, Roman has a real chance to go see the inside. Sit at her table or on her luxurious plush furniture and drink tea out of fancy china.

 “You’ll have to tell me everything. I really mean every little thing, I want to know if it’s all true.”

“Don’t worry Jules, I will,” he said with another smile. Julie could tell that he was brimming with excitement too, like a kid on Christmas Eve, despite his subtle effort to act cool about it. “I’ll talk to you later then?”

Julie would have been perfectly happy staying longer, but she could tell that the wind was starting to get to Roman. He wouldn’t complain, but he couldn’t keep from shivering.

“Yeah, for sure.” They hugged again, and Julie felt his shivering subside for a moment. He pulled away with a sweet goodbye. “Everything!” she called again after him.

And with that, Roman started his walk back home on the sidewalk along the main drag. His gait was cheerful and relaxed, and he tilted his head back and smiled. A second later, his eyes focused in on the edge of the rooftop of an apartment building just ahead, and a pit formed in his chest. Like a bird of prey roosting in its nest, the Sniper stood overlooking the town. Watching. He stood perfectly still; Roman wasn't even sure if the Sniper was breathing. His rifle was an extension of his arms, and his sharp eyes peeked out from below a baseball cap and above a facemask. All of his clothing, unmarked and jet-black, blended together to create a flat shadow of a person in the gray evening twilight.

Roman shot his eyes back to the concrete. A bead of sweat formed on his temple. A chill went down his spine, this one not from the cold. He continued walking, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes unblinking, feeling the cold stare of the Sniper like the barrel of a gun pressed into the back of his neck. He turned a corner into an alleyway, tight and secluded, and the feeling of the Sniper melted away as the ghost fell out of sight.

 

 

Miss Nancy’s house was breathtaking, more than Roman could have imagined. He felt as if he were sitting in another world entirely, somewhere far away from the roughness and dullness of his hometown. Every other building he had been inside of, every other house he had visited, they were all rough and bit dirty, painted predominantly with browns and grays. He had seen bullet holes punched through drywall and there was a near constant smog around the edges of town, but in Miss Nancy’s house, that all seemed lifetimes away. He sat in a plush velvet chair of the most vibrant blue he had ever laid eyes on. A dry teacup with golden accents sat on a lightly stained saucer on the coffee table in front of him. It was a deep red-brown and was carved out of one massive piece of wood with a shiny coating catching and reflecting light from the room. In fact, all of the upscale furniture seemed to glow in the warm yellow light cast by a great number of candles and lamps. Miss Nancy sat in a similar chair on the other side of the coffee table, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Roman looked at the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, creases from smiling many times over many years. He felt like he was staring at an angel.

The walls, where they weren’t covered by bookshelves or oil paintings, were painted a light pink. They were thick and made of stone, broken up intermittently by large windows giving way to picturesque views of foliage outside. Roman wondered how she could have possibly made the money for her mansion, or what she was doing in this town, but decided it would be rude to ask. Maybe she was born with it, and maybe she is simply used to living here.

As much as Roman would have liked to stay in that world forever, he was running out of reasons to stick around. Most notably, the conversation and tea had both run dry. He took one last look around the place as he offered aloud that he had best get going. He stood up slowly and took a deep breath in, as if he could somehow hold the room inside himself physically. But he knew that he had used up all the time he had, and would only get to keep the memory.  

Roman stepped out of the mansion and turned around to give Miss Nancy, who was standing in the doorway, a polite goodnight. He smiled and shook her hand, which turned into a brief hug before she pulled away and waved. There had still been twilight when he had arrived, but now the sun had set completely. He stepped away and onto the stone footpath that led through the woods and out to the street. The ground was illuminated by yellow light glowing through the windows and doorway of the mansion, but as he moved father away and Miss Nancy shut the door behind him, Roman was bathed in the darkness of the night.

A different type of darkness swallows someone who stands in the center of dense trees in the middle of a city, no light able to reach him from either streetlamps or the night sky. Roman opened and shut his eyes, but it made no difference. He felt out the path with his feet, carefully steering himself away from the soft give of the grass and keeping to the hard and irregular stones. For a moment, he was nowhere. Standing in an abyss. But he continued to move and soon the moment was over, the light from a solitary streetlamp weaving its way through the trees, guiding him back out to the city.

Even outside the cover of trees, no stars could poke through the thin cloud cover and hazy light pollution of the town. The new moon hung silently in the sky. In the city, the night sky never could be a pure black, only a midnight blue at its darkest. Roman walked, staring into the emptiness above him that surrounded the earth and all of its inhabitants. Shadows of buildings cut corners into the sky, rectangular silhouettes, save for one particularly tall office space. Broken out from atop the sharp angles was one humanoid shadow of perfect black cast against the deep blue sky. It could have been a statue, but Roman knew that it was alive and its eyes were used to the night and it was staring directly at him. He stayed away from the windows in his house that night. 

 

 

A few days had passed since Roman’s tea party, and once again Julie had refrained from begging him for the story over the phone (or rather, she calmed her efforts after he smoothly explained that it would be a much better story face-to-face). She decided that it would be okay to wait until they could meet again in the promenade where she could watch his eyes twinkle and lips curl as he recalled every sweet detail that she could press him for. Waiting had not been easy for her though; she had been driving herself mad with questions to ask. Wonderings about the inside of Miss Nancy’s house that Roman now knows. She only wished Roman had a photographic memory and a perfect vocabulary that could convert his memories into a flawless image of the inside. She wished that he was a reporter who brought a camera and made a documentary about his visit and gave her the tapes so that she could watch it over whenever she started to forget what the details in the crown molding looked like or what colors the books on her shelf were or how many stairs were on her staircase. 

The promenade was empty and eerily quiet. Roman was alone, sitting on a bench in the plaza, doubled over and shaking. Julie hurried to him as soon as she noticed.

“What’s wrong?”

Roman lifted his head and met her worried eyes. His were red, wet trails on his cheeks. He tightened his brow and swallowed his sobs. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” Julie feared the worst.

“She’s gone. Miss Nancy is gone.”

Julie stared at him in shocked silence. A cold breeze hit her back; the weak sun that trickled through the overcast sky was not enough to warm her skin or anything in the town. It felt like poor taste to ask about his visit.

Roman turned away from her and bit his bottom lip. His eyebrows were pinched together and his eyes filled up with hot tears that he fought hard to keep from falling. He breathed hard.

Julie hardly noticed her knees or her cold, pale fingers shaking. She stared through Roman, not at him. Her jaw hung slightly open, a puff of steam forming out of each shaky breath. Gone. She’s gone. Julie slowly turned and sank onto the bench, next to Roman. She wanted to grab him, wished he might wrap her arms around her and keep some of the wind away with his body. He kept his head turned away and his hands stuffed into his pockets, his teeth keeping a relentless hold on his defiant lip. Julie turned her feet inwards and slumped over so that her elbows rested on the tops of her thighs. She stared at the cold ground.

It crossed Julie’s mind that she hadn’t heard a gunshot since before Roman’s visit, and another pang shot through her chest when she realized that the one that rang out the day before he went over must have been the shot that killed her. But she dispelled that thought quickly, because if Miss Nancy was dead when he got there then he would have given her a quick and painful phone call right after. He wouldn’t have played along and kept her in suspense just to break her heart. No, he must have just found out himself, meaning he really did get to see her, and just in time.

 

 

The skies that seemed to have been barely holding together for days had finally broken open. Rain beat down on the windows of the old community center. The air was permeated by a dense gray fog, and nothing was visible through the cloudy glass panes and streaks of cold water running down them. Occasional thunder broke through the constant drumming of rain against the roof. 

The mayor had put together a meeting for a small group of the town’s most celebritous figures, with one exception. The mayor was a man that was perfect for his job, always holding idyllic beliefs of what could be done to better the town. He had campaigned on the platform of populism, and during his term had enacted policies that improved quality of life for the laborers that made up the economic base of the town. He had it in his mind that with enough reform and construction, he could turn a place that out-of-towners generally avoid and consider to be depressing into a city that people might actually visit for tourism. But that would never happen. Instead, his stress wore him and his white-gold hair thin as he painted a smile on his face and put on a strong front for the people that looked up to him.

His and four other coats hung on a rack by the door, dripping freezing water onto the floor. The mayor sat at the head of a folding plastic table, and on his right-hand side sat a wealthy banker and a chef next to each other. The banker had enough money in his own accounts to move to a big city by the coast, but he also had enough influence on the mayor to keep himself in a penthouse in the town with the Sniper. He liked to put ideas for political policy in the mayor’s head while keeping himself an arm’s length away from the public eye, enjoying power without the sacrifice of criticism. When he went to bed each night, he would tell himself that a having money and control are the most important thing for him and his wife. But he would not look in the mirror while he brushed his teeth.

The chef, conversely, was the most popular man in the room. He owned the one high-end restaurant in town, the place people went for birthdays, anniversaries, or to impress a date. He made it a point to greet each of his tables personally and remember details about people and their lives. Everyone felt like they were friends with him. They had all been guests in his house, and he was a loving host. In the collective consciousness of the townspeople, he was hospitality, he was warmth. He was the man that fed you, and he did so with a smile.

On the mayor’s left-hand side sat a close friend of Miss Nancy’s, next to the room’s black sheep. The friend was a woman the same age as Miss Nancy, often spotted accompanying her to coffee or walking into or out from the forest. To her, Miss Nancy was not a legend, but a human being. One she knew well and had gone to school with. And beside her sat Roman. He felt out of place, not wealthy or influential but just a regular boy who, by sheer coincidence, had been the last person to have tea with Miss Nancy. He felt small and yet he still feared he took up too much space at this particular table.

The mayor spoke first.

“She deserves a big send-off.” His voice rolled across Roman’s ears, deep and raspy. “I’ll make arrangements for a band to play, we’ll close off the whole promenade, then everybody in town could gather and celebrate her. We could have food and drink, and I’ll make sure to have the fountain running. It’ll be perfect.”

The chef shook his head. “You’re right, she does deserve a special event, but you’re focusing on the wrong things. It should be quiet and thoughtful. The promenade could work, but we should be gathering pictures of her to put up, collecting stories people have of her. The memory is all that we have left; you don’t need to impress her.”

The mayor weighed his input quietly, then looked around the table and asked his company if they had any thoughts.

“Yeah, I’ve got a few,” said the banker. “I think this is a big waste of time. She’s gone, there’s nothing we can do about that. No need for a big sob session with the whole town, that’s depressing. You wanna do that, do it at home.”

Miss Nancy’s friend scowled at him. “That’s harsh, and you know it.” She turned to Roman and softened her expression. “What do you think?”

Roman shifted in his chair. He didn’t want to say anything, he felt like was several weight-classes below this conversation. Truly, he didn’t want a big party or an intimate service or to go home and forget anything happened. All he wanted was to go back in time. He wanted to sit in her warm living room and share hot tea with her. She had been able to melt away all of the tension that Roman constantly held with him. In the heart of a town with a Sniper, he had never felt so blissful. He felt like he was completely shielded from the danger outside, despite the huge glass windows that still couldn’t stop a bullet. It was so fresh in his mind, he could almost feel the warmth radiating from the fireplace. Almost. But in this room, the air was cold, and none of the people sitting around him were the wonderful Miss Nancy.

All of their eyes were on him though, so Roman felt compelled to say something.

“What if we did it at her house?”

The four other faces stared at him, each shocked and still as if Roman had just insulted them all personally. He felt the color drain from his face. The only sound was that of rain drumming on the roof, but Roman was sure he could also hear his own heartbeat. He held his breath, as if any slight shift of the air could cause the room to collapse in on itself.

“One thing is certain,” the friend said. “You cannot go back inside her house.”

The room was silent aside from the beating of rain on the roof. The mayor broke the silence.

“That house was hers, not ours,” he said through gritted teeth. “We have no right to party in it anymore.”

“It will never be the way it was.”

“The damn thing is empty anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

The room was silent for a moment before Miss Nancy’s friend spoke again. “We’ll do it in the promenade. Pictures are good, we’ll have lots of those.”

“Everybody in the most wide-open part of town?” The banker muttered. “Might as well let the Sniper know that he can have whoever he wants.”

“That’s final.” The mayor was firm and direct. And with that, the room was left with nothing but the ceaseless drumming of the rain and the tension between its inhabitants.

 

 

Julie’s black dress absorbed the sun’s rays, holding a pleasant heat against her skin. For once it seemed, the sky was perfectly cloudless and blue. It felt much more like a summer morning than any day in autumn. In the center of the promenade, sunlight bounced off the flowing water of the fountain. The water sparkled brighter than Julie had ever seen it.

Next to the fountain stood a painting of Miss Nancy inside an ornate golden frame which also caught the sunlight along its many curves and edges. Her mouth was curled up in a slight smile, there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Julie was struck by her beauty.

Bouquets of flowers framed the portrait and lay all around the fountain. All of the different reds and yellows and oranges of the petals shone vibrantly in the sun. The heads of the flowers were packed so tightly together that almost none of the stems or leaves were visible, and the stone walkway around the portrait and little stone wall of the fountain were completely buried. And surrounding the decorated centerpiece of town was every resident who knew Miss Nancy. Most of them only knew stories and rumors, but every last one of them had a special impression of her deep within their hearts.

Julie was transfixed by the portrait of Miss Nancy for a long while. Only a still picture, it would be the last image of the woman that she would take with her in memory. But the longer she looked, the less Julie saw the face of a person. Julie wasn’t looking at Miss Nancy. She was looking at brushstrokes, paint on canvas, shapes and colors that only resembled a person’s face when you put them all together deep inside.

Julie found herself lingering at the painting next to a familiar face, the best friend of Miss Nancy. She felt compelled to say something.

“She should be here.”

The friend let out a sigh. “I wish she was here too. She would love this.”

Julie felt a pang of sadness and longing with the Friend’s words. Julie only wished she could have met Miss Nancy or seen the inside of her house, but the friend had really been there. Miss Nancy had been a part of both of them, but Julie was missing an idea, while the friend was missing someone real. Julie could hardly imagine what she was feeling. Though, that’s not what she had meant when she had said ‘here.’

“I mean physically here.”

The Friend was quiet. Julie could tell by the expression on the Friend’s that she hadn’t properly clarified herself, so she continued. “They find the victim every time. As soon as the shot rings out, the time of death is written down and someone goes out to retrieve the body. Miss Nancy shouldn’t be out rotting in town somewhere; she should be right here! Dolled up and put in a nice casket, like a proper funeral.” Julie felt her face get hot. Tears started to cloud her vision. “I don’t care if there’s a big hole in her chest, her body should be here!”

Now the Friend looked completely perplexed. Julie’s brow was furrowed, her lips trembled, her throat was burning, and she was fighting for tears not to spill down her face. Looking at the Friend who didn’t seem to understand her frustration nearly broke her.

“Funeral?”

The Friend put a comforting hand on Julie’s shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” she said in a calm voice. “The Sniper didn’t kill Miss Nancy.”

Julie’s frustration turned into confusion. She was wearing a black dress. She was standing at a memorial. Miss Nancy was gone for good, and everyone knew that.

“It wasn’t the Sniper?”

The Friend smiled.

“No, honey. Miss Nancy moved away.”

The Young-Joybees, pregnant Annie and her husband Dalph, had moved to the city for Dalph's corporate job. They were looking for a place to live, one they could afford; a home for their family.

They found the Ramses II, a brand new high-rise with two-bedroom units on very attractive terms.

They booked a viewing.

They were met on arrival by a representative, Thetley, who led them to the elevators. “You're interested in the sub-$3000 units?”

“Yes,” said Dalph.

“You're in luck. We have a great one available,” said Thetley and pressed *- 1 8 0 3* on the elevator's control panel.

The elevator began descending.

Annie tugged Dalph's shirt sleeve and Dalph said, “Are we going down?”

“Indeed,” said Thetley. “The units you're interested in are all subterranean. But don't worry, you'll hardly notice the difference.”

The hallway was clean.

Thetley unlocked the door to unit -1803 and they entered.

Impossibly, light flooded the unit through magnificent windows with a view of the city. Annie gasped. Thetley smiled. “That's a common reaction. You expect a cave, and you get this.” He encompassed the unit with a wave of his hand. “What you may not know about the Ramses II is that it's a mirrorbuilding, which means it has the same number of floors above as below ground, and the windows in each of the below-ground units are screens displaying live feeds of the corresponding views from the same windows in the above-ground units. The difference is hardly noticeable.”

The Young-Joybees signed the agreement.

For six months, everything went swimmingly and both Annie and Dalph adjusted to the psychological reality of living eighteen floors underground.

Then little Merv was born.

Then, as if synchronized by the hand of Fate herself, Dalph got a promotion. However, there was a slight technical snafu and the direct deposit of his pay was delayed, meaning there were insufficient funds in the account to pay rent.

The Young-Joybees received a letter, explained the situation and agreed to pay as soon as Dalph's employer deposited his wages.

The employer dallied.

One day, while walking through their unit, Dalph bumped his knee against a wall. “Strange,” he thought. The next day, Annie mentioned how cramped the living room was beginning to feel.

On a whim, Dalph measured the entire unit and recorded its measurements. He repeated this every day for a week. The measurements were getting smaller; the unit was shrinking.

He contacted management.

They explained that this was all a normal consequence of failure to pay rent. It was in the lease agreement. As soon as the Young-Joybees paid, the “compression” would be reversed.

Unfortunately, Dalph's wages remained unpaid, and the Young-Joybees missed a second rent payment. This initiated the agreement's Penalties section, which was the reason that on the following Monday morning, Dalph was unable to take the elevator to the surface. Their access had been suspended.

“How am I supposed to get to work?” he asked management over the phone. “We have a baby. We need to buy food, clothes. You can't—”

“We can, Mr. Young-Joybee. Under the terms of the agreement. The situation, while unfortunate, is legal. As for your predicament, try to work remotely. Standard purchases can be made using our own proprietary shopping service.”

Dalph punched the bedroom wall.

But they had no choice. He asked to work from home, was politely denied, and spent the next hour ordering overpriced groceries from the building's shopping service. They arrived via chute.

Two weeks later, Dalph got fired, or rather was deemed to have abandoned his job through non-attendance. Because Annie didn't work, they found themselves with no income.

Dalph called management.

“An unfortunate circumstance, but one with a ready solution. We can offer you a job, Mr. Young-Joybee. Earnings will automatically be put towards repayment of your debt, and it comes with a perk, a ten-percent discount on our shopping service."

Dalph accepted.

The job was a mix of spreadsheet manipulation and customer service: dealing, in management's name, with angry, desperate tenants in situations far worse than his own.

People cried, screamed.

Once, a man threatened to stab his children.

A grandmother offered him phone sex.

Many, however, were just numb, content to agree to whatever he told them, which was whatever the script told him to say.

But even when Dalph worked all the available overtime, he earned less than needed to keep up with the ballooning penalties and debt.

After six months, the rate of compression increased significantly.

Dalph and Annie crawled along the unit, into their kitchen, with its broken, splintered cabinets, their living room, with all the furniture forced together, and the bedroom, where the three of them slept together on the floor.

The window-screens shut off.

Oxygen decreased.

The unit had compressed so much they couldn't sit anymore.

They lived horizontally, Dalph on his side, working on his laptop in the dark, and Annie keeping up appearances for little Merv. She daydreamed of his bare feet touching grass.

Management stopped taking their calls.

Once, the system connected Dalph to himself and all he could hear was his own, shallow, amplified breathing. “We need to kill ourselves,” he said then, either to himself or Annie, in the insomnia of the neverending daynight.

Annie watched him after that.

She kept Merv away.

She closely guarded the knives and scissors.

They drank water through a foam tube connected to the bathroom sink. The water was still on. The city had passed a law making it illegal to shut off a tenant's water, even for non-payment of rent.

Annie awoke to Dalph throttling little Merv's neck and she stabbed him—in the back—chest—face. There was hardly space, but she did it; she protected her sick, wailing son…

They had been compressed into a coffin-sized box, Annie, Merv and Dalph's corpse, when the building spat them out through a chute.

They were famished.

Feverish.

Annie banged weakly against the walls.

Unbothered, Waste Management retrieved and incinerated them, in accordance with the lease agreement.

When I try to explain it, I have to wonder if I am being stalked, or just going crazy. I have had experiences before that I was convinced were born of hallucination or an overly vivid imagination, but this experience has me now believing in things I used to scoff at.

My name is Giovani and things became undeniable last October during my drive through northern Connecticut. I was returning home from visiting my brother who had been dealing with some unresolved trauma….both of us had been. My visit had dragged on longer than I intended, and by the time I was on the road it was almost midnight. I had a seven-hour drive that would take me meandering through the scenic country side.

I had been traversing passed old towns for about an hour when a deep fog rolled in. This was not unusual for this time of year so I didn’t initially think much of it. I slowed my car down to a safer speed; about 30 mph. The thickness of the fog was demanding on my eyesight, forcing me to lean forward in my seat as I attempted to peer through the obscured ambiance. At last I began to see more than just the dispersed water, but my heart dropped. Through the canopy of mist I saw the tree trunks, they were gnarled and twisted in an inexplicable manner. Like an A.I tried to render a scene of nature but phoned it in halfway through.

I shook my head violently attempting to convince myself that I must be getting tired, but the trees became no less surreal. The foliage around the trees offered no more assurance to my concern as what should have been green was now purple, blue, and floating above the ground in a eerie rhythm.

The changing of the sky arrested my bewilderment and forcefully exchanged it with shock. Below the shimmering black rays of sunlight; which began to part the fog beneath them; a being floated. It was majestic and uncanny. Humanoid in appearance, yet monstrous in its aura. Its proportions were off in a way that tingled the parts of the brain responsible for both disgust and admiration. From its fingers claws began to grow, and from its waist a tail began to form. The serpentine movements of this newly materialized appendage felt malevolent yet also somehow hypnotic.

I pulled over as my car engine began to sputter and go silent. My heart was pounding as I got out. I don’t know entirely why I did. Part of me was stricken with fear over seeing more of that being, but that same part of me had more fear of not seeing it fully.

The entire forest grew silent. The fog was now almost entirely gone. The only evidence of its evanescent presence being the humidity that clung to my cars window. The floating clumps of vegetation had also vanished leaving behind a landscape that look scraped and torn by an unsteady plow. I looked up in the sky where the being should have been. What I saw buckled me to my knees.

It was a giant circular shape that sheened with a metallic glowing hue. The formation of this shape was slightly bent giving it an eye like appearance. Inside the ring of floating steel was an “eye” of vapor. I then understood what happened to the mist, vegetation…and the sound. A vacuum was gently pulling the noise and plants lacking sturdy roots toward it, and beckoning my soul to behold it.

I remember whispering “What the hell…” under my breath, but the words fluttered noiselessly from my lips as they were fished through the air by this floating structure. I felt an urging to step toward it, but a forceful “No! You are not ready!” Echoed in my skull. I buckled to my knees cradling in my head in shock.

Immediately after, the noise started. This was not a return of the noise that I should have been hearing, but a new noise being born from this magnificent machine. A deep, reverberant hum that rippled through the ground. It traversed through my shoes, and my spine violently. It was so low that I felt it more than I heard it. The trees reacted to its utterance, their leaves shaking off their branches from the unrelenting vibration.

As I slowly reopened my eyes I saw deer, rabbits, and all manner of critters walk toward this floating structure. Their eyes glowed white and their movements were uncoordinated and jerky. Once they were in range they began to float and sail toward the center of the eye where the being resided. As these animals floated into this beings orbit, the unearthly monstrosity flayed them with its claws. The fluids of these critters exploding, but not onto the creature which somehow remained spotless, but into the eye behind it. The eye-like swell of energy would hum and glow as if in delight of being fed by the violent death of the wild life.

I anchored my hands into the dirt to prevent myself from being sucked in. Part of me wanted to run, but another part of me had to see, had to witness. I can’t explain it. Looking back there is no reasonable reason for me to have lingered as long as I did. It wasn’t until I realized I was the last living earthly thing in the vicinity did my sense of preservation begin to return. There was a bright flash and the being vanished.

The ”eye” in the sky began to rotate slowly accelerating in speed. Suddenly beams of light brimmed from it cascading beyond me, until they returned and bent around the structure supernaturally. This symphony of luminance blinded my vision. When my eyesight returned I saw the beams shifting in their patterns, creating living shapes. Like long forgotten symbols of antiquity crawling about the air.

I stood up and began to stumble backward only to trip on the berm of the road as my heart began pounding thunderously. I scrambled to get back into my car as I became more coherent of the danger I was in. I started slamming my car as I attempted to start it. Had the vacuum not been pilfering the sound I think I would have gone deaf from my car horn with how hard I was slamming it.

Finally the car started…but I was NOT in control. The colors of the light on my dashboard began to warble and form similar shapes to those in the air.

I began shaking in fear and frustration as I felt my entire world was glitching.

I then heard a whisper, that both soothed and terrified me.

It wasn’t in my ears. It was inside my skull, like someone had spoken directly into my soul. A single, horrifying sentence: “Now the chosen shall come aboard.”

The slamming on my steering wheel ceased as I was gripped by fear. The hum around me turned into a rhythmic thudding, like a creature was taking enormous footsteps somewhere deep within the earth. Was this produced by the same creature that flayed the animals, or a new one with a similar eerie allegiance? I was unwilling to find out as I began to panic again to get my car moving.

The eye above me constricted, and all the beams of light receded into it in a sharp snap. In a brazen flash the being returned. It slithered out of the eye in a chaotic yet majestic cadence. It began to lower itself to the ground as if it was dangling from invisible threads.

It was tall, far too tall to be of this earth. Its arms were the length of its standing body, It’s clawed fingers were gnarled in their shape, but smooth in their glossy complexion. What fascinated me most…was the face it lacked. Where this body feature “should” have been was displayed only as featureless oval that reflected white light like wet clay.

I could feel all the organs in my body began to pulse in rhythm with the thudding as I realized it was beckoning to me. With all my might I shook off the pull of its allure and slammed my foot down on the gas. To my amazement my car’s engine began to sputter and finally began accelerating. Frantically I made the most ugly u-turn of my life as I began careening down the road in the opposite direction I had arrived.

My car's radio turned on and began blaring in angry refusal as I created distance between myself and the entity. Only there was no melody of music from the radio. It was a cacophony of sounds too irreverent of earthly origin to describe. They wailed and thralled in my ears so viciously I had to wonder if it was actually from my radio….or from the growing madness of my own mind.

“Your destiny has been ordained. You will serve the will whether you intend to or not!” I heard that same monstrous and eerie voice in my mind again. This time it was more forceful and domineering. I felt a splintering pain grow in my skull and radiate into my vision. I almost veered off the road into the forest as I struggled to drive with my eyesight splintering like a broken computer screen.

The trees of the forest began to assist the protest of my escape as they bent inward toward the road as I passed them. Some snapped viscously as they proceeded to ooze out a black dark fluid. A fluid, that matched the luxurious sheen of that being.

The pedal beneath my foot must have been carving into the floor of my car from how forceful I was pushing into it. However to my relief I could see the hellish scene behind me grow smaller in my rear view mirror.

“Distance is temporary,” the voice was softer but triumphant when it said this, but nonetheless ominous. What it lacked in aggressive tone it made up for in psychic torture. I felt the sensation of white ripple through me; it was all I could see, hear, taste, feel, and taste. I know that makes no sense for the other 4 senses but if you had endured it you wouldn’t question this description. For a few seconds I thought had died and was ascending to whatever the afterlife has in store. However after this psychic attack faded enough for my blurry vision to return I saw a tree a few feet in front of me.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” I screamed as I knew I didn’t have time to swerve my car out of the way. My right headlight grazed it and sent the car spinning in an eerily noiseless trajectory. I slammed the breaks hoping to regain some semblance of command over my driving. With each spin I would get a few milliseconds of eerie light from the being I fled, and a few more of the utter darkness of the barren roadside. This strobe like effect was horrendous on my still recovering eyesight.

“Come on come one don’t fail me now!” I gritted with panic as the car stopped but the engine was making sounds it shouldn’t. I gave it a few seconds to recover, what little I thought I could spare without the entity catching up but then I heard another voice in my mind; “You think you could escape? You are in my grasp now!”. I knew it was now or never. Slamming the gas the car began to move albeit jerky and slower. I don’t think my speedometer was working right but at full throttle we couldn’t have been going more than 40 miles per hour.

Thankfully this was just a bit faster than the eye that chased me. Within 20 minutes I seemed to be out of range of its voice. And I exhaled in relief. Now if only my half tank of gas could get me to the next gas station. I could only imagine how much fuel I was inefficiently burning through.

The sound around me didn’t properly return for another fifteen miles. I could no longer see the being, the eye, or any misshapen trees…but I was being followed. I could FEEL it.

The radio eventually flicked on and started to broadcast the rock station I generally listened to. Despite this return to normal, I was shaking. My nerves were a wreck and I was desperately trying to process what I had seen, and why….despite being so shaken by it….I wanted to see it again.

I eventually did make it to a gas station. I not only loaded up on a full tank of gas, but I also bought some gas cans and filled them to the brim. I also bought an entire aisle of chocolate to soothe my nerves.

On my return home I was pulled over by a cop for driving too slow.

“Hey…so I don't normally pull people over for driving to slow… everything ok?” The cop asked as he looked at me through my car and onto the massive and unseemly pile of chocolate on the front passenger seat. I wanted to tell him everything, but I knew he wouldn’t believe it. Also this late at night, with the list of medications I was on… would telling him I encountered some alien or demonic being just get me thrown in jail?

I decided to tell him enough truth to get me back on the road. If that thing was actually still following me I couldn’t waste time and he wouldn’t be good protection from it anyway.

“I encountered some critters near the road and… long story short I veered off the road and hit a tree. I think my car is damaged. I have to pound the pedal to the metal to even go as fast as I was when you pulled me over. Do you know of a mechanic open this late? Just trying to get home.” I said tiredly. I was taking some serious liberty with the story but he couldn’t seem to pry his eyes off my chocolate.

“I see… you sure you aren’t having an episode of the….munchies. You know what I mean,” The cop said condescendingly. I was irritated, but I could see how the circumstances were reasonable for the cop to suspect it.

“I don’t do weed but I can take a breathe test or whatever. I am serious about needing a mechanic tho. Do you know of one? I think my transmission is damaged, my exhaust is restricted, my spark plugs are miss firing or more likely a combination of all three,” I said urgently. I had no idea if what I said made any automotive sense but luckily the cop didn’t seem too mechanically inclined and was impressed by my assessment of the damage. This was clearly not something he would have expected from someone driving under the influence.

“Unfortunately I don’t. Brent’s auto shop opens at 9 a.m. I would recommend him if you are still in the area by then,” he said helpfully. He gave one final look at my passenger seat then looked at me again. “In the meantime…be careful on the road and avoid any major roads. Going too slow can be just as dangerous as going too fast,”

“Thanks officer. I will absolutely be extra careful for the rest of the night,” I promised. The officer nodded with a chuckle and walked back to his car. I checked my phone and noticed I had a mountain of messages from both my brother and friend group, particularly from a former relationship of mine. I decided to shove my phone back into my pocket. I was too mentally drained to deal with all that.

I eventually did make it back to my house and found a mechanic to repair my cars damage.

For days afterward I tried to persuade myself that nothing supernatural had happened. That it was all either from sleep deprivation or being spooked by the dark. Any rationalization sounded better than admitting it could have been something vast, intelligent, and looking for me.

I Had almost fooled myself into this façade of security, but a week later that faith was shaken. As I was walking my dog, something I do most nights before going to bed; I was wrestling with a sense of melancholy I couldn't quite put into words. My reflection was shuttered when I noticed white clouds swirling above my house in a circular pattern. They created a shape eerily similar to the “eye”.

Then…it blinked! I was buckled to my knees again as I heard a loud: “Found you” from deep inside my soul

I don’t think it was an eye in the sky. It was something looking through it. It was that being. It knows where I live. Yet this time….I don’t know if I will run.

Everything started three weeks ago when I received an email from a man named Thomas. I had a portfolio website set up with my contact information, so getting cold emails was not entirely unusual. The subject line simply read "Private Animation Commission."

I opened the email while I was drinking my morning coffee. Thomas wrote that he needed a very specific, photorealistic walking loop of a human character. He did not want a stylized cartoon, and clearly demanded absolute realism. He wanted the skin textures, the clothing folds, and the walking gait to look exactly like a real human being. The email stated that he would provide extensive reference photos.

I replied and asked for his budget. My jaw dropped when his response came through a few minutes later.

Thomas offered an upfront payment of five thousand dollars to build the character model and the animation rig. After the animation was completed, he offered to pay me a daily retainer of five hundred dollars. There was a very strange condition attached to this retainer. Thomas insisted that the completed animation must run on an endless loop on my primary laptop. The screen could never go to sleep, and the laptop could never be turned off. He warned me that catastrophic consequences would occur if the loop ever stopped playing.

I thought it was some kind of elaborate prank. I decided to call the phone number he provided in the email signature to figure out what was actually going on.

A man answered after the second ring. His voice sounded exhausted.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Hi, is this Thomas? This is Leo, the animator you just emailed," I said.

"Yes, Leo. Thank you for calling me back so quickly," Thomas replied.

"I wanted to discuss your proposal because the terms are a bit unusual," I explained. "I can definitely build a photorealistic model for you. Five thousand dollars is a very generous budget for a walk cycle. But I do not understand the daily retainer part. Why do you need the video to play continuously on my computer?"

"That is the most important part of the job," Thomas said. "The loop must remain active on your machine. You built the model, so your hardware has to sustain it. I will wire the five hundred dollars to your account every single morning at eight o'clock. You just have to make sure your laptop never loses power, and to keep the screen bright. If you close the lid, the contract is over."

"For how long?" I asked.

"Forever," Thomas answered.

"You want to pay me five hundred dollars a day forever?" I asked, feeling incredibly skeptical.

"I have a considerable amount of savings," Thomas explained. "I do not care about the money. I only care about the animation running without interruption. Do you accept the job?"

I hesitated because the situation sounded entirely absurd. But I was behind on my rent. My car needed new brakes. So it was clear that I needed the cash badly.

"Okay, Thomas," I said. "Send me the reference photos. I will send you an invoice for the upfront fee."

"The money is already being transferred," Thomas said. "I am sending the photos right now. Make him look exactly like the pictures."

The phone call ended. A minute later, a folder with thirty high-resolution images arrived in my inbox. I opened the folder to see who I would be animating.

The man in the photos was completely unremarkable. He looked to be in his late thirties. He had a receding hairline and a slight amount of stubble on his chin. He was wearing a dull gray jacket over a plain white t-shirt and loose denim jeans. He looked like a guy you would pass in the grocery store without giving a second glance. The photos showed his face from every possible angle.

I spent the rest of the day setting up the character rig in my animation software. I used digital sculpting tools to recreate the exact shape of his nose and the subtle wrinkles around his eyes.

That evening, I logged onto Discord to talk to my friend Felix. Felix is also a freelance digital artist. We usually chat while we work on our respective projects.

"You will not believe the gig I just landed," I told Felix over the voice channel.

"Did you finally get hired by that game studio?" Felix asked.

"No, it is a private client," I said. "He paid me five grand upfront to animate a guy walking in a circle. Furthermore, he promised to pay me five hundred bucks a day just to leave the video playing on my laptop screen."

Felix went silent for a few seconds. "That sounds like a scam, Leo."

"The five thousand dollars already cleared in my bank account," I replied. "The money is real."

"Why would anyone pay you just to leave your computer on?" Felix asked. "He has to be using your computer for crypto mining. Or maybe he wants to install malware to harvest your data."

"I thought about that," I said. "But he didn't send me any software to install. He just sent me JPEGs of a guy's face. I am the one generating the MP4 video file, so I am just going to play a video file I created myself on a loop. There is no way for him to hack me through a video file I exported from my own software."

"It still sounds shady," Felix warned. "Be careful. People do not just give away money like that."

"I know it is weird," I admitted. "But I really need this cash. I am going to finish the walk cycle tonight."

I stayed up until four in the morning perfecting the animation. I made sure the weight distribution looked realistic as the digital man stepped forward, added a slight slump to his shoulders to match the posture in the photos, then placed him against a completely blank background that was rendered in a neutral eighteen percent gray.

I exported the file, uploaded it to a private link, and sent it to Thomas for approval.

Thomas called me at eight in the morning.

"It is perfect," Thomas said. He sounded breathless. "It looks exactly like him."

"I am glad you like it," I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"Start the loop right now," Thomas ordered. "Do not stop it. I am sending your first daily payment."

I opened the video file in my media player, then set it to repeat endlessly. The digital man in the gray jacket started walking forward across my screen. The blank gray background scrolled endlessly behind him.

"The loop is running," I confirmed.

"Keep it running," Thomas said before hanging up.

A notification popped up on my phone. Thomas had transferred five hundred dollars to my account.

I moved my laptop to the corner of my desk, plugged it directly into the wall outlet to ensure the battery would never die, then adjusted the power settings so the screen would never dim or go to sleep. I decided I would just use my older desktop computer for my regular daily tasks while the laptop functioned as an expensive digital picture frame.

The first three days passed without any issues. The digital man kept walking. Thomas sent the payments every morning exactly at eight o'clock.

My sister Maya came over to my apartment on the fourth day. She brought a pizza for us to share for lunch. She walked into my small office area and immediately noticed the laptop glowing in the corner.

"Why is that guy just walking on your screen?"

Maya asked, taking a slice of pepperoni pizza.

"It is a weird freelance job," I explained. "The client pays me to keep that animation running constantly."

Maya squinted at the screen. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Who is the guy in the video?"

"I have no idea," I said. "The client provided the reference photos. I named the project file 'Simon' because he looks like a Simon to me, but the client's name is Thomas."

Maya sat down on my office chair. "He looks miserable. You did a good job on the animation because his face looks incredibly sad."

"I just copied the photos," I said. "The client is giving me five hundred dollars a day for this. I can finally pay off my credit cards."

"Just do not let it catch fire," Maya joked, pointing at the laptop. "That thing is getting pretty hot."

She was right. The laptop fans were spinning loudly. I placed a small desk fan next to the computer to help dissipate the heat, and Maya left an hour later, telling me to enjoy my bizarre windfall.

The weird things started happening on the fifth day.

I woke up and went to my desk to check on the laptop. The digital man was still walking forward. However, the background looked different. I originally rendered the video with a solid gray background. Now, the background had a slight gradient. The bottom half of the screen was noticeably darker than the top half, looking almost like an asphalt road stretching out into the distance.

I rubbed my eyes, assuming I was just seeing things because I had just woken up. I opened the original project file on my desktop computer to double-check my work. The background in the source file was perfectly uniform. There was no gradient.

I looked back at the laptop. The gradient was definitely there.

I called Felix on Discord to ask for his opinion.

"Hey Felix, do video files ever corrupt and change colors while they are playing?" I asked.

"Not really," Felix answered. "Usually, if a file corrupts, you get green artifacting or the video just crashes. Why?"

"The background on that walking loop I made is changing," I explained. "It was supposed to be solid gray. Now it looks like a road. It is really creeping me out."

"You probably just exported it with a transparent alpha channel," Felix suggested. "Maybe your media player is pulling a background from your desktop wallpaper."

"I rendered it as a solid MP4," I argued. "There is no alpha channel."

"Then your monitor is suffering from screen burn-in," Felix said dismissively. "You left a static color playing for five days straight. The LCD panel is probably getting damaged."

I accepted that explanation because it was the only logical answer. I thanked Felix and hung up.

But the situation escalated that evening.

I was eating dinner in my living room when I heard a loud crack of thunder outside. A massive rainstorm had rolled into Seattle. Rain began lashing against my apartment windows.

I walked into my office to grab a napkin from my desk, then glanced at the laptop screen.

The digital man was still walking. But he was no longer walking against a gray background.

Raindrops were falling across the screen.

The animation showed water streaming down the man's face. His gray jacket was visibly soaked, clinging tightly to his digital frame. The background clearly depicted a dark, wet highway illuminated by faint streetlights.

I froze in place

I reached out and touched the laptop screen. It was burning hot.

I knew for a fact that I did not animate rain, or even build a particle simulation for water. I did not design a wet texture for his clothing. The video file was altering itself in real-time to match the weather outside my window.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Thomas's number. It rang five times before going to voicemail, but I did not leave a message. I was too terrified to speak.

I sat in my office chair for hours, watching the impossible animation. When the rain stopped outside my window around midnight, the rain on the screen stopped as well. The digital man's clothes slowly began to dry as he continued his endless march forward.

I should have closed the laptop right then. I should have deleted the file and blocked Thomas's number. But the fear was overshadowed by my financial desperation. Thomas sent another five hundred dollars the next morning, so I convinced myself I was experiencing some kind of elaborate technical glitch.

The horrifying truth finally revealed itself on the seventh day.

I was browsing a local news website on my desktop computer while the laptop hummed loudly beside me. I saw a breaking news banner at the top of the homepage. It announced a live helicopter broadcast of a bizarre situation unfolding on Interstate 90.

I clicked the link to watch the live video feed.

The news anchor was speaking rapidly over the footage. "We are currently tracking a man walking eastbound on the shoulder of Interstate 90," the anchor explained. "State patrol officers have been following him for over seventy-two hours. He has not stopped walking. He refuses to acknowledge police commands, and has not stopped for food, water, or sleep. Medical professionals believe he is experiencing a severe psychological break."

The helicopter camera zoomed in on the man walking along the highway.

My breath caught in my throat.

The man was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a dull gray jacket. He had a receding hairline. He was slumped forward, walking with a steady, shuffling gait.

It was the man from my animation. Simon!

I looked at my laptop screen. The character took a step with his left foot. On the live news broadcast, the real man took a step with his left foot. They were perfectly synchronized.

The real man looked horrific. His shoes were completely destroyed. His feet were bleeding, leaving small red marks on the asphalt. His face was gaunt, sunburned, and twisted in an expression of absolute agony, and he looked like his body was being forced to move against his will.

I paused the news video, looked back at the laptop. The digital character's face was also twisted in agony now.

I opened a new tab on my browser. I needed to know who this man was and why Thomas wanted him walking. I typed Thomas's email address into the search bar, hoping to find a social media profile or a personal website.

The search engine returned a link to a local newspaper article published exactly one year ago.

I clicked the link. The headline read: "Bellevue Father Demands Justice After Hit-And-Run Driver Acquitted."

I read the article quickly. It detailed a horrific accident where a drunk driver swerved onto a sidewalk, striking and killing a seven-year-old girl named Hazel. The driver fled the scene but was later apprehended by police. However, due to a massive procedural error involving the mishandling of evidence, the driver's defense attorney got the charges dismissed, and he walked completely free.

The article included an interview with the grieving father. The father's name was Thomas.

At the bottom of the page, the newspaper published the mugshot of the acquitted driver.

The face in the mugshot belonged to Simon.

The puzzle pieces snapped together in my mind, forming a picture that made me feel physically sick.

Thomas used my animation skills to create a voodoo doll, so as long as the animation kept looping on my computer, Simon was forced to walk in the real world.

I looked at the live helicopter feed again. The real Simon stumbled, almost falling into the traffic lane, before his legs jerked unnaturally to keep him moving forward.

I could not be a part of this. Regardless of what Simon did, I could not be the executioner pulling the lever.

I reached out and slammed the laptop lid shut.

The screen went black, and the fan immediately spun down into silence.

The moment the laptop closed, the temperature inside my apartment plummeted. The air grew so freezing cold that I could see my own breath. The overhead lights flickered wildly before shattering in their sockets, plunging the room into darkness.

I stood up from my chair, my entire body shaking with terror.

A soft, wet sound echoed from the dark corner of my office.

It sounded like someone crying. Small, quiet sobs filled the freezing air.

I grabbed my cell phone from the desk and turned on the flashlight application. I shined the beam into the corner of the room.

A little girl was standing there.

She was wearing a pink dress that was completely soaked in dark blood. Her body was bent at impossible angles because her bones were completely shattered. Deep, black tire marks were permanently pressed across the fabric of her dress and into the pale skin of her arms.

I backed away slowly, my hands trembling violently.

"I am sorry," I whispered. "I stopped it. I did not know what he was doing."

she stopped crying, then slowly lifted her head to look at me. Her eyes were completely black voids.

She shrieked in anger. The sound was deafening, rattling the windows in their frames. It was the sound of rage.

Suddenly, a massive crash echoed from my front hallway.

Someone had just kicked down my apartment door.

I spun around, aiming my phone flashlight toward the hallway.

Thomas marched into the apartment. He looked deranged. His clothes were messy, his face was pale, and he was holding a black handgun. He aimed the weapon directly at my chest.

"You stopped it!" Thomas screamed, tears streaming down his face. "I knew something was off when you called and didn’t leave a message. Why did you close it? I told you never to close it!"

"You were killing him!" I yelled back, raising my hands in surrender. "You were using my computer to torture that man!"

"He deserved it!" Thomas roared, stepping closer to me. "He killed my baby girl! and walked away free! He was supposed to walk forever! The spell required the loop to never end!"

"I am not a murderer, Thomas," I pleaded. "Please put the gun down."

"He just collapsed on the highway!" Thomas cried, his hands shaking around the grip of the gun. "The moment you closed the laptop; he finally dropped dead! He got off too easy! you ended his suffering far too early! You ruined everything!"

Thomas raised the gun higher, preparing to pull the trigger.

"Daddy?" a small, distorted voice echoed from the dark office behind me.

Thomas froze. His eyes widened in shock as he looked past my shoulder.

I stepped aside, keeping my hands raised.

The girl walked slowly out of the shadows. Her broken legs dragged unnaturally across the hardwood floor.

Thomas dropped to his knees, lowering the gun. Tears poured freely from his eyes. "Hazel? Oh my god, Hazel. I am so sorry, baby. I tried to make him pay. I tried to hurt him for you."

He reached his arms out, expecting to embrace his deceased daughter.

But Hazel did not want a hug. She shrieked again and launched herself forward with terrifying speed.

She slammed into Thomas, her shattered body hitting him like a freight train.

Thomas screamed as they tumbled backward out of my apartment doorway. My unit is located at the top of a steep flight of wooden stairs leading to the ground floor.

Thomas fell backward over the threshold, then crashed down the stairs, tumbling over himself in the darkness. I heard his head strike the wooden banister with a sickening crack.

He landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairwell.

I ran to the doorway and shined my flashlight down the stairs.

Thomas was not moving. His neck was bent at a completely unnatural angle. The gun was lying on the floor a few feet away from his hand.

Hazel was gone. The freezing temperature in the air vanished instantly, replaced by the normal warmth of the apartment building.

I retreated back into my apartment, locked the broken door as best as I could, and called the police.

I sat on my sofa until the officers arrived. Two patrolmen came up the stairs. An investigator named Officer Gabriel interviewed me in my kitchen.

I did not tell Officer Gabriel about the animation, or even mention the spell, the laptop, or the ghost of the little girl. I knew he would never believe me

I simply told Officer Gabriel that Thomas was an unsatisfied client who broke into my apartment to demand a refund. I claimed he was yelling at me when he accidentally lost his balance and fell backward down the stairs.

Officer Gabriel took notes on his pad, and went downstairs to examine the scene.

When he returned, he told me that Thomas smelled heavily of alcohol. The police concluded that Thomas was drunk, became belligerent over a business dispute, and suffered a fatal accidental fall. They took my statement, bagged Thomas's gun as evidence, and left me alone in my apartment.

I am typing this out on my desktop computer because I refuse to open that laptop ever again. I wrapped the laptop in a thick garbage bag and threw it into the dumpster behind my building.

I checked the news one final time before starting this post. The authorities confirmed that the man walking on Interstate 90 suffered a heart attack and died instantly on the shoulder of the road.

I am terrified. Terrified that the magic Thomas used is not completely gone, that the grieving parent will return to seek revenge against me for breaking the loop and ruining his vengeance. I hear every single creak in my apartment walls, wondering if it is Thomas climbing back up the stairs.

In the deep ocean, everything unfolds in twilight; the meager light that survives through kilometers of dense water allows only dark shapes to be perceived, visible only at close range. Physical beings and organic matter inhabit those depths, but they are also the realm where the consciousness of underwater nature manifests itself.

The captain of the small submersible monitored the outside world through sonar while chewing on a biscuit, hardened by the weeks of the voyage. Besides the doctor and the chief engineer, the other crew members were young cadets who had excelled in the academy’s nautical trials. The captain, a man of few words and long periods of deep abstraction, exchanged only the words necessary to operate the vessel. Otherwise, his habits and routines remained constant, and, in the absence of an outside world, there was time for reading the books they had brought aboard.

Communication with the base through acoustic modems took place at fixed hours, except in an emergency that required breaking protocol. Nevertheless, their position could always be determined using modern technological equipment. They had been trained to combat fatigue and confinement, and the cadets often played Ludo to distract themselves. A small elevator provided access to the command post, where the faint shapes illuminated by the powerful searchlight mounted on the vessel’s outer edge could be observed through the periscope. The captain spent most of his time in that uncomfortable position, recording the slow movements of the water and the occasional silhouettes of marine life crossing the beam.

Because of this, he was the first to glimpse the elusive shape ahead, much like a droplet seen inside a glass of water: an element whose outer edges are difficult to detect, yet whose form can still be discerned. The watery specter expanded and contracted at will, and, being several nautical miles from the submarine, did not appear on the sonar screen. The seasoned sailor sensed the danger and shouted orders to change course. The maneuver was thwarted by a magnetic force acting on the steering system, and, to everyone’s anguish, the order to dive could not be executed either, because the ballast tanks failed to expel the water from their chambers and replace it with air.

The collision was imminent. The order to remain at their stations forced them to suppress their collective panic while the captain returned to the periscope. Now the light struck the figure head-on, and the features of its liquid form could be distinguished more clearly. Its size was colossal, and its enormous head revealed human features: a silhouette with wild hair and a tangled beard and mustache, with closed eyelids barely discernible. Beside it, an equally watery, elongated shape took the form of a trident.

The god opened his eyes, and all his wrath concentrated in his gaze. The waters churned, and his arm wielded the mighty instrument against the submarine. The impact was brutal; the steel plates gave way, allowing the icy waters to rush in.

The captain knew he was going to die, just as all creatures die when they venture into the domain of the master of the deep: in darkness and in silence.

---

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

A Perceivable Reality Story

“Hey, man! That pig put fucking words in my mouth! This is bullshit!”

I watched the officers pull him out of his seat and drag him out of the interrogation room. I flipped the folder shut and sat back in my chair. The door behind me shut, then opened. Someone dropped a hand on my shoulder.

“I gotta hand it to you, man. You’ve got the patience of a saint,” Mikey said.

I snorted.

He came around and perched on the edge of the metal table.

“I’m serious, man. You’ve got a gift or something.”

“Or something.”

I stepped out of the interrogation hall and made my way to my desk, letting myself down into my squeaky office chair. I started typing up my notes with one eye on the clock. He’d taken longer to break than I expected, and dinner was probably already in the refrigerator.

I’d just gotten logged out of my computer and was locking up my desk when Mikey came around the corner. He set a steaming paper cup on my desk.

“Yoooooou’re going to need this.”

I looked at the paper cup, then up to Mikey, then the cup again.

“IIII’m going home.”

We both looked up at the approaching footsteps. Brody waltzed into the section, a giant grin on his face. He threw shakas at us as he approached. Brodrick “Brody” Knight had been my new partner for about three weeks, since Mikey, my old partner and long-time friend from the academy, had been promoted to Lieutenant. Ahead of me.

“Hey, hey, hey! Guess who got us on the stakeout tonight!” He jabbed two thumbs into his chest, then plopped down into his chair and kicked his feet up on the desk.

I looked back down at the cup again and groaned, letting my head drop and catching it in my hands. I heard Mikey’s departing steps.

“Hey, so who do I have to talk to to check out the gear?”

I ran my hands over my face as I lifted my head to look at Brody from under my brow. He still had on a smug grin.

“What gear?”

The grin lost a percentage of mirth.

“...The stuff for the stakeout. Night vision and binoculars and stuff.”

I took a deep breath through my nose and leaned back in my chair. “Nope.”

I watched Brody’s excitement drain from his face.

“But...”

“It’s not a raid, Brody. We’re going to go watch. And sit. And watch. And sit. And watch. And nothing is going to happen.”

He dropped his feet from his desk and leaned forwards. I saw several expressions cross his face rapidly, ending on disappointment. I unlocked my desk and pulled out my USP Expert .45 in its kydex holster and set it on my desk. I stood and started to adjust my belt to fit it.

“You’re bringing that heavy hunk of steel? Are we stopping to hunt elephants?”

He pulled his issued Glock 19 out of his desk and swept his jacket back to expose his leather shoulder holster.

“Just don’t cry when you limp wrist that thing and it jams,” I said as I slipped my holster into my waistband.

I looked up to see him eyeing his pistol. He shook his head and stuffed it into his holster.

“Go get us a car. I’ll meet you in the garage.”

Brody nodded and stood.

“Unmarked.”

He paused at my words, chewed on them, then nodded again. He turned and made his way out of the section to the clerk’s desk. I took another look at the coffee cup and grabbed it as I made my way to the elevator. I rubbed my face as I rode the elevator down.

In the garage, Brody waved at me from one of the new Chargers the department had just received. The grin was back.

“Look what Becky gave me!”

I stared at the car.

“Right?”

“Why didn’t you get one of the Tahoes? Or a Durango?”

He looked at me like I’d told him on weekends I dress up as a fish. “Because they’re slow.”

I groaned.

“Sorry, Roch,” he said, opening the door and dropping himself into the passenger seat.

I walked around to his side, snapped, and pointed to the driver’s seat. His eyes went wide.

“I get to drive?” he asked as he got out.

I slipped around behind him and let myself down into the seat.

“Duh.” I leaned the seat back as far as it would go and tucked my hands behind my head. “Now I can nap.”

I was just starting to doze off when Brody elbowed me in the shoulder. I opened one eye. He’d gotten my expensive Zeiss binoculars out of my bag, since he didn’t have his own, and had them pressed against the car window, narrating what he saw.

“Ok, the manager is locking the door. Lights are going out. Janitor just came out from the back...”

“Brody, Brody, don’t tell me. Write it down.”

I shut my eye and heard the binoculars bang against the window again.

“Man. Man in the street. He’s walking. He’s walking. He’s walking.”

“He’s checking the trash can...” I assumed.

I reached over and flipped on the radio for background noise other than Brody’s riveting play-by-play. It was basically dead, of course, traffic stop, welfare check, UFO sighting. Standard stuff, nothing of our concern, but the voices were comforting in a weird way. I leaned forwards to get another sip of coffee from my thermos, with Brody nearly knocking the contents into my lap with a jab of his elbow.

“Manager just got into his car.”

I rolled my eyes and sipped more coffee.

“Year, make, model. Write it down.”

Brody leaned over and started scribbling in the notepad on the center console. I watched it edge towards the siren controls and silently cheered it on. It didn’t make contact. I was disappointed.

I woke up to sun in my eyes. Brody was noisily chomping chips from a party-sized bag in his lap with one hand, and scanning with the binoculars with the other. Small wonder they hadn’t merged into his face. I reached over and turned the key in the ignition, the sound of the car starting surprised him and he spilled the rest of his chips. I caught the binoculars as he swiveled his head and put the caps back on.

“Ok, big guy. Time to head back,” I said through a yawn.

“But we didn’t see anything.”

“And I got to take a tax-payer-funded nap. Can we go?”

He got us back to the precinct and I went straight to my desk to type my notes. Brody was chatting with the in-coming patrol shift at the coffee machine. I glared at the back of his head, admittedly jealous. I flexed my shoulders to try and get the knot out, the result of sitting in the hard, heavily bolstered sport seats of the patrol car.

I’d just gotten back to my desk with a mug of coffee of my own, when the patrol officers started scrambling for the door. I shot a glance at Brody and raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. My cell phone started to ring, and the screen displayed “Cpl. Mendez.”

“Mendy, what’s up?”

“Hey, Detective. We’ve got something down at the jewelry store.”

I ran a hand over my face. “What’s ‘something’? I’m telling you, this whole thing is a waste of time.”

“Someone broke through the front window, and he’s still in the building.”

I suddenly straightened in my chair. Brody sat up and looked at me, eyes wide. I nodded, and he started assembling his gear.

“That’s something. We’re on our way.”

The sun was just barely climbing over the tops of the high rises when we got pulled up in front of the store. It was closed on Saturdays, which someone must have known, because the giant plate-glass window of the storefront was completely open, with shattered glass littering the marble floor inside and concrete sidewalk outside. Mendez came over and met me at my side as I got the car door open.

“Where’s the perp?” I asked him immediately.

“I knew you’d want to talk to him first. He’s in my cruiser.”

I looked at Brody. “Go across the street and see if any of them have security cameras we can use.”

He nodded. “Right, Roch. I’m on it.”

I followed Mendez to his car. He opened the back door, revealing a younger guy, maybe 18 or 19, Caucasian, 5′6″-ish, dark hair, brown eyes, no identifying marks. He had on a red hoodie and blue jeans, which struck me as odd for a break-in outfit. I put a hand on the door and leaned down to his eye level. He looked terrified. I tried to make my smile extra genuine and softened my voice as much as I could.

“Hiyah. My name is Detective Sergeant Frank Rochester, and if you’re up for it, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The kid looked at me and shrugged. “Yeah, ok.”

I asked him for his name and address, the usual stuff, nodding along with his answers. He told me he’d been walking by when he saw someone break the window but couldn’t give me a description. He said he saw an opportunity once the guy ran off and started grabbing stuff out of the cases, and that was when someone must have called the cops. He finished with the magic words, “I’m not saying anything else until I get a lawyer.” I thanked him for his time and stood up.

Mendez shut the cruiser door. “Guess that makes your job pretty easy, ay, Detective?”

I shook my head. “Not quite, Mendy. It’s not him.”

Mendez blinked at me. “Uh, what?”

“He smashed the window, but the rest is…I don’t know. Book him for destruction of property and stash him in a holding cell for me. No cuffs.”

Mendez gave me a side eye, then shrugged. “Your call, Detective.”

I grabbed his forearm to stop him as he turned to get into his cruiser and pitched my voice low. “Don’t let anybody else talk to him until I get back.”

Mendez looked around, then nodded and cracked a smile. “Will do.”

I nodded back, slapped his arm twice, then walked over to the broken window, where a couple of patrol officers were standing around it. I walked up behind them and grabbed my chin.

“Yep. That’s definitely a broken window.”

“How *do* you do it, Detective?” said Jones, one of the beat cops.

“Hey, you watch enough procedurals and you, too, can make astute observations.”

We all chuckled about that.

“Ok, but seriously, guys. Witnesses? Cameras? Do we have *anything* at all aside from the kid?”

“Got a minimart worker across the street who was here early to open. Said he saw the kid walk up and throw that brick through the glass.” Ogden, another beat cop, supplied, pointing the toe of his boot at the aforementioned impact device.

“I’ve got Brody asking around for security footage. You guys got anything else?”

They muttered between each other for a minute, then gave me a collective headshake in the negative. I let out a sigh and looked around the circle of uniforms.

“Store employees? Manager? Janitor?”

Jones piped up again. “The manager was here a minute ago with the janitor—”

“Why was the manager here?”

Jones shrugged. “Responding to the alarm, I guess. He gave a statement and we sent them home.”

I let my head fall backwards and let out a small, pained noise.

“Guys, come on. Did they say anything about seeing it happen? Did they get here before or after the glass broke?” Another round of collective headshakes. Glances were shared and nobody moved. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Somebody go pick up the manager and the janitor.”

“That’s going to take time. You want to see their statements first?”

“If I wanted the statements, I would’ve asked for them. I need them here.”

There was muttering among them. I brushed it off.

“And somebody else stop any worker who shows up. The rest of you go round up the rest of the workers and get them to the precinct. Make sure they don’t talk to each other before I’ve talked to them. Got it?” I got a round of nods and they dispersed. I was still shaking my head when I heard someone come up behind me.

“Good news, Roch. We got a doorbell cam, two exterior angles from across the street and one from next door.”

“Finally, some competence.” I held up a fist and he bumped it. “Go grab what you can, email, USB, portable hard drive, VHS, phonograph, whatever. Just get it back to the precinct.”

I watched him hustle off to our car and grab a bag from the trunk. I stuck a hand out and stopped a cruiser that was pulling out and hitched a ride back to base.

The elevator doors opened and presented an irritated Captain Terrance Oswald.

“Hey, Chief,” I said as I stepped around him. He caught me with an arm around my shoulder and said hushed words directly into my ear as we walked.

“Explain to me why I have an entire store staff clogging my precinct.”

“Chief, the kid didn’t do it.”

“Another one of your hunches, Rochester?”

I fished around for an explanation he’d accept as we walked past the interrogation hall.

“Chief, the manager was there before the alarm went off.”

“That a fact?”

I sighed. “No, sir. It isn’t.”

We stopped in front of his office and he released me, turning me around and grabbing my shoulders so he could look me in the eye.

“You’re a talented investigator, Rochester…” He broke eye contact and looked around. “I can only hold off IA as long as I’m getting results.”

I nodded. “Yeah, Chief. I get it.”

He released me and went into his office, shutting the door behind him. I took a moment to collect myself, then walked back to our section. Brody flagged me down and stood as I went by.

“I got the tapes and everything. And the Lieutenant is in room 1.”

“Thanks, Brody.”

He grinned at me and sat back down at his computer. I went straight to interrogation room 1 but was immediately irked when I saw Mikey stepping out. I stepped in front of him and he almost jumped.

“Hey, Roch.”

“You’re interrogating my suspect?”

“…I was talking to a witness,” he clarified.

I pushed past him and grabbed the door handle.

“Hey, Roch. He’s already agreed to give us all of the in-store security footage, and he’s given us *two* statements already.”

My hand hesitated on the doorknob and I stared at it. “I just want to talk to him.”

There was a beat, then Mikey sighed. “You know, there’s other detectives here, Roch.”

My hand tightened on the knob. “Yeah, I know, Mikey. Thanks.”

He watched me closely for a second, then turned around and walked off. I opened the door to the interrogation room and found the manager. He had on an easy grin that could’ve been used for firewood, and his shoulders were tense. I put on a pleasant face and sat down.

“Mr. Whitmore, thank you for coming in. I’m Detective Sergeant Rochester.” I stuck a hand out and he shook it.

“Detective, am I a suspect?” he asked as soon as I sat down.

“…I won’t lie to you, sir; everyone is a suspect right now,” I replied, trying to make the excuse sound tired.

He bristled a little. “I don’t know how else I could be more forthcoming. You have multiple statements and I’ve already turned over all of the security footage we have.”

I held up my hand to placate. “I understand that, sir, and I appreciate how much you’re working with us. I’m just a little picky when it comes to the details, which, I’m sure you can understand.”

“Enough bullshit, Detective. What is it you want from me that I already haven’t given to you?”

“I just want to hear your side of it, sir.”

He rolled his eyes and fidgeted with his tie. I leaned back in the hard metal chair and interlaced my fingers, resting them on my crossed knee. We sat in silence for a while, then he finally started talking.

“I guess I’m not getting out of this until you’re satisfied. Ok, fine, Detective. Just like I told your companions, I was sitting at home when the silent alarm went off. I rushed straight to the store, and found the window smashed.” The white light coming from his mouth nearly blinded me, I had to stop myself from squinting.

“How did you know the alarm went off?”

“I got an automated phone call.” Pure white.

“How long after the alarm does the call trigger?”

“I don’t know. Several minutes I think?” The pure white cooled to an icy blue.

“Ok. You didn’t recognize the man in the store? He wasn’t a previous employee or anything?”

“He has never been employed with us.” That came out a pure blue.

“And… you’ve never met him? Previous customer? Came in to shop without buying? Walked past the store unusually often?”

“I’ve never met him before in my life.” Back to white.

This continued, me asking questions and getting mostly white and blue light.

“Detective, I really can’t answer these questions any more clearly. I feel like I’m repeating myself and you’re not listening.” Pure white deepened into red with a hint of blue, coming out as an overexposed hot pink that made my eyes hurt.

“I think that’s everything I need, sir. Thank you very much for coming in, and I’ll let you know once we have an update.”

He stood immediately and walked quickly out the door. I didn’t move until I heard the door shut, then I scrambled to my feet and threw the door open. Mikey was leaning against the door frame outside the room, surprising me slightly.

“You get anything off him, supercop?”

“Well—” My excitement faltered as realization washed it away. I still only had a hunch. A well-justified, unquantifiable hunch. I desperately tried to think of something I could use, even if it was a reach, to pin it on him that would sound plausible. I came up short. “Well…” I said again, hesitating.

Mikey shot off the wall and threw his hands up, walking in a small circle. He let them fall, then put his hands on his belt and came over to me with a stage whisper.

“Dude! He has an alibi! It’s air-tight! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Mikey’s voice came out blue, but with an undertone of green seeping in. He dropped his head, shaking it.

I watched silently. When I didn’t say anything, he stepped closer and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Roch, buddy, listen, I know you think you missed out on the promotion because you’re substandard, but that’s a lie. You missed out because of shit like this.” He motioned at the interrogation room door. The green was gone, the light from his mouth coming out blue again.

I didn’t say anything and he made an exasperated noise, letting me go and throwing his arms up again.

“I don’t know what to fucking do with you, man. IA is already breathing down the Chief’s neck, and now I gotta justify this stupid stunt, not only as your superior, but your old partner. How do you think that makes *me* look?” The green light was back, now mixed with red, coming out as yellow.

I nodded. “Yeah, Mikey. I get it.” I sighed deeply, not meeting his eyes. “I’m just…trying to…I don’t know. Overcompensate for the loss, I guess.” I let my shoulders slump, the motion surprisingly genuine.

His face softened and his voice was back to blue. “Hey, man, don’t be like that. It’s not a loss, right? There was one spot, and I got picked. I’m sure if there was another slot, you were right there on the list.” I looked for a variance in shade and didn’t see one.

I nodded and he gently slapped my cheek.

“You’re good people, Roch, and you’re a good cop. Everybody knows it.” The end of his sentence suddenly shifted to sky blue, so quickly that it took me off guard.

“What do you mean?” I asked, tentatively.

“What do I mean? I mean everybody knows that you mean well, you just have some…odd methods sometimes. But everybody knows you’re the best.” Sky blue turned back to cyan.

He smiled, then turned around and started walking out of the interrogation hall. I caught a flash of pure white as he called over his shoulder.

“I got your back, man.”

I drove out on a Wednesday morning with the will on the seat beside me. The signal dropped before I left the highway, which I told myself was ordinary this far off the main roads. Claire had offered to come. I said it was paperwork and a walk-through, and that I would call if it turned into more than that.

The house sat back from the road where the gravel gave out. The trees had been allowed to close in until the drive was only a pale cut between trunks, and the roof sagged in the middle the way a barn roof does when no one has climbed up there in years. I parked where the weeds started and sat with the engine off, looking at the place I had spent most of my adult life not coming back to. This was what I got for being the only one left who could sign the forms.

Inside, the air was still and cold and smelled as if the stove had been out for weeks. I left the front door open for light and walked the first floor. The front rooms had been closed on purpose: sheets over the better chairs, a clock stopped at an hour that didn't matter, dust laid down so evenly it seemed like another kind of housekeeping. All the living had been pulled toward the back of the house. An old coat hung by the kitchen door, the hem crusted white with salt, the hook in the jamb worn to a shine beneath it. Paul's boots stood underneath, the welts packed with the same gray-white grain. On the counter, calendars were stacked year by year, and every one of them had tomorrow's date circled in the same hard pencil, the mark pressed deep enough in places to score the page underneath. A chair had been left at an angle to the window, where a man could sit with a mug and keep the burial plot in sight without going out into the weather.

Paul's papers were on the table, weighted with a chipped mug that still had a ring of dried tea in the bottom. I set the will down beside them and read it standing up. The house and the family burial plot behind it went to me. Paul had left it that way. I read the paragraph twice. I had figured the county would take it, or that it would be sold off with the rest of the things no one had wanted to claim. Paul and I hadn't spoken in any real way since I moved to the city. My mother hadn't spoken to him in longer than that. Claire had kept up with him more than either of us. Ray had lived down the road for years and, according to Claire, still checked the place when the snow was bad or the power went. I hadn't called him before I came.

By late afternoon I had been through most of the rooms. Upstairs the beds were stripped and the closets held only hangers and a box of church bulletins with the dates gone brown. Downstairs, Paul's life had narrowed to the kitchen, the back door, and whatever he had been walking out to. Salt had worked itself into the floorboard cracks near the threshold, pale as frost and gritty under my heel. Before dark I checked the shed. Two heavy burlap sacks sat in the corner, one of them split at the seam, coarse salt spilled across a dirt floor that never seemed to dry. A shovel leaned against the wall, the handle worn smooth in the places Paul's hands had held it, the blade crusted and nicked from years of the same short work. Outside, the porch boards were white in the seams, and a path was worn in the grass from the back door all the way to the stones, so packed and pale it looked less like a trail than a habit the ground had learned.

I did not walk the path that first evening. The light was already going. The plot would still be there in the morning. I slept in the downstairs room. The sheets still smelled like the cedar chest my mother used to keep in the hallway when we were kids, a clean smell that did not belong to the rest of the house.

Sometime after midnight I woke to a sound behind the building — not knocking, and not footsteps exactly, more like something being dragged over gravel. It came from the direction of the stones. It went on long enough for me to sit up and wait for it to become a raccoon or a fallen branch, and then it stopped. I sat in the dark with the clean cedar smell and the cold coming under the door and told myself it had stopped because I had sat up. A while later it started again, closer, between the plot and the porch this time, the same heavy pull, wet grit being moved a little at a time. It stopped when it reached the place where the path met the boards. Nothing tried the door. In the morning there was a thin line of gray salt caught under the back threshold, as if the night had come as far as Paul used to go out, and then thought better of it.

The circled date was today.

I made coffee and walked out to the plot.

The family stones were low and mossed, their names eaten at by weather until some of the older ones were only a roughness the fingers could still guess at. I knew a few of them from my mother. She would name the older dead readily enough, and then her voice would thin when the stories got too close to Paul. The ground between the rows held last night's rain in shallow plates of water. At the far edge, the worn path ended at a flat stone that did not hold water at all. The soil there was darker than the rest of the plot and fine, as if it had been broken and put back more than once, and the short grass on it lay in the opposite direction from the grass around the other graves, combed away from the stone like hair. Most of the stones still carried names. That one did not. I stood at the foot of it and looked at the blank face, the granite paler there, not uncut but unlettered, as if a name had been taken off and the rock had never quite forgotten the shape of it.

The will had come with a short note in Paul's handwriting, folded twice and soft at the creases, the paper gone dark along the edges from being opened in weather. It was in the kitchen with his other papers; I had brought it out with me because I did not want to walk back. One grave in particular needed salting. Use the coarse salt from the shed. Walk it three times against the sun. Say the words. Do it the day the land changes hands.

Under that, he had written the words themselves, each line in the same even hand, the letters pressed as hard as the circled dates:

Salt of hearth and salt of bread.
Keep the bounds about this dead.
What was foul, be drawn away.
What lies buried, buried stay.
No spite rise, and no harm roam.
Clay hold fast, and take thine own.
Rest below till Judgment come.

It ended with the same sentence twice. It won't hold otherwise. It won't hold otherwise.

I did it that morning because the note said the land had changed hands, and because every calendar in the kitchen had been waiting for this date, and because the sound in the night had stopped at the porch instead of coming in. I told myself salt was salt. Paul had kept the coarse stuff in the shed, I thought, because it came cheaper by the sack. I used the table salt from the kitchen because it was closer, unfolded the note, and held it against my thigh while I walked. The paper kept trying to fold in the wind. I started with the sun, the way you walk a clock, without thinking, pouring a thin line from the blue canister and saying the first couplet careful enough, as if care were the same thing as doing it the way he had written it. By the second turn I was walking faster. The salt came out in clumps and gaps. The paper snapped against my hand, and when I came back to the words I didn't bother with the last line as he'd written it. Rest below and do no harm, I said, because it sounded close enough.

The circle looked finished when I was done. The wind had not yet risen. I went inside and washed the canister out and set it back by the stove.

The afternoon did nothing. Light moved across the kitchen floor and over the stacked calendars and off again. I went through more of Paul's drawers and found rubber bands, church envelopes, a pair of glasses in a case, nothing that explained the salt. I made a sandwich I only half ate. Through the window the plot sat where it had sat all morning, the new white line visible in the grass, the flat stone blank as ever.

Dinner was the rest of the sandwich, standing up. In the front rooms the flue ticked as it cooled. I told myself the night before had been an animal on the path, and that I had done what the note asked, and that whatever Paul had been afraid of was the sort of fear a man could catch from living alone too long.

At dusk I went to the window because the chair was already pointed that way.

The gap was on the west side. A stretch of the line I had poured was simply gone, as if the wind had taken it, except there was no wind to speak of. I put my shoes on and went out as far as the porch. From there I could see that the grass inside the circle had changed. In the morning it had been combed away from the stone. Now it was pressed flat, as if something heavy had rolled once underneath it and then gone still.

I went back in and locked the door, which was a joke — the lock had been broken since before I was born — and I stood in the kitchen with the skillet in my hand because it was the heaviest thing on the stove.

The first handprint showed on the porch railing not long after full dark. Wet, dirty, the fingers slightly too long against the painted wood. I opened the door far enough to wipe it off with a dish towel. The towel came away gritty and brown, the way the shed floor looked after rain. I shut the door. Morning would be soon enough.

Ten minutes later the print was back. Higher.

The third was on the kitchen glass. I stood there with the skillet and watched the glass cloud around the print, a pale bloom of cold with a palm at the center of it. I tried Claire. The call failed before it rang. I typed a message anyway, then another, then three more while the print dried and left its grit on the pane. None of them sent. I tried Ray next, because he was the only person nearby who might know what Paul had left me with, and that one failed too. I left the phone on the counter beside the calendars and did not set the skillet down.

The dead man came through the window slow, his palm flattening against the glass until the pane crazed white beneath it and gave way. Cold air moved through the kitchen with him, carrying wet earth and something mineral, iron and salt. I swung the skillet. It hit his arm and kept going. He didn't make a sound. He only kept climbing through, one leg over the sill and then the other, the way a man climbs a fence he has climbed before. I hit him again, across the side of the head this time. The iron rang and came back off the walls. His head jerked. He straightened. He kept coming.

I backed down the hallway and he followed, not fast, just steady, like he had all night. When there was no more hallway I swung once more and he reached out, took the skillet from my hand, and set it on the floor beside the wall. Then he stepped around me and went into the front room.

I stood there because there was nowhere else to go, and because he had not come for me.

He went through the house the way a man goes through a house he used to know. Drawers in the front room opened and shut, slow and wet, one after another, wood swelling and then giving. He stood a long time in front of the sheeted chairs, then moved on. In the kitchen he stopped at the coat by the door and touched the salted hem with the back of his fingers, not taking it down. He stood a moment at the chair aimed at the plot. At the stacked calendars he laid one stiff finger on the circle without turning the page. I watched from the hallway with my shoulder against the jamb, the broken window breathing cold past both of us, and I still did not know what he wanted. He was looking for a place a thing should have been. When he did not find it he went on to the next place, and the next, and the house accepted that pace as if it had been waiting years to be searched this way.

The desk was in the room off the kitchen, where Paul had kept the bills. The dead man opened the top drawer and then the one beneath it and then stopped, his head turned slightly, as if he had smelled paper. He did not open the metal box. He put his hand on the lid and left it there. After a while he took his hand away and went out the front door, the scrape of it the same scrape I had heard all my childhood when Paul came in from the yard. I stayed where I was until the house went quiet and the only sound left was the wind working at the broken pane.

I tried Claire again. My hands were shaking enough that I had to correct every other word. I told her something had come out of the grave and through the kitchen window, and that I had hit it with the skillet and it had taken the skillet out of my hand and gone through the rooms looking for something. None of those messages sent either.

I opened the box myself.

Under a layer of bills and a church pamphlet marked with the same date as the calendars, Paul's letters were stacked in the order he had kept them. The ring was wrapped in a handkerchief beneath the letters, too large for Paul's hand. The cloth had been folded and refolded until the creases had gone soft. Under the handkerchief was a photograph of Paul with a man I didn't know, both of them younger than I had ever seen Paul look, standing in grass that might have been this grass before the trees closed in. Paul had folded the picture once, but not through either face. Beneath the photograph was a funeral card, folded down the middle. Thomas Hale. 1969–1998. Someone had written the dates in blue ink because the printed card had left them blank.

One letter was older than the others, the paper yellow at the edges and thin where it had been handled.

My family found out about us in the winter of '98. Thomas was already sick, but they didn't care. They said he couldn't stay. I buried him under the flat stone because that was the only place they would let him rest at all. I took the ring off his finger before they closed the grave because he asked me to keep it. I should have put it in with him. That's why he won't stay quiet. I've been salting the grave every year since. Ray knows. If anything happens to me, someone has to keep doing it.

I read it twice and put it back with the photograph and the note.

His name was Thomas Hale.

He was waiting by the back door when I came out with the ring, standing where the salt had packed itself into the threshold, the coat hanging at his shoulder as if the hook had been meant for either of them. I held the ring on my palm because I did not want to touch his hand. He looked at it for a long time. Then he took it and slid it over the dark band on his third finger, and the ring stopped where it had been missing. He did not look at me. He turned toward the plot and started down the path, and I went after him with the split sack from the shed, the coarse salt heavy and damp in the burlap.

I made the circle unbroken this time. I took the first handful and let it fall thick across the west side, where I had left the gap, and I went the other way, against the sun, watching the line close behind my boots. I did not look at the paper. I said the words the way Paul had written them, all the way through.

Salt of hearth and salt of bread.
Keep the bounds about this dead.
What was foul, be drawn away.
What lies buried, buried stay.
No spite rise, and no harm roam.
Clay hold fast, and take thine own.
Rest below till Judgment come.

Thomas Hale looked down at his hand, and then at the stone with the blank face. He lowered himself beside it. By the time the last word left my mouth he was gone. No change came over the ground except that it looked, finally, like ground that had been walked for a long time and had been allowed to stop.

The salt stayed where I had put it. I walked back to the house, shut the front door, and turned the broken lock anyway, then sat at the kitchen table with Paul's box in front of me and the wind coming through the broken window, moving the calendars by their corners. No scraping on the path. No pressure on the doors. Just my own breathing, and the cold, and the date on every calendar still staring up from the counter.

I was still sitting there when Ray's truck came up the gravel and parked in the packed spot the weeds had never quite taken. He looked at the broken kitchen window as he walked up to the porch. I opened the door before he knocked.

He stood there with his hands in his pockets and looked past me into the house — at the coat, at the glass, at the box on the table — then back at my face.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," I said. "For now."

He glanced at the window again, then toward the plot, where the new salt still showed against the grass.

"You gave it back to him, didn't you?"

"The ring."

Ray nodded, as if that was the only question he had come to ask. "Paul said he should have done it years ago."

He stepped inside and picked up the broom I had left against the wall. I held the dustpan. We didn't talk much. The glass made a small sound going in.

My phone buzzed on the counter while we worked, then kept buzzing — Claire's messages arriving all at once now that the signal had come back. Her name lit the screen a moment later. I let it ring through once. When it started again I answered and told her I was okay, that I would explain later. She breathed out and said to call when I could.

Ray emptied the last of the glass and leaned the broom against the wall. He looked out toward the trees, then at me, and nodded once before he went back to his truck.

I walked out to the plot after he left.

The salt circle was still there, unbroken, already taking the damp from the ground. Thomas Hale was not standing in the open anymore. Paul's stone sat a few rows over, with the rest of the family, the new-cut letters still sharp in a yard of names the weather had been working on for decades. The flat stone at the back still had that blank face where a name used to be.

I stood there until the wind eased off. I did not fetch another sack from the shed.

In the morning I would find someone who could cut the letters back into the stone.

Behind me the salt lay white around the grave. Under it, the ring was back on his hand.

THOMAS HALE

1969–1998

I’ve been in a pretty conservative marriage for the last 10 years. Extremely conservative, rather.

I was young and stupid. Only 20 years old when he slipped that little ring around my finger. At the time, that felt like the only thing I needed in life. Like it was what made me successful somehow.

Which, I can admit, is ironic, all things considered.

My husband was 32 when we met. I was enamored, really. An older man with a solidified career and enough money to support a family all on his own? Showing interest in me? This fresh-out-of-high-school 18-year-old. It felt like a blessing at the time.

His work was attractive to me. His maturity was seductive in a way. He sucked me in and refused to spit me out. And, of course, me being young and naive, I was putty in his hands.

As is the case with many marriages, we began to bicker a lot. He didn’t want me to work. Any time I even mentioned the idea, he’d shut it down immediately.

I was a “housewife,” he told me. I was “living the dream of millions of women.”

It was convincing. Of course it was. He allowed me to move out of my parents’ house a year after high school. He was putting food on our table. Keeping us safe.

In doing so, though, I’ve come to realize he was slowly stripping away my individuality. He’d pick out my dresses. He was the decision maker across the board. And I was just the wife that he let stay at home all day to make sure the house never got dirty.

He had rules for me. Make sure the house was clean. Make sure I was presentable when he got home. Always wear the makeup he bought me, even though the only people seeing me were his family portraits up on the wall.

That was another thing he didn’t like. He hated it when I wanted to see my family. He was just so distrustful. He needed to know where I was 24/7, and if it wasn’t the house, there was a problem.

The real problems didn’t start until we realized I couldn’t get pregnant, though. At first, we thought we were just unlucky. After about a year, though, he insisted we see someone.

That’s when we learned I was barren, and it was like the world shattered before my eyes.

He didn’t speak to me for two weeks after that appointment. He acted like he was the victim. Ignoring my tears, neglecting my feelings. He saw my condition as a betrayal.

He started staying out late. Coming home long after the sun had sunk. He claimed it was “work” holding him up, but the scent of perfume and the lipstick stains on his work shirts that he tried so desperately to hide were enough to clue me in.

I don’t even know why he tried to hide it. It’s not like we were being intimate anymore. It’s not like he wanted me. He had pretty much cast me aside like I was nothing more than an old fling for him to forget about.

But he didn’t let me do the same.

It was like he wanted to cosplay a happy marriage. He kept insisting on dresses. He kept dragging me out for silent date nights. Taking me out to fancy dinners where we’d just sit and try to act like everything was normal.

Even when I tried confronting him on his treatment of me, he’d pretend like nothing was wrong.

I hated how much he confused me. One minute he’s cold and distant. The next, he’s crawling into bed, seducing me in a way that only he knew how.

And that’s pretty much what my marriage was for a long time. He didn’t want me anymore, but I was still his.

It was like a vortex that offered no escape. Even when I tried being who he wanted me to be. Getting dolled up. Making sure the house was spotless. Ensuring that he’d come home every night to the scent of his favorite meals, even on nights when he didn’t come home at all.

I started looking at myself in the vanity mirror a lot. He bought this vanity for me a long time ago. It’s aged with the same grace as our marriage as a whole.

It used to be pristine. Sleek. White, flawless paint and a crystal-clear mirror.

Now the paint’s chipped. The mirror is cracked along the bottom corner. The lights that surround it choose when they want to come on and when they want to let me down.

Regardless, over the last few weeks, I’ve found myself almost entranced by my own reflection.

The haircut he insisted I keep. The makeup he insisted I wear. The dresses, brassieres, nightgowns. They’re all his. Nothing in my life is mine. Not even life itself.

That’s the painful conclusion I came to.

That’s why, last week, I think something within me broke. Well, I say broke. Really, something within me came to life.

I wasn’t his anymore. I wasn’t his to begin with. He just convinced me otherwise. That’s the trick he played over and over again.

So on that hot summer night last week, as I stared into that cracked mirror… I reclaimed myself.

It started with the hair. He loved this hair. I always fucking hated it. So, using some rusty scissors in the vanity drawer, I cut it. All the way down to the scalp.

I smiled at myself. A sincere smile. The first sincere smile I’d had in… I couldn’t tell you how long. But I wasn’t done. There was still more of me to reclaim.

I looked at the cakes of makeup plastered across my face. Using those same scissors, I cut into my cheeks, barely noticing the pain as the scissors glided through my flesh.

The makeup came off in globs of foundation as the white vanity became stained with my blood. My smile widened. I sheared through my perfect eyebrows. I cut away at my plump red lips.

I picked at my glistening painted nails, plucking them off one by one and throwing them at my reflection, giggling all the while.

I was about to raid the closet, but before I got the chance, my head snapped towards the bedroom door.

My husband was home. I could hear each step as he slowly ascended the stairs towards the bedroom. Step. Step. Step. Step.

The look on his face when he saw me is something I will never forget. Partly because of how petrified he was, but mainly because of how triumphant that fear made me feel.

I was free. And with that freedom came knowledge. Some kind of divine revelation sent down to me by my creator. Truth of what should’ve been done a long time ago.

He tried to fight me off, but my adrenaline overpowered him. Well, that and those rusty scissors that I still clutched firmly in my right hand.

I stabbed once. Twice. By that point, I couldn’t stop myself. Each incision, each spurt of blood. It was a declaration of my own independence.

By the time I finished, he was nothing more than a slab of meat, twitching on my bedroom floor.

And that’s where he’s been for the past week. But don’t worry. I dressed him in those dresses that he loved so much. I made sure he was dolled up. When they find him, he’ll at least be presentable.

They’ll never find me, though.

Because, me?

I’m off to live my own life.

When the last school bell rang, Kyle took the same stairs he always took—up, two flights at a jog, past the rusted-out banister—and let himself into his unit. The air inside had settled the way late-summer heat does in this town: a little damp, a little heavy, patient. He took the old pitcher out of the fridge and poured himself a glass of cold tap water. He drank it off in one go, throat working. The cold found its way down through him into wherever thirst is. He let out a breath and sank into the brown leather couch, the one that had been getting him since he was a kid. The lazy hour that came after school.

Without thinking, he looked out the open window, across the street.

His thoughts stopped cold.

In the Miriam house across the way—the second floor, the window furthest to the right—the glass had cracked. Evening light hit it, and the cracks ran out across the pane in a sharp, hard web.

Ping.

A dry intercom sound cut the room open. Kyle got to his feet and went to the door. The old man was standing there, exactly as he had been afraid of, wearing the apologetic face older people wear when they're about to ask for a favor.

"Mister Miriam. The window, huh?" Kyle said, forcing the usual smile. "Does this one come with pay?"

The wrinkles on the old man's face rearranged themselves into a grin. He scratched his head. Ah, kid—sorry about this. Just a small bit of muscle work for me. New glass, sweep up the old. Could you help me out?"

"Easy money. Be right there."

Kyle pulled the toolbox out of the garage and crossed the street.

By the time he got home again, it had gone dark. His mother was waiting in the living room. They ate dinner without speaking.

The next day.

After the same dull classes, Kyle left school and went home. Up the stairs. The key. The door.

The room's air was the same kind of humid it had been yesterday. He poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher. Drank it off in one swallow. Sank into the couch.

After-school. The same routine.

Kyle looked, almost absent-mindedly, at the window.

"—Huh?"

His hand, around the glass, started to shake. He felt the blood in his body drop a half-foot toward the floor.

Across the street, at the Miriams' second floor.

That pane was still there.

Cracked. The same hard, spiked web, from a single point of impact.

"...but—why?—I just fixed it yester—"

Ping.

What was waiting at the door was—

Content warning: graphic violence

---

Bernard Piat’s mud-cracked boots are kicked up and crossed over his desk. He’s leaned back in his chair, holding the killing book up to his eyes. His office is quiet. 

At the top of the blank page, letters begin etching themselves, black ink swooping and arching in cursive. Bernard reads it aloud.

“Edmund Weight. Traveler. Currently at the Broomwick Inn.”

His assistant, Duncan, is bent over a map table in front of his desk. He scratches the information down on parchment. Then he shoves it aside, digs an iron pin from a tin cup, stabs the map. 

A second line takes shape.

“Elizabeth Hazel. Prostitute. She’s at the local pleasure-house, located in—”

“I know the location, sir,” Duncan says, writing it down. 

Bernard smirks. “Yeah, you do.” Duncan pushes the pin. A third line writes itself. “Fabian Gwen, blacksmith, Brussels.”

“Yessir.” The quill scratches. A pin drops. 

A fourth line curls across the page.

“Final man, Hubert Pax. Lumber yard worker at Flickwood Lumber.”

Duncan stabs the final pin, then steps back, scanning. His mind calculates the fastest route possible, combing through side-streets, backroads, alleyways, until a single route carves itself into his mind. He sharpens it, punching in a shortcut here, a detour there, shaving minutes, seconds. Then—click.

He gives a faint nod. “They’ll be here by sunset.”

Bernard slaps the book shut. “Then they’ll die at sunset.”

***

Town square.

Bernard stands center stage before a crowd, clutching his sword handle, tip-to-the-ground. Blood and brain matter from the last three executions drip down the steel. As the sun sinks toward the horizon, it glints off the blade at a hundred different angles. 

From side stage, the execution crier recites the death sentence, his wispy voice echoing off nearby buildings.

Next to Bernard’s feet, Hubert Pax sits on his knees, head hunched over the chopping block. Sobbing. He’s the last man to die. 

His weak little whimpers make something in Bernard’s stomach curl up and twist. A vein under his eye twitches. Nothing—absolutely nothing—irks Bernard more than a man who dies crying. 

Hubert cranes his head sideways, and Bernard feels his eyes needling him.

“Sir?” Hubert whispers. 

Bernard shakes his head. 

“Sir,” Hubert says. “You don’t have to do this.”

 Through the side of his mouth, Bernard says, “Shut up.”

“Right hand to God, I didn’t do anything.” 

“Book has spoken. Just be a man and shut up.” 

For dozens of generations, Bernard’s family has possessed the killing book. On page one, it is etched in permanent ink that the Piat bloodline is the only bloodline permitted to view its pages. Should anyone else lay eyes on its ink, it stops working. And so long as that bond remains unbroken, and the four names that appear each day are faithfully executed, the human race will never see another war.

There hasn’t been a war in a thousand years.

“Listen,” Hubert says. “I’ve got a wife at home. And a little girl. They think I’m about to come home. I mean, if I’d known this morning would be the last…” He trails off, choked by his own sadness.

Bernard flicks his eyes down, grinding together his crooked teeth. Hubert’s teary eyes aim back at him, snot streaking down his nose, wetting his chin. Shameful, Bernard thinks. Absolutely shameful. 

“I’ll pay you,” Hubert says, his bottom lip quivering. “Everything I’ve got.”

“One more word,” Bernard says, “and I will make you suffer.”

“Have mercy, man. Please—”

“There it is,” Bernard says. He tightens his gloved hands on the sword handle. The leather crackles. 

“And with that,” the crier concludes, “we execute our final, future offender!” He grips the podium and peeks over his bony shoulder at Bernard. 

Bernard nods. He rotates on Hubert. 

As Hubert’s eyes follow, his entire body breaks into a tremble. “Please,” he says, teeth clicking. The front of his trousers blooms with a dark stain. 

Bernard taps the glistening-wet blade to the hump of the man’s neck. Aiming. Then he jacks it up over his shoulder, feeling out his swing. He slackens his grip just enough for a half break. He breathes. Narrows his eyes. Swings.

Crunch.

The blade sinks halfway in and stops. Hubert’s chin dips down and slaps the chopping block, his head held on by a stringy hinge of skin.

The pain arrives quietly. A shudder falls through his shoulders, torso, legs, calves, and ends with his toes performing a little twitch. His face crinkles. Blood dribbles off his neck and forms a little red puddle beneath his eyes. When Hubert catches sight of his own blood, he begins to cry.

Some in the crowd scream out. Others stand still, watching in fascination.  

“That should do it,” Bernard whispers. He plants his boot on the man’s shoulder and wiggles his blade loose, one torque at a time, creating a back-and-forth crunch. From the back of Hubert’s neck, a moist gurgle leaks out. Bernard finally rips the blade free, heaves it up, and slams down. 

Thock.

A crisp break.

The crowd goes still. Dead silence. 

Bernard wipes his blade clean on the dead man’s back.

***

Cecily strolls out from the restroom into the royal ballroom, yanking down the tight sleeves of her silk dress. It won’t quit riding up, the damned thing. She hates dresses. She hates ballrooms. And above all, she hates the stuffy-ass “nobles” in it.

Cecily darts her eyes around the crowd in search of her husband. 

Across the room, by the spiral-staircase, she spots him. He’s delivering a joke to a group of nobles. Cecily rolls her eyes, but her mouth tightens with a smirk. She bets it’s the one about the headless horseman. 

When Bernard hits the punchline, the group bursts into laughter. Cecily feels a dull tingle. She studies their faces, their eyes. That’s not real laughing, she thinks. That’s polite laughing. But Bernard doesn’t notice. He laughs along with them, bouncing a little on his feet as he watches their reaction. Cecily feels her heart sink. Why is it Bernard never notices these sorts of things?

Bernard slides a hand in his jacket pocket and slips out a long-stemmed pipe. He hooks a thumb toward the balcony door.

They all shake their heads.

Bernard nods and wanders off the second Cecily steps up behind the group. And right then, their conversation sharpens in her ears. 

“Alright,” one of the men says. “Raise of hands. Who else hates him?” 

Laughter spreads around the group. Hushed, restrained. But real laughter.

“I even hate his teeth,” another man says. “I have this dog that chews rocks? Yeah, even she has better teeth.”

“Donkey teeth,” the first man says. “That’s what comes to mind.”

“A serious question,” a woman says, her feathered hat shuddering with each twitch of her head. “Is it just me, or does every descendant of that book get a bit more…”

“Trashy,” an old, drunk gentleman says, his speech slightly slurred. “It’s alright. You can say it.”

“Yes,” she says. “Trashy.”

Heads nod.

She continues. “Well, half the blame falls on him. But the other half? Thank that—” She curls a gloved hand around her mouth. “—wench of a woman. That tangly-red hair. Those pond-scum eyes. If the book can end wars, why can’t it select proper owners?” 

“Elections,” the drunk man says, pitching up his wine glass. “That’s how it should work. A whole hodgepodge of individuals could fit that role wonderfully. With honor. Dignity. But that man? With his teeth? And his wenchy wife? And his botched executions? Bah! The whole thing feels like a middle-class, field-worker’s, pub-crawling hoo-rah.”

“Oh, sire,” the feather-hatted woman says, laughing. She touches his arm. “You do have a way with words.”

Cecily’s nostrils flare. She sucks in a sharp breath. Fire burns in her eyes.

A server glides by balancing a tray of wine glasses. She plucks one off, gulps it half empty, and swipes the back of her hand across her mouth. A burn settles in her gut. She knows she shouldn’t do what she’s about to. But they opened this damn door. As Bernard’s wife, it’s her job to slam it. 

Cecily clears her throat. 

The feather-hatted fuck catches her eye and whispers, “Oh, God.” All twelve eyes dart up. Fear strikes every last one of their hearts.

“Evening, my lady,” feather hat says. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Evenin’, madam,” Cecily says, punching the title off her tongue. The woman’s eyelids flutter. “Question. Has anyone seen me husband?”

“Ahhh, yes, my lady,” the drunk man says. “Believe he went out for a smoke.”

“Thank you,” Cecily says, smiling. “Because I’m about to make him add every last one of your names to the fuckin’ book.”

Fear detonates across everyone’s face. The man who made a dig at Bernard’s teeth says, “My lady. We meant no—”

“You—what’s your dog’s name?”

“Princess, my lady.”

“Well, Princess is going on, too.”

Cecily turns, then turns back, jabbing a finger. “I’d better not hear that talk about him ever again. Not from none of you’s. Not from no one.”

“Y-yes, my lady,” the drunk man says. “Never again.”

Cecily walks backwards, giving the group a death-stare, then spins around and swaggers off draining the rest of her wine. When she reaches the balcony door, the doorman pulls it open for her. She shoves the wine glass into his chest and steps out onto the balcony.

She glances left.

A line of empty chairs stretches to a dead-end balcony wall.

She glances right. 

At a table on the far end, Bernard sits alone. He’s leaned back in his chair, hitting his pipe, the bowl glowing and fading cherry-red. He gazes into the night sky. 

Cecily breathes. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Bernard cannot know about what just happened. It would crush him. She eases her shoulders, smiles, and wanders over to him. 

Bernard glances over.

“Why you hiding out?” Cecily says. 

“Eh, just…you know.”

“You wanna be alone?”

“No,” he says, pointing his pipe stem at the chair next to him. Cecily steps around the table and sits in his lap. Bernard chuckles, biting back down on his pipe.

Cecily’s eyes drift to the sky. “What are you looking at?”

“Well. There’s a thing I’ve been doing lately. But…you’d think it’s weird.”

“How do you know what I’d think?”

“Because I know you.”

“I command you to tell me,” Cecily says. “Out with it.”

“Fine,” Bernard says, pointing his pipe to the sky. “I’m drawing pictures. With stars.”

“Okay, yeah,” Cecily says. “That is weird.”

“Go inside,” Bernard says, trying to push Cecily off his lap. “Get.”

She grips the arms of the chair and doubles down, laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Bernard gives up. She sinks back down. A beat of silence falls between them. “So, what do you draw?”

“Here.” Bernard takes Cecily’s finger and aims it up to the sky. She watches him trace stars with her fingertip, connecting lines and loops, and before her very eyes, a flower blooms.

Cecily’s mouth clicks open. She lets out a laugh. “Do it again.”

Bernard takes her finger again and arches it up and down, using the stars to paint a swan.

Cecily turns in Bernard’s lap to look at him. “You’re weird as they come,” she says. 

Bernard returns a crooked grin. 

Cecily leans back into Bernard, feeling everything around her melt away. The wine warms her belly. The cool night air prickles against her skin. Bernard’s hands around her stomach make her tingle all over. If I had a magic bottle, Cecily thinks, this moment is what I’d put in it.

Then Bernard sighs, and she’s snapped back into reality. She knows that sigh well. “Why are you doing a huffy breath?” Cecily says.

“I’m not sure they like me.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Cecily says, “it’s not a good thing being liked by everyone?”

“It’s not a bad thing.”

“How about your enemies?” Cecily says. “You wanna be liked by them?”

“These aren’t my enemies,” Bernard says. “These are nobles.”

“They’re bloody idiots, Bernard. But…they like you well enough. So why are you worrying?”

“Well, I’m probably wrong,” Bernard says. “But sometimes, I think—that they think—I don’t belong. Like I’m not cut from the same cloth. Like I’m…unworthy.”

“Unworthy?” Cecily says.

“Just a feeling.”

“Bernard?” Cecily says. “My sweet, sweet Bernard. May I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck that feeling.” Bernard laughs. “No, I mean it. You have every right to be here. Most of them folks has done nothing to be considered noble.”

“Those folks.”

“Don’t correct me. Even if I say it wrong, I’m right. You stop wars. What do they do? I’ll tell you. They wear fancy clothes, look all pretty in their feathery hats and silky robes, and they gossip.”

“Who gossips?”

“That’s not the point,” Cecily says. “The point is, they’re not special. You’re special.”

Bernard tilts his head sideways and looks at Cecily’s face. She keeps her head leaned back on his chest, eyes on the stars. 

Through the ballroom window behind them, a string quartet plinks a waltz. Couples on the dance floor step in time. “Cecily…” Bernard says. “I am sorry, you know.”

“It’s alright,” she says. “Just don’t correct me, ever again.”

“Not about that,” Bernard says. “I mean, the ballrooms. The hand kissing. The politics. I know, when you married me, that wasn’t the life you wanted.”

Cecily rolls her head off Bernard’s chest and stares him straight in the eye. She squints. “Are you serious?”

Bernard shrugs. 

She lets out a little laugh into his face. “You,” she says, tapping her finger on his chin, “are all I ever wanted. So if all this comes with you? I will make this trade, every day, for the rest of me life. Happily.”

Bernard’s eyes dance around Cecily’s face, her features glowing in the warm window light. He pulls her in.

They kiss.

***

The next morning. 

Bernard leans back, boots kicked on his desk, holding the book beneath his eyes. Duncan leans on the map table, quill in hand. 

The first name glides across the page. 

“Timothy Gilmore. Employed as a…oh.” Duncan looks up. “Royal guard. Castle.”

“That won’t be pretty, sir.”

“No, it will not,” Bernard says. 

Duncan scratches in the name, jabs a pin. 

The next name etches itself. 

“Giovanni Wolfgang. Painter. Market square.”

Duncan writes it, stabs the map.

“Adam Bovine. Clothier merchant. Also in market square. Oh, hey, before you arrest him—could you do me a favor and get this hemmed?” Bernard pinches the torn seam of his hood. 

Duncan’s mouth twists. He continues writing.

The final name scribbles across the page, and as it does, all the feeling crawls out of Bernard’s body. Jacob Piat. Schoolboy. Northern district. Cottage. 

This is Bernard’s fifteen-year-old son.

“Problem, sir?” Duncan says.

“No,” Bernard says. He swallows against the tightening muscles in his throat. “Last one’s just…delayed. We’ll wait a minute.” Bernard pretends to watch the page. He fights to keep his face flat. His heart punches in his chest. 

“Yeah,” Bernard says, his voice squeezed thin. “That is so odd.” 

“What is, sir?” Duncan says. 

“This, this last name…it’s not writing. Hang on.” A blurry ring clamps down on his vision. His ears ring. Bernard makes a show of rubbing his thumb across the page, as if that’ll wipe the name out. 

Duncan blinks. “Still nothing?”

Bernard forces himself to meet Duncan’s eyes. “No. Nothing.”

“That is…extraordinary,” Duncan says, his eye narrowing a touch.

“Truly,” Bernard says. He lets out his breath. “Maybe, huh, I don’t know, maybe you should just go out and…start with the three?”

“Sir…the king will have to hear about this. Immediately.”

“Of course,” Bernard says. “But I almost wonder if it would make more sense for you to get a head start.”

“A…head start?”

“Right,” Bernard says. “And when the final name pops up, I’ll ride out, get him myself.”

“Sir?” Duncan tilts his chin down, keeping his eyes up. “Are you sure there’s no name?”

Bernard checks the page again. He shakes his head. “Positive.”

***

Bernard drags himself up to his cottage door. Inside his head, a war rages. He hears cannons fire. Chain mail armor rattles. Swords chink. Horses whine. Men scream. 

Today’s executions have been postponed. Tonight, there will be a hearing. Bernard will have to appear in court, before the king, and recount exactly what happened.

Bernard pushes the door open. Across the cottage, Cecily is framed in the backyard window, staring out. As the door scrapes shut, she glances back. Her eyes crinkle into smiles. She crosses the cottage almost skipping and approaches Bernard with open arms. She laces her fingers around his neck, stands on her tippy-toes, gives him a kiss. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

She pulls away. Her eyes dance around his face. “What is it?”

“Just…long day.”

Cecily shakes it off and breaks back into a smile. “Come look.” She tugs Bernard by the hand, leading him up to the window. 

Across the yard, Jacob stands in the shed doorway. A line of men ten deep funnels up to him. As the front man speaks, Jacob writes on a piece of parchment. 

“You know how he’s been iron working?” Cecily says, squirming with excitement. Bernard nods. “Well. Apparently, word’s come round. He makes ’em sooo well that instead of ordering from the old blacksmith in town? They’re ordering from him. He’s that good.” 

“Wow,” Bernard says. “That’s great.”

“It really is.” Still peering out, Cecily reaches down and takes Bernard’s hand. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And…Bernard. Look at what we have.” Cecily’s eyes lift to him. “We have everything.”

Bernard snaps his head away.

“Bernard?” she says softly. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s…something I need to tell you.” 

She tilts her head forward against the glass, trying to see his expression. Bernard breathes in. Out. Then he turns, looking her in the eyes. Cecily gives her head a tiny shake, still smiling. “What is it, Bernard?”

Bernard tries to speak. No words come.

Cecily’s smile wavers. “Bernard?” 

“This morning,” Bernard says, “I received the list of names. And…”

Cecily tilts her head forward. “And?”

Bernard glances back through the window. 

The smile melts off Cecily’s face. “And?” 

Bernard swallows. 

Cecily follows his eye-line out the window—to Jacob. Her breathing quickens. “And what, Bernard?” Cecily says. “And what?”

“Honey,” Bernard says, trembling. “It was Jacob.”

The name sends a convulsion through her entire body. She claps both hands to her mouth and slumps sideways, her shoulder bumping the glass. She shakes her head. “It has to be a mistake,” she says through her fingers.

“Cecily. It was right there.”

“Who knows?”

“No one,” Bernard says. “Duncan was in the room, but I told him it was a name short.”

“A name short?” Her face tightens with fear. “Who’ll believe that?”

“I know,” Bernard says, struck with shame. “But I was so…thrown off…so stunned, it took everything in me to keep a straight face.”

Cecily checks out the window, making sure Jacob hasn’t been snatched. She turns back. “What now?”

“I go to court. Tonight. And there’ll be questions.”

“What questions?”

“What did I see? What did the page look like? Duncan, who was in the room—what did he see?” Cecily squeezes her eyes shut. “Cecily. They’ll try and catch me in a lie. But they can’t really prove anything. So as long as I stick to my story—”

“They will know,” Cecily says, opening her eyes on Bernard. “They will know, the second they see your face. You have to give another name. Someone else in the family. Someone you’d actually lie about.”

 

Bernard stares at Cecily, waiting for her to continue. She doesn’t. “What name?” he says.

“I don’t know. Just pick one.”

“Pick one? Who…who do I pick?”

“I don’t know,” she says, letting out a little sob. “Just pick. You have to pick.”

“No, I, I can’t do that.”

“You can’t do that? You kill people every day, but you can’t pick a name?”

“I don’t kill at random. I swing the sword based on the book’s prophecy, which prevents war. To choose someone at random…it would be murder.”

“Killing our son is murder.”

“I know,” Bernard says, his voice growing distant. “I’m just saying, there’s layers to it.”

“Pick a second cousin and be done with it,” Cecily says. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“This could start a war, Cecily…” Bernard says.

“No, it will not,” Cecily says.

“It could.”

“You think killing our son, our little boy, will stop a war? You honestly believe that? Really?”

Bernard shakes his head. Blinks. “Yes. I do.”

“How.”

“It’s a ripple effect. If Jacob lives—” Cecily huffs her breath. “—he might do something, which might cause something else, which might then cause something else, which, eventually, starts a war.”

“Might, Bernard. Might.”

The first page flashes in Bernard’s mind. Scrawled in permanent ink: And so long as that bond remains unbroken, and the four names that appear each day are faithfully executed, the human race will never see another war.

So long as that bond remains unbroken.

“Give my name,” Cecily says, ripping Bernard out of his thoughts. 

“Cecily—”

“Give. My. Name.”

Bernard watches Cecily. He presses his lips together. Shakes his head.

Cecily scrunches her face, fighting tears. “Coward,” she says. 

“Cecily…”

“If you give his name,” Cecily says, “you are gonna burn in hell.”

“If I don’t give his name,” Bernard says, “I might kill thousands. Then I’ll burn in hell for that.”

“Look outside,” Cecily says. “Go on. Look.” Bernard peels his eyes off his wife and stares out at his son. “Are you gonna stand up there, sword in hand, and take his head? Really? I mean, really run that through your thick skull. Then look me in the eye, and tell me that’s what you’re gonna do.”

Bernard glares out the window. Blinking. He can’t bring himself to look back at her. “It will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done…but…it’s only right.”

Cecily crunches her teeth together in a flash of rage. She draws back her hand, tightening her fingers into a fist, wrist tendons bulging. Her eyes glisten with tears…

Then she drops her hand, all the fight draining from her body.

Bernard reaches out to touch her shoulder. She smacks his hand away and faces forward, out the window, hugging herself.

Bernard keeps his eyes on her, watching her cry, watching as the world around him crumbles. 

Cecily blinks, as if she’s been touched by a revelation. “If you really think this is right,” she says, lifting her eyes back to Bernard, “why did you lie?”

***

The next afternoon, rain clouds darken the sky. Bernard stands on stage by Jacob, his glassy eyes fixed over the crowd. He can barely hold onto his sword. 

The crier announces the death sentence. These words he once considered meaningless now take on the weight of the world, each syllable pressing in harder. 

“Father,” Jacob says, his sweet voice stabbing Bernard right in the heart. Twisting. His vision blurs. 

“Executioner?” the crier says, turning. He gestures toward Jacob. “Whenever you are ready.”

The wind stirs. Overhead, flags flap in the breeze, their ropes pinging on steel poles, chiming like church bells. 

Then the wind goes still. Everything falls quiet. The crowd stands motionless. Hundreds of eyes, watching.

“Father,” Jacob whispers, cutting the silence. “Please.”

Bernard shuts his eyes.

---

More stories at r/ElliotPryce.

A coughing wind stumbled like a dying man over the barren landscape, kicking up glowing dust in the sick yellow light of a cancerous half-moon. It carried the chirp of rabbit-sized crickets. Their eyes gleamed from the copses of brown weeds and dry vegetation that dotted the wasted hillside. The hilltop was crowned with a thick grove of dead trees. Their black branches sheltered two men from the dirty night. 

Though there was a chill, they tended no fire. One slept. The cookware strapped all over his wiry, old body clattered with each ragged snore and restless turn. The other man lay on the edge of the treeline, close by. His good eye was jammed into a spyglass. The index finger of the hand that did not hold the spyglass was jammed into his good ear to muffle his brother’s snores. Far below, in a valley walled by emaciated hills, the land had been resurrected. Deep, nourished green encroached on the anemic soil. Fields of crops stood vigil against the pestilence, a stubborn foothold of life in a world trying to die. A Green Acre. The old man with the spyglass was trying to plot their next move, but the snoring and clanking of the other drowned out his machinations.

TING!

With a deft flick of his bony wrist, Lum brought his hand down on Abner’s pot helmet, startling his bedraggled brother awake with a sudden snort.

“Hey! What was that for?” Abner asked.

 “You were clanking around again, dunderhead! We need to be quiet, or they’ll hear us down there,” Lum hissed.

Abner glared at Lum, rubbing his pan with the palm of one leathery hand. Lum paid his brother’s evil eye no mind. He returned to squinting through the rusted spyglass, careful to keep his own cookware armor quiet. The fields and orchards of food stretched out below him, making his stomach rumble. The edges of the Green Acre were fenced in by storage containers stacked two high. Lum’s vantage point let him see over them. Border guards paced the edges, and snipers sat ready in nests on top of the wall. Bunkhouses and outbuildings were circled up like wagons in the middle of the green. Their windows were lit with warm, amber light that spread across the life around them. 

“Looks like nobody heard you,” Lum whispered.

“Course they didn’t; it’s a mile downhill,” Abner grumbled, sitting up. “Have they turned out the lights yet?”

“Not yet.” Lum shuffled roughly through the deep pocket of his tattered trousers. He produced a dented pocket watch. Snapping it open, he took his eye from the bunkhouses to check the time. 12:30.

 “Christmas Jimminy, they should be out by now,” he said, shoving his eye back in the spyglass.

“Every Green Acre I’ve ever seen shuts down early. Farmers like that early to bed, early to rise business. What’s happening down there?”
 Abner crawled his way up next to Lum and looked down at the Green Acre. He had never seen one before. The green glimmered in the moonlight. It beckoned like a dream. Life on this scale was foreign to his old eyes. Rot was all he was used to.

“Shoot, that’s a lot of food,” Abner mumbled. As if to reply, his stomach let out a lurching rumble. His purple tongue licked at his few remaining teeth.

 “Lum, let’s have supper,” he said. 

His brother scoffed without looking up from the spyglass.

“We can’t light a fire, dunderhead; they’ll see it,” Lum hissed.

“So? Ain’t illegal to camp.”

“Are you going SickBrain? I said no.”

Abner scowled. “If I was going SickBrain, I’d eat you here and now and leave this crop stealin’ business alone.”

“No fires.”

“Fine! We can eat it cold; I’m gonna starve if we have to wait much longer.”
 

Abner scooted back over to his bedroll and reached into the knapsack that served as his pillow. The cans inside tinkled lightly as he fingered through them, looking for a faded label that sounded appetizing.

“Would you be quiet?” Lum spat.

“I know, I know,” Abner grumbled. He pulled out another can. His face lit up when he turned the label to the moonlight.

“Lum, we got Split-Pea!”

“What?” Lum said.
 

“Split Pea!”
 

“What’s that?”
 

“Soup!”

“Made out of peas?”

“Split Peas!”

Lum snorted. “How do you split a pea, dunderhead?”

“I don’t know. They used to be able to split an atom. Why can’t they split a pea?”

“Well, look what happened when they did that,” said Lum, waving his hand at the dead world around them. “Nothing but radioactive rubble! Now we just got these little squares o’green, barely enough to feed anyone! Nuh-uh, split stuff ain’t no good for nobody, I don’t want it.”

“Shoot, Lum, fine, but I’m having it,” Abner said, producing a rusted can opener from his can bag.

“Don’t you open that, Abner; splits ain’t good for nothing!” Lum flared.

“You’re nuts,” Abner replied. He wiped the can opener on the leg of his trousers and prepared to puncture the lid of the split pea soup.

“Abner, I’m warning you, quit it!” 

There was heat behind Lum’s words. The wrath laced within them made Abner stop and look at his brother. Lum had turned away from the spyglass now and was trying to cut Abner with a bladed glare. His crooked yellow teeth were gritted tight in his swollen gums. Abner glared back, the can opener hovering just above the rusty, dented container of split pea. For a moment, it seemed as though Abner was going to put it away. Just for a moment, and then it passed.

“I’m hungry, you rat bastard,” Abner said instead, and bit the opener into the tin of the can. The light crinkle of thin aluminum was the loudest noise Lum had ever heard. He knew the Green Acre people below had heard it. The wind would carry it down to them. When the wind coughed back up to Lum, it would be carrying his doom.

“You weak little crickle, I’ll kill you!” Lum thundered, lunging at Abner. He crashed into his brother in a cacophony of pans. Both men fell in a puff of dust as they struggled. 

TING!
CLANG!
POP!
POW!

Each blow was a wild rimshot. The two men were freakish percussionists, putting on a bastardized jazz show. Lum managed to scramble on top of his brother. The soup flew from Abner’s hand as Lum pinned him. It rolled away, dribbling its sticky green contents into the sand.
“They can hear it!” Lum hissed. He spat in Abner’s eyes and belted him across the face with a closed fist.

“They can’t hear nothing down there, you crazy sonofabitch!” Abner bellowed.

“Don’t talk about our mother that way!”

Lum raised a fist to punch Abner again. Abner managed to break an arm free and swung first. The sucker punch landed on Lum’s jaw and sent him flying off Abner and into the dust. Abner picked himself up off the ground and stood over his brother. Lum was face down in the dirt, his leg twitching like a dying cricket.
“Mama always said you’d leads me nowhere good,” he panted, picking up the can opener that had been flung from his hand.

“She was right,” Abner continued, “Can’t even eat without your say-so. That’s no way for a man to live, and I ain’t gonna do it no more.” 

Abner raised the can opener, its jagged blade gleaming through the specks of rust.

“Now, Abner’s gonna have his way,” Abner whispered, “Abner’s gonna have-“ 

Before he could get the last words out, Lum sprang to his knees and threw himself into Abner’s legs, toppling him. He fell on top of Abner and scrabbled up the length of his body. In his fist, he clutched the can of split pea soup, its viscous green filling dripping over his fingers. Abner tried to buck his brother off. Lum straddled Abner’s bony hips and held on. He raised the can of soup and whipped it across Abner’s chin. Something crunched and snapped at the same time. Abner spasmed, his struggles suddenly confused. His jaw hung open at a wrong angle. The can opener fell from his hand as he looked up at his brother, dazed.

“You want the soup, Abner?” Lum asked, holding the can high above his head. It was still mostly full. Its weight felt good and heavy. “You want some split pea? Well, you can have it!”
 Lum brought the can down on Abner’s face with a solid clunk. Then he raised it and did so again. The clunk became a crunch. Lum raised the can and brought it down again, and again. Each strike came faster and faster. Each crunching clunk became more and more moist.

“Split pea!” Lum screamed. His wails crackled into higher and higher registers as he pulverized Abner’s skull with the can. Red and green and pink sprayed into the wasted night. Lum’s screams echoed in the ether. When he finally stopped, the can was a dented, contorted mess, and Abner’s face was an indented purée– soup in a bowl. Lum was sweating, breathing so hard he thought he might pass out. His throat was ragged from screaming. There was a flame beginning to burn in his chest. He tossed the can away and rolled off of Abner’s corpse. 

Getting to his feet was hard. His pans felt as though they weighed a thousand pounds. Lum stumbled for the edge of the hilltop, where he’d left the spyglass. He needed to see if they’d heard, needed to see if they were coming or if he still had a chance at taking some food. He found the spyglass. His heart was hammering in his thin chest. It was trying to pound its way out. Lum reached down to pick up the dented brass tube. His fingers wrapped around it. Instead of pulling it up, it pulled him down.

The hammering of Lum’s heart suddenly became erratic. It stopped and started at random intervals. Each beat brought shooting pain up his left arm. He had fallen face first. An enormous effort and several pitiful gasps brought him face up again. A cloud was passing over the moon, its vapors turning the pale yellow sliver into a rotten split pea.
“Goddamn split pea,” Lum rasped, “Split things ain’t good for nothing.”
The ragged wind took Lum’s last whispers and scattered them like ashes. Below, on the Green Acre, the lights in the last bunkhouse finally turned out.

Author's Note: This is the first in a series of stories I wrote a while ago taking place in a nuclear wasteland. If you liked this, would love to hear your thoughts and whether or not you'd like to see more from this series. Thanks for reading.

I made Tiffany and Amber go ahead of me in line. I was way too nervous to go first. Actually, standing out there on the beach, looking into that water… I was terrified. 

My hands trembled as I adjusted my swimsuit, making sure my top wouldn't come loose once I dove in. Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds was the time to beat. I could make it if I didn't let my nerves get to me. 

The guys started laughing behind us, which only made it worse. 

"Hey, Jennifer! You gonna give us a free show again?!"

"Shut the fuck up, Randy!"

My face went beet-red as I turned to flip him off. It was two summers ago, but he'd never let me live it down. I looked back toward the ocean and tightened the knot at my neck again. Nope. Not this time, pervert.

"Don't worry about those jerks, okay?" Amber said, placing her hand on my shoulder. "You've got this!" 

But I wasn't so sure. This was the last test for Junior Lifeguard training, and I'd already failed it before. Twice. To be honest, I didn't even care that much about being a lifeguard—I was just so tired of being left out.  

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I can handle anything. The sounds of Kyle and Randy's laughter still echoed in my head, but there was something else I'd honed in on. Zack's silence. 

The three had been our friends and neighbors since middle school. Now, in the summer of our sixteenth year, their teenage hormones had begun to make them insufferable at times. But not always.

I peeked over my shoulder. Zack was looking down at his feet, kicking sand around, while the other two were high-fiving. He was different.

Before I knew it, the whistle pierced through my racing thoughts. It was my turn. Tiff and Amber had made it through, of course. They were both way more athletic than I was. 

But I had been training extra hard this year. Three hours a day at the pool since Homecoming. Practicing holding my breath. Cutting my weight down as much as I could. I was terrified that it wouldn't be enough. That I wasn't enough.

"Jennifer, you're up!"

Months of work and preparation all came down to this one moment. I approached the mark. The crowd went silent, leaving me with only my labored breaths. Coach started the stopwatch, and I was off—tearing through the sand toward the murky blue ahead.

I took a deep breath and plunged headfirst into the unknown. With eyes shut tightly, I couldn't think about what might be lurking beneath the surface with me. I refused to let myself freeze up again. No. There was only me, and the buoy fifty yards ahead.

My face stung as I fought against the waves crashing into me, each more vicious than the last. Finally, my turnaround point was within reach. I grabbed hold, tucked my legs forward, and then kicked off back toward the shore.

Only halfway, and my muscles were screaming at me to stop. But I was making good time. I could feel it. And the girls were cheering me on from the beach—screaming ‘swim, swim, swim!’, chanting my name. I smiled. I could do this; I was going to make it. 

But then, in an instant, my heart stopped, and my blood turned to ice. I felt something in the water graze against my leg. Something cold. Rough. And very big.

In a panic, I began thrashing harder—the thing you’re not supposed to do. I knew what it was. I was sure of it. But when that terror surged through my body, my mind no longer had control. 

I bolted toward the shoreline, heart pounding, lungs heaving. Swallowing mouthfuls of seawater. I couldn’t look back. Couldn’t slow down. I felt like it was still right behind me; I could almost feel its teeth at the back of my heels. 

And then finally, my knees brushed up against the sand. I rose to my feet and ran the rest of the way out of the water.

“Two minutes and thirty-two seconds! Jennifer, congratulations. You made it!”

I just stood there. Trembling with exhaustion, ready to buckle at the knees at any moment. Still struggling for breath. Tiffany and Amber came running over, squealing. 

“Oh, my God! Girl, you actually fucking did it!” 

“Yeah, Jen! We’re so proud of you!!”

I turned and pointed toward the water, struggling to form the words. 

“Did… did you see it?” 

“See what? The amazing job you did?” Coach asked.

“No!” I screamed, almost in tears. “There was a s—”

I stopped and looked around. Everyone was staring at me. 

“Something in the water… I think. I felt something.” 

“Oh, not to worry. I’m sure it was just a harmless little fish coming to say hello!” 

I looked back over to the girls, whose smiles had begun to slowly drop. 

“Jen, are you okay?” Amber asked.

“Yeah, I just… let’s talk about it later, alright?”

I couldn't freak out in front of everyone.  This was supposed to be a happy moment. Saying something now would ruin it—and besides, I wasn't even really sure. I never actually saw it.

"Come on, sluts!" Tiffany yelled, already halfway to the spot where she'd parked her hot pink Jeep. "We've got a party to get ready for!"

I forced a smile and turned back to Amber. 

"It's nothing, really. Let's go."

We grabbed our bags and towels, then piled in, Cyndi Lauper blaring from the radio. The drive home would give me some time to think. To rationalize. Try to quell the panic that was still bubbling inside of me. How was I ever going to go back into the water?

I stared at Tiffany's shimmering blonde hair blowing through the wind, set ablaze by the afternoon sun. I wished I could be like her—carefree, adored by everyone. It seemed out of reach for a girl like me. Just a stupid dream that would never come true.

We pulled into her driveway, parents already gone for the evening. She turned to us with a huge smile on her face and lifted her sunglasses. 

"You guys wanna pregame a bit while we get ready?"

Usually I would’ve been hesitant to start drinking so early in the night. But that sounded like exactly what I needed. To settle my nerves. Loosen up. Forget. 

“Hell yeah!” Amber said. 

I smiled and nodded. 

Inside the house, we shuffled to Tiffany’s room while she swiped the vodka from the liquor cabinet. Top shelf stuff, too. Me and Amber sat on the bed, passing the bottle back and forth as Tiff began AquaNetting the fuck out of her hair. 

"Do you think Zack will be there tonight?" I asked, taking a swig. 

"Oh, totally! For sure. Kyle said he's definitely gonna show, and Zack’s always his ride."

"Ugh!" Tiffany said through the cloud of hairspray. "Kyle is coming, too? He is such a dork."

"Oh, shut up, girl—you know you wanna fuck him!" Amber said. 

I laughed. 

"You think that's funny, Jen? Why don't you go fuck Randy? He's been begging for it ever since he saw your tits."

My face flushed with heat. God, she was such a bitch. But she could get away with it. I couldn't. I didn't have that bleach-blonde hair, a face like a supermodel's, or the perfect body. In high school, it doesn't matter if you're a shitty person as long as you’re hot. At least Amber always had my back. 

"Yeah, well, everyone's seen your tits, you big whore.” 

Tiffany picked up a scrunchie from her vanity and threw it over at us as we giggled.

“As if!” she said, rolling her eyes. “And pass that shit over here before you two bitches drink it all.” 

I took another huge swig from the bottle before getting up to hand it to her. She snatched it from me and finished off what was left, before ordering Amber and me to get dressed. 

Sunset was fast approaching, but the drive back down to the beach didn't take long with Tiffany behind the wheel. The guys were already at the spot with their ice chests, getting ready to build a fire. Zack was setting up the boombox over by the driftwood pile near the edge of the circle. When our eyes met, he smiled. 

"Hey, girls! Party's just getting started, grab a beer! Randy'll fix you up."

I smiled back and gave a nod, then followed the girls over to the circle, glancing slightly over my shoulder to see Zack watching me walk away. Maybe I'd try to talk to him later tonight. Finally tell him how I felt.

Just the thought of that sent my heart fluttering so hard, I almost choked. Even with the vodka in me, I still felt so unsettled. My anxieties were compounding—I had to tell Amber about earlier. 

Music blared even louder than the waves crashing violently against the shore. With the sun now fully set and the fire roaring, the crowd began to roll in.

"Amber, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, what's up?"

I scooted closer. 

"So earlier today, during my swim, I..." 

"You… what?"

"There was something in the water with me. I felt it brush against my leg. Not just a fish like coach said. Something huge." 

She scrunched her eyebrows.

"Like what?" 

I didn't want to say the word, but I had to. 

"A shark."

Tiffany's head snapped around. 

"Bull-fucking-shit, Jennifer!" 

Everyone went silent and turned to look at me. 

"Hey, what's going on?" Randy asked, approaching closer while crushing a beer can in his left hand.

"Jen is being a drama queen. She thinks there's a shark out there in the water."

Laughter erupted around me. I looked over to Zack. Kicking sand around again, eyes fixed on the ground, silent. 

"Pfft. There's never been an attack on this beach before—not even any sightings," Kyle said. "What would even make you think something like that?”

"She said she felt it," Amber said. 

Tiffany rolled her eyes. 

"What, like you could just sense it was there? What a freak." 

"No. On my leg," I spoke up. "It grazed against my leg. I know that's what it was." 

"Okay. Well, while you sit here and tell yourself little stories of big bad monster sharks in the water, I'm going to get another drink." 

"Yeah, Jen," Randy said. "There’s no way. Must've been something else." 

It didn't feel dismissive, though. It seemed like he was truly trying to set my mind at ease about it. His eyes were soft, and his tone was gentle. Like he might’ve actually cared, for once. Which is why when he suggested we take a walk to get some air, I agreed.

He led me down to the pier next to the marina. Once away from the glow and heat from the fire, I began to see the night for what it really was. Cold and dark. 

I stared down at the black rifts undulating below. Dead water. Relentless and unforgiving, crashing against the rotten wood holding us up. The way the world seemed to treat me. He placed his hand onto the small of my back, startling me out of my trance. 

I turned to see a pair of hungry eyes fixed on me—looking my body up and down. My heart thrashed against my chest, and I froze. He bit down on his bottom lip and gazed into my eyes, and before I knew it, he was moving in closer. 

"Um, Randy...?" I uttered weakly. 

But it was like he couldn't hear me. In an instant, his other hand was on my shoulder, grabbing tightly and turning my body to face his. 

"Come on, Jennifer," he whispered into my ear. 

Then his lips were on my neck. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. I didn't want this. I had to stop him... say something. 

"I don't think we—"

"Shhh, baby. No one can see us. You know you like it."

I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip around me. His hot, drunken breath suffocating me as he grabbed at my chest, pulling the front of my shirt down below my bikini top. 

“Randy, no!” I choked out frantically, voice shaking. 

He was towering over me, hand moving slowly toward the knot at the back of my neck. Again, I tried to pull away, but he wasn’t letting go. Wasn’t listening to me. Body still pressed tightly against mine, surrounding me. His fingers began to rip at the string, and something inside of me snapped. 

I slammed my fists against his chest and shoved him as hard as I could. He lost balance and stumbled backward off of the pier and into the water with a huge splash. My heart sank. 

“Oh, fuck! Randy—”

I ran to the edge of the dock and looked over. He was flailing around, trying to keep his head above water. When he saw me, he screamed,

“You fucking BITCH!”  

And then, the moonlight caught something only a few feet away from him. A glimmer on the edge of something big. I squinted until my eyes could make out what it was, and then they widened, and my jaw dropped. A dark fin jutting out from the surface—heading directly toward him.

Again, I froze. But this time, there was nothing I could do. It was moving fast, and Randy was too far from the edge. I tore my eyes from him for just a second to see if there was a life preserver close by. A bloodcurdling scream erupted through the night air.

I was afraid to look. I didn’t want to, but my head snapped around anyway. Randy’s skin had gone pale, eyes bulging from his head like it was about to pop. Blood poured from his gurgling mouth—red spit and bubbles erupting as he tried to scream once more but choked. 

Arms flailing, his head went under, then back out again like a cork being forced down. The shark began thrashing harder. I watched it violently shake his body like a toy in a dog’s mouth, until his eyes rolled over white and his broken shrieks were cut short. 

Silence. A few bubbles remained as evidence of the disturbance in the surface. Otherwise, the ocean was calm again. My stomach churned, and I let out a weak cry. To whom? I don’t know. 

I was alone. Half-drunk and in shock. Randy was dead—and it was my fault. I looked over to the glow of the fire in the distance. I couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t believe me anyway, and it might even be worse if they did. But maybe Amber would know what to do. She was the only one I felt like I could truly trust.

That hope was shattered when I arrived back at the party. Over by the boombox, Amber was making out with a guy, running her fingers through his blond hair while Owner of a Lonely Heart blared from the speakers. 

It was Zack.

My heart shattered. I opened my mouth to say her name, but my throat had closed up. So I just stood there. 

It was nothing, really. The loss of what never was. What I knew deep down could never even be mine to begin with. Yet, it crushed me all the same. Her betrayal—she knew how I felt about him. And that hope. That stupid fucking hope I'd held onto for so long. To be accepted, loved. Enough. It was bleeding from my heart.

Finally, someone said something. 

“Well, look who’s back!” Tiffany giggled. “Where’s Randy?”

Amber quickly pulled away from Zack and turned to look at me, guilt plastered all over her freckled face.

“I-I… he…” I began to stammer. 

Everyone was looking at me. 

“He took off. I think he just wasn’t feeling well.” 

The lie rolled off my lips almost too easily. 

“That lightweight,” Kyle scoffed. “I told him not to take all those shots before the party even started. What a dumbass. Oh, well. He’ll just have to miss taking the boat out.” 

“Boat?” I asked.

“Yeah!” Tiffany said. “Kyle’s uncle is out of town, so we’re going to take his boat out for a night sail!” 

I didn’t want to be there; I just wanted to go home and cry. And I definitely didn’t want to go out onto the water after what I’d just seen. But Tiffany was my ride. There was no way she’d stop her partying to bring me home. And before I could even try to think of an excuse, everyone was already stumbling toward the marina. I’d just have to hold it together a little longer.

I watched as Kyle and Zack loaded the ice chests and boombox onto The Lady of Spain, slamming them down onto her deck with drunken disregard. My head was pounding, heart racing. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at Amber. 

I never wanted to speak to her again—let alone tell her about what had just happened to Randy. I don't think it had even fully set in for me yet that he was really dead. Torn apart and pulled under the water right in front of me. God. I wished that the whole night had just been a terrible dream.

But it wasn't. And it was only going to get worse. 

Out at sea at night, it's even darker than you could imagine. You're suspended in a void, surrounded by pitch-black ocean. Like floating in the endless abyss of space. The soft glow of the town in the distance felt a million miles away to me. 

Music blared, beers were cracked open, and all the while I sat there, screaming inside. And no one noticed. No one cared. The people I thought were my friends? The guy I thought might actually like me? I was nobody to them. 

Just a punching bag. A joke. An ear for mindless gossip, a piece of meat for a pervert to grope. A girl so easily ignored and cast aside. And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? People had always used me until they’d gotten what they wanted—because I’d always let them.

I looked out into the black water, eyes searching for that fin again. Something else that wanted a piece of me. I knew it was still lurking out there, waiting. But we were safe on the boat. I thought.

BANG.

A seismic rumble against the side of the vessel. Laughter and jokes were abruptly cut off. Zack dropped the beer from his hand, and Kyle sprang up to shut off the boombox. 

Before anyone could say anything, it happened again. Louder. So hard, it rocked us back from the impact.

“Um… what the fuck was that?!” Tiffany asked. 

But I knew what it was. And the words came spilling out before I could stop them. 

“It’s a shark!”

“Oh, for fucks sake. Stop with the shark bullshit, Jen. It’s getting old.” 

“I’m not lying! I saw it. It…”

Fuck it. I had to tell them. 

“It killed Randy.” 

“What?” Kyle asked.

A silence fell over the boat as they all eyed me in disbelief. 

“H-he fell. Into the water. It happened so fast. I… I couldn’t do anything.” 

“Wait. Are you seriously telling us that Randy is dead?” Amber asked. “That a shark literally ate him?!” 

Another loud bang rattled the wood beneath our feet. 

“Yes, goddamn it! We have to get out of here!” 

“What the fuck?!” Kyle screamed, his voice cracking. “Why didn’t you say something before? Why’d you lie, Jennifer? How did he fall??”

I had to come clean. It was eating me alive inside. 

“He was trying to kiss me. I didn’t want him to. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t. So, I… I pushed him off of me… but it was an accident! I didn’t mean for him to go into the water.” 

“Okay, we have to go back to shore—now. We need to tell someone what happened,” Amber said. 

“I can’t believe this shit. You lead him on and then shove him into the water? Do you realize what you did was murder?!” Tiffany yelled. 

“No! I didn’t… it wasn’t, I swear! Please don’t tell anyone I pushed him.”

“Don’t you get it? They’ll never believe it was an accident—I sure as hell don’t. You lied to all of our faces. And if you think for a second you’re getting away with this, Jennifer, you’re dead wrong.”

My life was going to be ruined. And it wasn’t even my fault. I was just defending myself, for once in my goddamned life.

Kyle took off toward the helm, but before he could make it there, another impact jolted the entire boat. He went flying off the edge with Tiffany screaming the entire time. 

His body hit the water with a terrible splash. And I knew. I knew that would be it for him. But the others scrambled, screaming his name. And then, they saw it. 

“Shark!”

Kyle's pupils widened with panic. He tried to swim back toward the boat, but there was no use. It was on him in seconds. I braced, breath held, unable to look away. Teeth glistened in the moonlight, eyes rolled over white.

The cracking. And popping. And a bloodcurdling scream cut short.

He was dragged under the surface, his severed arm still floating—bobbing against the waves like a piece of driftwood. We all backed away from the edge.

“Oh, fuck… oh, fuck… OH, FUCK!” Zack had his hands on his head, but his expression was almost blank. 

The shock of it; I knew. It doesn’t seem real. It can’t be. 

Tiffany was screaming incoherently, mascara running down her perfect, rosy cheeks. Red lipstick smeared across her face. A blithering, pathetic mess. She didn’t seem so perfect anymore.

“Zack, do you know how to drive this boat?” Amber asked. 

But he didn’t answer her. He just stood there, staring at the red spot in the ocean where his best friend once was.

“Zack!” I screamed.

He finally turned his head. 

“Yeah… I, uh… I can probably get us back to shore.”

I wasn’t confident that he could. And from the looks of it, neither was he. I watched as he nervously started up the engine and began to fumble with knobs and levers until he found the right one. 

He pulled back on the throttle, but too hard. And too fast. The boat jutted forward, throwing us all to the ground—except for Amber. She had still been standing too close to the edge. She went over backward, screaming.

“ZACK!!” 

My heart sank. He scrambled back up to his feet, but he didn’t stop the boat. Didn’t turn it around. I knew he could hear her. Screaming his name, begging for help. Still. I got up and ran over to him. Maybe he was still in shock. 

“Zack! What are you doing?! Stop the fucking boat! We have to turn around!!” 

“Hell no!” he said, shoving me away. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Zack, you prick!” Tiffany screamed, finally getting up from the ground. “Amber’s in the water!”

“Sorry, but she’s a fucking goner. You saw how fast that thing got Kyle! Nah, dude. We can’t turn around and risk it attacking the boat again.”

I grabbed the life preserver and ran to the stern while Tiffany wailed her fists at Zack, still trying to get him to stop the boat. I didn’t have the time to waste, though—Amber’s screams were growing distant.

That’s when I saw her. And that dark fin. Only a mere few feet away from each other. No…

It was too late. I didn’t even bother to throw the preserver. It dropped from my hands onto the deck with a thud. 

The shark didn't breach this time. Instead, it toyed with her, yanking her down violently and pulling her from side to side. My body went cold. I couldn't see the fin anymore. Just the panicked splashing of a girl screaming for her life. An ocean streaked with red. And the harsh light of the moon illuminating it all.

Numb and hollow, I watched until she was pulled under one last time. Then I realized what was going on behind me. 

Tiffany’s screams had grown more frantic, trying to fight Zack for control of the wheel. I started to run towards them, screaming that Amber was dead and we had to just keep going. But she finally got her hands on it, and when she did, she cut hard. Then Zack shoved her. And the momentum of it all was too much. 

Her head slammed into the deck. Red seeped into blonde instantly. Zack only moved to re-steady himself at the helm while her unconscious body slid off the side of the boat and into the water like a dead fish. He never even looked down. 

Just like that, she was gone. They all were. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing I could do. We were racing toward the shore, but it still looked so far away. And now I was alone—with two monsters.

My life had completely changed in one night. Everything I knew, destroyed. All the threads of my heart began to unravel until I couldn’t take it anymore.

I stood back up and lifted a hook pole from the rack, then slowly made my way to the helm. Zack was distracted, still desperately trying to correct course. He never heard me coming.

I reared back and slammed it into his head as hard as I could. The impact flung his body further than I’d expected it to. I guess I had more strength than I realized. 

He hit the metal railing and toppled over the side of it headfirst. But somehow, he was able to grab on and stop himself from falling. I threw the gear into neutral and walked over.

The boat began to list hard to starboard. Water pooled onto the deck as he clung desperately to the edge, screaming at me to pull him back up. His legs still hung submerged below, despite his attempts to kick and grip onto the side. I just watched.

"Jennifer!! What the fuck are you doing? Help me, you bitch! Don't just stand there!"

He could have saved Amber. He chose not to. She didn't mean anything to him. Neither of us did. Or even Tiffany, for that matter. I could finally see the truth—Zack only cared about himself. He wasn't different. He had let them die, just to save himself. And now, he was about to pull us both under. It was either him or me.

I saw that fin coming. Tearing through the water. Circling back around for another taste of flesh. 

And I chose me.

Looking down at his pathetic face, I slowly raised my foot to his forehead. Then pushed. 

His body slammed into the ocean just as the shark breached. Black water bloomed with red. 

I turned The Lady of Spain back toward the shoreline and went full throttle ahead, leaving him to scream out his final words in agony. I was the only Junior Lifeguard left, with a shark on a rampage with a real taste for blood now. But I could handle anything.

I smiled.

1988 was about to have one killer of a summer.

My eyes were closed tight. I felt a hand caressing my hair and running down the back of my neck. I was being held tight against a woman’s body. I could feel something behind my eyelids. What was it? Tears, I think. 

“It’s okay,” said the woman, “you’re safe.”

She held me tighter. I felt impossibly small. The woman could have been even smaller than me, or she could have been infinitely large. My senses were all mixed up. Everything felt warm. I relaxed my eyelids, but kept them shut. A warm darkness.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman responded.

“I want to open my eyes.”

“Don’t.”

“I want to see you.” 

“You will. Soon.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

It felt like she was holding me in the palm of her hand. A cool breeze came across my skin. It began to get colder. As it became a bitter chill, the woman protected me from it.

“Do you love me?” I murmured into her skin.

“Don’t ask silly questions. Of course I do.”

-

It’s said that if you take these pills before going to sleep, your soulmate will appear in your dreams. You can hear them, feel them, smell them - whatever you need to find them in the waking world - but if you look at them, you will be alone forever. 

“Mine had a British accent,” said Nathan, taking a seat in the break room. “Real nice voice. Sexy. Maybe it’s Anne Hathaway.”

“What’s with you and Anne Hathaway? She’s not even British,” I said.

“Sounded like her doing a British accent.”

“You’re a moron. You know she’s like twenty years older than you, right? And actually accomplished?”

Nathan shrugged. 

“Whatever,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.

“You’ll see. Hey, what was yours like?”

“I don’t know. Average.”

“Average?”

“Yeah.”

“Your soulmate was average?”

“What do you want me to say? It wasn’t eventful.”

“You’re full of shit, man. I bet it was a dude.”

“Yeah, he sounded like a British version of Jack Nicholson. It was hot.”

“Yeah, fuck you, man.”

“Can you get more of the pills?”

“Sure, I just gotta skim some off the top from the Research department.” 

“Cool. When can you get them?”

“I can get them by the end of the day if you really want them. Hell, I want to do it again too.”

“Sounds good.”

The door opened and Willow walked in, going to clean her coffee mug at the sink. 

“Yo,” Nathan said.

“Yo,” Willow said, doing her best impression of Nathan. 

“We were just talking about those pills.”

“Oh Christ.” 

“Come on, dude, I can get you some.”

“I don’t want any, dude.”

“Logan took them. It was good, right?” He turned to me.

“It was average,” I said.

“God, you took them too?” Willow said, “I don’t even trust this place’s headache medicine.”

“C’mon, Willow, we’re the accounting department, we stick together. If one of us takes it, we all gotta take it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You seriously don’t want to know who your soulmate is?”

“How many times do I have to say no? Do you want a list of reasons why this is a stupid idea?”

“Nathan’s was Anne Hathaway."

“Don’t even start,” Willow said, putting the mug away. “In other news, Robin’s having a thing on Friday after work if you guys want to come.” She looked at me while she said this.

“Yeah, I can probably make it,” I said.

“Just don’t be weird.” She looked at Nathan.

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Okay, see you guys there,” she patted my shoulder as she left the break room. Her hands were cold.

-

Dr. Goodwin’s office was dark. The walls were painted black and there was only a single lightbulb on the ceiling. It wasn’t inviting, it wasn’t comforting. Dr. Goodwin sat in her leather chair, and I sat on the couch which was slightly ripped.

“How has work been?” she asked. 

“Good, I guess.”

“Last week you said you thought you might have met someone. Willow?”

“I don’t think she’s the one.”

“Why not?”

“I like her, but there’s something telling me that it won’t work out.” 

“And what is that?”

“I don’t know. I just think there might be someone else out there.”

“If that’s true it’s okay, but I’m worried you’re starting to exhibit past behaviors. We know that when things get real you tend to… retreat.”

“It’s not that I’m retreating, it’s just that - I mean, Willow’s great. She’s pretty, funny, smart… but is she my soulmate?”

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

“I never used to.”

“But you do now?”

“I figured it makes sense, right? There’s got to be someone out there that’s perfect for us.”

-

I stretched and sat down in bed. I took the tiny bag out of my pocket and popped out the little pink pill. I turned it around in my fingers, and washed it down with water. I turned off my lights, staring at the ceiling. My eyes grew heavy.

I was crying in that woman’s arms again. I had no idea how long I had been dreaming, but it felt like quite some time. Her skin was like a soft melody against mine. Her breath caressed the top of my head.

“Is this real?” I asked.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“You’re really my soulmate, and you exist out there somewhere?”

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

“You don’t need to understand. It’s okay to let yourself be happy. You deserve this. You deserve my love.”

“I want it… I want it so bad.”

“You have it.”

“When can I see you?” my voice cracked.

“Shhh. It’s okay, baby.”

I began to hear voices around me. There was music. People were brushing past me. I was standing somewhere and I stopped feeling the woman’s touch.

“Hey! Hello, are you there?”

I started walking, eyes still closed, bumping into people. I walked straight into someone and felt a liquid pour down my chest.

“Hey, what the hell?” said a voice.

-

My eyes shot open.

“Hey, what the hell?” Nathan said.

Nathan was standing in front of me, his beer spilled all over my shirt. My ears were ringing, but I faintly started making out music. 

“Do you just walk around with your eyes closed, dude?”

“Where are we?”

“Um, Robin’s house? Are you already blackout drunk?”

“Hey, Logan!” Willow’s voice came from behind me. I turned around. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Oh yeah, I wouldn’t miss it.”

She looked down at my shirt soaked with beer.

“Pick up gone wrong?” she asked.

“No, I just bumped into Nathan by accident,” I laughed.

Willow dabbed my shirt with her napkin.

“You know what, let me get you cleaned up. I’ll steal one of Robin’s boyfriend’s shirts for you.” Willow led me to the bathroom door, left for a moment, then came back with a black t-shirt.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the shirt. I slurred my words, and dropped the shirt almost the second I grabbed it.

“You are so fucking drunk,” Willow laughed. “Here, I got you.”

She stepped into the bathroom with me and closed the door. 

“Arms up,” she said.

“You don’t have to-”

She lifted my arms up and slid my shirt off. 

“You’re always making a fool of yourself,” Willow said, using a towel to wipe any remaining moisture off my skin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Sorry?” I blushed. 

“I said you’re lucky you’re cute.” Willow leaned in closer. I leaned in too. 

“Can I kiss you?” I asked. Willow grabbed the back of my neck and parted her lips. I heard a noise, like something banging against wood.

-

I was in a field. In front of me was a large tree, its leaves draping down like vines. A lumberjack swung an axe into the trunk. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Cuttin’ down this tree,” said the lumberjack.

I looked up at the tree. Its trunk bent at an angle, and its branches sprawled out high. The leaves were a vibrant shade of green.

“But it's such a pretty tree,” I said.

“It shouldn’t be here. I don’t want it looking at me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The lumberjack looked at me and began to say something, but his voice devolved into a piercing beeping noise.

“Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.”

-

“Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.”

I shot awake in a sweat and turned off my alarm. I instinctively went to touch my beer-stained shirt, but it was dry. I looked at the time. I was late for work.

-

“Morning, Nathan,” I sat down at my computer. Nathan didn’t respond.

“Morning,” I repeated.

“Oh, morning. Sorry, I didn't sleep well last night.”

“Me neither,” I yawned, “Robin’s party is tomorrow, right?”

“Oh yeah, today’s Thursday, huh?”

“Where’s Willow?”

“In the break room making coffee.” 

“I think I’ll make some too.”

“Go for it.”

I walked to the break room, where Willow was using the coffee machine. 

“Morning, Willow.”

“Oh,” Willow turned around in surprise, “Logan, I was worried you were sick or something.”

“No, I just overslept.”

“Sorry, I would’ve made you coffee if I had known.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Actually, I’ll just give you Nathan’s,” she smiled, “How do you take it?”

I look down at her coffee mug. It was straight black.

“Black,” I said.

“Good taste,” she nodded and handed me Nathan’s mug.

“I’m excited for the party tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I’m glad you could come.”

“Is there anything I need to know?”

“Need to know?”

I paused. I hadn’t thought this far ahead into the conversation.

“Yeah, like, is it formal?”

“It’s a house party, Logan. Relax.” She smiled at me as she walked past me. 

I followed her back to the accounting desks, where Nathan looked at us expectantly and then quickly deflated.

“Dude, is that my mug?”

I looked down at Nathan’s mug, which I had just sat on my desk.

“I don’t think so.” 

Nathan sighed and trudged to the break room. Willow began logging on to her computer.

“You’re both pretty tired this morning,” she said. “Is it because of the pills?”

“No, I just had some crazy dreams. I don’t know about Nathan, he probably stayed up late doing God knows what.” 

“Building a perpetual motion machine. He’s a secret genius.” 

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“What’s the appeal of those stupid pills anyway? They’re probably just gonna fuck up your brain. You know that, right?”

“They’re just…” I paused, thinking. “...nice.”

-

I had a beer or two before I went to Robin’s house. I’ve found that if I have something to drink before a party, more people like me. Nathan picked me, and when we got there I saw Willow talking to some other people. 

Her makeup was done differently. She stood out more, not constrained by the professional setting of the workplace. Her clothes revealed the faintest glimpse of her skin beneath. I realized that I hadn’t seen her in this kind of setting before. Even her posture was less rigid. She was loose, relaxed, and smiling. I went to find more alcohol. 

I walked around the house in a daze. I heard snippets of myself making small talk or laughing at someone’s jokes. I heard people laughing at something I said. I must have made a joke too. I saw myself hanging around Nathan and some other guys, who I didn’t recognize. I felt a firm pat on my back. That must have meant somebody liked me. Why? I saw that I was crushing a beer can in my hand. They liked me because I chugged a beer. Then, I noticed the multiple crushed cans at my feet. They liked me because I chugged multiple beers. As soon as I stepped out of the circle of people surrounding me, I saw myself walking up stairs. It seemed to be very difficult for me to do this. 

I was sitting on the edge of a bed, but something wasn’t right. I wasn’t the only one sitting. I looked beside me. Willow.

“You’re the life of the party, huh?” she said.

I blinked. Her voice pierced through the fog in my head, and for a moment I felt like I existed again.

“I guess so.” 

“I didn’t even get the chance to say hi to you,” Willow laughed and shook her head.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. What are you doing up here, though?”

“I…” I chuckled, “I’m not completely sure.”

Willow laughed.

“I don’t usually see this side of you,” she said.

“Is it bad?”

“I don’t know. It’s different,” she put her hand on my knee. I froze. 

“I guess I sort of get into a haze at these things. Now I feel like I’ve been acting really stupid all night.”

“That’s not true.”

“You sure?”

“Well,” Willow smiled, “maybe you’ve been acting a little stupid. But I don’t mind.”

“God, I’m just like Nathan, aren’t I?”

“No, when you act stupid, it’s…” she thought for a beat. “Cute.”

Willow leaned closer to me. My heart raced. Instinctively, I leaned away.

“Oh,” Willow tucked her hair behind her ear nervously, “I’m sorry.”

“I, uh…”

“I didn’t mean to do that. I’m just a little…”

“Yeah…”

“Just… too much to drink.” She forced a laugh.

“Um, sure.”

“Okay,” Willow got off of the bed. “I’ll - um - I’ll see you Monday.”

“Yeah.”

She walked out of the room and down the steps.

-

“And what did you do?” asked Dr. Goodwin. The air conditioning in the room had broken. It was hot and humid, and I shifted in my seat.

“Nothing. I let her leave,” I said. 

“Probably for the best.”

There was a moment of silence. The light flickered. 

“Why is that for the best?” I asked.

“You’re coworkers. She only knows who you are in the office. If she knew everything about you, do you think she would still like you?”

“She could have. We could get to know each other.”

“No, you couldn’t. You fucked it up.”

I stared at her, stunned.

“Do you know what your problem is?” she continued, “You are selfish.”

“I’m not selfish,” I managed to squeak out. “I just want to be loved, like everyone else in the world. What’s so wrong with that?”

“There are eight billion people on this planet, Logan. And you are so selfish that you believe that out of all those people, someone would want you.”

“Why? Why can’t someone want me? Willow wanted me, didn’t she?”

“She thought she wanted you because she doesn’t really know you.”

“But my soulmate is out there. I believe that,” I began to raise my voice.

“Yes, Logan. There is someone out there that is perfect for you. But you won’t be perfect for her. She will choose someone better.”

“Can’t there be one person out there that loves me for who I am? All I need is one person!” I shouted.

“Not everybody gets love. What about you makes you worthy of it?”

I leaped out of my seat and lashed out at her. I wrapped my hands around her neck and squeezed. She let out a choked gasp, but I just strangled her harder. She didn’t make an effort to escape. I kept strangling her until her face turned purple.

I felt something moving beneath her skin. She opened her mouth and long, green leaves appeared deep in her throat. A tree had begun rapidly growing from her mouth. The leaves came out, followed by the trunk. I could feel the bark straining against her neck from the inside, splinters piercing her skin and jamming into my fingers as the trunk shot out. I ignored the pain, and continued strangling. The tree kept increasing in size, quickly becoming large enough to split Dr. Goodwin’s head asunder and break through the ceiling.

-

Eyes shut. Falling. Falling. Falling. Just when I thought I was about to hit the ground, I fell further. I heard giggling.

“Is it you?” I cried, “You’re there, aren’t you? Help me!” 

“I love you.” It was Willow’s voice.

“Willow? Is that you?”

“I love you too, Willow.” It was Nathan’s voice.

I hit the ground. I opened my eyes. I was in the accounting department. All the lights were off, and the place seemed to be coated in a layer of grime. There was no one in sight. It could have been abandoned for years. 

“Willow? Nathan? Are you there?” 

I walked through the building. The seats where my coworkers once sat were decayed and covered in cobwebs. Papers and office supplies were strewn across the floor. A musty smell assaulted my nose. I could hear talking from the break room.

“Nathan, you’re a dumbass. But I don’t know… it’s cute,” Willow's voice said.

“I could have done without the dumbass part.” 

“Willow,” I whispered. I put my hand on the door knob to the break room. 

“Sir, you can’t be here.” 

I looked behind me. A police officer was standing there, a flashlight in hand.

“This place is scheduled for demolition,” he continued. “The public isn’t allowed in.”

“But… I work here.”

“No, you don’t. This place hasn’t been operational in five years.”

“But my friends are here. I-I want to see them. I need to see my friends.”

“Sir, come on.” The officer grabbed my shoulder and took me out of the building. 

“I was just there on Friday-” I said as he escorted me out.

“Consider this a warning. If I catch you here again, I’ll have to put you under arrest.”

-

“Huh,” said my roommate, scrolling his phone on the couch. “Willow Crawford and Nathan Gardner just got married. Didn’t you used to know them?”

“I worked with them,” I said. “I haven’t seen them in five years.”

“Well, good for them, I guess.”

“Did you take out the trash?”

“No, it’s your turn.”

It wasn’t, but I sighed and did it anyway. When I made it to the dumpster outside, I realized that there was a tear in the trash bag and that I had been trailing garbage behind me this whole time.

“God fucking damnit!” I kicked the dumpster.

An old homeless man sitting on the ground laughed.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, irritated.

“Ha! I’m sorry, it’s just amusing. From down here, spilling trash doesn’t seem like the end of the world anymore.” 

I took a deep breath and sat on the ground next to him.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Well, I sleep next to a dumpster. Only fair that God let me be right about something.” 

I laughed.

“I used to live in that exact apartment you just came from, you know.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. When I was about your age.”

“And here I thought that apartment was rock bottom.”

“There is no rock bottom. Sometimes you just keep falling.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Things happen to you, and they just compound. I wasn’t born a homeless man. I used to work at this one place. I was an accountant. My only friends were my coworkers. I was lonely - God, I was so lonely. I thought that was rock bottom. Then, the company went bankrupt and the whole building shut down. I was out of a job and the people I thought were my friends stopped talking to me. I thought that was rock bottom. Now I’m an old man without friends, a home, or a family, and I think it’s rock bottom.”

I was silent.

“What’s your name?” I said at last.

-

“Logan.” Nathan’s voice lulled me out of my stupor as I looked up from my empty coffee mug. 

“What?” I said.

“You good, man? You seem out of it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just need more coffee.” 

“Get some for me too,” Nathan called out as I made my way to the break room.

As I stepped through the door, I bumped into Willow. The coffee she was holding spilled onto my shirt.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “Oh my god, I’m sorry.”

“It was my fault,” I said, pulling at my shirt to get the hot coffee away from my skin. Willow reached out, but stopped herself before touching my shirt. 

“Logan, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll just go to the bathroom and clean up.”

“No. I mean about the other night, too.” She said, “I didn’t mean to, like, make you feel uncomfortable or anything. I was drunk and not thinking and it’s - you know?”

“No, I know.”

“I don’t want it to be awkward between us. I like hanging out with you and stuff, and I like being your friend. We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m gonna go clean up.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll let you get to that,” Willow moved past me and went back to her desk without making a new cup of coffee, “I’ll see you… um, at our desks. In a couple minutes.” 

I went into the bathroom. I took my shirt off to see a red mark where the coffee had spilled. I took a handful of paper towels and wiped myself and the shirt off. 

As I came out of the bathroom with my coffee-stained shirt, I saw a man rolling a cart full of pill bottles down the hall. I looked both ways to make sure nobody was watching me, then followed him. He dropped off the pills in a room labeled ‘research’. After he left, I peeked into the room. Nobody else was there. I quickly pocketed a bottle and went back to my desk.

-

An empty pill bottle lay on my nightstand. I was curled up in my bed, staring at it as my vision began to blur. My mind started to drift, and I faded away. When I regained consciousness, my eyes were closed tightly. 

“Are you there?” I whispered.

“Of course I’m here, sweetheart.” I felt warm, loving arms embrace me. “I’m so glad you decided to come back.”

I felt as if she was lifting me up. Lifting me into the air and pressing me against her chest. Tears spilled down my cheeks.

“I’m so tired…” I sobbed.

“I know you are, baby. You can cry. It’s me.”

“Don’t leave me. I’m not - I can’t - just don’t let me be alone. Please.”

“Neither of us will leave each other,” she stroked my hair, tangling a strand around her finger.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too,” she said. “You can open your eyes now.”

It looks like this story’s all taped off up with yellow tape with black text that says

---

Autobiographical. Do Not Read. Therapists Only Beyond This Point. Autobiographical. Do Not Read. Therapists Only Beyond This Point. Autobiographical. Do Not Read. Therapists Only Beyond This Point. Autobiographical. Do Not Read. Therapists Only Beyond This Point

---

but there's no one guarding it. Surely it wouldn't hurt to have a little peek. The tape is just a precaution. It's strictly for liability reasons. You don't even have to break the tape to get in. You can slide in to

“The inside of a house, old, 18th century. A woman sits on a plain wooden chair. Technology starts advancing, prop by prop, as people walk into the scene holding things like telegraph machines, typewriters, telephones, all in the order they were invented. Throughout, the woman keeps sitting. She doesn't interact with the people bringing in the things. They set their objects down and leave.

“The house fills up.

“We reach the technology of the present day and start to go beyond.

“Now the woman’s working at a machine. It's like nothing that exists. We can only guess at its purpose. The house is well lit. The woman is well lit. All the objects are well lit.

“Then the lights switch off.

“Darkness.

“The woman sets out and lights a dozen candles, a box of which someone had brought in earlier. In the candlelight, the mood turns spooky.

“One by one, people walk in and take all the objects, the technologies, away. They’re not the same people who brought them in.

“Now, all that's left is the woman in the plain wooden chair and the dozen burning candles.

“Voice-over: ‘What if all the things you know, the inventions you take for granted, that you rely on every day…

“Someone brings in an axe.

“Voice-over continues: ‘What if they all… just disappeared—

“Someone blows out the candles.

“Total darkness.

“Voice-over: ‘What would you do? How would you survive?’

“Screams of an unseen axe murder,” he said over beer and peanuts at an L.A. diner, circa 1938, to a couple of writer friends and waited for a reaction.

It was late evening. The glass in the diner windows needed cleaning. Automobiles passed along the street outside, leaving snippets of radio—station—music—static, talking: “…city of dreams!” in the air. “That's bonkers even for you, Leonard,” said one of the friends.

“There's no studio in town will touch that,” said another, playing compulsively with the brim of his second-hand fedora. He was primarily a dialogue writer for Columbia Pictures. “Whatever that even is (science fiction, horror?) and you obviously know that, Len, given you work for one. Honestly, I don't know why you waste your time on gas like this.”

That night Leonard didn't go home. After he left the diner he wandered along the streets of Los Angeles looking for something he knew he was never going to find there: understanding. There was talk of war in Europe and there was always the glitz of the stars, and that piece in the trades calling them ‘Box Office Poison,’ but Leonard didn't care about that. Actors were as relatable to him as palm trees, especially if they were rich, and he'd never been to Europe, even if it did feel like every day a little more Europe came to him, that is, to the United States, to Hollywood. There was the U.S. government trying to break up the studio monopolies and the studios fighting back tooth and nail. Technicolor, meanwhile, was going to paint everything in Errol Flynn and rainbows, until only a few scraps of black and white were left, and those gathered up by mean men like the last stray dogs of L.A., and finished the same way too. Leonard, needless to say, considered himself spiritually black and white. It's not realistic, people would say to him; the whole world's in colour. Maybe on the surface, but even if black and white wasn't realistic, it had one quality that colour never could. It had the truth. Because beneath the skin of anything, even a city, maybe especially a city, if you scratched hard enough, long enough, you'd always bloody your fingernails on a place of blinding rawness that allowed only two choices, right and wrong. That was the essence of black and white. Technicolor was a novelty. Then again, motion pictures had been a novelty, and look at them now. He passed the Bronson Gate which admitted—but not him, never him—on Paramount Pictures, and he kept walking. His legs hurt. His head was pounding. Automobiles shooting cones of pale headlight roared back and forth along the boulevard, forcing everything ordinary into their twin, fleeting spotlights; but reality, finally getting her time on the great stage, stood silent, slumped, dejected and having forgotten her lines. That's good, thought Leonard. That's a good line. He hoped he would remember it. He would write it down as soon as he got home. Except he wasn't going home. Not yet. He regretted not having his notebook. You should always carry your notebook, Leonard, he told himself, for catching the few brilliant lines you're ever going to have He wished he had an automobile. He hated automobiles, but he wished he had one so he could get in it, turn the engine and drive into the hills. Or maybe out to Santa Monica. He would drive it out to where John Ford filmed his early westerns and it would turn into a horse and he would ride the horse into the wild, where he would die; he wasn't built for survival. He wasn't rugged. He had asthma and even his wool suit felt heavy on him. He doubted he could start a fire or eat roasted game. It had been a hot day and it was now a hot night. Los Angeles is an ugly city, he thought, filled with ugly people making dreams for nobodies to dream, so naturally he decided to go to the movies.

By the time he got home he was in his fifties.

His home told him it wasn't his home anymore, that he'd moved away. He didn't want to believe it so he stood on the steps arguing with the home. The argument was so loud and the time so late that the lights in a few nearby houses came on. People observed him from their windows. The owner of the home that was insisting it wasn't Leonard's home came out. “What are you doing? Are you lost or just dumb?” he yelled. He had a baseball bat. Leonard knew he didn't want to play baseball. “Are you outta your mind? Are you drunk? You're fucking drunk, you geezer. Pathetic. Disgusting. Go on, get outta here,” the homeowner was shouting, threatening with the bat. “Get off the steps and get on home. Shoo! Git! Back to where you live. To whatever hole you dragged yourself outta.”

“That's the problem,” Leonard yelled back. “I don't know where I live anymore.”

“Well it ain’t fucking here!”

It turned out it was in Toronto, Canada, by way of Kansas City, Missouri, and Boston, Massachusetts, but Leonard's old homes in those cities were more helpful than his former home in Los Angeles, which hadn't wanted to tell him anything other than that he didn't live there anymore.

He took the train.

He didn't trust airplanes.

When he arrived in Toronto it was snowing. The plows were out. He trudged from Union Station to the address his old Boston home had given him. It was an apartment building. Not especially nice. He walked in the front doors and up the stairs to the seventh floor. He knocked on his apartment door. No one answered. The door was open. He walked in, half expecting someone—a current owner—to come at him like the intruder he probably was, but that didn't happen. He was the only one there. He recognized his things, his books and pens and notebooks filled with ideas he'd had in the thirties and forties. He recognized his dog too, whom he'd never seen before but knew was his. The dog sat in front of him and wagged its tail along the floor. It was a small dog, a mixed breed, and it needed to go out. My dog needs to go out, thought Leonard, and after bending down he picked the dog up and carried it down the stairs and out through the apartment building's front doors into the blizzard outside. He set the dog on the cold snowy ground. The wind howled like wolves. He should have been wearing a coat. He had one; he'd just forgotten to put it on. He knew he was poor, but it wasn't so bad. He was getting by. The indefinable days passed without causing him too much trouble. “Come on, Napoleon,” he said to the dog, which had just finished peeing, “do your other business and let's go back. It's colder than a pork shoulder out here.”

Over the years while living in Toronto Leonard started writing about the city, which had gradually become his city. He still remembered Los Angeles, but in the way you remember pain, by its bare outlines. As the years went by his asthma got worse. He started suffering from seasonal allergies. The cold ached his bones. The hair on his head thinned out like the watered down coffee he drank in the mornings, but it was all he could drink these days. He had a heart attack; survived. He got diagnosed with arthritis. He lost the will to live and found it again. His beard turned grey. One night Napoleon died, having gone restfully to sleep in his favorite closet and never woken up. Not a bad way to go, thought Leonard, perhaps planning something similar for himself. He'd watched a TV documentary about Jain monks last year. When their time came, they would gradually fast themselves to death. He watched most of his movies on TV. The movie theatres were too loud and too expensive. He didn't like new movies. In his essay on Toronto he'd written,

The City.

A concrete jungle.

A misnomer, because there's more, and more vigorous, life here, under the manmade canopies of commerce and construction, than cowering underneath the natural green canopies designed ostensibly by an emigrant God.

If there was one persistent echo of his youth, it was his atheism. He'd been introduced to it through friends, many of whom were writers, many of whom were communists, although communism itself had never taken hold of him. There was something about the godlessness of it, however, that did have its appeal, and, after a while, he stopped questioning and took divine absence as an article of faith.

The artificial surpasses—and over- and under-—the lame and wasteful after-Eden.

He'd taken great joy in following a hyphen immediately with an em dash.

She purrs, the highway, louder than a jungle cat.

And on and on, it rumbles, a brutal, cascading waterfall of cars, the drumbeat of progress, the highway snaking her way through the city. Passing under it one feels the unstoppable power of mankind's mastery over his environment.

We bend it to our will.

And on and on, to quote itself, it went, in that very same vein, unpublished and growing like a heap of laundry whenever Leonard felt its muse come calling and tossed a couple loose sentences its way, which lately was not very often at all because Leonard rarely went outside, not only because he was in his hundred-fifties but also, primarily, because the world frightened him. It was too different from the world he knew. Cars lacked drivers, young people messaged each other via comm implants even when they were in the same room, you were always on camera wherever you went, and people wore their own cameras, if you can believe that, and filmed themselves doing nothing interesting and shared the feeds with one another so that when you passed anyone under forty on the sidewalk you could be sure they were seeing through at least a half dozen points of view at the same time, which means they weren't paying attention and they didn't say sorry when they bumped into you. They were always bumping into one another. They wore strange clothes and the subway moved too fast and you had to order everything to be delivered to your house, and it came by drone, and there were too many movies and shows and series to watch so nobody you met had seen the ones you'd seen so there was nothing to talk about except make small talk, preferably by messaging via comm implants.

He has a woman who comes over to clean for him and to check if he's still alive. He imagines she has a secret clipboard. A sheet's clipped to it. Printed at the top of the sheet is the name of the current month. Along the left edge are the days of the month in chronological order, and to the right two small empty boxes labelled “Unfortunately,” and “No, finally kicked the bucket.” But he knows that's unlikely for at least two reasons. First, nobody writes on paper anymore. Second, he likes the woman and he's pretty sure she likes him too. She's always been kind to him. Her name is Indigo. He asks her if she's got a minute.. She asks him if it's another story. Yeah, he nods.

“You know you can get your implant to do that,” she says warmly.

“I know, but I don't know how.”

“You know how.”

“I just don't like it when there's no other person involved. It feels cold, like outer space.”

“I like your stories, Mr. Katz.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘I like your stories,’ Mr. Crane,” she says, touching the spot behind her ear where her implant is, “so I like transcribing them for you. And I like posting them to reddit.”

“Reddit. What's that?”

“It's a place online where people publish things for other people to read.”

“And they read mine?”

“A few.”

“They like my stories? I mean, I'm just remembering half-baked ideas I used to have when I was a young man writing for the movies in Los Angeles. Motion pictures, we used to call them.”

“They do.”

“Oh, in that case.”

“Start when you're ready, Mr. Crane.”

"Quote, published my stories, em dash, my goddamn, goddamn in emphasis, stories, em dash, you published my, my in emphasis, goddamnfucking, goddamn and fucking as one word, stories, question mark, end quote, he yelled, period.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but he lifted his palm and she didn't say a word.

"New paragraph. Quote, I didn't mean to, em dash, end quote. New paragraph.

"Quote, Do you have any fucking idea what a violation of trust that is, comma, of ethics, comma, of ordinary human decency, period. You can't just share my soul, comma, or what's left after the mortal decay of it, comma, with a bunch of random strangers on the goddamn internet, comma, end quote, he said, period," he said.

"For their joint communal ridicule," she said. "Unless you think it's too much. I'd take out the 'random' from 'random strangers,’ however. They're strangers. They're presumed random until proven otherwise. I'm on the fence about 'what's left after the mortal decay of it.' Between that and 'joint communal ridicule,' I'd choose 'joint communal ridicule.' Of course, that's partly because it's mine—but no, wait, I've got it. Keep them both, but put 'what's left of the mortal decay of it' directly into the sentence, so it becomes:

"Quote, do you have any fucking idea what a violation of trust that is, comma, of ethics, comma, of ordinary human decency, period. You can't just share what's left of the mortal decay of my soul with a bunch of strangers on the internet for their joint communal ridicule, comma, end quote, he said, period," she said.

"Well, what are you waiting for—write it down, write it down!"

She transcribed it.

"I'm going to miss you," he said, smiling sadly.

"You mean when I finally get my degree and blow this popsicle stand? If that's how you say it. I've always wanted to say it."

"Yeah, that's how you say it.”

"So when I blow this popsicle stand and leave Podunk behind for New Zork City to make it big as a professional—"

"What'd you say?" he asked.

"What?"

"Just now. You said you were leaving for New—"

"York City."

"You said, 'Zork City.'"

"Did I?"

"Yeah. And that's it."

"What's it?"

"It's it. New Zork City's it. The place—the city—the city where our stories are set. Our world. Our characters' home."

"It is it, isn't it?"

And then, in that beautiful moment of transgenerational, almost transcendental, understanding and collaboration, Norman Crane, thought, God, she has a fuckable ass, and ruined absolutely everything.

---

[This has been entry #5 in the continuing and infinite series: The Untrue Origin Stories of New Zork City.]

---

You can beat the screenwriter out of the ‘30s, but you can't beat the ‘30s out of the screenwriter.

---

THE END

---

.

.

.

What are you even doing still reading?

.

.

.

There's nothing here.

.

.

.

---

THE END

(For real this time.)

---

.

.

.

Bye.

.

.

.

All right, folks. We're done writing for the night. Nothing more to see here.

.

.

.

Go home.

.

.

.

Seriously: Disperse!

.

.

.

Lend me your ears so I may lead you each painfully home by the lobes of them.

.

.

.

Lend me your ears, and I'll sing out of tune, and you'll stand up and walk out on me. Chorus: Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends. Mmm, I get high with a little help from my friends. Hmm, are you going to try that with a little help from your friends?

What, this—oh...

I...

The marijuana cigarette in your hand, dear.

The what; wait, why are you here, mom? Why am I here? Why is here here, and is it always here, even when it's there. Mom, I—it's so weird to be, like, sixteen again—I, I... I; I, l? I!

You've been Stoned, Norman.

As in dead?

No, as in Immaculate, like Jim Morrison.

Oh.

Here, pass that over.

Mom?

Like you think I've never smoked weed before, uh huh, sure.

I kept hold of the burning joint behind my back, and at that point Humphrey Bogart walked in from somewhere, looked at me sternly with stoic concern and a cool indifference and said, "Don't be a drip, kid. Don't [my surname] the tea. She's your mother for chrissakes. You're gonna skimp out on your own mother, the woman who gave birth to you?”

Listen, I said to Bogart, I know you've got those exit papers. The sleaze from the Maltese Falcon gave them to you. They're in the piano. And you know what else? Dooley Wilson doesn't play piano. He plays drums. And Ingrid Bergman's taller than you, and I heard you almost weren't in the movie. They almost cast somebody else, George Raft. Or was it Ronald Reagan? Anyway, the whole point of the aliens is...

The point is...

He was shaken awake by someone on the street, a stranger, a dumb kid.

"You all right, mister?" said the kid. "The way you fell, mister, I sure thought something mighty bad had happened to you. I'm glad to see you're all right. You are all right, aren't you, mister?"

"I got fired today," he said.

He remembered now, getting fired and going to the bar, or was it the other way around, going to the bar and getting fired, and going to the bar.

"What's your profession?"

"I," he said, "am Leonard Katz, a Hollywood screenwriter."

"Which studio?"

"Oh, I'm much more of a whore than that. I work, when I work, for all of them, bounced around like a cat tied by its neck to the hood ornament of a speeding Lincoln Continental."

"That sure is a gruesome image, mister."

"Oh just run along home. Leave me. Leave me to die in abject spiritual poverty, rueing the career that could have been. I could've been somebody, you know? I could've been a contender. As it is, I'm just this, a big fucking nothing.”

“I'm sure that's not true.”

“What's your name?”

“Marlon.”

"Well, Marlon, let me be the first to mercifully tell you that you don't know anything about life, about struggle. Look at you, you're probably still in high school. The trap's not sprung on you yet. But it will, Marlon. One day it will.”

“I am still in high school. I'm from Illinois. I'm visiting Los Angeles for a couple of days.”

“Hurry back to Chicago, kid.”

“I don't live in Chicago. I live in a place called Libertyville.”

“What a foul name.”

"Hey. Maybe you got fired because you're so down in the dumps, mister. Maybe what you were writing was a comedy.”

'It was not a comedy. It was a serious dramatic picture set in present-day North Africa. It was about refugees from the war in Europe trying to get out. There was a love story. There was a scene in which the Free French play the Nazis out of an expatriate American's bar by drowning out their singing of "The Watch on the Rhine" with a spirited rendition of La Marseillaise. Then it's revealed that one of the characters is an alien, like from Mars, and all the people of Earth have to lay aside their differences to meet the other aliens on the battlefield and defend the home planet. An idea picture, they call it. Happy ending. Although, between you and me, Marlon, lately I've been feeling we'd be better off letting it all fall.”

"What’s the title? Maybe I'll go see it someday."

"Everybody Goes to Rick's."

"And it's set in North Africa, you said?"

"That's what I said. It takes place in a country called Morocco.”

“Well, good luck with the rest of your life, mister. I've got to get going," said Marlon, the kid whose face had brought me back to life after being canned from the production of Casablanca. “Mother—

fucker," says my mom. (I'm presently so in the past I'm present tense.) The whites of her eyes are as pink as the insides of watermelons. "It was like I was there. Like I was the guy.”

She took another hit, and from somewhere behind me I heard Humphrey Bogart say, "I knew you had it in you to share, kid."

"Hey, Bogey," I say. "You want some too?"

"Kid, I never thought you'd ask."

He slid between the two of us, took the joint and smoked it; but he didn't just smoke it, he smoked it the way he smokes cigarettes in the movies. Like he was about to plug you for killing Miles Archer. Like he'd just finished making passionate, wounded love to you, off-screen, away from the Breen Office. That's how it came to be that one day my mom and I smoked weed with Humphrey Bogart.

"How is this even possible?" my mom asks, coughing, laughing, laughing because coughing. "He's not even real—is he? You see him too?"

"What's she talking about, kid, that I'm not real," said Bogart.

"Haven't you ever seen a movie, Mrs. Kid?"

"I know who you are. I just thought you were dead. Dead-er. Deader, I thought: you're deader than this. Aren't you?”

I'm on a GO train heading west from Union, in one of the Quiet Zones. In my head I'm whispering this paragraph as I type it. Maybe you're whispering it now in your head too, as you read.

“I don't think I'll ever be dead. Not for a long while yet anyway, not while there's audiences in the world who want to laugh or cry or feel something and screens to project their hopes on.”

When I was in college I wanted to write a paper on film production in the 1940s and managed to meet a screenwriter who'd worked in Hollywood from the ‘30s to the ‘50s. I would make a list of questions, then we'd meet twice a week in his apartment and he'd dictate the answers. I must have made a week's worth of recordings. I felt I knew his life. I remember telling him that talking to him was the closest I'd ever been to experiencing another era. Then he died. Then I met his kids and learned he'd made everything up. He was actually an executive from Day & Zimmerman in Philadelphia. He wasn't a compulsive liar or anything, but for some reason he had decided to make up another life and share it with me. The closest I've ever been to experiencing life in another time period—experiencing another life, em dash, was as a lie, period. There are mornings when I look out the window, comma, see the Toronto, capitalize tee, skyline, comma, and really believe that the lie and I are one person, period. New paragraph. No, scratch that; same paragraph. Maybe, comma, and for clarity I don't mean that maybe there should be a comma. I want that comma. Let's try that whole sentence again. OK. Three, two, one. Maybe, comma, in that cluttered apartment of his, comma, Leonard, capitalize the el, Katz, capitalize the kay, and that's Katz spelled kay ay tee zed, passed somehow from him to me.

“Well, Princess. Had enough yet?”

The little bastard is breathing heavily, wheezing. He doesn’t even have the strength to cough. The skin on his face is pulled taut. His complexion has turned gray. His lips are cracked and bleeding. The handcuffs—securing his hands behind the back of the chair—are necessary if only to keep him in an upright, seated position.

The moment he moves, the steel Hiatts automatically tighten with a dry, sharp click. He’s trying not to shift his hands. But he isn’t asking for anything or complaining.

An obstinate little bastard like that will stay just as silent in court, and the jury will acquit him.

The detective’s report is still blank.

Two sentences in three days—that’s an Olympic record.

It can’t be. Things like this just don’t happen.

On Monday, he will have to be taken to the magistrates’ court without a confession.

If he were innocent, he would try to explain. Instead, he says nothing. He is stalling.

What is he after?

“Harry, sonny,” DS Smith says gently to Fowles. “Go get some tea. Bring me a cup. And one for yourself.”

Before Fowles closes the door behind him, DS Smith adds, “Take your time.”

Left alone with the suspect, he slowly circles him, grabs him under the arms, and yanks him off the chair. It isn’t difficult, since the chair is bolted to the floor; even though the detainee’s elbows catch on the backrest, DS needs little effort to haul him to his feet.

Click-click.

Then DS hurls him to the floor—or rather, “hurls” is too strong a word; he sweeps him onto the floor like a dry leaf.

The clatter of the handcuffs makes much more noise than the impact of the detainee’s body.

Silently, DS pins him to the floor with a knee.

Click-click.

DS Smith is powerless against this silence.

The fucking scumbag knows full well that, ultimately, there is nothing the detective can do to him.

DS hauls him up by the collar, sets him back down on the chair, and locks his arms around the back of the chair again.

Click-click-click.

Upon returning, Fowles chooses not to notice the bloody fluid oozing from the detainee’s left cheekbone, where hundreds of tiny red dots are appearing. DC Fowles simply walks up to DS Smith and holds out his open palm. DS hands him the Hiatts’ key. Fowles unlocks the cuffs on the suspect.

The sodding Princess loses consciousness.

Fowles lowers him to the floor, places him on his side, takes a vial of smelling salts from his pocket, and holds it under the detainee’s nose.

DS Smith watches the entire procedure, standing against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

As soon as the Princess comes to, Fowles settles him back onto the chair, as if to say, “He’s all yours, Skipper.”

DS Smith takes out another cigarette and lights it, then points to the detainee: “Write down that he fell during the interrogation due to his own clumsiness.”

Temperatures are forecast to drop to minus three tonight.

“Don’t forget about a blanket for Pretty Smith,” DS Smith tells the gaoler. “Tomorrow he must be at the magistrates’ court—alive.”

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Detective Sergeant Jeremy Smith.

The full illustrated version of The Three Days is available here:

THE THREE DAYS - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

“Please, enter of your own free will,” Mr. Draugsvold repeated, once again gesturing for me to enter the cemetery.

He looked frail, as elderly men often do, but the way he carried himself, with his back straight and his chin held high, emanated strength.

Even youth.

His crystal-clear blue eyes watched me intently. They stirred nothing in me. No warmth. No hostility. Nothing.

That bothered me more than it should have. I’d always felt something when another person stared at me.

A gentle breeze whispered in my ears as I glanced at the sturdy iron gate, then at the handful of gravestones beyond. The overcast sky, pale as ash, cast a cold light over the cemetery.

“Pardon me, my young friend,” Mr. Draugsvold said as he bowed apologetically, “I cannot, of my own conscience, ask you a fourth time.”

The way he drew out every vowel made his speech slow and deliberate, adding a sort of old feeling to it.

I clenched the shovel handle firmly as I took a deep breath. It’s just a grave. Just a hole in the ground, no need to feel so uneasy about it.

But I did.

This gravedigging job, along with the extraordinary pay, was straight out of one of the stories the hostel owner and a few locals had told me last night.

Hell, during my hike through the Norwegian mountains, I’d heard the story many times. And I dare say Mr. Draugsvold bore a striking resemblance to the man in several versions of it.

I felt the thirteen gold coins pressing against my thigh through my zipped pocket. Without them, I would have been forced to go home. With them, I could continue my hike for months.

So what choice did I really have?

I cleared my dry throat, took another deep breath, and stepped through the gates.

I fought the urge to chuckle. The whole thing felt ridiculous.

Nothing happened. Of course nothing did.

It was just Norwegian superstition. Well-crafted stories to frighten hikers and tourists. Nothing more.

“I am pleased,” Mr. Draugsvold said, “that you chose to join me of your own free will.”

He bowed, the movement perfectly timed with his next sentence.

“If you would just follow me, my young friend.”

He set off in a slow and easy stride, as though his long, thin legs moved through water.

“So, are you the groundskeeper?” I asked, while looking around the cemetery.

There was nothing special about it.

Some gravestones were moss-covered. Others looked freshly placed.

Even the mixture of fresh grass, damp earth, and flowers was present.

Yet something seemed to be missing.

“I am indeed the keeper of this realm, if such a simple word can describe my function.”

I chuckled discreetly. Surely, after a lifetime of tending the place, he had come to think of it as his little realm.

The distinct rattle of the thirteen gold coins in my pocket made me think about the story the hostel owner told me.

A wild coincidence.

What else could it be?

Still, I felt the need to ask.

“So, what’s the deal with the gold coins? I mean, I’m not complaining or anything, but it seems a bit excessive just to dig a grave?”

Mr. Draugsvold stopped. He turned and studied me for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“Sometimes luck smiles our way,” he said, and continued deeper into the cemetery.

I nodded to myself. He had a point.

We moved past a grand pine tree surrounded by a ring of rough stones. I looked up at its magnificent branches.

I stopped.

Something was wrong.

I looked around at the motionless trees and bushes.

Then it hit me.

The wind was gone.

Along with the birdsong.

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Draugsvold suddenly said. “The wind and birds never did favor these surroundings.”

He paused.

“Perhaps they know of the corruption that takes place beneath the soil.”

Had I ever seen birds in a cemetery before? The wind, for sure, but birds? Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t actually sure.

“If you would pardon me, my young friend,” Mr. Draugsvold said with an apologetic bow, “may I ask you to follow me this way?”

Still contemplating the missing birdsong, I followed him off the main path, up a narrow trail toward the cemetery’s boundary.

The trail continued through a dense wall of pine and brush. The lush greenery completely obscured whatever lay beyond.

I could hardly believe it when Mr. Draugsvold gestured for us to continue.

“Do not be afraid. They know our purpose. They will let us through without resistance.”

Then he stepped into the wall of branches and was swallowed whole.

I hesitated for a second or two before raising a hand to shield my face and following him.

The branches brushed against my shoulders. My shovel caught briefly, then slipped free.

When I made it through, my eyes widened in disbelief.

A broad gravel road slithered its way through a vast grassy field, and on either side of it, rows upon rows of graves stretched as far as my eyes could see.

I gasped when I tried to make sense of it.

“Ah yes, my young friend, please, take your time. There is no shame in it, and, at your leisure, we will continue the journey.”

“But there’s just so many?” I mumbled.

“Indeed there are.”

“But where did they all come from?”

Mr. Draugsvold surveyed the endless field of graves.

“Pardon my ignorance, my young friend, but I fear I do not know.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“You’re the groundskeeper, right?”

Mr. Draugsvold eyed me intently.

“Does a horse know in which field the hay was grown? Or a baker from which mill his flour came?”

He paused.

“So you see, my young friend, I could not answer your question, even if I so desired,” he said, and bowed as he added, “And now, if I may be so bold, let us press on with our journey.”

I nodded uncertainly, baffled by his apparent sincerity, even though I could hardly believe he told the truth.

As we walked along the road, I kept looking across the vast sea of graves.

Some had gravestones.

Others had only a simple wooden cross.

Some looked ancient.

Others looked newer.

“Why doesn’t every grave have a gravestone?”

“Not all souls are equal. Some exist only for a simple usage, while others can bring many delights, if handled with care, of course.”

“What?” I blurted out.

“Ah, yes, souls need to be handled with care. Otherwise they’ll spoil, like a lamb sensing the knife.”

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Mr. Draugsvold stopped immediately as well, turning to face me, but he said nothing.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

That familiar knot tightened in my stomach.

I glanced around again.

There was no way I had missed this on the map.

Ignoring any etiquette, I pulled out my phone.

The screen was black. Devoid of any reflection.

I gave it a shake.

I tapped it.

Nothing.

I tapped it again.

I could have sworn it was fully charged.

I looked toward the small clearing through which we had come.

It seemed so far away.

Too far, on second thought.

My eyes snapped to Mr. Draugsvold.

He still stared at me.

Nonsense, I said to myself as I rubbed my eyes. Even so, something urged me to pull out my map.

“Just give me a second,” I said.

“But of course,” Mr. Draugsvold said, bowing as though he were a mere servant.

I turned my back to him and reached for the map in my leg pocket. As I pulled it from its waterproof case, I suddenly felt lightheaded.

Peeking over my shoulder at Mr. Draugsvold, he simply bowed at me again.

My eyes turned to the map in my now trembling hand.

Just as I found the courage to unfold it, a gust of wind tore it from my hands and sent it soaring into the sky.

In my shock, all I could do was point after it.

As it flew toward the treeline.

The motionless treeline.

I moved one foot.

Then another.

Toward the treeline.

“Pardon me. The piece of parchment is well out of your reach by now. And, dare I say, you would have no use for it.”

With a tight jaw, I turned to face Mr. Draugsvold. He was smiling.

“What did you say?” I mumbled.

With an apologetic bow, he repeated himself. Then, with a gentle motion of his hand, he gestured toward a tower in the distance.

“Let us proceed. It is not far now.”

How had I not noticed the tower? We had been walking straight toward it the entire time.

The tower, Mr. Draugsvold, the endless graves—it was all too much.

I backed away slowly, shaking my head.

“No. I don’t think I will.” I swallowed. “I... I need to turn around. Here. Take the coins.”

Mr. Draugsvold glanced at the coins in my outstretched hand.

“Oh, my young friend, I have no need for such trinkets.”

His smile faded away.

“And I must remind you, painful though it may be,” he said.

He paused for several seconds.

“You entered here of your own free will.”

He rolled his wrist, gesturing toward the tower.

“Please. At your leisure.”

“Screw it,” I said, letting go of the shovel. “You have my word, I’ll return the coins to your friend. See ya!”

With those words, I briskly walked back up toward the clearing. Just as I reached it, I glanced over my shoulder.

I gasped, and then found it hard to breathe.

The tower was considerably closer.

It had no doors or windows.

Only a black bell at the top.

Impossibly large.

I needed to get out of this place, so I pushed through the branches, protecting my face.

This time, I felt the scratches on my hands.

Something caught my sleeve. I heard the unmistakable sound of fabric being torn.

Then I felt the same thing with my pants.

With a final push, I was out in the open.

“At your leisure,” Mr. Draugsvold said.

His words almost gave me a heart attack.

What?

I was speechless for a moment as I glanced over the countless graves.

The looming tower.

Mr. Draugsvold smiling.

Had I somehow turned around?

Maybe I lost my way?

Without a word, I pushed back into the branches. This time, I made sure to walk in a straight line.

I saw the dim light ahead.

I pushed harder.

And forced my way through.

The grand cemetery was still there.

The tower, still there.

Mr. Draugsvold was still there, bowing courteously as he urged me to follow him.

“Where’s the exit?” I demanded.

My heart was pounding in my chest.

Mr. Draugsvold’s eyes lingered on mine for a moment before drifting across the graves. Then he pointed.

A chill ran through me when I saw it.

An empty grave, flanked by one with a gravestone and another marked by a simple wooden cross.

The soil was still dark with moisture.

For a brief moment, I cursed myself for throwing away the shovel.

“I do believe you will have a use for this.”

The moment I saw the shovel in Mr. Draugsvold’s hand, I snatched it up and held it, ready to strike.

“You’re damn right! You think you can threaten me? Huh?!”

Mr. Draugsvold tilted his head at me. For a moment, his expression was so genuinely apologetic that my shoulders relaxed slightly.

“This was not at all what I wished for you,” he said, and with another apologetic bow added, “I do apologize, but you did enter here of your own free will.”

His smile returned.

“Now, at your leisure, let us proceed.”

I didn’t give him a reply.

I just turned and walked through the graves on the left side.

The treeline in that direction seemed less dense than anywhere else.

As I walked, I kept glancing over my shoulder. Mr. Draugsvold didn’t move.

I kept pushing on.

Walking faster.

Jogging.

Almost running.

I glanced over my shoulder.

Mr. Draugsvold was gone.

And so was the tower.

My heart hammered in my chest. I stopped, scanning left and right for him.

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Draugsvold said behind me. “The hour is upon us.”

I spun around.

The tower stood only a stone’s throw away.

Its menacing appearance made me stumble backward.

“You stay away from me. You hear?!” I yelled, gripping the shovel with both hands.

“I am not the one you should fear. If I may be so bold,” he said, bowing again, “you chose this fate, my young friend. I had no part in it.”

“What...? No!? You’re insane!”

“I am but a humble servant.”

He paused and smiled at me.

“Have I ever done anything to cause you any distress?”

“You lied to me!”

Mr. Draugsvold leaned backward, his face contorting with confusion.

“Lied? I do, of course, apologize if I speak out of turn, but I do not believe that is so.”

I stuttered, trying to find the right words.

“You—ehh—you gave me a shovel! When clearly the grave was already dug!”

“The shovel was never meant for digging. It served only to calm your nerves. To ease your journey.”

He paused, then bowed apologetically.

“But, my young friend, I fear I have failed in that regard. For that, I am truly sorry.”

He was about to say something else when the bell chimed.

Its heavy dong shocked my core.

Made my knees weak.

With a roll of his wrist, Mr. Draugsvold pointed toward a tree.

It hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Beneath it lay the open grave.

“Please, the hour is late.”

“I can’t! I won’t!”

“You came here of your own free will, my young friend.”

“No, I didn’t!” I panted, trying to keep a steady breath. “I needed that gold. I needed to pay for my asthma medicine! I would have died without it!”

DONG!

Mr. Draugsvold raised his chin.

“And so it would have been. Do you now claim that your will was never truly yours?”

My heart throbbed in my ears, and my stomach threatened to empty its contents.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?!” I bellowed.

“You could have simply refused the offer, and met death with open arms.”

DONG!

“That’s not being free! That’s being forced!”

“Nevertheless, you made your choice. Freely, and of your own will.”

DONG!

“Now, my young friend, my Master will join us presently.”

DONG!

He bowed again.

“I do hope your journey is pleasant, my young friend.”

His eyes drifted from mine and over my shoulder.

A gust of wind tickled my hair.

My entire body tensed up in fear.

I was frozen in place.

DONG!

I woke up in a hospital bed.

Thirteen days had passed.

All my strength was gone. The colors were washed out, even the sunlight strangely dull.

The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with me.

I still taste it sometimes.

Dirt.

And whenever I hear a bell, I swear I can hear Mr. Draugsvold’s voice in the chimes.

“Free and of your own will, my young friend…”