I saw my first khat chewer in Kenya.

I was attending an international conference on physical cosmology, and while strolling back to my hotel after an edifying day of lectures—Copernicus, quantum mechanics and CMBR sloshing about my head—he appeared:

Or appeared his eyes, reflecting the streetlights.

I stopped.

His face remained dark.

He stared at me and I at him, and all the while he chewed.

Slowly; dumbly, like a human cow.

Not saying a word.

Eventually my companion, a hired local named Kirui, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away. “Don’t mind him,” Kirui said. “He’s harmless, just a khat chewer.”

Khat: a flowering plant native to east Africa chewed for its alkaloid, cathinone, an amphetamine-like compound causing excitement and euphoria.

Except the khat chewer had looked anything but euphoric.

Even in my hotel room, alone and in the dark, did his eyes remain: staring at me from a face of memory melting into nightmare—

I awoke, cold, wet, but remembering nothing from my fever dream save for a peculiar sensation of reality somehow condensing into me.

In the late morning, I went to a lecture on cosmic expansion but could not focus.

My thoughts were scattered, limp.

During the lunch break, I drank three cups of coffee but they didn’t help. Several colleagues tried to speak with me; I ignored them.

Until bumping into—

“Here is the leaf that begins all life worth having!”

What?

The man staring back at me, with slight bewilderment, was Dr. Mukherjee, under whom I had earned my doctorate at MIT.

“Gilgamesh,” he said. “The name of—”

I felt a sudden tightening in my chest. Gilgamesh had been the name of my first (and most famous) contribution to the field of cosmology: a software model of the beginnings of the universe.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I said, pushing past him, but now changing direction and heading for the doors leading outside—

Through which I pushed into the blinding noonday sun.

My hand firm against my chest.

Palpitations.

People staring at me—

Evading—

“Kirui!” I yelled out. “Kirui, are you here?”

He materialized obediently as if out of the local ether. “Yes, sir.”

“Take me to the place we passed last night. To where we saw the khat chewer,” I said in syncopation.

When we arrived, he was there.

His jaws masticating.

“Leave us,” I told Kirui. When he had gone, the khat chewer stood and in his eyes I felt an understanding. I followed him into a building, down a ladder, deeper and deeper into a hole, until time meant nothing: until my feet touched ground:

An underground chamber of impossible proportions.

The inward pressure was immense.

Through the permanent gloam I gazed rows and rows of khat chewers.

I sat among them.

I willingly received my leaf.

The expansion of the universe is slowing. There is too much matter. And the only thing preventing collapse—pushing against it with each grinding motion—is us: the khat chewers, dutifully delaying the inevitable.

I am a wallflower by nature. I see the world go by from the windows of my tiny house on the outskirts of this quiet town. It is a boring life, but it’s mine and I have become used to its calm beat.

On this particular day, however…

I woke up to an awkward sound that cut through the serenity of my usual morning routine. Rubbing my eyes dry, I rushed to the window attracted by the strange noise coming from the public square across the road.

Looking down at what was happening with difficulty through dirty glass panes… My breath caught in my throat when I saw an uncanny picture: circular saws mounted above benches and slowly rotating in the early morning sunlight. What kind of madness was this?

I struggled for my reliable binoculars, readjusted lenses, and watched that weird performance again through them. The blades were shining ominously against a backdrop of what used to be a peaceful square itself. Then there they were – two young people sitting on one bench fitting around opposite sides of one turning blade.

I watched in terror as my heart pounded in my chest. Their hands came together with a sound like bones breaking. The knives made short work of their victims, whose blood sprayed all over the pavement.

But what bothered me was the other townsfolk’s reaction – or lack thereof. People walked on by without noticing anything odd although it didn’t seem to bother them at all that this was a grotesque scene out there. How could they not see how dangerous things had become?

Screams were coming from the couple before their bodies were wrapped in agony, and then suddenly, out of nowhere appeared a dark black van with tinted windows. Some guys dressed in air-tight suits quickly carried these people to join others who disappeared with them down another street of no return at amazing speeds.

My mind whirled with shock as I stood still next to the window. What evil presence had descended upon our once idyllic town? Why were those around them so indifferent to the abominations taking place right under their noses?

I realized as the sun cast long shadows across the deserted square when it climbed higher into the sky. My home was no longer safe for me anymore.

Weeks passed by and the events at the town square continued to escalate. Each day I would look through my window hoping that the awful incident I had seen was just a figment of my imagination. But as dawn broke, and its golden light bathed empty streets, the gloomy reality remained unchanged.

The saw blades which were once grotesque strangers had become like a tumor growing on every part of the public place; on every bench, post lamp, water fountain, and even the beating oak tree that has always been there for ages without talking.

Every day more people got hurt from the blades and taken away. It pained deeply watching helplessly while those passing by fell into these death traps with their screams being drowned in noiseless streets. But still, no one in town knows what is happening around them.

I longed to step forward, shake them out of their stupor, and demand for explanations. Yet, fear kept me rooted here, chained to my safety within myself. The outside world had turned into a nightmarish realm that I didn’t want to venture beyond my window.

The mysterious van, with its ominous black exterior and enigmatic occupants, had become a constant presence in my peripheral vision. It never really left my sight because all day long it seemed to slink around the streets, creeping out of the darkness whenever there was any sort of calamity about, and veiling its design.

I got more isolated as time went on. My once lively neighborhood is now deserted; everyone has disappeared without a trace with only reminders remaining in the form of echoes from their past life. I was alone, watching the advancing darkness that threatened to swaddle our souls.

At sunset, when sun rays cast shadows over an empty road I sink back into my home with a heavy heart. The nightmare was not over yet; it was just beginning. Thus, I waited in a world that could easily plunge into destruction at any moment.

The passage of time in my desolate existence blurred together, marked only by the relentless march of the sun across the sky and the ever-present hum of circular saw blades outside my windowpane. Days became weeks and weeks became months before ‘time’ itself blurred away as an abstract concept lost in suffocating loneliness.

The former lively quarter had turned into a ghostly whisper of its previous state. Streets that were once vibrant with children’s laughter and the murmurs of neighbors now lay deserted, their silence only being broken by the occasional whirring lethal blades.

I watched as the earth outside my window shriveled up and died, swallowed up entirely by the malevolent force that had descended on us. The circular saw blades, which had been limited to the public square before this time, littered the roads like a macabre landmine daring anyone brave enough to try their luck moving out.

Yet I stayed true to my lonely self and remained sentinel in a sea of darkness. The outside world had become an almost forgotten memory, losing itself amidst a tangle of nightmares that possessed me all day long.

As days turned into eternities, I found myself constantly grappling with the gnawing ache of loneliness that threatened to consume me from within. My soul was heavily burdened due to the lack of any human companionship; therefore, it made me feel every moment that an empty void existed deep inside me.

However, I was hopeful in this suffocating darkness. Because I knew that somewhere out there, outside my window, others were still fighting on and clinging to life as they fought against a rising tide of despair.

And so, I waited. As each day came and went, my resolve grew stronger by the day; I knew now that there must be other survivors of this devastated world, we used to live in. Others still walk on earth even now amidst the ruins of our shattered world, their hearts beating defiantly against the encroaching shadow threatening to consume us all.

But every evening, I was reminded that my existence was harsh. In this world where nights went on forever, one had to struggle for survival because moments were slipping away fast and the thread between hope and despair was growing thinner with every tick of time.

Day after day, loneliness became heavier on me like a shroud squeezing out all breath from me. My home which used to be familiar had become a jail whose walls closed in with every inhalation and exhalation.

However, the feeling that threatened to engulf me was one of emptiness and despair, there was a single flicker of determination inside me. I could no longer tremble behind my window anymore; hiding from the crumbling world outside. It was time for me to face the unknown, walk through the darkness, and meet my doom.

I gathered up my supplies, trying hard to steel myself for what lay ahead. The circular saw blades beyond my window were huge hazards that shone in the dying daylight.

Days went on endlessly and stretched, I could not escape their loneliness while struggling with the darkness which had surrounded me. A fortress against the outside complexity, now my asylum became a jail where every passing moment its walls grew closer to me.

I decided that as the world out there descended into more madness, I’d face the unknown from within the confines of my house. With no more than my cleverness and a stubborn desire for survival, I plunged into myself searching for solace against anarchy beyond my window.

The circular saw blades grew in number outside, and the constant deadly song reminded me that danger was just around the corner but it could not reach here. So, I retreated further inside myself until I was ensconced in thoughts alone. The nightmare that descended like a pall over our once peaceful village lay before me, wrapped in entangled puzzle pieces of uncertainty.

However much I tried to find it out, the truth remained hidden—a transient ghost teasing at the boundaries of my awareness. Shadows appeared like a mystery van, whose sinister purpose and enigmatic occupants mocked me from there, forever reminding me of the unknown dangers.

Inside the stillness of my lonely life, I felt it all come crashing down on me. The world outside had become a terrible nightmare that made no sense at all; features I used to know about it have now transformed into symbols of pain and suffering.

Yet this chaos gave me some glimmer of hope. Somewhere in my darkness stood resilience, which never broke even when I was on the edge of giving up. Day by day, I strengthened my defenses and built a fortress within the shattered walls of my mind.

Thus, in my solitude, I remained immovable as darkness approached from every side. Even if the world outside went mad, despair would not be an option for me. It was only by looking deep into myself that I found the courage to confront mysteries and overcome them victorious thereby showing that each human being’s spirit cannot be broken down easily.

That held until I noticed my supplies were running out. Now, I’m making peace with the fact that at some point I’ll need to go out and seek food and water. I know they’re still watching me. I can see them parked on the other side of the street from time to time. The best I can do is prepare myself to go out and make sure I don’t touch one of those blades, whatever they are.

Will left his ground floor apartment and breathed in the rotten air.

Two years ago, he would’ve thrown up on the spot, it had been impossible to stomach the indescribable sewer reek that filled one’s sinus and caked one’s tongue. The closest definition Will could come up with was: moldy bananas festering in a broken urinal. But time and experience had played their part, and eventually the repugnant smell was assimilated into Will’s day-to-day. It became the balmy spice that simply lined his saliva. A mild discomfort but nothing more.

With cane in hand, Will gently sauntered over to his refurbished floater-car. In appearance it was a harmless four seater with auto-steering, but two years ago it stood as a defeating reminder of Will’s divorce, his near-bankruptcy and his firing. Just a momentary glance used to crumble him into a regret-fueled stupor followed by a sleepless night on the floor.

But not anymore, Will forced a weak smile and prepared for boarding.

No matter how gently he stepped into the seat, Will’s lower back would always protest. Only by sitting perfectly still for five minutes would the fiery wire eventually uncoil from his spine. Though sometimes it took ten minutes. And other times a little longer.

He used to enjoy the self-piloting feature of floater cars. It allowed him to observe the tapestry of subways, the weaving of other vehicles and the flashes of red sun peeking out between the thousand-floor suites. But today’s headache once again proved too greedy. Will applied his blindfold and embraced the darkness.

Calm, soothing darkness. It allowed Will to breathe and remember his new existence wasn’t so bad. Just like at his old job where he would downgrade bank accounts from premium to basic, his own life had switched from being a complicated blend of relationships and responsibilities to something far more modest. Like basic chequing.

A beep and a gentle thrust indicated the Ford was now ascending. Despite his blindfold, Will could almost discern the exact elevation based entirely on smell. The higher he rose, the further the city’s drainage disappeared. The air became fresh.

The car quickly reached the required airspace and bolted along a designated route. For the next seven minutes, the world became a loud, vibrating hum, full of precise dips, lifts and turns.

Once docked at the clinic’s five hundredth floor, Will removed his blindfold and gently rolled out of the car. The ceramic promenade was not gentle on his feet, but as long as he kept moving, the waning pain could not settle on any particular bone.

Past the frosted glass, Will quickly reached the front desk and flashed the appointment badge on his phone. He was quickly directed down the hall. Room 5420 - Hirudotherapy.

As usual, the waiting space was empty. Before Will could inspect the window into the physician’s office, Dr. Montgomery had already opened its door.

“So...you’ve had a relapse?” The greying doctor was never one for introductions.

Will stared blankly for a moment. “Yes, I think so. Thank you for seeing me.”

With the utmost care, Will collapsed his cane and seated himself on the patient’s recliner, here he would try to move as little as possible as his spine settled.

Montgomery drifted past the many tubes, leech tanks and metal trays before perching upon on his tiny stool. The doctor had always seemed a little strange to Will. It had something to do with the black toupe resting on sideburns so obviously grey, but Will supposed the physician had gone past caring about appearances. Everyone is suppressing something.

Montgomery raised his head from his tablet, “You say it’s on your back?”

Will nodded with a grimace. Shoulder bones flared as he removed his shirt and leaned slightly forward. Staying still was always difficult at the clinic.

The doctor adjusted his glasses and came over for an inspection. “I don’t see any eczema.”

Will was prepared for this and did his best to sound convincing.

“Ahem. I know it's very faint. But I can definitely feel it. The characteristic tingling I mean. I usually get it before the redness swells up.”

There came a long sigh from the doctor. With cold hands, he inspected the skin around Will’s shoulder blades and lower back.

“Mr Lin, I can’t even spot the faintest signs. Also, I can see on your file you’ve been requesting other practitioners about the same thing.”

“That’s because it's been acting up.”

Another sigh. Montgomery wiped a smear of dust off his glasses. “Mr. Lin, Our leeches are very specialized and very expensive. There’s a woman coming after you with extensive psoriasis. I can’t spend hours each day on rashes that have already been treated. I thought the last time you had come —we confirmed it was gone”

“I know, I know, but please understand, the leeches...” Will tried to find the right words.

“—Have cured the symptoms they were prescribed for.” Montgomery stood up and began tapping on his tablet.

A new barb formed around Will’s vertebrae. “The leeches allow me to cope with other pain from my accident.”

Montgomery perched back on his stool. “We don’t overmedicate.”

The tendrils of defeat began sagging Will’s head, he tried his best to stay upright.

“I know there’s regulations, and I know you can’t prescribe them for just anything. But honestly it feels like they draw it out. The leeches have a way of removing all my discomfort. For a whole month I feel alleviated of... everything.” That was about as well as he could put it. Will didn’t expect the doctor to fully comprehend. But truly it felt like the hirudotherapy had a way of draining the ‘bad blood’ of his trauma.

“Mr Lin. You’re at the wrong place.” The doctor removed his glasses, revealing lined, tired eyes. “The leeches aren’t designed for this.”

The barb tightened further, Will momentarily stuttered. ”Y-Youve got my file. You can see the amount of Fluoxetine and other pills I’ve been prescribed. I’m telling you —none of that works as well as this. None of that.”

The doctor entertained the request and perused the tablet again.

The medical history should be obvious, Will thought. He never had the energy to re-explain what he’s gone through. What he’s going through. Carrying himself and bottling the car accident was already an all-consuming activity. Putting anything on display felt impossible.

“Hirudotherapy is not designed for anything neuropathic,” Montgomery said. “Nor can it cure depression or mood disorders. Whatever you think it’s doing for you. It’s not related.”

A shudder travelled through Will’s skin. He grimaced again and forcibly slipped on his shirt. “If I could buy my own leeches I would. I’d even consider going to the lake, fishing my own if I had to.”

“That is ill-advised.”

The dormant anguish was now bubbling inside Will, it had been months since emotion had overcome apathy.

“I… I don’t know what else to say. You’re a physician. This helps me. Improves my life. Isn’t that the purpose of medicine?”

“Mr. Lin, I don’t want to sound rude ... but I know your type.” The doctor stood up, the harsh lighting cast a shadowy veil across his face. “I can smell it on you.”

Will now realized the situation he was contending with. The unspoken tension. Does he think I’m some bottom-dwelling Junkie?

“Whatever claim you’ve got to travel up here is long expired. I know how far the gene-hacking in these leeches has come —their enhanced anesthetic should frankly be classified as an opioid. I don’t just prescribe them willy-nilly.”

A moment passed. The fire renewed inside Will.

“Doctor, excuse me, but I used to live on the two hundredth floor of a nearby tower. I used to work for Metro Bank. Whatever you think I am—”

Then came pain. Abrupt and sharp. A release of sparks melted Will, broke his composure. He fell back into his chair, groaned, and dug nails into the padded foam.

“That’s quite enough Mr. Lin. This act you're putting on isn’t going to get you what you want. Your eczema is gone. I’m not going to waste my valuable leeches on your addiction.”

Will waited for his back spasm to acquiesce before continuing to speak. All he could do is focus on breathing. He closed his eyes.

“I’m writing you a referral to a psychiatrist and an orthopedist. Their expertise is far more appropriate for the injury you’ve got.”

Will exhaled, shook his head. The insurance limits had been used up on ortho and psych. He needed the leeches. Nothing else worked.

“Up we go now, take your cane.”

There came flashes of Will’s old floater spiralling out of control. An incoming commuter train. He could barely see the room he was being led out of. Tears began to form.

Montgomery seated Will in the waiting room outside, and placed the printed referrals on his lap.

“This is for the best Mr. Lin, believe me. I’ll leave you here to gather yourself. When you’re ready you can call a cab from the front desk. Alright?”

Will could feel himself being pressed beneath broken glass. For a moment it felt like he had to crawl his way out of the wreckage all over again. One agonizing arm at a time. Then the bright headlights became the ceiling LEDs. He was back at the clinic.

“Are you alright Mr.Lin?”

There wasn’t any energy left to talk. Or disagree. Will gave a wan nod.

“Very good. Take care now.”

Will eased into the hot coals. For the next little while he would have to truly focus on staying absolutely still. Not moving at all.

Maybe I have formed an addiction without realizing it? A dependency? He wondered if the leeches were just a band-aid on a disorder that now truly delved far too deep. Perhaps he had to reset his recovery by a different means.

He stared at the papers resting on his legs. The names of the orthopedist and shrink seemed totally unfamiliar, they must have been out-of-district. But maybe that was a good thing, he thought. Somewhere new.

Then he wondered how he could possibly afford the coverage. Additional treatment was all beyond his means. He might have to start seeking additional employment at another bank again, and hope they somehow overlooked his record.

Christ. He bent over, ignoring the pain. Starting over is so hard.

He considered where he might find the nearest lake.

***

Dr. Montgomery shut the exam room door and obscured the window. He stared at his warped reflection on one of the leech tanks. A furrowed scowl stretched across the moving black bodies. What has become of my profession?

It seemed like every other day someone was crawling their way into his office with personal trauma this and separation anxiety that. The leeches were predominantly designed for skin conditions, coagulation issues. He didn’t have a degree in clinical psychology. Nor did he care to acquire one.

Let the psychologists deal with the kranks. Montgomery applied his gloves and with reluctant expertise of a master, he thrust his arm into a tank and snagged half a dozen blackstripe leeches.

This bio-engineering has gone too far. It’s turning them into something unwieldy. Something aberrant. He placed the creatures on a tray and wiped away the excess moisture. They recoiled. Squirmed. Then Montgomery wheeled the tray over beside the patient's recliner. And sat in it.

He thought about the dozens of email drafts he’d composed about returning to standard leeches. He’d written long lists about the unintended effects these new lab-breeds came with.

Eventually I’ll send something. I’ll have to do something about it. In time. Then he sighed, stared at the elongating lifeforms and knew that it wouldn’t happen.

Dr. Montgomery had his own set of problems. A daughter who wouldn’t speak to him, a legal debt from three different malpractice lawsuits, and not to mention his persistent bouts with glaucoma. He removed the black toupe off his head, revealing a pale scalp riddled with teeth-marks. Red circles overlapping each other. Venn diagrams.

One by one, he applied the leeches onto his head. Their cool bodies writhed against his scalp and squirmed along the bumps of his skull, turning all sensation frigid. Had he used any specimens on patients today, he wouldn’t have been able to reach the same level of relief as he needed. His tolerance had grown too high.

It is a knowing self-delusion, this habit of mine. But there was no use worrying, all material concern would always end in the last hours of his office —when he had the space to himself.

With eyes closed, the doctor waited for the first instance of the needle-pricks. His serotonin levels would reach the requisite levels, and his synaptic receptors would become blocked. He’d feel at ease for another few days.

When the bite finally came, Montgomery slightly winced. It was like the puncture of a mini-stalactite. Every bite afterwards grew increasingly numb.

He gave one last glance at the door —to make sure it was closed— and caught his reflection on a hung mirror. What he saw was a gorgon. A medusa-like monster with leeches instead of hair. It hissed and laughed at him, sparked a momentary horror. Then Dr. Montgomery turned away, sank into his chair and felt nothing at all.

He stepped out of the store, smiling down at the bag he now carried in his hand. The antiquarian had been quite odd about the whole experience, asking him multiple times if he was sure this was what he wanted. It seemed a little absurd to him, but the man was quite weird in his appearance and behavior, so he decided there was something wrong about the man, and not the object he had purchased.

He had always been into purchasing antiques, mostly for decorating his own home, but sometimes for gifting to friends and family. He prided himself on finding rare objects that worked well for his home, and this set of bookends would work marvelously for the shelf on top of his TV, as soon as he unwound the weird rope tied tightly around them. He was excited to show his wife. She was always so into seeing his purchases, and knew she would love this.

            This was his first time ever seeing this antique store. He didn’t frequent the area very often, but had to drive an hour away from home for a doctor’s appointment, and couldn’t help but shop around. The store itself seemed to pop out of nowhere, so different from the broken down street around it. It was colorful on the outside, and had a charm to it he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The inside was filled from floor to ceiling with all sorts of gadgets and goodies he’d never seen before. It was like stepping into another planet. He knew he would be back again another day to shop once more. He was shocked he was able to resist buying even more.

            For now, the bookends were enough.

            He was beyond excited when he arrived home. He wanted to set it up immediately, and make sure it was in fact perfect for the space. He tried fishing it out of the bag, but stopped when he realized there was a piece of paper inside, which he hadn’t noticed the seller put in when he was purchasing the item.

            He pulled it out, and saw a thicker piece of paper with printed words on both sides. The top read “Quick Start Guide” in a papyrus font, and he chuckled to himself at once. It was a set of bookends! Why would it need a Quick Start Guide?! He set the bag on the table, and sat on the couch to read the piece of paper.

            The text itself was pretty ominous, and read, “The two parts don’t like to stay close, that’s why they are tied together. Keep them this way for your own safety.” He burst out laughing. This must’ve been a way for the antiquarian to add some humor to his goods. He wondered if he also had funny jokes about the other things he sold. It definitely added to the mystique of him asking multiple times about whether or not he really wanted to purchase the product.

            He set the piece of paper down and finally pulled out the bookends. It was a set of black obsidian blocks, perfectly shaped so that the curves of both sides would fit together. Half of the blocks were made out of a thick maple, and it was clear the maker of the bookends was quite skilled in his craft, as he was able to match the curve of the wood perfectly to the obsidian itself. There was a thick piece of coarse rope wrapped around it, which in his opinion really ruined the smooth curving of the pieces.

            He set the pieces down onto his dining room table, and proceeded to cut the rope open with a pair of scissors. He tried grinding against the thick rope, but it seemed the scissors were not sharp enough for something so thick. Disgruntled, he walked to his kitchen, grabbed the sharpest knife he could, and walked back to slice the rope.

            It went quickly this time, so quickly that he could barely fathom everything that happened within the next few seconds. The two parts of the bookends were suddenly a meter away from each other. It must’ve happened instantly, so quickly his eyes weren’t able to see it, though he could feel them push his hands apart. Not only that, his table was also larger, like it was stretched apart in the room.

            He couldn’t believe it. He blinked a few times, trying to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.

            Maybe it was time to read the rest of the manual.

            He flipped the piece of paper on its back, with the words “FULL MANUAL” on the top, also in papyrus. “If not tied together, the two parts will try to increase their distance from each other by stretching the very fabric of space. The first stretch will be small, but the second will be brutal - a distance so large that space itself will not be able to contain it.”

            He dropped the guide, shaking a little. But it was too late. The two pieces had already moved even further from one another.

            He could only see one end of the sculpture now. It was on the table, sitting inconspicuously, like it wasn’t some sort of magical artifact. The table itself stretched so far he couldn’t see the end of it. He didn’t even know if there was an end.

            In fact, he couldn’t see the other end of the room he was in.

            He knew at once he should’ve listened to the salesman. He didn’t know if he would be able to get out of the room. The door itself was nowhere to be found. He would have to drive right back to the antique store and give the owner a piece of his mind! And maybe see if they had other magical artifacts that he could play with…

            Well, his wife had always complained about their dining room table being too small for hosting Thanksgivings. At least they would have enough space now…

Not all those who wander are lost
Yet many a living are no different
From those set free from the ghost
For above all other creations of yore
Man stands alone by virtue
Of the eternal flame burning at his core

As the storm brings an end to the calm
And winter is chased away by the spring
When night is banished by
The triumphant arrival of Morn
Whose beautiful colors of dawn
Will eclipse the haunting dark
The lowly vagrant will raise his sword
once more to become king

I come from a very long lineage of evil souls. And I am all-powerful. Fear does not exist for me. I do as I please in plain sight, so obvious, yet unseen by everyone. I am immensely proud of the work that I do. I am skillful and diligent during the activities that I partake in. I enjoy inflicting misery and dread that seeps from your pours as I slowly take away your life's energy, which in reality, is only a grand and beautifully constructed illusion of flesh and bone. The only thing that keeps me going anymore are the memories. Reliving all that I've done. Carrying around all the thoughts I keep inside this meager, burned out mind from yet another incarnation. My last incarnation, thankfully. The last of many. Guilt? No, none there either. I remain clear and calm on any given day. I sleep like a baby without nightmares ever since I began my quest for control and ownership. I reap no after effects. They say one should not mix work with fun, but you should give it a try before you make a judgement.And when it is time, when I am back as spirit and it's all over, I will go to the place It has designed for me, with my permission, of course. I believe in evening the scales, and I must burn for ages of unspeakables. Balance. Oh yes. I'm going to fucking burn. But maybe not. It knows I relish over the sensation of physical pain, you see? I wonder what will become of me then? Hmmmngg. Whichever.

This stagnant, jaded reality displays synthetic and illusory, creating an absurd existence that I feel in my heart. And I sense a dreaded catastrophe heading toward an unknown precipice within the span of my awakened psyche, that I dare not create new cause for. A delicate agency emerges just fine by itself, hence, a monastic consciousness was dreaming it's imagination all too cleverly. It forces me to replay the fact of truth that I will be humble when realization shows inadequacy. A vicarious tangent of sorts, it's method of insane redundance, where truth lies bare and it rates quietly close to nothing, even in cries.

This post a self-indulgence, an attempt at understanding, a written record, perhaps posthumous, and a confession, though inspired not by any sudden moral clarity but by arid necessity, not, therefore, admirable but perhaps at least somewhat illuminating, like a cellar lightbulb that shows the cold concrete emptiness of one's surroundings.

One of my favourite poems is Amy Lowell's The Taxi:

When I go away from you

The world beats dead

Like a slackened drum.

I call out for you against the jutted stars

And shout into the ridges of the wind.

Streets coming fast,

One after the other,

Wedge you away from me,

And the lamps of the city prick my eyes

So that I can no longer see your face.

Why should I leave you,

To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

I like it, by which I mean it haunts me, and it haunts me for its images, for the way the words transpose, by clear yet metaphorical description, fragments of another reality into mine, and in those images, projected upon a screen in the cinema of my mind, fleetingly I see beyond myself.

I think much of my writing shares this quality, offering mere glimpses into other, ex- and internal worlds.

There's a reason for this, one to which I'll get shortly, but first I want to address an increasingly frequent criticism of my writing: that my stories are written by A.I.

I've always denied this, and I still do, because it is not strictly speaking true, yet there is a truth to the criticism which I've never acknowledged, a truth, a shame and a wonder, namely that my stories are not my stories at all.

In a basic sense I do write them because I record them, but they don't originate with me. I am not their source. This explains why I have been able to post so many, with so many different ideas, and in so many different voices.

This is the first time you're hearing my voice. This is the first time I'm posting something I created.

The first story I posted to reddit was called The Boy Who Spoke Mosquito, three years ago. Since then I've posted about two-hundred more. Each has been “written” the same way, sitting in the driver's seat of my car with a partially loaded revolver on my lap, listening to a character whose reflection I see only in the rear view mirror.

I'll never forget the night I first left my house, getting into the car intending to let fate decide whether I would live or die, placing the revolver in my mouth, and then hearing someone speak, a boy whose mouth had been stitched shut and who'd cut those stitches with a knife just to talk to me. “I speak mosquito,” he said, and when I turned to look, nobody was in the back seat, but I could hear his voice and see his reflection. “I want to tell you about Oliver.”

He told me his story, and I remembered it as best as I could, and then I wrote it down and posted it online. I did the same for my second story, my twentieth, my hundredth.

Each time I got into the car I accepted I could kill myself, I was at peace with that, and each time a new passenger appeared to tell me their story. Sometimes we just sat in the car. Sometimes I drove, feeling like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver with Marty Scorsese in the back seat talking about his cheating wife. Sometimes I took notes. A few times I tried recording the conversation on my phone, but all I got was silence.

In the past three years, I've posted over two hundred stories to reddit. All of them are from these characters. None are mine. The harsh truth is I'm not a very imaginative person and I wouldn't be capable of writing half a dozen stories, let alone two hundred.

The last story I posted was Master Taxidermist. That was eleven days ago. Since then I've gotten into my car twice. Twice no character appeared. Twice, I placed the revolver into my mouth and pulled the trigger, and heard the click of an empty chamber. Both times I was terrified but I didn't stop. I wanted to pull the trigger. I did pull it.

Click

…and from the hyper-tension of focussed silence the world rushes back in, I roll down the windows and, letting the night air cool me, think of nothing at all.

I don't know why the characters are no longer there.

I don't know why they were ever there.

But whatever the reason, it means this post is the last thing I have left to say, really the only thing I have ever said. There's nothing else. Perhaps another click or two; perhaps not. Then finally, inevitably, a bang, and that's that, out of this world like Robert E. Howard.

Maybe it has to do with the eclipse that happened a few days ago.

I experienced it in totality, night-in-day, darkness at mid-afternoon, and despite what they said, I did look up at the sun, looked at it without glasses, without protection, with my naked eyes only, and what I saw wasn't an eclipse at all, not one celestial body casting a shadow over another, but a hole in the sun, like a tunnel, and some part of me feels I travelled through that tunnel from one world into this.

But that's just silly speculation. An astronomical miscomprehension.

The salient fact is that I didn't write any of my stories. From the first one, I've been a fraud, a plagiarist or worse. That's my confession. None of what I've written I've written. I have been lying to you all for years.

Now the source has run dry and here I am, explaining myself because I can't keep up the charade anymore. How utterly, utterly pathetic. But you do deserve to know. I am a weakling and a coward, but you do deserve to know.

I'm sorry.

There will be no new stories, no new glimpses into other worlds unless—unless I did travel through the sun and my very confession is itself a lens into another reality! Perhaps, once upon a time, I mistook a bang for a click. Out, out, brief candle? Perhaps, in my own hollowness, I even mistook a bang for a whimper, and why, then, should I keep wounding myself on the edges of the night? Why not instead sit and enjoy the silence?

First Chapter | Previous Chapter

As Mrs. Vilonte had once told Salerno, patience was her greatest virtue. Since the day Gabrielle received her new violin, fortune had slowly showered upon the Vilonte family like the long-awaited spring rain after a prolonged drought. The abundance of joy filled her so completely that at times she would pause in her tasks, gaze skyward, and burst into laughter, while spinning around with her arms stretched out.

For the past ten years, Mrs. Vilonte witnessed the fruits of her labor, beginning with the arrival of an acceptance letter from a university renowned for its prestigious music program. Then came Gabrielle's achievement as salutatorian. Mrs. Vilonte couldn't resist paying a visit to the principal and teachers, demanding to know the deciding factor behind their choice. It turned out that the chosen valedictorian had taken an extra advanced class to edge out Gabrielle—an infuriating revelation.

Damn them all, indeed! Yet, she knew it was just a minor setback in the grand scheme of things. A small bump in the road.

Once Gabrielle had started her journey at the university, everything seemed to fall effortlessly into place. She climbed up to the position of First Chair in the university's symphony orchestra, graduated with honors as a cum laude student, and post-graduation, rose to prominence as a distinguished violinist in a professional orchestra.

Her talent and dedication didn't go unnoticed, as she was soon signed onto a record label, captivating millions with her album featuring the most exquisite violin solo pieces from the classical repertoire.

Now, Gabrielle was going to marry maestro Eric de Leon, a distinguished conductor and composer whose talent had drawn comparisons to other legendary maestros like Herbert von Karajan and Leonard Bernstein.

As the doors of the church swung open, a stream of wedding guests flooded in, filling the air with anticipation and excitement for the union of Gabrielle Vilonte and Eric de Leon. With precision, every detail was in place, and each person found their designated spot on the velvet pew cushions, embroidered with golden threads, inviting them to witness the union in comfort and opulence. Fragrant bouquets of roses and lilies cascaded from ornate altars, their sweet aroma mingling with the soft glow of flickering white candles.

Mrs. Vilonte gracefully glided through the church, extending warm greetings to the assembled guests. Among them were her pediatrician son, George, with his wife and six-year-old daughter, and her cherished relatives, some of whom she hadn't seen in years. She also welcomed the distinguished and affluent members of the groom's family; their presence added an air of sophistication to the occasion.

Music executives, well-known classical musicians and opera singers, and a sprinkling of celebrities and politicians were among the attendees. Their high-profile presence inevitably attracted the paparazzi, who lingered outside the church, eager to capture every moment. However, strict measures were in place to maintain order, with a police barrier preventing them from encroaching upon the sacred space within.

With each interaction, Mrs. Vilonte reveled in the delight of the moment, her heart brimming with happiness as she showed them the level of success her family had reached.

Amidst the crowd, one guest caught Mrs. Vilonte's attention—an unfamiliar young man with black hair slicked back. Though she couldn't quite place him, an air of familiarity hung about him. He was chatting with an elderly executive from the record label. Their exchange was animated, marked by laughter and shared understanding. The stranger appeared to be at ease conversing with someone of significant influence as if they were old acquaintances.

Though there were a few hundred guests crammed into the church, she recognized every face and their relationship to her family. And she surely knew this man wasn't a guest, but a wedding crasher.

As the stranger paused, his gaze met hers in a fleeting moment. A smile graced his lips and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, which only served to irk her further.

"Who does he think he is?" she grumbled, waving her personal assistant, Sara, over. She instructed her to discreetly find out who the man was and confirm his name on the guest list.

“And if he's not on the list?” Sara asked.

Mrs. Vilonte gave her a withering look, silently questioning her competence. "Then kindly escort him out," she replied sharply.

She continued to chat with the other guests, but subtly watched Sara's approach towards the young man. She observed Sara's gentle tap on his shoulder, prompting him to turn his gaze towards her, causing a flush of embarrassment to sweep across Sara's cheeks as he responded with a lopsided grin.

The young man leaned in uncomfortably close, almost as if he intended to kiss her, and whispered something while Sara diligently scanned the guest list on her clipboard. Flustered and blushing deeply, she stumbled over her words before hastily turning away to deliver an answer that did not sit well with Mrs. Vilonte.

“He's not on the guest list,” Sara reported.

Mrs. Vilonte's eyes rolled with exasperation. "Then why didn't you show him the door?"

Sara appeared bewildered, almost at a loss. "I... I don't know.”

“Must I do everything myself? I've already got so much on my plate. I didn't hire you, only for me to do your job!”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Vilonte. I'll do better.”

“Then get that wedding crasher out of here! Call security if he puts up a fight.”

Sara nodded determinedly as she strode forward to confront the uninvited guest. However, her steps faltered halfway and she looked around, looking confused.

The man had vanished.

Even Mrs. Vilonte couldn't spot him anymore, and she approached the elderly music executive to inquire about the whereabouts of the young man he had been conversing with. But the elderly executive didn't know, telling her that when he had briefly looked away, the mysterious young man had left in the middle of their conversation, and he didn't know which direction he went.

“Keep an eye out for him,” Mrs. Vilonte instructed Sara, “and don't fall for his charm. Be stern.”

As the pianist and a small ensemble of string musicians initiated the first strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, a hush fell over the guests, their conversations tapering off as all eyes turned towards the entrance of the church. There, radiant in her pure white wedding dress, Gabrielle stood, her arm entwined with Mr. Vilonte's, anticipation and joy shimmering in their gazes. They began to walk down the aisle, the stained glass windows casting kaleidoscope hues across their path.

A lump formed in Mrs. Vilonte's throat, and she delicately dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, overcome with emotion. This was undoubtedly the proudest and happiest day of her life. The scene before her was nothing short of perfection—immaculate and breathtaking in every detail.

She couldn't help but overhear the murmurs of awe and jealousy among the guests, confirming that her daughter's wedding truly was a spectacle to behold. Of course, every detail had been carefully orchestrated by her hand; nothing had come to fruition without her guidance and expertise.

At the front, beneath a canopy of billowing silk, stood the main altar, draped in ivory fabric and floral arrangements, awaiting the couple's vows to unite in matrimony. As Gabrielle reached the altar alongside the groom, Mr. Vilonte took his place in the front row. His round, pink face gleamed with sweat, a wide smile gracing his lips, and tears glistening in his eyes.

Mrs. Vilonte cast a disapproving glance at the groom. She wished he would stop fidgeting with his bow tie.

"Hands down. Stand tall," she silently urged, willing him to shed his hunched posture.

Despite Eric de Leon's wealth and status, his appearance left much to be desired. He had a wiry frame with a crooked posture and stood a few inches shorter than Gabrielle, with a mop of blond hair atop his head, lacking the refined elegance she had hoped for in a son-in-law.

When the priest approached the pivotal moment of inviting objections to Gabrielle Vilonte and Eric de Leon's union, Mrs. Vilonte held her breath, her smile tight yet amused.

Surely no one would dare to object. She scanned the crowd, half-expecting the uninvited man to emerge and disrupt the wedding. But to her relief, nothing happened and the priest concluded the marriage rites and the newlyweds sealed their union with a kiss as cheers and applause filled the church.

After the post-wedding pictures were taken, Mrs. Vilonte and her husband drove to the reception hall at one of the city’s five-star hotels, The Gold Cage. The hall was decorated with drapes in shimmering hues of gold and ivory, intertwined with twinkling fairy lights that gave off a soft, romantic glow.

Tables were set with crisp linens and floral centerpieces bursting with roses, lilies, and hydrangeas. Each place setting had delicate china and sparkling crystal glassware. The air was filled with the aroma of gourmet delicacies, from succulent prime rib and lobster tails to artisanal cheeses and desserts. Champagne flowed freely as guests basked in the splendor of the moment and watched the newlyweds take center stage on the dance floor for their first dance.

Beauty, love, and the finest indulgences. Yes, everything was going smoothly, with the exception of the wedding crasher at the church. However, that minor incident had faded from Mrs. Vilonte's thoughts.

In the present, she was enjoying watching Gabrielle dance with Eric, while her husband swayed gracefully with their granddaughter. She sipped on a glass of champagne, feeling the tension melt from her muscles. But the tranquil reverie was short-lived. Sara, who hurried to her side with news of the mysterious intruder. She had spotted him at a table helping himself to the feast.

“Should I call security?” Sara asked. “I'm worried it might disrupt the celebrations. Remember there are photographers here. We can't have them capturing anything that could be embarrassing.”

Mrs. Vilonte drew her lips into a thin line. “You don't think I'm not aware of that? I'll deal with him myself.”

She sprang from her seat, her steps purposeful as she strode towards the table where he was indulging himself to a slice of the cake. Planting her hands firmly on her hips, she loomed over him, a fiery gaze fixed upon his nonchalant figure. Her frustration surged as he met her glare with the same crooked grin he had flashed at her assistant. Oh no, she wasn't going to be a fool and fall for his charms.

“Enjoying yourself?” She asked with a hint of sarcasm.

He sliced another sliver of cake with his fork, bringing it to his lips with a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes drifted shut, savoring the dessert as if it were a rare delicacy.

“Yes, I am,” he responded, licking his lips. “Thank you for asking.”

“You've no right to be here uninvited. You're trespassing! Today's my special day, and I don't want it ruined by an intruder.”

“Don't worry, I'm not here to spoil your lovely party.”

“I'm happy to hear that,” she said, flatly. “So, let's do this the easy way and not make a scene. Get up and leave, and you can take the cake with you. I'll have my assistant find a box for you to put it in.”

“Before I make a quiet exit, why don't we enjoy the cake together and perhaps some wine? Have you had some cake yet? It's wonderful.”

“I said leave,” she snapped.

“And I said sit.”

“How dare y–”

SIT.

The voice was strong, and it commanded her from within her head.

Momentarily stunned, her thoughts paused as her body obeyed, taking the seat beside him. A plate of chocolate cake was set in front of her, and a fork slipped into her hand.

“Mmmm, you've got a fine taste, Mrs. Vilonte,” said the stranger, taking another sliver. “You've done well putting together this fairy-tale of a wedding. And this cake! Oh, my goodness! Its chocolatey flavor has a perfect balance of intense bittersweet notes and subtle hints of sweetness. The velvety texture is smooth, with a melt-in-your-mouth sensation that leaves a lingering warmth on my palate.”

Mrs. Vilonte sat petrified, her heart beating fast and her breathing became shallow. She didn't know what just happened.

“Who are you?” She finally asked.

He smirked.

“You already know.”

She narrowed eyes, scrutinizing his face much more closely. And then, it hit her. A gasp escaped her lips.

“S-s-alerno?”

How could he possibly be Gabrielle's former teacher? Salerno was old with graying hair. This man was not, although his chiseled features bore some resemblance of the maestro.

“Yes and no,” he said. “This is the body of Salerno, and I may have made some adjustments to make my appearance more appealing to the eyes.”

“A–are you… him? Not Salerno. I mean, Gabrielle's admirer?”

“The one and only.”

“Salerno never revealed your name.”

He chuckled. “You don't need to know my name. I've been called many things; sometimes I forget what my name is.”

“How…how can it be that you are him? You were at the church. How were you able to enter the house of God?”

“The church? When most of its patrons are vile souls, and its priests have committed the most depraved acts within its walls, it's no longer considered holy. It's just a building.”

She gulped. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

He shook his head in disappointment. “Mrs. Vilonte, I know you know that you've broken our agreement.”

“The agreement?”

His pupils widened, stretching until the whites of his eyes were engulfed by an intense darkness, and within that abyss, she could see her own reflection, mirroring the fear that gripped her. Something inhuman was behind those black eyes. A chill raced down her spine.

She winced. There was a sudden sharp pain searing through her arm. Glancing down, she saw his hand gripping her forearm, but it was no ordinary hand; it resembled the talons of a hawk, its sharp nails piercing her skin and drawing blood.

“Let me go!” She pleaded.

Salerno leaned in inches from her face, his words a whisper, "I will claim what is rightfully mine,and there's nothing you could do. You and your family will be left with nothing.”

Her cries pierced the air, desperate pleas for her husband, her son, for anyone to rescue her, yet her voice fell on deaf ears. All around her the wedding party continued. Oblivious to her plight, the guests carried on as if existing in a separate realm.

She attempted to free her arm from his grasp, but the more she struggled, the tighter his grip became, his talons sinking deeper into her flesh with each movement.

“We will see each other again,” he assured her.

As he released her arm, she cradled the wounded limb, blood drops staining her elegant blue silk dress. She quickly grabbed a white napkin from the table, hastily wrapping it around her injured arm. Beside her, the once occupied seat now sat empty.

She looked around, eyes searching for the young Salerno but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Honey, are you alright?" Mr. Vilonte approached her side, their granddaughter in tow.

"Grandma, you're hurt!" The girl's voice trembled with concern.

Mr. Vilonte's eyes widened in shock as he exclaimed, “What on earth happened to your arm?”

Mrs. Vilonte managed a strained smile and explained, "Oh, it's just a little cut. I wasn't watching my step, and I took a tumble, and somehow I hurt my arm. But I'm alright.”

“I'll go get George!”

Before he left to find their son, he gently told his little granddaughter, “Wait here and look after Grandma. Your dad will fix up her arm in no time, don't you worry.”

Noticing the frightened look on the young girl's face as her eyes fell on the blood-stained napkin, Mrs. Vilonte forced out a laugh in hopes of lightening the mood, and said, “Grandma is just so clumsy!”

I - II

For over a dozen days they had been grinding away at the Arboran.

Selvin had built up his confidence by attacking the monster a little more fiercely each time. A bite on the head here, a scratch beneath its limb-fronds there. It had turned out to be the most effective hunting practice there was.

Every time the lanky tree-giant returned, the sweet stench of its sweaty, hormonal anxiety grew stronger. And along with it came another sheathed layer that only emboldened Selvin further. No matter how thick the creature’s bark grew, he was always able to find another seam to slip between, another crease to squeeze under.

The daily skirmish resulted in the Arboran obscuring himself more and more with denser white sheathes—to a point where the sheathes must have enwrapped it so tightly it could no longer come out altogether. Teseva theorized that it was probably undergoing some form of metamorphosis. A moult. And as it turned out, she was right.

One morning, both Selvin and his mother emerged from their burrow, shocked at how much taller the Arboran appeared. The length of his limbs had nearly doubled in size, his trunk appeared denser, too.

When Selvin flew out to examine him, he detected an entirely new sort of energy. The sweaty listlessness was no longer present, replaced instead by a stoic immovability that smelled of mint. The behemoth tree-giant had clearly undergone a transformation.

“We’ve aged him,” Teseva observed, watching from her pine branch. “See: his skin’s a little fainter. We’re effectively wearing him out if he’s growing this fast.” Selvin agreed: there was something weaker about him. The Arboran had lost all of his sheathe now, and was thus more vulnerable. More exposed. But for some reason, this exposure also hinted at some kind of gravitas. An audacity that the Arboran didn’t have before.

Selvin dropped beside his mother’s branch and asked if there was any change in plan today.

“And change your sibling’s first outing?” Teseva looked up at her twelve adult children. They all crowded on one pine branch, jittering with anticipation. “Who knows how long I’ve got left. We can’t be afraid because he’s suddenly bigger. If I taught you, I need to teach them too; isn’t that what you said?”

Selvin nodded gratuitously, apologizing for even suggesting otherwise.

“All of you follow me as I fly behind the Arboran,” Teseva instructed her offspring. “I want everyone to practice with their stingers. Remember, think of your abdomens as curling worms. You want to curl those worms high, and you want to aim those stingers straight. I don’t want to see any half-curled worms. We want to pierce him with as many points as we can.”

***

It was his first day replacing Oskar, and two hours in, Johann had no clue what his moody son was talking about. There were a few annoying mosquitoes from the artificial pond, some petulant blackflies, sure, but nothing that appeared to be purposefully targeting him. He had taken his sweet time scanning the termitary, adjusting topographical nodes as needed and making sure his readings were correct.

There didn’t appear to have been much change in the colony since his last visit months ago, and Johann swiped through his tablet, comparing images from past dates. As his fingers pinched in on the glass surface to zoom, some dozen sensations also seemed to pinch simultaneously into his spine.

“Jesus Mary!”

He whipped around and smacked his tail bone. A platoon of red wings zipped past. His hand brushed against his back, and he felt the warm heat of swelling skin.

I see. Are these them?

It appeared to be a dozen or so hornets. Or were they yellow jackets? He approached them, and the red shimmers moved back and forth, circumventing him.

Digger wasps. Interesting.

Johann produced a butterfly net and extended it, waiting for the buzzing to return. He was no stranger to capturing specimens mid-flight. Bring it on.

And the wasps soon did. As flashing red blurs, they gunned for the area below his knees. He whipped about with his net.

Three or more were caught instantly, and a small “hah!” shot out from Johann. But the victory was short-lived, overshadowed by a far sharper agony. A stealthy stab had gotten him behind his left ear. He smacked the side of his head.

It was a little alarming how coordinated these things were. Johann shook himself like a dog, and pivoted on his right heel, scanning the perimeter. He could see the glimmer of several red wings, hovering, waiting.

He had only brought one net, hoping to deal with whatever came at him without much hassle, but perhaps one wasn’t enough. As he moved around, the zipping shapes recouped and circled closer to him.

His palms gripped the rubber lining of the handle. It was already feeling sweaty. How tough can they be?

***

A welcome pride swelled inside Teseva’s thorax. Her children had done well.

Tael had managed to sting the moulted Arboran thrice, capitalizing on his lack of leg sheathes. Levesta had stolen a follicle of blonde grass, which they now left displayed atop the goliath birdeater. Elvitra had snuck two deep stings into the side of his head, leaving a pair of swollen craters, and every other offspring had managed to get in at least one solid sting, which was very impressive for their first outing.

“You are all very capable,” she said. “Far more capable than I was at your age, and this brings me great joy.” She sat near the burrow entrance, forming the head of their loosely-shaped oval. Every wasp sat giggling, rubbing antennae, covertly swapping stories and moments from the successful attack.

“Although I must admit, today’s most impressive manoeuvre was pulled by your older brother, who managed to land a stinger directly in the Arboran’s eye. If it weren’t for the giant’s subsequent blind flailing, who knows if your premieres would have been as successful. You should be thankful.”

The wasp heads all turned to the opposite side of the oval, and a universal cry rose. “Thank you, wise brother Selvin!”

Selvin bowed with a degree of humility. “There is no one to thank besides our mother. Everything I’ve learned, I've learned from the best.”

The wasps all cheered, briefly fluttering their wings.

"You know, there was a time where I thought I might leave this burrow, let you fend for yourselves as you grew up," Teseva said. “Let you learn on your own, as I was forced to, and as I’m sure my own mother was as well. But something changed in me. An idea dripped into my head, and made me realize that I need to help you. I need to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

She stretched her stiff joints. “For a time, this desire fell and rose, like the bunching and collapsing of wet sand. And, unexpectedly, this desire left me for a time, rendering me somewhat dismal. Incomplete."

She turned to Selvin, whose antennae were perked high. "But after receiving some encouragement from your older brother, I renewed my original intention, and I could see that it was worth it. That making sure you knew how to hunt, how to fly, and how to feel thrilled by doing it all was the most important thing I could impart.

She folded her wings. “Anyway, I’m jabbering on, like some colony queen. What I want to say is this: to defy an Arboran, like you all did today, means that hunting anything else will be an effortless flutter.”

She gestured around to the dead, rigid bugs around her: the headless orchid mantis, the jewel moth, and the woodlouse. “It’s only a matter of time. Like any of our past foes, eventually, this one too will fall.”

A yawn overcame her. Teseva stretched her limbs and moved to her now-empty nest. “And when he does, the satisfaction will be immense. You will all be able to start burrows wherever you want, with a food supply for countless generations.”

Her children all watched her, antennae vibrating. The tranquil composure that Teseva exuded had spread across the burrow. Each of the young wasps folded into one other's abdomens and created a ring of sleepy listening.

“We are a family unstoppable. And our legacy will be great. I know we have it in us to out-hunt anyone in the garden, and make it our own.”

The last of her children to doze was Selvin. It was such a happy sight to see her content family. Before Teseva fell into a pleasant slumber, she managed to mumble. “I’m proud of you. Each and every one.”

***

The sedative funnelled quickly into the wasp nest. Johann gave the pump another two squeezes before withdrawing the nozzle. Cottony white gas shot up from the overfilled burrow, appearing for all the world like a tiny geyser.

He wafted away the foul smell, stepped back, and patted his son. “Like I said. I’m sorry I didn't listen. You were right.”

The gas rose upward like the smoke of a dwindling campfire, diffusing into the air. It would mingle with the oxygen for a time before being filtered out through the EntoDome’s elaborate ventilation.

“The nootropic affects each insect differently. I’ll have it noted that it’s not favourable with digger wasps.”

Oskar nodded, grabbed his excavator kit, and got to work. The dirt around the wasp burrow had to be delicately sifted to prevent a cave-in. With boyish grace, he retrieved the tiny bodies as he spotted each set of ruby wings. Like a miniature paramedic, he collected the vespid shapes one by one and placed them inside separate glass tubes.

Johann watched over the process with pride. It distracted him from the itching of his left cornea, slowly healing beneath its eye patch.

“You know Oskar, you’re better at this part than me, frankly speaking. It must be all those models and Lego-bots you built as a kid.”

Oskar gave a nod and finished with a quiet efficiency. When the task was done, all that remained was a neatly-carved crater. All the recovered wasps had been slotted appropriately into the carrier unit. He stood up to brush the dirt off his knees. Johann helped.

“I can see it, son. I can see you doing well here. You’ve got patience, an eye for details, and you’re unafraid to speak your mind—which is something a lot of adult staff here are afraid to do.”

Oskar allowed himself a smile, glanced at the ground, and then his father. “Thanks. But I don’t know. I still feel like I could be doing better. There’s a lot about me I ought to improve.”

Johann rubbed his son’s head, dishevelling his hair a little. “All parts will improve Oskar; I’m sure of it. I’m proud of you, you know. You’ve done well.”

Attachment leads to rock bottom
Every connection carefully cultivated
Is severed and fed to the blossoming fire

Soul crushing tragedy relegated
To a distant memory cast
Aside to feed starving dogs

Trapped in an endless tunnel
On a search for the light
Never reaching its conclusion

Must suffocate on the cold
Taste of loss to find salvation

Must spend a lifetime in solitude
Reuniting with the endlessness

Born blind. Her world dark, endless. She sees only the man. His long stare, his concavities, his giddy teeth.

Today, he is nowhere.

Isn’t he?

I - II

Teseva lay prone on her bed of children. Their white, wormy bodies provided the perfect cushion for her old limbs. As such, she saw very little reason to get up.

Her eldest son, Selvin, on the other hand, had risen early—as usual. He stretched his red wings and fluttered about the burrow, creating several gusts of air. “Good morning, Mother! How was your rest?”

Sand rained from the ceiling. Teseva wanted to lie still, but now had to scrub debris off her face. “Fine. Just fine.”

More sand sloughed. If Teseva hadn’t been so depressed, she might’ve summoned the energy to yell reprimands at her offspring and finally convince him to move out. Instead she bit into the weevil carapace in front of her and chewed.

“I was thinking we could explore near the termite mounds today.” Selvin brought his mandibles together in a smile. “Some of those termites looked absolutely delicious—what do you think?”

Having recently moulted into an adult, her son was perpetually bouncing off the walls. Teseva couldn’t blame him. She remembered being a young wasp out in the aboveground, seeking game to chase and more of the garden to explore. If only I could wipe my memory; then I could be enthralled by it all once again.

“I bet”—Selvin paced—“that if we wait until the Arborans appear outside, the termite mounds will become disturbed again, granting us the perfect chance to catch prey.”

Teseva swallowed a bit of the weevil’s wing casing. It tasted satisfactory. “Sure.”

“I can track whichever termite straggles furthest from the colony, and then we can flank one together—what do you say?”

“Why not.”

Selvin stopped pacing and tilted his head. “Are you all right?”

She continued eating, seeking flavour past the bitterness.

“You seem a little … dour.” Selvin crawled closer, testing the air in front of him with both antennae. “Is something the matter? Are you feeling ill?”

“No, I’m just…” How could she explain? Teseva had seen too many seasons, and found less relevance with each one. She spent most of her days now seeking distractions, hoping to find entertainment once again. “I’m just a little tired. That’s all.”

Selvin shuffled closer, brushing his mother’s back with a gentle foreleg. “If you’re ill, you should rest. Don’t strain yourself.”

Strain? Calcification had been building up in each of Teseva’s joints for some time now, stilting her movement. Had he noticed? She discreetly tested her limbs.

“Save your energy today, for a better hunt tomorrow.”

Weariness shivered through Teseva. She became keenly aware of how rigid her legs felt, how grainy some eyelets in her vision appeared. She wiped her face and did her best to stand prominent. “Tell me, Selvin. Be honest ... do you think age has expired me?”

For a moment, only the faint wriggling of larvae could be heard in the burrow.

“No mother—of course not! How could you say such a thing?” Selvin fluttered, as if to dispel the very notion. “You’re as sprightly as you’ve ever been!”

Teseva glanced at the opaque, crinkled shape of her own wings, and compared them to her son’s crisp beauties. “To be truthful, I’ve begun to dwell on my relevance in this world.”

“Relevance?” Selvin quickly pointed at the menagerie of lesser bugs whose bodies were tucked away in all the folds of their burrow. “Of course you’re relevant! Without you, how would we eat? How would we have been born?”

Teseva cleared her throat, trying not to sound as dispirited as she felt. “Yes, but I mean beyond just feeding and birthing.”

“What do you mean?”

“For instance, what is the greatest prey I have ever caught? Are any of them even worth remembering? And I mean truly.”

The young wasp drew away, perplexed. Then he turned to the body of an orchid mantis well-preserved in a corner. “I would say that flowery specimen is one of your finest catches. The fact that you managed to subdue him without marring his colour speaks volumes of your ability. And your relevance.”

Teseva glanced at the pink bug. So dead, and yet it still looked as afraid as it had while alive. “Yes that one is very decorative, I suppose. But he wasn’t much of a fight. Not an impressive feat, if you ask me.”

Selvin looked further and motioned to the goliath birdeater behind his larval siblings. “Well in terms of fighting—don’t forget about the spider! An astounding feat of tenacity. Not only did you defeat him, but you also managed to lift his remains into our burrow. I remember how effortless you made it look.”

An ancient accomplishment. Teseva shook her head and sat back on her nest of larvae. They were only days away from turning into adults. She picked at the remains of her weevil.

“You’re a great teacher too,” Selvin said. “Watching you hunt is the best lesson there is. You want us all to be as successful as you. Don’t you?”

Teseva stared at her bed of offspring. It seems like a rather sad reason to exist, simply for the benefit of others. Is that really all that’s left for me?

The larvae wriggled together, sending stray, delicate nuzzles towards their parent. Teseva accepted the many licks to her forelimbs. Yes go ahead, lick your mother. Perhaps it would be best if you all bit in as well, and chewed …

Above them came a deafening clamour. The larvae froze at the thunderous vibration.

“Whoa—earlier than usual!” Selvin stared intently at the ceiling, as if through it he could spot the massive creatures walking above it. “You think they’ve come to inspect the termite mounds?”

Teseva’s feelers drifted, tracking where the muffled tremors went to determine the Arborans’ speed and direction. “I think so.”

Selvin rose to four limbs and quickly wiped his face. “We should go see!”

Although her legs were rigid, Teseva lifted her claws from the ground and gave them a rotation. Nothing snapped. Then she jittered her wings, flapping one and then the other. Nothing split.

“What do you say?” Selvin smiled. “A quick browse for termite pickings? We haven’t hunted in so long.”

Teseva left the litter and approached the burrow exit. Reluctantly, she cleaned her own face and feelers. “Alright. Let's get it over with.”

***

The weather was glorious. Rays of sunlight were elegantly divided by the panels of the surrounding glass dome, illuminating the multitude of garden shrubs, ferns, and saplings in golden outlines. On days like this, Selvin could remain outside forever; especially when he was following his idol.

How enchanting she is, he thought, watching her soar with characteristic ease. What are the odds? The greatest hunter in the world, and she also happens to be my mother.

They rose into the trees. “Up here,” Teseva called, landing high on a pine branch.

“Here? There’s no prey this high.” Selvin searched the pointy surface for a suitable landing spot. He ended up straddling a pinecone.

His mother pointed down to the world below: an amalgamation of branching dirt pathways that were designed for Arborans.

Selvin circumnavigated the pinecone, searching for the sight that had fixated his parent. “I can’t spot anything from here. Why don’t we fly closer?”

Teseva remained quiet. With a single limb, she slowly pointed directly at the lone Arboran, which stood still and adjusted some shining metal between its branches. “Our prey.”

Selvin stumbled, casting a pine needle downward. “Our … wait … What?”

The inedible tree-giant was easy to spot. His outer bark was a silky white sheathe that whorled with each immense movement, sending waning vibrations up the pine.

“Are you suggesting we hunt an Arboran?”

Teseva gave no response, and instead flew to a lower branch. Selvin simply watched.

The Arborans were easy enough to examine, especially from a distance. To counteract their colossal size, the world incurred a curse of slow-movement upon their weighty limbs, and like much of the greenery around them, the tree-giants would often stand still for prolonged segments of time. Periodically they introduced more shining contraptions and glass cylinders into their world, and sometimes even more plants.

Such strange, pale monsters, Selvin thought, incomprehensible. But like all of nature, they must be serving some critical purpose in this garden’s cycle.

“They have heads, don’t they?” Teseva finally said. She looked up at Selvin and pointed at the area behind her antennae. “And if they have heads, that means they also have a nape. A place that leads to their ganglia: just like in cicadas, just like in spiders.”

Selvin was taken aback. “But Arborans are neither of those things.”

“And this one is alone.” Teseva climbed further down the branch. “A rare opportunity. Did you know their vision is practically useless? They can only see what is directly in front of them.”

Selvin’s feelers drooped.

“I’ll wait until he comes closer to our nest,” Teseva said. “Then I’ll swoop in behind his neck. If I’m precise with my stinger, there’s no reason I can’t puncture a key segment of his brain and subdue him.”

Awe sprouted in Selvin. He had never even considered the anatomy of a tree-giant, and it came as no surprise that his mother knew it so intricately. It would be astounding to behold such a plan as hers in action, but at the same time, the young wasp couldn’t shake his concern. “Mother, are you sure this will work?”

Teseva glided to an even lower branch.

“And what if the Arboran’s skin is too thick!? Are they not made of bark? Mother, your stinger may not be able to pierce it!”

But she was already gone, leaving the branch wobbling and needles in mid-fall. Selvin was unable to move, stuck somewhere between horror and admiration.

***

Selvin had never seen his mother so alive, so limitless. When they returned to the burrow, she crawled along the ceiling, loosening sand.

“I bet we can do it!” she hopped down. “If we can get a couple stings in, I bet his body’s defences would be overloaded.”

Selvin shielded his siblings from the falling earth that sloughed from the ceiling with her leap.

“We take a stab at him every day. Gnaw him down. Until eventually he collapses, and we can feast on a corpse that’ll feed us for eternity.” His mother settled herself into the claws of her orchid mantis trophy, resting in its clutches as if mocking it. She casually snapped off the dead bug’s head. “I think it’s a magnificent new goal. What an achievement that would be. A dead Arboran outside our nest. What do you say, Selvin?”

The young wasp met the fierce spirit that blazed in his mother’s eyes. He tried to look away, but found himself unable to. He scrubbed his vision. “Well. I mean. Yes. We should do it. We must try, anyway.”

“Not just try,” Teseva bit into the mantis’ head, swallowing its eye. “We must succeed.”

***

“What do you mean ‘quit’?” Johann tented his fingers beneath his chin to hide his agitation. He found it hard to make eye contact with his son. “Oskar, you have to understand, this isn’t a quit-and-come-back scenario. This isn’t selling oatmilk gelato on False Island. This is a job students apply for regularly. A job many adults apply for regularly. If you leave, they’re not going to let me hire you back.”

His blonde-haired teen stared dejectedly at the floor, crumpling his bug-netted hat between his sweaty, freckled hands.

“You now have a face shield. Gloves. An Ento-suit covering you head to toe. What are you so afraid of?”

Oskar momentarily glanced up at his father, and then stared out the conjoining window of his office, which offered a glimpse of the simulated nature in the EntoDome. “They chase me every time. The same ones.”

“They’re not sharks, Oskar; you’re not even an entity to them. All they see is a big moving shadow. You might as well be a tree.”

The boy reached back to touch his ear; he’d shown Johann a swollen puncture there as evidence to the attacks. “It’s like they choose me. Specifically me. They slip beneath the mesh, and they keep finding new areas to sting. I’m not joking.”

A hint of laughter wanted to escape from Johann, but he grit his teeth. “You know there’s students who undergo four weeks of interviews for this place, right? They leave their families, their countries, leave their whole lives behind to do what you’re doing.”

Oskar heaved his shoulders, sighed.

“And you’re telling me you can’t handle a couple of bee stings?”

The hat between Oskar’s hands fell to the floor. He ruffled his hair, as if double-checking that there wasn’t something still in it. “It’s not just stings, dad; they bite me too. Repeatedly. Please. All I’m asking is for a little break. Just let me work in the labs for a bit. I’ll do anything else.”

An urge came into Johann’s arms: to shake his son, to tell him to man up. But the time where one could enact such parental chauvinism was long over. It would reflect poorly on Johann.

Instead, he stared at the termitary diagrams around his desk and fingered a couple. “Alright, that’s fine. That’s okay. I’ll take over the surveying for a bit, and we can work something out later.”

The boy stood up, still staring at the floor. “Really? Thanks. I mean, I appreciate it. And also ... I’m sorry.”

Johann lifted his son’s chin. “It’s your first time. And I know it’s a lot. Get yourself feeling comfortable again. Once you’re ready, I’ll put you back in the dome.”

Oskar grabbed his coat and field kit, nodding his head, muttering further ‘thank you’s. He retreated backwards towards the door and left with smiling reticence.

Johann stood for a moment, unsure about his leniency. The thing about parenting, he had realized, was that every decision can feel wrong. Even the right ones. Was he right to have given his son such a massive leg-up in the industry? Surely yes. It would have been stupid to ignore the opportunity to work here. But was he right to arrange so many responsibilities for his boy this early? Maybe not.

As Johann sat down, he heard the sprinklers start. He looked out the window into the dome. The black nootropic was being sprayed from the ceiling, falling like some inky rain. His windows smudged with dark, murky lines.

The bugs in there were smarter, yes. Increased memory, cognition, social-dynamism, and a bunch of other behavioural stuff that wasn’t Johann’s field. But he’d never heard of any of them stalking researchers, or of acting vindictive.

He glanced at Oskar’s hat left on the ground. Its rigid visor held the rest of the airy material in place. Did they actually squeeze through the folds of his clothing? What could scare him so badly?

The martyrs of passion
Like moths drawn to the fire
Deprive of their sight
By the smokescreen rising
From an aching heart
Consumed by the flames of desire
Lacking insight youth is misled
Into the cold and desolate
Landscape of negativity
Where innocence will cease
To be

First Chapter | Previous Chapter

Mrs. Vilonte was in a flower shop, struggling to decide on a bouquet. Should she choose roses with their velvety petals? And which color? They came in a spectrum of colors, each expressing distinct emotions. The classic red embodied deep love, while pink signified gratitude and admiration, and white symbolized purity, perfect for weddings. However, she wasn't seeking flowers that meant romantic love, nor was she attending a wedding.

She walked along the aisle, savoring the sweet fragrance of the flowers. How she loved being in this shop!

Tulips! With their slender stems and diverse colors, tulips evoked a sense of perfect love and elegance. Oh, the orchids! So exotic and enchanting! They were an excellent choice for elegant events. In the next aisle were daisies, with their simplicity conveying innocence and purity. They added a carefree charm to casual events.

She lingered for a while, pondering whether daisies were the right choice for her visit to the Sullivan's house.

She winced. Suddenly, the side of her chest began to throb, her breath shortened, and her vision blurred. She caught herself against the edge of a table before settling down on a stool.

She should be in bed resting. That was the doctor’s order. After the accident, she hadn't felt like herself. She had climbed out of the car bruised and dizzy with a minor fracture in her rib, while Gabrielle was unharmed and the new violin was unscathed. But she didn't want to stay in bed. She couldn't stop tossing and turning; her mind and body refused to relax. What was worse, she had to endure Gabrielle practicing the violin. Not that her daughter played horribly. She played so beautifully that the neighbors would come to their porch to listen.

What really bothered Mrs. Vilonte was the violin. She swore she could hear it call out her name. When Gabrielle stroked the strings with the dark red hairs of the bow, the violin wept, each deep note was filled with anguish. The sound was unsettling. Its disquieting echoes haunted her alone, as no one else could grasp what she was referring to.

Ah, sunflowers! Mrs. Vilonte got up from the stool and shuffled over to the flowers. Sunflowers, symbols of positivity and hope, radiated warmth and joy with their golden petals and sturdy stems. Their vibrant yellow hues made them perfect for celebrations and graduations.

Excitement bubbled within her as she exclaimed, "I've found the perfect flower!"

The florist joined her and praised her choice, saying, "What a wonderful selection." He carefully gathered several sunflowers for the bouquet, adding, "You can never go wrong with sunflowers. May I ask about the special occasion?”

“Today, I'll be visiting a friend who I haven't seen for a while. I think she needs my good company. Her family recently suffered a tragic loss.”

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“The daughter passed away.”

The florist paused. “Would it happen to be the Sullivan girl?”

“Yes…” she answered, cautiously. “How did you know?”

“Everyone in town knows about it. The way she was, you know, killed.”

“I heard a little about her…” she paused for a second, searching for another word as she was unable to bring herself to say murdered or killed or slaughtered, and then uttered, “death.”

Her small and friendly smile began to wane as the muscles in her jaw started to tighten.

The florist let out a long, sad sigh. “So horrible. Anyway, when my mother's fifteen-year-old shitzu died, sunflowers cheered her up. You really can't go wrong with these.”

After ringing up her item, he presented the bouquet to Mrs. Vilonte. Snatching it from his hands, she hurriedly exited the shop, leaving behind the resonating sound of the door chimes.

By the time she arrived at the Sullivan household, the sharp pain in her side had eased to a dull throb, allowing her to finally take a deep breath with ease. She stepped out of the car, balancing a bag of groceries in one arm and cradling a bouquet in the other, while her purse hung from her shoulder.

The two-story colonial dwelling stood with hushed elegance, leaving Mrs. Vilonte feeling miffed. Elegance wasn't the right word; it was more like arrogance. Do the Sullivans believe their house was superior to all the others?

Its dark blue window shutters cast a subtle depth against the pristine white facade, and stretching before the house was a manicured lawn—an emerald carpet kept neat with careful tending. Mrs. Vilonte spotted a small lump of dog excrement on the lawn.

She scoffed. How disgusting! Is it so hard to take a few seconds to clean up after their animal?

She strolled along the granite stone pathway that guided her towards the house. Upon reaching the entrance, she pressed the doorbell. A flurry of footsteps and a dog’s bark resonated from inside, followed by the voice of a young boy urgently summoning his father, alerting him that a visitor had arrived at the door. Shortly after, Mrs. Vilonte was greeted by the somber face of Howard Sullivan. As he recognized the familiar face, a subtle transformation occurred – the corners of his mouth twitched, coaxing a reluctant smile to the surface, yet it failed to fully illuminate his fatigued eyes.

"Ah, Isabella," he greeted warmly, widening the door to offer a glimpse inside. It became apparent that he was still clad in a bathrobe and pajamas, a detail seemingly out of sync with the late afternoon hours. “We weren't expecting a visitor today.”

"I wanted to check in and see how you and Carol are doing," she expressed, furrowing her brows to show concern and locking eyes with his fatigued gaze.

“Well, um, that's nice of you, but–”

"I picked up some groceries for you and Carol, thinking that with all that has happened, you might need a helping hand," Mrs. Vilonte offered, taking a step closer, her foot poised just inches from the threshold.

Mr. Sullivan hesitated briefly before relenting, moving aside to welcome her in. "Um, okay, thank you. That's so thoughtful," he acknowledged, leading the way to the kitchen.

A ten-year-old boy sat on the living room couch, cartoons playing on the television, though his eyes weren't on the cartoons. He was watching her, filled with curiosity. By his side, a lively Jack Russell terrier wagged its tail enthusiastically, barking a few times until Mr. Sullivan sternly commanded it to be quiet.

Mrs. Vilonte set her purse and the groceries on the kitchen island, then arranged the sunflowers in a vase after tossing out the wilted chrysanthemums and poured fresh water in it. Meanwhile, Mr. Sullivan rummaged through the fridge and pulled out a jug of orange juice.

As she surveyed the surroundings, she bit the inside of her lip to hold back a groan of disgust. Dishes had accumulated in the sink, a pan and spatula were lefted abandoned on the stove, several stacks of empty boxes cluttered one corner alongside Chinese takeout containers, and the fruit bowl harbored the gradual decay of neglected fruit.

"I have to get back to work," Mr. Sullivan said, taking a sip from the jug of orange juice. Mrs. Vilonte cast a scrutinizing gaze at his outfit. "I'm working from home," he added, a sheepish grin forming on his face.

Mrs. Vilonte glanced at her silver and leather band wristwatch, checking the time, saying, "I'll wait here for Carol.”

“She's upstairs in the bedroom, still asleep. I don't know when she'll get up but lately she's been waking up at about two or three.”

“Well, I guess I'll help tidy up the kitchen,” she said in an upbeat tone, walking over to the sink, “and I'll prepare dinner for the family.”

“That's really kind of you, Isabella, but that seems too much trouble.”

“No, no, no trouble at all, Howard! After what you and Carol and the kids have been through, it's the least I could do. I want to help.”

Mr. Sullivan's eyes began to water, giving her a grateful look. “Thank you,” he choked. “It has been such a n-nigh-nightmare….” His voice tapered off. His lip quivered and eyes teared up even more.

My Lord, please, Mrs. Vilonte thought, do not let him start ugly-crying in front of me.

After taking a moment to gather himself, he continued, “Carol, the kids, and I… I don't know how we can move on. For now, we're just taking it day by day. I just don't know how much longer we could do this for.”

“That's all you can really do at this time. Take it day by day, and eventually things will get better.”

He sniffled. “Yeah, I hope so.”

“And how're your other children, Ann and little Ben?”

“Um, well, Ann is not doing so great. She's been sleeping in our room and having night terrors. And as for Ben, he misses Vicky a lot but he's a trooper. He's been holding us all together. I don't know where we'd be without…” He cleared his throat with a firm shake of his head, as though warding off unwelcome thoughts.

“How about you?” he asked, "How are things with you and your family? How's Phil? And your son George? I haven't seen them in ages. Oh, and your daughter? Ann tells me that she's become friends with her at school.”

Mrs. Vilonte's face lit up with satisfaction at his inquiry. She clasped her hands together, her tone brimming with warmth as she exclaimed, “Georgie is thriving! He's now the proud owner of his own medical clinic downtown.”

"Ah, yes, Carol mentioned a few months ago that she took Ben there once for a checkup when our regular doctor wasn't available when we needed him. She said Doctor Vilonte was very nice.”

She smiled at the compliment. “Thank you. Georgie is an excellent physician and he's great with people, especially with children.”

“And Gabrielle? How is she doing?”

“She is doing wonderful! As you might have heard, she's the First Chair violinist again this year, and she's now captain of the debate club.”

"Oh, wow, that's fantastic news. You and Phil must be incredibly proud of her," Mr. Sullivan remarked, his voice trailing off and his gaze drifting into the distance, as if his attention had wandered elsewhere.

“Yes, of course, we are.”

Mr. Sullivan fidgeted with the jug’s cap. “Okay, well, please, make yourself at home, and I'll quickly go up and tell Carol that you're here. If you need anything, I'll be in my office.”

As soon as he left the kitchen for his study, Mrs. Vilonte rolled up her sleeves and started to soak the sponge. The gentle cascade of warm water provided a soothing backdrop to her task as she scrubbed away food residue that had turned to crust on each dish’s surface. She worked to restore not just the kitchen but a semblance of normalcy to a household still reeling from an unimaginable loss. As she wiped down countertops and swept away dust, the kitchen gradually shed its weariness. The once-filthy space was now a place of cleanliness and renewal.

After drying her hands, she reached for her purse and ascended the stairs. As she climbed up each step, she passed by portraits of the Sullivan family. Victoria's long dark red hair stood out among her family, whose hair were plain brown.

Although her curiosity about the Sullivans lingered since Victoria's death, her true purpose for the visit remained a guarded secret—one she dared not share with Howard or Carol, knowing it would evoke horror and fury.

Salerno became her sole confidant on this matter. Days before her visit, she reached out to him, unraveling the nightmares that haunted her, the persistent sensation of a shadowy presence tailing her, and the haunting notes of Gabrielle's violin—each one resembling the anguished cries of a young girl. What could she do about it? How could she put a stop to this torment?

“Her restless spirit is trying to remain in the physical realm,” Salerno said. “This isn't an uncommon problem after a ritual, but luckily, there is a solution.”

Upon reaching the upper landing of the staircase, she proceeded to open the first door on the left revealing the bedroom that Victoria had once shared with her younger sister Ann. It was also the very place where Ann, roused from sleep, had tragically uncovered Victoria's corpse, or what was left of it. From her purse, Mrs. Vilonte retrieved a white candle, a lighter, and a piece of paper bearing the chant Salerno had told her that would put the girl's spirit to rest.

Victoria's bed was positioned by the window, which had been slightly opened on that fateful night. The blanket and bed sheets were wrinkled and unmade, the pillow still had the dent of where Victoria's head had lay. Ann's bed was empty, no blanket or pillow.

After closing the door behind her, she cleared the nightstand and placed the white candle upon it. Igniting the wick, she began the chant with focused intent.

Spiritus, tu es in regno viventium. Hic, non pertines, Nunc discede, impero tibi Discede nunc! Discede nunc!

The room's atmosphere warped as if an unseen force gripped it, plunging it into an icy chill. A presence lingered, and a shiver ran down her spine as she caught a fleeting glimpse of a girl's shadow in her peripheral vision, sending an unsettling chill through her very soul.

“What are you doing here?”

Startled, Mrs. Vilonte abruptly turned at the unexpected voice coming from behind her. To her surprise, little Ben stood near the doorway, his gaze filled with suspicion, while the Jack Russell in his slender arms squirmed and whined.

“I was reciting a prayer for your sister,” she explained. “God bless her poor soul. She was taken too soon.”

“You shouldn't stay here. This room's bad,” he said, his voice trembling. The terrier, having wrested itself free, scampered down the stairs. Ben stayed by the doorway, hesitant to cross the threshold.

“What do you mean?”

“Vicky's still here but…”

“But what?”

“She's not alone. That's why Ann sleeps in mom and dad's room. She says there's something bad in this room.”

“If that's true–”

“It is! I can feel it. Don't you? Ann said something came in through the window that night when Vicky was... you know. She saw it. She said it looked like a man, but with goat horns and a goat face.”

“"Ben," Mrs. Vilonte began, her voice quivering slightly as she struggled to maintain composure, “there won't be anything bad in here anymore. Do you know why?”

The boy shook his head.

She pointed to the candle, saying, “This candle will make the bad go away. You mustn't touch this candle until it's finished, so don't let the fire go out. Keep it lit. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Do you know what you must do?”

“Don't let the fire go out.”

“That's right! Don't let the fire go out. Do you know what happens if it goes out before the candle finishes, sweetie?”

The boy thought for a moment before responding, “The bad thing stays in the room.”

“Yes, you're right again! The bad thing will stay and if it does stay, it'll be harder to get rid of it later. It might get angrier. Do you promise to keep watch of this candle?

His face slightly paled, yet a resolute expression settled upon his features as he nodded and said, "I promise.”

“That’s a good boy.”

All was quiet later that evening until the piercing wail of ambulance and firetruck sirens shattered the neighborhood's serenity. Word spread quickly online about the fire at the Sullivan's house. After the flames were extinguished, firefighters made a grim discovery: Mr. Sullivan's body hung from the ceiling light fixture in the study, while the remains of his wife and children, along with the dog, were found in the master bedroom, each one with a gunshot wound in their heads.

At dinner, upon hearing the news, Gabrielle had abandoned her plate to rush up to her room and sob at the loss.

“My, god, one tragedy after another,” said Mr. Vilonte while cutting into his steak. “Honey, didn't you visit them earlier today?”

Mrs. Vilonte nodded, delicately piercing a piece of steak with her fork. “I did visit them today, and I came back at about 5:30 after I had prepared a little something for them.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“Potato salad. Howard and Carol didn't seem to be cooking meals at home, mostly takeout.”

“Hmmm, did you notice or sense anything else unusual?”

She paused, the steak halfway to her mouth, and reflected on her day. At the Sullivan household, Carol remained sequestered in her room while Howard was engrossed in his work in the home office. However, Mrs. Vilonte now wondered if he had actually been working, as she had heard the clicking of what sounded like a gun. Their daughter Ann was absent, likely out with friends. Meanwhile, their son Ben was left to his own devices in the living room, with only the television and the Jack Russell terrier as his companions.

"Except for a few dishes in the sink, not really," she sighed, slipping the steak into her mouth.

The next day, the unwanted presence no longer followed her like a shadow, and the dead girl's anguished cries no longer echoed in the house during Gabrielle's violin practice. Mrs. Vilonte could finally rest in bed for much of the day, as the doctor had instructed her to do.

Next Chapter

The botched execution of Norton Caraway – the most prolific serial killer you’ve never heard of – should have made national headlines for weeks. But Caraway was so much more than your average, garden-variety killer, and the factors that made his case so special, also made it embarrassing for powerful people with means to make unsightly stories go away.

That meant in the hours that followed, I had very little information to go on; just the details I’d seen first-hand in the witness gallery, and the gnawing feeling it was all my fault.

I paced until I thought I’d wear a hole in my apartment floor, replaying the events in the hopes that some logical explanation would let me off the hook:

Guards led Caraway into the chamber, scalp shaved bald. They restrained him in the electric chair; the method he had fought in court to have over lethal injection. When the executioner threw the lever, Caraway convulsed. I kept waiting for the shaking to stop. Instead it worsened. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the Screaming, and the smell of burning skin…

Prison staff shut the curtains to the witness gallery, and rushed us out. I left knowing he was still alive, and silently prayed with each passing moment that I would get the call confirming his death. When my cell phone finally did ring, it was warden Paul Perkins, calling from his personal number.

I answered. “Hello?”

“We need to talk about Caraway’s last meal.”

My blood felt cold. What did he know? How could he know. “I don’t—”

“In person.”

I’ve never driven so fast; it’s a miracle I didn’t get pulled over. I reached the penitentiary before dawn. Place looks like an old high school, wrapped up in barbed wire. An uneasy silence filled the long sterile corridors. The guards I passed looked twitchy, and unnerved. The whole prison seemed to be on its feet, waiting for something.

The warden greeted me in his modest office, all bookshelves and filing cabinets with a small window overlooking the plains.

“It’s been a long night.” He gestured toward two steaming mugs of coffee on his desk. “Sit. Drink.”

I obeyed.

“I didn’t think you stayed for executions,” Paul said.

“Usually don’t.”

The warden lowered himself into his chair with a huff. “Why was last night different?”

I studied his pudgy face, normally bright, kind, and clean-shaven. This morning, his eyes were bloodshot.

“A victim approached me,” I said. Give him a grain of truth. Something he may know anyway. “It made this case feel more personal.”

“Who?”

“Rebecca,” I said. “She tracked me down and knocked on my door.” The poor woman had looked so thin, like she’d forgotten to eat. Miss-matched, wrinkled clothes.

Paul just looked at me, expectant. I continued: “I felt awful for her. So I invited her in. Made her dinner, then let her talk about her daughter.” Among other things. Oh, if only she had just gone home—

“I know you were doing a nice thing, but I’d be careful around her.” Paul said. He took a sip of coffee and smacked his lips. “When Rebecca's daughter went missing, did you know that she was the prime suspect?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“A lot of people up in that tiny town still believe Rebecca is the strangler. Seems none of them are eager to open those old wounds.” Paul set the coffee down. “In the early days, back when it was only a disappearance, a K-9 officer paid her a visit. He wanted one of Daniella’s favorite stuffed animals. Something to let the dogs catch her scent. Know what they found?”

I shook my head.

“Weird stuff, Cathy. Runes, weird little dolls, and animal bones. She told the cop she’d been doing a ritual to bring her baby back,” Paul said. “She couldn’t tell them where she was when Daniella went missing. So they booked her.

“Caraway was well trained, disciplined. Waited as long as he could, I expect. But that urge…” he trailed off. “He couldn’t help himself, I expect.”

Had I given too much away in mentioning Rebecca?

“Point is, Rebecca might not have done anything to her daughter. But she’s not safe, or sane,” Paul said. “I’m getting side tracked though. The execution: you stayed out of sympathy then?”

“Sure, you could call it that.”

“Okay.” Paul nodded. “Well, things got a bit hectic after you left. Shall I fill you in?”

I nodded.

“Executioner cut off the power at the 20 minute mark. Way, way longer than it’s supposed to take.”

Paul took a deep breath. “By that point, Caraway looked like a half-spent candle. Bastard wasn’t just alive. He was coherent. Begging for death.”

“How is that possible?” I asked. I knew exactly how. The question was, did the warden?

“Problem with the chair, maybe.” The warden shrugged. “I made the call to override his wishes. He got the lethal injection, and stopped breathing at 3:45.”

Caraway was dead. I relaxed a little in my chair, but tried not to show a change in my posture.

“Why did you get into this job, Cathy?” Paul asked.

The shift in questioning caught me off guard. Where was he going with this?

“Honestly?” I asked.

“I hate when you say that,” he said. “Implies you’ve been dishonest about everything else.”

“I picked a terrible time to be a chef. Restaurants going under right and left. What was it, 25 percent in the whole country that year?”

“Something like that,” Paul agreed.

“Any halfway decent owner wanted a chef with serious culinary experience. Sleazy ones wanted to get me on server staff, so they could see my ass in one of those tiny uniform skirts,” I said. “You were my only option.”

“Cooking last meals for death row inmates has its perks,” Paul said. “No bad reviews to worry about.”

“No repeat customers either.”

“The ideal learning environment.” He curled his lips into a smile. “But that was years ago. You’ve got your degree now. More than enough talent and experience. Anyone would’ve hired you.”

“The challenge,” I said. “I mean–you’re cooking someone’s last meal. You only get one of those.” Unless you’re Norton Caraway.

“No other reason?” the warden asked.

I answered honestly: “No.”

He leaned in. “You didn’t ever like to mess with them?”

“Who?”

“The prisoners. You ever mess with their food?”

He knew. He knew, and he saw it in my eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Engineer took a look at the chair.” Paul bit his lip, and shook his head. “Nothing wrong with it. So after Caraway’s heart stopped, I ordered an autopsy. Maybe he had some freak medical condition. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

The warden went on, his voice starting to shake with anger. “You know what I find?”

“What?”

“DNA. A Victim’s DNA. Daniella’s blood, mixed in with the food in Caraway’s stomach and intestines.”

My face felt prickly. Stress-sweat tricked down my forehead, stinging my eyes. “Her what?”

“I’m asking you this as a courtesy, because I consider you a friend: did you tamper with Caraway’s last meal?”

I opened my mouth.

“And before you answer—” he cut me off, “—keep in mind what’s going to happen here. Sure, the state wants to keep this one low profile. But they’ll still need to at least investigate what went wrong. Might do their own autopsy. Maybe take a look at your other meals.

“I need to know how long this has been going on? Was this always some karmic justice for you? Like spitting in a rude customer’s food on a—a just, sick level?”

“Paul, you don’t understand—”

“I’m sorry, Cathy I’ve gotta fire you. You can walk away clean. If you don’t make a fuss, I don’t think they will either.”

Food tampering?

Then it clicked: Paul only thought I’d been tampering with their food. He harbored no suspicions anything supernatural even happened.

He didn’t know what I’d done; the ritual that evil woman had convinced me to play a part in. I thought back to Rebecca, and the vial she had given me along with a tattered recipe card.

“Execution is too good for him,” she’d said. “Feed Caraway this, and he will never know peace.”

Where had she gotten her daughter’s blood for the concoction? Why did the lethal injection work when the electric chair failed?

A blaring siren from some distant watchtower answered my second question. “Prisoner escape,” the warden muttered under his breath. He reached for his phone. Before it was halfway from its cradle to his ear, a corrections officer barged into the room, panting.

“What’s happened? Are you alright?” Paul gestured to the front of his uniform, soaked in blood.

“It’s not mine.”

“Then whose? Who’s down?”

“The coroner.”

The warden had gotten halfway to his feet when he froze. His brow wrinkled. “Wait, then who’s missing?”

“Caraway.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Caraway’s body is gone. Autopsy report too. Someone must’ve broken in and dragged it off. They can’t have gotten far.”

“How many hurt?”

“Half dozen,” the officer panted. “Pretty badly too. I don’t know about Hopkins and Clark. Medics are with them, but…” the officer trailed off.

“How about you, you’re not wounded?” Paul asked.

“No, sir.”

“Good. You’ll need to keep Cathy safe in my office until those freaks are caught. You’d have to be some special kind of screwed up to try stealing a famous killer’s body.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

He jabbed one of his sausage fingers in my direction. “Don’t think I’m done with you. This isn’t over.”

He had no idea how right he was.

The corrections officers didn’t catch them. Little did they know, there wasn’t a them to catch. A member of the riot team made raving claims: said he’d fired dozens of rounds into the charred, disemboweled corpse of Norton Caraway. He just kept coming, howling in pain the whole time.

The warden’s preferred explanation felt equally far-fetched to me: the unnamable agency that had honed Caraway into a ruthless instrument of death, wanted his body for some clandestine purpose. So they took it.

Staff buried an empty box in the prison cemetery and pretended the night had never happened.

Theories of witchcraft, or an undead man fighting his way out of the penitentiary never crossed anyone’s mind. If everyone was willing to forget, perhaps I could, too.

But I couldn’t. He had the warden’s autopsy report. The one that raised questions about his last meal, and the woman who cooked it.

I kept thinking of the way he studied me, how normal he’d looked. He was average height, and in decent shape. Neat, combed hair, atop a round face, with a small nose. Nothing about him was intimidating, or even remarkable.

Difficult to pick out of a lineup.

Paul quietly let me go from my job at the prison. Felt like I got off easy for what I did. I decided to put my talents to other uses. I’m working on setting up a non-profit that helps provide hot meals to victims’ families.

Setting it all up involved a lot of phone calls to try and secure money. That meant a lot of unknown numbers popping up on my caller ID.

So when my cell rang one weekday evening, I answered without hesitation.

“Hello, Cathy speaking.”

“Cathy—I’ve just learned the most interesting recipe. You should cook it for that charity of yours.” The voice was wheezy and labored. “It’s to die for.” The caller let out a laugh somewhere between cackle and coughing fit.

“Who is this?” I demanded. But I knew.

“Rebecca told me everything I needed to know, in the end. Told me how to reverse what you bitches did to me,” Caraway said. “The bullets weren’t the worst of it: frying in that chair; being paralyzed while they cut me open to dig around in my guts—” he raved, “—I felt everything. I still feel everything! The pain is constant.”

I kept the phone close to my ear, turning on the spot to ensure my windows and doors were secured. I kept expecting the man’s marred remains to leap out at me.

“But you can take that pain away,” Caraway rasped. “I’d be honored, Cathy, if you’d have me over for dinner.”

My phone buzzed with a text message notification. A new image. Bony fingers wrapped in disfigured skin, pinched the edges of a recipe card.

“Dinner for two,” I read aloud.

“The witch could only push around pain and suffering from one person to the next: Daniella to me, and now me to you,” Caraway said. “Follow those instructions, and you’ll have a proper last meal for me.”

“And for me?” I asked.

Caraway laughed. “You’ll take on my suffering. Every pinprick of pain I’ve felt since I ate that cursed dinner you served me. It’s a heavy burden, I admit.”

“If I refuse?”

“I’d hoped your conscience might get the better of you. Or at least some sense of responsibility for what you unleashed.” He sighed, his labored breath crackling in the receiver. “Rebecca said we both needed to eat willingly. I can’t force you to cook, or eat. But I can certainly persuade you.”

“How?”

“Use your imagination. Watch. Give me a ring when you’ve seen enough.”

The call ended.

I called the police, lied about some vague phone threats from a stalker. An officer came to search the house. When he found nothing, he promised he would be in the area, and gave me his number.

I was so worried about my physical safety that I never quite wrapped my head around what the madman actually threatened me with.

He’s careful, but I can see his pattern in the disappearances and killings that go unsolved. I’ve unleashed a quiet terror on the world: a man who craves death, who cannot be killed, and whom no one is looking for.

And he wants to make me pay.

I know what I have to do to stop him. I know I’m the only one who can. But I’m scared of what it means to take on that pain myself. Every time I think I’m strong enough, I think back to those screams of agony from the witness gallery, and the smell of burning flesh.

Maybe justice can wait a little longer?

They say that everyone has a doppelganger, but meeting one will mean your doom. I used to believe that was just some stupid urban legend until that horrific day.

It happened after a long day of working at a crappy fast food place with an equally abysmal salary. The customers were acting belligerent as usual and the manager barked orders at all the workers like we were his slaves. I hated every second of working there, but I had to put up with it because I had bills to pay. The end of my shift couldn’t come fast enough that day. I marched out of that dump and headed to the nearest train station to return home.

I live in a major city so just about everywhere is packed with people, especially in a train station late in the afternoon. That wasn’t the case this time. The station was quiet to the point of being uncanny. There was always some ambient noise of chaotic city life blaring at all times, but at that moment, not a soul could be heard or seen.

" Where the hell is everyone?" I muttered out loud. No commuters were in sight despite this being one of the busiest times of the day. To make things even more bewildering, the entire station was immaculately clean. It was pristine to perfection. Anyone who has been to New York knows that place is practically one huge cesspool of filth, rats, and bad attitudes. This was like an entirely different world. Taking full advantage of the lack of booth workers and security guards, I hopped the turnstile and made my way to the platform. I usually get a jolt of adrenaline from fare evading without getting caught, but that feeling was gone for obvious reasons.

Once I boarded my train after it arrived, my eyebags felt like they were made of lead. Dealing with rudeass customers all day must've really drained all my energy. It's not like I had anything better to do so I sat down and nodded off for a bit. I remember having this weird feeling before going to sleep. The train was just as barren as everything else but I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. I tried searching around for someone but the sweet embrace of sleep had me hooked.

I remember jerking up awake to the loud hum of static blaring in my ears. It was the same kind of static you would hear from a broken TV. I thought the train speakers must've been malfunctioning until I heard a strange voice come to life.

" We are currently receiving countless reports of an unidentified hostile organism that we'll refer to as "Alternates". Until we have a complete understanding of the threat, it's important to stay home, lock all doors and windows, and have access to a loaded firearm or any ranged weapon at all times. You will know if an alternate exists solely based on their physical characteristics:

If you see another person that looks identical to you, run away and hide.

If you see a person that has a biologically impossible characteristic, run away and hide.

If one manages to break into your home, refrain from any kind of communication or contact with the threat.

These intelligent lifeforms utilize elements of psychological warfare to take advantage of their victims. While we heavily discourage any form of contact or communication with an Alternate, we make exceptions at attempts to executing them yourself."

What the hell was that? Hostile organisms? Alternates? Whatever that announcement was sounded more like a sci-fi movie plot rather than something you'd hear on the train. I almost passed it off as a prank, which would help explain why the station was so deserted, but I thought better of it. There was no way anyone could convince a bunch of New Yorkers to miss their train just for some stupid prank. This was the city where everyone was in a rush to head absolutely nowhere at any given moment. It also didn’t make sense for the MTA workers to leave their positions unattended. What exactly was going on here?

" Hello Eric."

My blood turned into ice at that moment. I heard it. I heard... my own voice call out to me. I jerked my head to the left and saw a hooded man towering over me. For a brief second I was relieved that there was finally someone else here. Then I realized that this stranger knew my name. Even more important than that, he looked just like me.

The same red hoodie.

Battered blue jeans.

Black Converse shoes.

It was the exact outfit I was wearing and though the raised hood obscured his face, I could see we shared the same looks as well. It was like staring into a mirror.

" W-Who are you?" I stammered.

No response. The man silently stood there while locking his gaze with mine. His cold, soulless eyes bore into me like he was a doll. I got up from my seat and tried distancing myself from him, but he had other plans.

" Please don't run, Eric. I miss you."

This time it was my grandmother's voice. She was the closest thing I had to mom up until she passed away a few years ago. Hearing her voice after so long, coming from a creature like that, broke something inside me. I began crying without even realizing it. Heavy streams of tears poured down my terrified face.

Despite the train coming to a stop, none of the doors would open. I tried in vain to pry them open.

" Please don't leave me. I've missed you for so long. Don't you love me? Let me love you." The creature spoke in my grandmother's voice again and it was edging closer to me. Its facial features distorted heavily with each passing second. I could see the bastard's eyes narrow and its neck elongate like it was made of rubber. It charged right at me, and with nowhere to go, I had to brace myself for a fight.

Once it tackled me to the ground, we began trading punches and kicks as we fought for our survival. It was strong, but I refused to die there. I battled against the pain and used its long neck to my advantage. It made for a major weak point, so I jammed my housekeys right into its throat, letting the blood splash everywhere. The creature grabbed at its would and took that as an opportunity to go for the kill. I bashed that thing's head against the floor until my knees rested in a pool of blood. I felt the creature go limp in my hands, a sign of victory.

Eventually, the train doors opened, allowing me to haul it out of there. Once I got out of the station the familiar sounds of the city back to me. The streets were littered with crowds of people walking in every direction as impatient drivers burned rubber on the asphalt. The city had returned back to its normal self. I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window and saw that all of my wounds were gone. There wasn’t even any blood on my clothes.

To this day, I haven't told anyone about what happened in that train station. I like to pretend it never happened even though it still haunts me. I've heard internet legends of people who supposedly slipped into alternate realities. These realities allegedly mirror ours but have enough differences to create an uncanny effect. I don't know what triggered my trip to that other world and I'm not sure I want to find out. Riding the train doesn't feel the same anymore. There's always this unsettling feeling in the back of my mind that I'll slip into that other world again. I don't know what I'll do if I have to meet another doppelganger.

Fragments of my fading consciousness
Expelled with the mucus and blood

Paralyzed in her ghastly pale gaze
In a cauldron of boiling flesh I burn
Cold and afraid
A cruel punishment for the unspeakable sins
Committed in accordance with the oracle bones

Imprisoned in claustrophobic catatonia
Deep within the catacombs of lecherous agony
In the disorienting grasp of fevered delirium
I sink into the euphoria of stillbirth

Final pieces of my earthly form
Washed away in a sanguine rain

Wholly consumed by the flames of her love
I ascend into terminal decline
Guided by her silent voice I steer this disintegrating vessel
Into the bottom of the sea of distance
Into the climax of life

Fragments of vanishing consciousness
Expelled with the mucus and blood
I drown…

ESCAPE FROM PICKMAN'S GROVE by Al Bruno III

Most of the streetlights on Pickman's Grove were broken, and the windows were boarded up. The manhole covers had been pried away from the sidewalks, and the stink that wafted up from them hung in the hot summer air.

Anna walked as quickly as her seventy-year-old legs could carry her, but the sounds were growing closer.

All her friends had warned her to stay away from the town of River City. "It's just not safe for a woman your age," they said, "there are such terrible stories."

The stories were terrible, that much was true: the disappearances and the reports of strange sounds and shadows that stalked the unwary at night. But Anna went just the same. The lure of rare antiques was too much for her to resist. Besides, she'd brought her best friend with her, and Tabitha still had her driver's license and was a master of Tai Chi. What could possibly go wrong?

The answer, of course, was everything. Everything and then some.

She could make out the sounds now, a chorus of snorts and meeps that were growing closer by the second. She risked a look back and saw six shapes loping after her. Their clothes were filthy and torn, their flesh was pale and rubbery.

Her granddaughter Michelle had given her one of those smartphones and an app she could use to get a ride to and from the grocery store anytime. It had worked perfectly in her neighborhood, but what about here? Anna fumbled with it, fighting past the half dozen apps she had left open to get to the one she needed.

More shapes were starting to creep out of every alley and doorway. They began to surround Anna. She grew weak at the knees, tears welled up in her eyes.

This is it. She thought, I am going to die, and no one will ever know what happened.

A jet-black Monte Carlo squealed to a halt in front of her. There were Uber stickers on every window. The passenger door sprung open. "Get in!" a deep voice shouted, "Hurry!"

Anna hurried.

Once she was safely inside, the car door shut all on its own. Anna glanced back and saw dozens of the things, but they stayed back, snarling and meeping with frustration.

"What's your name?"

Startled, she looked to the front of the car and saw the driver was wearing a blue cowl, cape, and red spandex. She tried to answer him, but all that came from her mouth was a stammering noise.

"That's ok," he smiled reassuringly, "you'll feel better once we're out of here."

One of the pallid creatures threw a brick. It bounced off the glass of the rear windshield.

"And speaking of getting out of here..." The Monte Carlo sped away with a squeal of its tires.

A superhero driving a Monte Carlo? Anna thought with disbelief. She knew about superheroes; her home city of Woldercan was

teeming with them, but those heroes flew, ran, or swung from skyscraper to skyscraper. She had never heard of one driving a souped-up Monte Carlo for Uber.

It was ridiculous!

"Who are you?" she asked.

The driver chuckled good-naturedly, "I asked you first."

"Anna," she answered, "Anna Bauer."

"Pleased to meet you, Anna Bauer." he glanced at her in the rearview mirror, "I'm Captain Hero. Maybe you've heard of me?"

"No. Never."

"Oh," the Monte Carlo paused at a red light. "I'm a Local Hero. I keep the population safe from the forces of chaos. It's a bigger job than you might think."

Anna had no idea how to respond to that.

"So," a smartphone was mounted to the dashboard; the masked man poked at the screen purposefully, "Where are you headed?"

"Home," she said.Captain Hero chuckled again, "And home is?"

Anna gave him the address, and he nodded, "I'll have you there in a jiffy."

Four headlights began to bear down on them. Captain Hero looked in his side-view mirror; his voice was calm with curiosity. "Now, what is this?"

The light still hadn't changed. Anna looked back again and screamed, "It's them! They're coming!"

"Trucks?" the masked man turned in his seat, "Since when do they drive?"

The lights turned green. The Monte Carlo revved its engine and barreled through the intersection with two pickup trucks in hot pursuit. A handful of the monsters had crowded into the rear cab of each. They threw bricks and stones as their vehicles drew closer.

The Monte Carlo took a hard left. "What are they?" Anna asked as she held on for dear life.

"Sewer ghouls," Captain Hero said, "bit of a local problem."

Anna was struggling to get her seatbelt on. She breathed a sigh of relief when it clicked into place. The trucks were getting closer. One mounted the sidewalk and crashed headlong through a pile of abandoned boxes.

"So," he asked, "what were you doing in Pickman's Grove anyway?"

The question stunned her, "Antiquing."

"I see," he nodded, "you can find some great little shops there, great bargains too."

"My friend drove us. Her car was stolen. Then something grabbed her from out of the shadows."

"The poor dear."

One of the trucks was close enough to bump the Monte Carlo. Captain Hero pressed a button on the dashboard, and a stream of liquid squirted out of the back bumper. The truck fishtailed and crashed.

Anna asked, "What did you do?"

"Oil slick," he replied, "but don't worry. I use canola oil. It's better for the environment."

The second truck came roaring up beside them. The sewer ghouls in the back started bashing the car with their homemade weapons. Anna squealed with terror.

Captain Hero said, "Don't worry. I had this Monte Carlo specially augmented. It has weapons, a nitrous oxide injection system, and the sound system will knock your socks off. Let me show you."

Smooth Jazz began to fill the car.

"That's the college station. Professor Hinkley has a show every day from ten to midnight," Captain Hero jerked the wheel, clipping the driver's side tire of the second truck, "after that, this talk radio woman comes on. She calls herself 'Morning Wood'. A bit too edgy for my tastes."

One of the sewer ghouls lept out and landed on the hood of the Monte Carlo just before the truck spun out and crashed sideways into a lamppost.

"By the way, would you like a complimentary energy drink? There's a cooler to your left. Mind the clearly labeled specimen jars. They're for a case I'm working on."

"No, thank you," she said.

The ghoul on the hood clawed at the windshield and spat. With a push of a button, Captain Hero sent windshield washer fluid spraying into its eyes. It howled and tumbled from the car.

Anna cleared her throat, "I've never heard of a... person with your lifestyle doing this for a living."

"Well, being a caped crusader doesn't pay the bills like it used to," Captain Hero explained. "So, this way, I get to make a living, set my own hours, and defend truth, justice, and the American Way."

A new vehicle careened out of a nearby garage. The wide, bulky, almost-tractor-like shape had a feral-looking man in a tuxedo behind the wheel. Captain Hero stared at his rearview mirror in wide-eyed shock. "Is that a Zamboni?"

The Zamboni fired a rocket, the blast missing the back of the Monte Carlo by inches. The nearby explosion was enough to momentarily launch the Monte Carlo into the air. It soared along for two seconds, then touched down onto two wheels. It rolled like that for a few yards, then dropped back onto its four tires.

Captain Hero shook his head ruefully, "Where are they getting this stuff?"

Anna was starting to feel carsick and airsick all at once, "They don't have any more rockets do they?"

"Sadly, in my experience, these things come in pairs." A blinding flash filled the rearview mirror, "Speak of the devil."

He hit the brakes and twisted the steering wheel, the car spun in a semi-circle. The rocket sailed past the Monte Carlo to impact the side of a long abandoned Burger Clown restaurant. The structure crumpled and began to burn.

"For years I've wanted to chase these creeps out of the tunnels, but they got a lawyer and set up all kinds of restraining orders," Captain Hero explained, "something about squatters' rights."

Now, they were facing the speeding Zamboni. Captain Hero slammed his foot on the accelerator and charged straight at the vehicle. Anna's stomach clenched, the Zamboni's headlights flared, and the music of John Coltrain gently caressed their ears.

At the last second, the Zamboni driver turned away, his vehicle hitting the curb and toppling over onto its side. The tuxedoed ghoul shook its fist at them as they sped away.

The rest of the drive to Woldercan was uneventful. Anna spent most of the time trying to figure out what she was going to say to Tabitha's bridge partner.

The car finally slowed to a stop in front of Anna's house. Captain Hero checked his phone and said, "That will be $28.50."

"What?" Anna said, more confused than upset.

"Sorry ma'am it's surge rates right now."

Anna pressed the button on her app to pay for the trip. "I'm on a fixed income. I hope a fifteen percent tip is ok."

"Every little bit helps," He got out of the car, slid across the hood, and opened the passenger door. He gently took her hand as she got out, "Although truth be told, keeping nice people like you from being subjected to unspeakable rituals and then being eaten alive is its own reward."

"Is that what was going to happen to me?" Anna looked at her phone, wondering how to increase the gratuity to twenty percent.

His dashboard-mounted cell phone chimed, and he glanced at it. "Hmmm looks like a couple of joggers have been cornered by an angry night-gaunt. Talk about a ticklish situation."

"What is a-"

The man in red spandex leaped into the Monte Carlo with a flourish of his blue cape. The tires squealed as he sped away. Anna put her hands to the sides of her head; this had been the strangest night of her life.

The Monte Carlo's tires shrieked in protest as the vehicle sped back to her in reverse. The masked avenger poked his head out the driver's side window and said, "Oh, and if you liked your service I'd appreciate a five-star review. It really helps."

Anna nodded, "I'll get my granddaughter to help me."

And then, with a thumbs up, a cloud of dust, and a hearty "Captain Hero AWAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!" he was gone.

Night enveloped the empty mall parking lot, and under the hazy light of the waxing moon John Paulson unlocked one of the building's back doors.

Once inside—his manager's key eliciting the satisfying click—he walked swiftly to the department store changing rooms, from which he retrieved several memory cards, and the women's washroom, from the toilets of which he retrieved several more. Each had been pulled from a hidden camera.

Security room: he erased all evidence of his visit.

The night air caressed him.

Although he'd planned to drive home before viewing this week's footage, his excitement caused him to pull over, and he jerked off on the unpaved shoulder to the flickering images of women undressing, posing, peeing…

At home, he downloaded the footage from each memory card, scanned through it and edited the good parts into an hour-long video, which he uploaded to his subscription site.

What had started as a hobby had become a successful side hustle.

Successful enough to take that trip he'd dreamed about: to Possum Lake, where his parents had taken him so many times as a child.

But never in winter.

Never when the lake had frozen over and become a black mirror, majestically reflecting the silence and the moonlit—

The crunch of snow beneath his boots echoed amongst the bare trunks.

His breath mistified the impending dark.

From somewhere deep within the uninhabited woodland, an animal scurried from branch to broken branch.

Possum Lake lay ahead.

Snow fell.

John Paulson laid down his backpack.

He'd found his spot.

He worked quickly: erecting his tent, heating food, and—as outside night descended upon the blizzarding world—climbing into his ultra-warm sleeping bag, from which memories and sleep took him swiftly.

He woke suddenly—

Naked.

Underfoot: cold, hard; ankle-deep in snow.

Ice.

The moon was gone.

Yet he knew he was on the lake—in the middle of it—and as his eyes adjusted he realized the lake itself was glowing.

More: moaning.

Light and sound emanating from underneath, filtered through the accumulation of snow.

He dropped to his knees, dug with his hands—

A face stared back.

Female and distorted by the frozen surface of the lake.

He fell.

Scurrying in reverse.

Plowing through the snow.

Revealing:

More warped female faces.

The air thickened.

He knew the faces, all of them—vaguely in some recess of his mind.

They're drowning, he thought, and began pounding on the ice, which cracked, thick lines spidering across its mammoth surface.

Faces flowing underwater.

He pounded until he could not breathe.

Until the world—

inverted.

And he realized, choking, he was in the freezing water, flailing, lungs filling; drowning, as the faces moaned above.

He pounded on the underside of the ice.

Seeking a way out.

None was.

Each time he broke the ice with bleeding fists, swimming for salvation, their hands pushed him in. The surface froze over.

So it was: drowning without dying, suffering without end.

Always under gaze of those eyes.

Always and—

Forever.

Tricia leashed her gentle giant, combed the fur around his collar, and planted a prolonged, theatrical kiss on his fluffy head.

She fought the instinct to sling on the delivery vest hanging from her back door; there was always extra cash to be made, but why turn their morning out into a job? This was time set aside to catch up with her magnificent beast.

After locking her basement suite, Tricia and her boy set out. She kept tight hold of the leash, keeping it within a meter in length. Her dog was no longer immune to the evolving palette of fleas, ticks, and worms barraging the city. Sophisticated crawlies were widely known to burrow into pets, causing anything from mild itching to fatal neoplasia.

“Maury, get away from that.”

“And that.”

“Maury.”

“Are you listening?”

She would not permit him near any bush, puddle, or large pile of leaves. In a determined beeline, she guided Maurice for forty minutes past the abandoned streets, boarded up shops, and tent cities. Up the hill they climbed, until they reached an area where streetlamps worked reliably and benches had dividers that prevented one from lying down.

Ironically, the bright, bustling gentry-hood was even harder for Tricia to look at. The cheery business logos ignited the urge to check her watch and feel for the slots in her imaginary vest. Wherever she glanced, the memory of a dozen city shortcuts would beckon, along with the yearning for that familiar notification sound.

No, I am not working. Maurice and I are hanging out.

Only when she approached the entrance to Oakrise did all these stresses wane. Even Maurice felt the tension drop, as if he too could read: Welcome to Oakrise Neighbourhood Dog Park.

It was the largest dog park in the city, offering ten acres of hedgerows, grass fields, and a myriad of walkways. By some miracle it was still kept a public space, despite being surrounded by affluent homeowners and infallible retail.

Here, Tricia loosened her grip on her beloved, allowing him to linger amidst the magnolia and hawthorn trees. There was much smelling to be done—and of course, much marking of territory.

Flashing pink, the watch on Tricia’s wrist tried to reel her thoughts back to work. She quickly turned it on silent. The two of them ambulated past the park’s central plaza towards a promising-looking field. A couple of figures leaned against a distant fence, laughing communally.

“Well, well, Maurice; look who we got here.”

It was easy to tell they were technocrats. Mono-coloured tees, crisp black jeans, and sometimes—if it was windy like today—acid dye hoodies. She knew a couple of them. It was hard not to, living in the vicinity and constantly checking feeds like she did. The most famous ones had names like Marke, Brendt, Zaq, or Evyn. Names trying hard to sound self-made, unique even, but conveniently ignoring the silver spoons that were lodged deep in their throats.

They each had a canine, of course, and as Tricia approached, she could deduce their extravagant breeds from her gigs as a dog-walker.

One of them was a brown-black Azawakh, a rare stock. Its tail, although normally curly, appeared artificially coiled to a point of such comical fakeness that it resembled a mattress spring. I hope they didn’t hurt it doing that.

There was also a wistful mop roving in circles, which had to be a Pekingese: a dog encouraged to appear more like living hair than an animal. Tricia noticed that they had intentionally neglected to trim its bangs, obscuring its tiny eyes. Wow. What a choice.

The third, and perhaps most “punk-rock” of all, was a Jack Russell mutt; a dog which by any other means, would be a steal off of Begslist, but was here instead, selectively purchased no doubt for its opalescent Husky eyes. Even from afar, Tricia saw their sky-blue glint and shook her head in dismay, knowing full well that each of its regular, brown-eyed siblings had probably been dumped at the pound. Humans are terrible.

Through feeds, Tricia knew these higher ups had some ritual of coming out for a lunchtime laugh, where they exchanged dog pats and checked out each other's animal, as if that could tell them something about the other’s portfolio.

She hunched over to tend to Maurice, unpacking her frisbee and dangling it like food. “You ready for some infiltration?”

Maurice’s tail began to wag, and he gave a good bark.

“Let’s play some harmless … fetch!”

The disk soared across the green. Its bright shape zipped above the pampered dogs, thwarting their meticulous training as each of their ears turned skyward.

Maurice bounded with the grace of a racehound. Despite his bear-like size and uncombed shag, the beast could reach top-speeds that outperformed even Tricia on a bicycle. It had been this wild, boundless energy that first drew Tricia to adopt him. That and his dopey grin.

After a few retrievals, they had edged closer to the three men, who had now taken out their vapes. Tricia pretended not to notice. She showered her beloved brute with a feast of compliments and kisses, drawing all nearby attention. Very quickly, the Jack Russell (known for their spontaneity) could no longer resist and bounded towards Maurice on the next toss.

“Spritzer, come here!” one of the technocrats called. Then he coughed in an exhalation of sweet, skunky pot-vapour and thumped his chest. His posse laughed.

“It’s okay,” Tricia smiled. “Maurice is friendly.”

She watched the Jack Russell up close and could see the intermittent shine of silver specks in his fur. Bingo. Anti-fleas.

The trio’s conversation lowered to a mutter. After more laughs and shrugs, the remaining dogs were permitted to join.

Maurice woofed and chased the others in a friendly circle. The game of fetch was now over. Operation Playdate had begun.

Take all the time you need, Tricia thought.

She wished she didn’t have to go through with this subterfuge every season, but anti-fleas, especially for those living on the ground floor like her, had become a necessity. It was the latest money grab from individuals that still romanticized the idea of owning a dog in the city. Any owner who wanted their pet to reach half its lifespan would be ignorant not to purchase pet-defence Fauna each year. Unable to afford the cost herself, Tricia was forced to pilfer the crawly inoculations from those canines more fortunate.

She approached the men and pulled out her own vape, a metal, cerulean thing she had obtained as swag from her local bank. In advertising terms, the colour evoked trust and security, but in social terms, it hopefully signalled that she worked at the nearby branch and was easy going.

They acknowledged her presence with polite glances and fleeting smiles. They waited to see if she’d say anything for nearly twenty seconds. None of them had the brass to break the ice. Man-children, Tricia thought. Through and through.

The boldest of the group eventually lowered his sunglasses. “That’s a big girl you’ve got. What’s her name?”

Tricia exhaled raspberry vapour. She could’ve corrected him on her beloved’s gender, but it was too early to appear disagreeable. In fact, she thought it would be funny to let him think otherwise. “Oh yes, that’s Maury; she’s my Chow Chow Samoyed Keeshond terrier”.

The three nerds nodded. None challenged the claim.

“You’re on lunch break?” Tricia asked.

They exchanged looks, as if daring each other to speak. “Actually no, we’re done for the day.”

“We’re at ThoughtCast.”

The third started saying something incoherent, and then turned away to hide his laugh.

“Love social media.” Tricia lied. “I check the feeds each morning.”

Sunglasses faked a smile. “That’s what we like to hear.” It was a weak joke. More awkwardness passed.

“You work at Metro Bank?” The second-least cowardly asked.

Tricia drew some more vapour and pointed past the perimeter of trees. “I do. At the one on Forty-first.” She looked back at Maury, and could see he was already rolling between the other dogs.

“Good, steady job,” Sunglasses said. “You guys handle all my investments.”

“Mine too,” the coward said. “Weight off my shoulders.”

The third, still giggling from his vape, finally managed to chime in. “Hey. Your watch: it’s flashing pink.”

Tricia lifted her wrist and quickly squelched the delivery offers. Stupid thing. “Hah. You know how it is.” She pocketed her watch-hand. “Can’t resist a side-gig.”

The three of them shifted ever so slightly, heightening their postures.

“Oh no doubt.”

“Tough city to afford.”

Tricia fought the urge to check on Maury. But too many glances and her ploy would seem obvious; she had to keep this middling distraction going, no matter how awkward.

“I actually started delivering during my walks,” she said, checking her nails, keeping it casual. “I walk Maury three times a day, so I might as well squeeze an extra buck in while I’m at it, right?”

Two of the men nodded in silence. The third, after taking another toke, said, “Yeah, that’s what Mojito’s walker does too. She sneaks in deliveries, phone-calls, all her side-hustles in one go. A multi-task queen.”

Sunglasses gave an agreeable grin to this, then turned to Tricia. “Do you offer dog-walking as well?”

Tricia hesitated. “I mean, not as much anymore; I’m pretty busy with the bank. Though I do have a few personal clients who pay premium.”

The eyebrows on all the man-children spiked. The cowardly one glanced at his own dog (the Pekingese), and then eyed Tricia very closely. “How much is this premium?”

“Oh, I doubt you’d be interested.” Tricia turned away. “These are clients I’ve been with for years; they’re practically friends.”

“Schawn and I have been looking for walkers,” Sunglasses said. “It’s hard to find a good one.”

Tricia nodded and saw that the dogs had stopped playing, taking an interest in the field’s smells instead. She called Maurice over with a whistle. The bear-dog galloped towards her. The Jack Russell followed.

Tricia exhaled. “Well, why don’t you tell me a little about your pets, and I’ll think on a figure. I only walk dogs that are a good match for my own, you know.”

All the animals coalesced by their owners, showing off their pink, panting tongues. Tricia pet deeply into Maurice’s fur, gingerly searching for any silvery flea-killers. Nothing yet.

“Well, this is Spritzer,” Sunglasses said, petting the Jack Russell. “As you just saw, he gets easily excited, but he’s also super obedient when you use the right commands. He’s been featured in a commercial once.”

The other two nodded, verifying this trivial fact.

“And this is Gimlet,” the coward patted his mop. “My girlfriend always wanted a Pekingese, so like, I went out and ordered one. Watch, she can do a somersault.”

He snapped his fingers, and despite all the hair, a somersault was indeed performed.

Tricia smiled at each introduction, and even at the stoner who kept silent. “Well as something of an aficionado, I will say, these are some fabulous beasts.” She stroked Spritzer and Gimlet, gently pulling them close against Maurice, making sure their furs brushed against each other.

“It seems like they can get along okay. If you want, we can do a trial month.” She adjusted her hair and smoothed her shirt. Enacting a mockingly sensual, smoky tone that she used to get delivery tips, Tricia floated a monthly offer that equated to almost half her rent.

The stoner laughed. “Are you serious? Mojito’s walker is a tenth of that price.”

All the more reason to never see me again. Tricia forced a smile.

“Well hold on,” Sunglasses raised an arm. “Experience goes a long way. And I’d sooner trust a go-getter my age than one of those older burnouts.”

The other two raised their brows.

“If you’re willing to quote lower for the first month, I’d be open to paying a higher price later.” He lifted his glasses and offered her his glinting, cheery eyes, as if it was a reward to see his pupils.

Must have been the vape, Tricia thought, tucking the metal away. Trustworthy and easy-going. That, and he’ll eventually want my number. No question.

Tricia bent down to scratch Maurice behind the ears, and detected the faint, sinewy hop of a bug avoiding her fingers. Mission accomplished. All she needed was a single anti-flea. It would replicate.

“That sounds good to me.” She grinned. “I like your guys’ vibe.”“That’s great,” Sunglasses said. “My name is Owyn, by the way, spelled “Y-N.”

“Trish.”

They shook hands. The other two watched with mild incredulity.

“I can tell you're good just by how well your dog behaves,” Owyn said. “She totally adores you.”

“Oh she totally does,” Tricia agreed, still scratching Maurice’s head. Without a pause in the scratching, she rolled Maurice over and exposed his naked belly in all its glory, including his glaringly pink, unneutered male genitalia. It flopped side to side.

“Yeah I’ve had Maury for two years.”

***

For the rest of the day, Tricia and her beast hung out by the low hedgerows near the park’s exit. It was a great spot because most park-goers avoided the growing eyesores of the invasive blackberry vines. They considered it a stain on the park’s image, but Tricia didn’t care. It just meant she could snack on all the blackberries she wanted while throwing frisbees over the hedgerows.

“Go long, Maury!”

“Good boy.”

“Jump!”

“Amazing catch.”

A few times, his majesty did fall amidst the bushes, and even tumbled in the dirt, but it didn’t matter now. Tricia could see the shining flea-guardians proliferating in his tousled coat, fending off any threats.

In a similar way, Tricia felt her own worries being deflected by the surrounding greenery. It was the right call, leaving her vest at home, that and she had also finally removed her watch. Who cares about time? We’re hanging out.

There was truly a priceless feeling to being alone in nature, relaxing with your trusted animal. It was something that the distraction economy (and the man-children obsessed with it) could never understand.

Tricia popped a large blackberry in her mouth; its sourness oozed down her taste buds. “You know Maury, we ought to ‘adopt’ you a brother. For when you're home alone while I’m out making runs.”

Maurice leapt over the hedge bush, damaging it a little.

“You were getting along pretty nice with that wily Jack Russell. I think he’d have a better time with us, don’t you?”

Maurice came to Tricia’s knees, dropped the frisbee from his mouth, and gazed up with that big dopey smile. He gave a good, deep bark.

“I knew you’d agree. Next chance we get, let’s snag him.”

I still remember it as if it were yesterday. Me and Jeffrey have been friends since we were in kindergarten; in fact, people often think that we're brothers. Well, we sometimes think that we are. Jeffrey was the type of dude who didn't mind facing all sorts of danger. He was the wild child of his family, while the rest of his siblings were just as crazy as he was. But he sure does love to mountain bike; I mean, he didn't care if he got some bruises or whatnot. in fact, they were all crazy redheads, going to places and doing stuff that I dreamed of doing.

We live in Colorado near the Rockies, and sometimes on the weekends we go there with a group of other friends or his family. I mean, they go on trips across the continental US and Canada, and just last year they went to Australia. He's so damn lucky to go to these places. But Jeff also loves all things paranormal. We used to watch so many ghost videos and shows that focused on that sort of stuff. And one time, he even said that he and his siblings were in an actual haunted house. I mean, he is freaking crazy. For me, I would piss my pants if I were to be there. 

And there was one time he even bought a Ouija board and got a grimoire from some sort of Voodoo witch doctor. Which he claims to have gotten from him when he was in Louisiana. I usually stay away from that sort of stuff but seeing it in person is crazy. 

But Jeff also got some sort of magic book, since he said that he has been training himself to learn some tricks. I shrugged it off as it was just hogwash. He tried to convince me by showing off his tricks. And well, I do have to say that it was pretty impressive. Heck even his own mom is into that sort of stuff too despite being a doctor.

As for me, I had to be home taking care of my mom since she is sick, and my dad usually works overtime at his job to provide for the both of us. My grandparents help us out whenever they can. I mean, I sometimes go out with Jeff, but most of the time I am at home taking care of my ailing mother. Sure, I play video games online. But even that is not enough. before my mom was once the healthiest and physically fit person in the planet, started off as a college basketball player for the women's team. She was considered the very best by her friend and colleagues. Even winning the finals thrice. Until she was diagnosed with Exercise-induced cardiomegaly. At first it wasn't nothing as an Athletic Heart syndrome wasn't bad for her. Especially being such a tall, slim woman of 6'4. Now it became worse for her. And had to give up her dreams of being a famous basketball player.

Jeff knows about my mom's heart condition, and so he and his family go out of their way to help us. But the oddest thing that his mom said was that, in the end, only your mom will repay us with her love. Every time she says that it happens whenever she quotes the Queen of Hearts. In fact, Jeff's mom loves that character. Even though his mom is a cardiologist. She often helps my mom out a lot. 

I mean, there was that one day when Jeff's mom was looking at an X-ray and CT scan picture of my mom's chest. There, she was flabbergasted that she had been diagnosed with cardiomegaly and cardiomyopathy. Being a slim woman, she barely got out of bed and used the walking stick. Since she found that my mom has a globularly enlarged heart, not to mention that she has an unimaginable list of severe conditions composed of dilated fusiform vena cava aneurysms and pulmonary arterial and venous aneurysms. But the most frightening were the grapefruit sized (ascending and arch) thoracic aortic aneurysm and a grotesquely class type II thoracoabdominal aortic aneurysms, which were way too grotesquely enlarged.

Jeff's mom was so damn excited to see such a thing. In fact, she couldn't handle her own excitement as her hand was on her chest, trying to calm herself down. But I am not done with that, even though it includes having venous and arterial iliac aneurysms. And on top of that, she also has gigantomastia which made it even worse for her. Having succumbed to increased back pains and breathing problems.  

"My goodness, gracious Laura, your heart is nothing like what I have seen before. In fact, you are the only one that has the rarest conditions ever on this planet."

"How bad is it, Alice?"  

"It is very bad for you."     

So, she prescribed my mom some medicine to be picked up. But the medicine she began to take wasn't working for her. Alice, Jeff's mom was still checking my mom out and even stopping by at our house. 

"Laura, I need to check on your heart."   

Placing a stethoscope on her chest, I saw this mad expression on her face. When mom was coughing, she was becoming upset. As if my mom interrupted her checkup. 

When we came for an appointment for an echocardiogram ultrasound, Alice, Jeff's mom, was right there. The room was dark, as my mom was becoming nervous. it was just the three of us there. She took my mom's shirt off, rubbed gel on her chest area. She turned on the sonogram. and she was ready to use the transducer. At first, she was having some issues, due to the sheer size of my mom's large breasts, I mean her having Gigantomastia was becoming a severe detriment by weight and volume, as one thinks she has very large implants.

"Laura, what was the cup size of your breasts again." she said angrily.

"Um, I believe it was a double, no I mean a triple z cup."

She took this deep annoyed sigh upon hearing that; when she started to use the transducer, my mom was horrified to see how bad her enlarged heart had gotten.

"Oh no, oh god no. oh nononono" my mom was crying in fear.

"Hold her down." said alice.

until we heard this deathly heartbeat coming not just from the sonogram, but directly from her chest.

BOOM-DOOM! BOOM-DOOM!

until i saw it, i saw something bulging from her chest. it was her heart. hearing the ribs cracking and the bulge increasing. my mom was screaming in pain as that happened.

BOOM-DOOM! BOOM-DOOM!

Alice was darting her head by watching the sonogram and then the bulging heart by scanning it with the transducer on hand.

it started to become a terrifying sight. my mom was shaking in the hospital bed. It was like that seen in the movie Alien 1979. It was as if my mom had a chestburster ready to explode out of her chest. I mean why was my mom acting like this, and why was she so riled up. when many nurses came in and gave her medication. She was finally relaxed and fell into a deep sleep. I was crying when that happened, as one of the nurses comforted me. but Alice, she had this evil look on her face, and her eyes wide with excitement and this grin I wouldn't forget.

However, on the next day when I got home from school, I spotted the medicine that my mom was taking. Now call me crazy, but the medicine didn't look like your typical heart medicine. I know the difference, as my grandmother was taking heart medication, and I know they didn't look like the ones my mom was taking. So, I checked and checked, and I found a piece of paper in the garbage bin. And there, my blood ran cold. It wasn't heart medicine she was taking; in fact, it was a breast enhancement pill and NSAIDs, or nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. 

I didn't want my mom to come to my school to pick me up or drop me off since the kids at school would pick on me. Having either my dad or my grandparents do that for me. But for Jeff, he didn't care. As long as he was there, I wouldn't worry. Well, in fact, I was worried. If not terrified, his mom was going to kill my mom. And I don't know what to do about it. I mean, what is a 13-year-old going to do? I mean, I wanted to go to the police. But I am afraid that she'll kill my mom or take her hostage. There must be an explanation for this.

The next day, I was on a field trip to the museum. And I was ecstatic to be there. My friends and I were looking at fossils, ancient artifacts, and statues. It was the best day of my life.

When one of my classmates had a religious experience by seeing big fossils. In fact, some of them ran right directly towards them.

"Whoa!!! It's, It's. Freakin' MEGALODON!!!!" He yelled out loud.

They were watching the giant jaw the massive extinct shark. While others were looking at Dinosaurs and Cenozoic mammals. Even one got too close to a Basilosaurus fossil.

Until they were having this Bodies Exhibit. It was pretty strange to see human bodies displayed. But it was for science, I suppose. I looked around and saw how sophisticated the human body is. Until I got to see the circulatory system, seeing that completed was freaking wild, as I never knew how our body is covered in veins and arteries. And of course, seeing that human heart in the chest area. 

  “Hey Tommy, do you think your mom's heart is bigger than that?” he grinned. 

"Oh, c'mon, Jeff, you know she has that heart condition.”. 

“My bad man, then again, she also got some really huge knockers, man."

On Friday, Jeff had invited me to come by his house. His mom invited my mom to come, and she agreed. I was extremely hesitant about going. But I didn't want to deny my mom some happiness. Since it'll be her very first time coming out of the house, and so my dad dropped us off at Jeff's house, since he kissed us goodbye as he unfortunately had to return to work. 

When we entered, we were shocked to see their own living room being themed to Alice and Wonderland. I mean, it was the most unusual thing to ever see. Even their kitchen and bathrooms are themed to it. Presumably the other living room was themed entirely on the Queen of Hearts. Jeff and his family welcomed us back with open arms. We played some games and even had some awesome desserts. as for me, I was beginning to sweat slowly.

But Alice, Jeff's mom gave my mom a strange beverage. I didn't pay much attention to it, as I thought it was some sort of juice since my mom couldn't take in any alcohol. When that happened, they brought out the Ouija board and grimoire. Now I thought it was strange, as I didn't know what would happen next. And truthfully, I tend to believe that it's another game that we're going to play. 

Until my mom begins to feel sick again. Now I too feel pretty numb. In fact, I felt like I was about to vomit. I fell to the couch, as I couldn't move my body. I just sat there, barely speaking, and looked. But my mom was starting to act strange. She was starting to laugh; in fact, she was laughing maniacally.

She rose up, dancing around like a crazy person. I mean, but how? With those conditions and the diagnosis, she has, But I saw Jeff, tearing my mom's dress apart as he exposed her breasts as he giggled. He was taunting me for doing such an unnecessary thing like that. 

“Hey man, I guess your mom's going to be in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the biggest boobs,” he said with an evil grin. "It seems her having gigantomastia was a 'HUGE' detriment after all" he laughed.

But it was his siblings who came to hold my mom by the arms. 

There, Jeff's mom stood right in front of my mom, wearing a costume, yes, a Queen of Hearts costume seen in the Disney film. excited that she was finally going to get the prize that she always wanted. Using the grimoire, they got from the witch doctor, until she plunged her hands into my mom's chest. My mom was continuing to laugh as she was shaking her head. I hear her chanting with some type of incantation as she twists both of her hands deep within the chest cavity, clawing her way to the ultimate prize. her eyes were fixated on it, taking her sweet time.

"NOW!!! OFF WITH HER HEART" she yelled with such confidence and determination.

She stopped, then she pulled her arms back and ripped her hands out. My mom gave out this loud scream that pierced my ears, echoing throughout the living room. Jeff's mom was holding a grotesquely enlarged heart that was so fucking big. Just like what she described and saw in the CT scan and X-ray picture earlier, it has those disgusting dilated venous, aortic, arterial, iliac, and vena cava aneurysms. Jeff's mom was crying with joy.

in horror i watched my own mother shaking her head screaming, and spinning her body around like a maniac, with her arms flailing. breaking some of the decorations on the wall.

"Put it back, put it back" my mom yelled at the top of her lungs, laying on the wall and shaking her head profoundly in horror.   She began to weigh my mom's enlarged heart on the digital scale, and to her utter surprise, it was over 1,200+ grams. She was jumping with excitement. Until she looked at my mom angrily, slapping her even.

"Laura, you are a fucking bitch. How dare you keep this heart away from me? You dare hide this amazing gift. But, oh, nononono. Not this time."

She started to smack my mom in the face over and over again. Spitting out profanity and the like. Mocking her and taunting her by grabbing her left bosom. 

"Then again, you're such a gullible bitch, Laura. That medicine I prescribed to you is none other than breast enhancement pills and NSAIDS. Like, my god, look how disgustingly round and large they are. You're nothing but a sick, fucking whore with big tits, you are like a wannabe Chelsea Charms." she said with such anger. "Then again, having gigantomastia can be such a pain in the back." She continued.

"Why are you doing this to me?" My mom said this as she continued to breathe hard.   

"Don't worry, my precious heart; you will no longer be imprisoned within that bitch." Speaking to the heart as if it were a person. Ignoring my mom as she was only looking at the oversized, throbbing organ. Now Jeff's mom has gone mad. If not insane talking to an organ that she just extracted. I have heard of crazy people talking to corpses. But this was different she was caressing it with such an obsession is so sickening.

Jeff's mom walked towards me and presented me with my mom's own heart, just inches from my face. There she placed the beating heart on the floor, where it had this pentagram. They then used a Ouija board to keep in contact with some sort of demon or entity, when it was not. It was just actually placing a curse on the organ. But I saw my mom breathing hard with that crazy look on her face. Her eyes were widened, and her teeth were shown with that wide smile. How my mom is still alive is beyond me. it was some Temple of Doom type of ritual.

As they used the Ouija board, the pentagram began to glow red. Then the whole living room started to shake. Watching my mom's Enlarged heart with its aneurysms of the Great blood vessels, when it started to levitate while beating erratically and irregularly as it ballooned with each beat.     

She grabbed the levitating heart with her hand, grasping it like a lioness on her prey. 

“Now your mother's love belongs to me. This is payment for our assistance, and you will become my adopted son. Oh, don't mind your father. He'll die shortly. Stress can be lethal to a man who overworks too much,” she said. 

"Or unless my husband, his boss will get to him first." She continued.

"But don't fret, you won't remember any of this. In fact, you will believe that this woman will no longer be your mother, but for her. a punishment dont you think to watch your own son calling me mother" She continued on with that menacing grin.

With the spell she placed on that heart, to forever beat and keeping my mom alive as her own personal slave.  

“And as for your mother, well, she'll become my servant. After all, the Queen of Hearts surely needs a heart for her collection.”

Then Jeff's dad came in. In his hand was a bag, there he watched his wife Alice being absolutely happy. He placed his hand inside the bag, and took out what looked like a human head, a man's head....my... Dad's head.

All was blurry, I couldn't even think. I just...want to sleep.      

I stand near the edge of the cliff
Looking into the valley below
Filled with the hope that fear
Tears out my hollow eyes

Inching closer to the edge
I imagine myself fall
Into the depths of the abyss
Where I'll be far away from
The awful thoughts that dwell in my mind

And I swing my bare hands hoping
To shatter the glass and watch myself bleed
Because the razor's edge is no longer enough
To ensure I am feeling alive

I've gathered all I've held dear
Into a neat pile and lit up a match
To set everything on fire just to capture
The exact moment my life is reduced to ash

Then I throw myself into the pyre
With the hope that maybe just once
I'll be able to escape to a quiet place
Far away from
The awful things that live in my mind

With the glass shards, I make myself bleed
Otherwise, my shadow won't be pleased

I stand at the edge of the cliff
Because the razor's dull edge is no longer enough
To conceal the never-ending sorrows of life

Even before he reached the back gate, little Yuri could imagine how angry his father would be. His bearded form would suddenly appear on the back porch, furrowing his brows, and then he would yell in that voice that made it hard to breathe. It was so often hard to breathe.

Yuri deeply inhaled now, expanding his ribs. He removed his glasses and exhaled a foggy breath, giving them a wipe. Today I will be strong, Yuri decided. Today I’m finally going to do it.

Swinging arms high above his head, Yuri marched across the lawn to the back gate. The latch was easy to lift, and the old cedar door was easy to open.

Once on the other side, Yuri quickly crouched low, knowing he could barely be seen through the wooden slats. As long as he moved slowly, he could be mistaken for just another garbage can in the back alley.

Yuri skulked towards the new recycler unit, feeling the thrill of getting away with his pretend bravery. He had wanted to see the forbidden machine ever since it had been installed.

His father had received it as a fancy gift for knowing fancy people, and in a sense this was a mark of pride for Yuri. But it was also a mottled and confused pride, because sometimes Yuri’s father would regret owning new things, no matter how nice, and his voice would become low and disappointed, like it often did around Yuri.

It was as if all of father’s things were only as valuable as they were distracting, Yuri thought. In the end, everything became a waste of time.

But the boy was too young to brood, and this new machine looked fun. Yuri placed his hand on the smooth conical surface; it sort of resembled the pointed hat he had been given on his birthday. Except the top was cut off, so it looked more like a volcano.

He quickly glanced back at the porch through the wooden slats, double-checking for any sign of observers. Then, very delicately, his tiny frame crawled up the slopes of this silvery volcano. There were no handholds, he had to rely heavily on his knees.

Once he reached the top, Yuri carefully removed an empty glass from his back pocket. It was a miniature vodka bottle his father had left lying around the house. Yuri straddled the volcano’s crater, and carefully thumbed the lid on top. It opened without resistance.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to find inside. Cogs? Saws? Spikes that recycled glass into dust? But instead of anything mechanical, Yuri gazed at hundreds of crawling, organic shapes. They were living insects. Termites.

Yuri practically slipped off. He had seen termites on streamshows before, but what were they doing here? Cautiously, he looked closer. The shine of old glass glimmered between their red bodies. The insects were chewing and breaking it down, making the shards into something else. Into marbles?

Dozens of termites held beautiful, clear marbles between their toothed jaws. The marbles were being circled about, cleaned and smoothed, some of them no larger than grains of sand.

Wow. Yuri was entranced. The vodka bottle dangled between his fingers. He wanted to drop it straight down the middle, into the heart of the operation. Then he’d stay and watch the bugs dissolve the glass. He leaned over, lowered his hand ... and then his glasses slid right off his nose.

Blurriness. Fear. Yuri scrambled, trying to reach for his fallen sight, but it was soon lost in the hazy red soup.

He dunked his arms, reaching and poking into the machine. He swatted using the vodka bottle, listening for the clink of his glasses. He heard nothing but the patter of tiny glass marbles. Desperation struck, and Yuri began to hit the sides of the recycler, resulting in a muffled cacophony.

Yuri then recognized the unmistakable whine of the porch door’s hinge. It had swung open.

“Мудак!” His father exclaimed, clearly angry at someone or something on the phone.

Yuri couldn’t see what was happening, but he could feel the crawl of burns travelling up to his elbows. He began to frantically brush them away. One of the red blurs fell on his knee and produced a pain so fiery that Yuri fell off the recycler.

The next couple minutes spiralled into slaps, cries, and rolling about. Yuri could hear his father’s conversation travel across the lawn, towards the back gate, but there was little he could do to hide. Even as the gate opened, Yuri wasn’t able to stand up in time, nor wipe away his tears.

The dark, bearded blur arrived, muttering grievances, holding a cellphone in one hand and a bottle shape in the other. In a span of half a minute, the blur tossed the bottle down the open recycler, closed the lid, and patted Yuri on the head. Then it strolled back the way it came. No break in stride. No break in conversation.

Yuri dried his eyes, sat cross-legged, and exhaled slowly. Although shallow at first, his breathing was quickly brought back under his control. He tried to determine what he was supposed to feel in this moment. Afraid? Ashamed? Would his father yell at him when he returned inside?

Rising to his feet, Yuri felt his scalp where his father had patted him. It seemed just like with everything else, the recycler wasn’t all that important—not anymore.

His father had made such a fuss about keeping Yuri away from the machine, saying how it was the most valuable thing he owned, and now it just stood here among the other garbage cans. Idle and neglected. Yuri couldn’t help feeling the same way.

"I wish it would have been different," the girl says, pressing the barrel of her gun against the boy's head.

"Me too," he replies, tightening his already white-knuckle grip on the knife held against her throat.

The sounds of children playing waft in through the open living room window, but inside the air is hot and still.

"Please"—Their mother speaks in choked, single words. "Put…"

The sentence dissipates.

Aborted.

The distraught woman's husband meekly comforts her.

"It's my heart," the boy asserts.

His blade is sharp.

His sister presses the barrel of her gun harder against his head.

"It's mine," she replies.

"You share a heart," the husband says quietly. "You share a life."

As his wife weeps once more at the sight of her beloved children willing to kill each other for a better chance of individual survival: siamese twins locked in a stand-off for the muscle beating within their single chest.

"Together we can't survive," the boy says.

"Not for long," the girl says.

She knows she has the advantage. Her bullet will end her brother's life whereas his knife will bleed them both, but that advantage seems moot if she ends up dead anyway.

Their mother lifts her head. Raw, pink eyes staring vacantly ahead—

"Please..."

"No," the girl says.

"Flip the coin," says the boy. "Heads, I die. Tails, she does."

Their mother collapses.

Sobbing.

Her husband flips through his wallet. Stiff, shaking fingers. "For the love of God, this can't be the only way."

"It is," the boy says.

"The doctors said we can't both survive," the girl says, imagining how much easier this would have been if she had fired immediately. If her hand had obeyed her mind. If her brother had not grabbed the knife. "This way you don't have to choose."

The husband holds up a coin.

Children play outside.

Normal children. Simple lives. Happiness. Sunshine.

The woman takes the coin from her husband.

Crawls forward.

"Let me do it," she croaks.

The boy relaxes his grip on the knife slightly. The girl feels for the first time the true weight of the gun.

The woman flips the coin.

And they all watch it rotate in the air: the spinning of fate, the revolution of—

Bang!

The boy's head explodes.

The woman screams.

The girl throws up all over herself.

The knife hits the floor—followed by the coin:

Tails.

Before the man can grab her by the shoulders, the woman leaps forward, and in one impossibly fluid motion picks up the knife and drives it into her daughter's chest.

Three times.

Her husband barely manages to drag her away from the now-crumpled and one-headed, bloodied body. How beautiful their life once seemed.

"The coin," she screams. "The coin decided!"

The girl's eyelids flicker with a final passing of consciousness.

Outside: sudden silence.

Everyone must have heard the gunshot.

Distant sirens sound.

The woman's voice drops to a murmur. "You killed my boy," she says. "My beautiful baby boy…"

The patient lay strapped to the operating table, their screams muffled by the gag in their mouth. They struggled against their restraints as Dr. Evelyn Zor loomed over them, her eyes gleaming with manic excitement behind her surgical mask.

"Don't worry," she cooed, her voice sickly sweet. "When I'm done with you, you'll be... perfect."

She began with the bones, her scalpel slicing through flesh and muscle with practiced precision. Blood welled up from the incisions, pooling on the table and dripping onto the floor. With a sickening crack, she broke the bones, removing sections and replacing them with hollow titanium prosthetics that gleamed under the harsh lights.

For the remaining skeleton, she used a massive syringe to inject a thick, black substance directly into the bones. The patient howled as the graphene composite spread through their marrow, fusing with the living tissue.

Next, she moved to the muscles. With a series of brutal injections, she pumped the patient full of experimental gene therapies and growth enhancers. The muscles began to twitch and spasm, growing at a grotesque rate. The skin stretched tight, then split open as the hypertrophied fibers burst through.

Undeterred by the patient's agonized wails, Dr. Zor continued her work. She threaded carbon nanotube fibers through the exposed muscles, the microscopic threads glinting like spider silk as they wove through the bloody tissue.

For the body reshaping, Dr. Zor was utterly merciless. With a bone saw, she sliced open the patient's skull, the blade screeching against bone. She peeled the skin back like a ripe fruit, revealing the pulsing brain beneath. With sickening crunches and wet, tearing sounds, she reshaped the skull, molding it like clay.

She moved to the torso, her laser scalpel slicing through ribs like butter. The smell of charred flesh mingled with the coppery tang of blood. She rearranged the internal organs, the slick, glistening tissues squishing between her gloved fingers as she forced them into new configurations.

The wings were a true masterpiece of perversion. Dr. Zor flayed the skin from the patient's back, the ragged flap of flesh quivering as she stretched it out. She bolted carbon fiber rods to the exposed arm bones, the patient's shrieks rising to a crescendo as the drills whirred and the bones splintered. With meticulous, bloodstained stitches, she affixed the skin to the rods, stretching it taut.

To boost respiratory capacity, she forced a tube down the patient's throat, pumping their lungs full of experimental perfluorocarbons. The patient gurgled and choked, pink-tinged foam bubbling from their lips. She then cracked open their chest, the ribs splaying obscenely as she implanted the artificial oxygenator directly into their pulsing heart.

As a finishing touch, she injected a cocktail of stimulants and gene modifiers into the patient's heart, the organ swelling grotesquely beneath the sutured skin of their chest. Finally, after countless hours of unimaginable agony, it was done. Dr. Zor stepped back, admiring her handiwork. The patient was no longer recognizable as human, instead a twisted amalgamation of flesh, metal, and bloody stitches.

"Soon," Dr. Zor whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation. "Soon, you will fly.

As soon as the first rays of conscious awareness began to creep back into Camilla’s mind, they were accompanied by the stark realization that something was terribly wrong. Her surroundings were completely unfamiliar, albeit unsettlingly unthreatening at a glance.

She appeared to be in a large, luxurious, and well-appointed penthouse straight out of the 1950s. She was slumped over on a stool in front of an island counter with a speckled scarlet Formica countertop, across from a young woman in a red and white vintage dress. Camilla's attention was immediately stolen by the woman's vibrant blue eyes, raven pigtails, and wickedly insidious grin.

“Coming around then, are we Ducky?” she asked as she took a sip from a martini glass.

“What… what happened?” Camilla asked, her rising panic quickly overpowering her confusion and grogginess as she checked to see if she was restrained or hurt before looking around for any possible threats.

“You passed out. Nothing to be embarrassed about; happens to me all the time,” the woman said with a gesture to her martini.

“No, who are you? What am I doing here?” Camilla demanded as she stood up from the stool.

“Ha! Black-out drunk by mid-afternoon? If you weren’t such a lightweight, you’d make a good drinking buddy,” the woman chortled. “To refresh your memory, my name is Mary. Mary Darling. My brother James brought you here because you wanted to write an article about our collection of retro appliances, remember? Apparently, the Zoomies have quite a bit of cultural nostalgia for the post-war era. Per my duties as hostess, I offered you a drink, and I guess you’re not used to cocktails as strong as I make them because it put you out like a light.”

Though her memory was hazy, Camilla knew that Mary was lying. She wasn’t drunk, and she wasn’t hungover. She knew it wasn’t alcohol that had knocked her unconscious. She had spoken with James about writing an article, but other than that, she had no recollection of where she was or how she had gotten there.

While it was obvious that the Darlings had abducted her, until she had a better idea of exactly what it was they were up to, she decided that it was best to play along.

“Oh. Right. The article. I remember now,” she said uneasily. “I’m sorry. Yeah, that drink must have hit me harder than I expected.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Ducky. I’m in no position to judge you,” she said as she finished off her martini. “Mmmm. Any night when James isn’t here to put me to bed, I usually wake up sprawled out at whatever random spot I dropped at. Whelp, now that one of us is sober, on with the tour!”

“Is it alright if I record our interview?” Camilla asked, quickly checking to see if she still had her phone on her. She was relieved to find that she did, but to her disappointment saw that she had no reception or WiFi. “Shoot, I’ve got no bars here.”

“Oh, I assure you there are plenty of bars in this house,” Mary laughed as she gestured at the nearby cocktail bar. “I do apologize for the lousy reception, though. If your little doodad there can work without it, feel free to record away.”

Camilla nodded and began recording video on her phone, keeping the camera focused on her presumed captor as much as possible.

“Hello everybody!” Mary said energetically as she smiled and waved at the camera. “My name is Mary Darling, and welcome to my kitchen. We’re going to start our tour today with my main refrigerator, easily the most essential appliance of any modern kitchen.”

With a twirl of her skirt, she waltzed over to a broad, six-foot-tall, beach-blue refrigerator with chrome trim. It had a convex door, branded with a cartoon atom and the name ‘Oppenheimer’s Opportunities’ in a retro, calligraphic font. The door was partially covered with the usual accoutrements; a notepad, a small chalkboard, some odd bills and receipts, along with a few photographs of James and Mary Darling. Most of the photographs also included a dark-eyed preteen girl who bore a disquieting resemblance to the twins.

But what stood out the most was that just above the lever handle, there was a small analogue device with several knobs and switches that didn’t look like it had originally been part of the appliance.

“This right here is the 1959 Oppenheimer’s Opportunities twenty-one cubic foot single-door Nuclear Winter refrigerator,” Mary said proudly. Camilla was tempted to point out that the concept of Nuclear Winter didn’t really come about until the 1980s, but couldn’t work up the courage to interrupt her hostess. “When my brother and I first moved into our little playroom here full time, we knew we were going to need housewares that were sturdier than anything on the open market. You can imagine how delighted we were when we found Oppenheimer’s! They make a wide range of electronic appliances powered by atomic batteries so that you can count on them even if the grid goes down. This beauty here has been running non-stop for sixty-five years now and it’s got no thought of retiring. It retailed for a whopping $249.99 back in the day, and it was worth every penny! The body itself is made out of a proprietary titanium aerospace alloy that’s virtually indestructible.”

To demonstrate her refrigerator’s quasi-mythical indestructibility, Mary pulled out a butcher’s knife that she had been carrying in the sash of her dress and began slashing at the bottom half of the door with a violent ferocity that sent Camilla stumbling backwards out of fear for her safety.

“Enough! Enough! I believe you!” she shouted.

“You see! I didn’t even scratch the paint!” Mary bragged as she holstered her knife. “Nothing like a modern appliance; this thing was built to last! But it wasn’t just durability that sold us on this model. It’s functional too!”

She swung open the door, revealing six chrome shelves that were mostly laden with heavy packages of meat wrapped in butcher’s paper. The packages were all neatly dated and labelled in a feminine flowing script that Camilla suspected belonged to Mary. Though the cut of each meat was clearly marked, Camilla’s eyes jumped from package to package as she tried to find one that said what kind of meat it was.

But all she could find were human names.

“The height of each shelf is fully adjustable with the push of a button. Each one slides out for easy access, or detaches completely for cleaning,” Mary continued her presentation, pulling the shelves out to create a tiered staircase. “That’s an especially useful feature for my little Sara Darling. Even though she’s more of a daddy’s girl, she still likes to help me in the kitchen, so it’s important that everything’s accessible for her. And since everyone’s so concerned about accessibility these days, I suppose it would also be helpful for a cripple or a midget. As you can see, I’ve customized the interior to my family’s specific needs. We don’t have any need for a vegetable crisper when we’ve got plenty of organ meat. All the vitamins you could ever want in those, and no nasty ethylene gas or phytotoxins to worry about! Of course, keeping this much meat fresh is obviously the top priority, and it would be an absolute shame to risk freezer burn on grade-A cuts like these. That’s why in addition to an airtight seal and atmospheric control, the Oppenheimer 1959 Nuclear Winter uses radiation to keep its contents one hundred percent germ-free!”

“I’m sorry. Did you say radiation?” Camilla asked nervously. “Why would you use radiation in a refrigerator?”

“It was the Atomic Age. We put radiation in everything!” Mary explained with a manic grin. “It’s just like how you put AI in everything these days. What could go wrong, right? Oh, there’s nothing to worry about, Ducky. The radiation is only on when the door is closed. The titanium alloy is completely radiation-proof, plus the paint is lead-based! The interior of the fridge is exposed to beta and gamma rays from the atomic battery, penetrating any packaging or containers and completely sterilizing the food inside! It may be mild, but since it’s near-continuous germs can’t get a foothold, so our meat stays abattoir-fresh for months!”

Mary pushed all the shelves back inside the refrigerator and gave them a gentle shove to the left. They spun around as if on a carousel, despite there being no room inside the fridge for that to be possible. Mary stopped them when they reached a segment filled with ceramic baking dishes and tinfoil-covered platters.

“Now I’m the first to admit that I’m not always sober enough to cook, which doesn’t always stop me! But for the times it does, I keep lots of meatloaf, casseroles, and roasts on hand so that I have plenty of leftovers to serve my family. Luckily for me, even my good china bakeware is no match for the ionizing radiation of the –”

“Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait,” Camilla interrupted. “What did you just do?”

“Hmmm?” Mary hummed in mock confusion.

“You spun the inside of the fridge around like a Lazy Susan,” Camilla clarified. “How did you do that?”

“Oh, that! Yes, that’s one of the modifications my brother James made,” Mary explained. “As wonderful as Oppenheimer’s appliances are, James could always make them better! He was able to expand the interior space out into the hyperdimensional volume of our playroom, so I never have to worry about running out of space for all my savoury creations.”

“That’s… impossible,” Camilla said as she shook her said in disbelief. “Everything else you’ve said until now has been ridiculous, but that’s impossible.”

“Come in and take a look for yourself if you don’t believe me,” Mary suggested as she spun the shelves in the fridge around with a theatrical flourish.

Camilla adjusted her glasses as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing, tentatively approaching the fridge. As she tried to work out how the illusion worked, Mary stopped spinning the shelves when she arrived at a completely empty compartment.

“You want to know what really made me buy this fridge, though?” she asked. “I asked the salesman how many bodies he thought I could fit in it, and without any hesitation he said ‘at least ten if you pack them in tight enough’.”

With superhuman strength and speed, Camilla felt Mary shove her into the fridge from behind, slamming the door shut.

“Hey! Hey! What the hell?” Camilla shouted as she pounded at the door from the inside.

She tried to push or kick it open, but it wouldn’t budge. The seal was as airtight as Mary had said, and there was no way to open it from the inside. The instant the door had shut, the overhead lightbulb had gone out, replaced by the faint and eerie radioactive glow from the atomic battery below.

“Oh no. Oh no,” Camilla muttered, squatting down and trying to force its shutter back into place. Pipes that had already lived longer than some people began to creak as an old motor sluggishly pumped Freon up and down their length. A vent that ran along the top of the back wall of the fridge began to exude a pale yet heavy misty that slowly began to sink to the bottom of the compartment.

“Can you hear in me there, Ducky?” Mary’s voice asked over a crackling intercom.

“Let me out!” Camilla demanded as she furiously pounded against the door. “Let me out!”

“Don’t worry about the radiation. It’s too mild to be a short-term hazard,” Mary told her. “I don’t kill my victims with radiation anyway. It’s too drawn out… and it ruins the meat. No, I just want to see if I can kill you with the modifications my brother made before you run out of oxygen.”

Camilla felt the interior of the fridge start to spin as she watched the door slip out of sight.

“There we go. Not that I didn’t trust the door to hold, but I have some sauces and preserves in there that I’d really rather you didn’t smash,” Mary announced.

“You’re fucking psychotic!” Camilla screamed as she threw her weight against the side, trying to tip the fridge over. “Why didn’t you just put me in here when I was unconscious?”

“And how would I have shown you my beautiful Atomic Age refrigerator if I’d done that?” Mary asked in reply. “Sorry, Ducky, but you ran afoul of me when I was in the mood to play with my food. No quick death at the end of a knife for you. I mentioned that I can adjust the shelves with a push of a button, right?”

A sturdy chrome shelf came sliding out from behind Camilla, catching her off guard and shoving her against the wall.

“Fucking hell!” she cursed as she struggled to push against it.

After a few seconds, it retracted itself at Mary’s command. Camilla spun around, bracing herself to catch it when it came at her again. Instead, one of the lower shelves came flying at her, bashing in her shins.

“Christ!” she sobbed, collapsing onto her injured shins the moment the shelf withdrew. She clenched her teeth in rage at the sound of Mary’s sadistic cackling.

“Oh my god! Before we got started, I was seriously asking myself if the novelty of killing someone with a fridge would be worth it, and it absolutely is!” she declared as she fired off the middle shelf again, this time hitting the kneeling Camilla in the forehead. “I hope it doesn’t void the warranty though. Oppenheimer’s guaranteed that so long as the atomic battery lasted, they’d always be able to repair it.”

“The… battery,” the nearly concussed Camilla muttered as her eyes drifted down at the glowing green square in the center of the floor.

With the use of a hitherto useless Swiss army knife on her keychain, she slipped the blade in along the battery’s edge and frantically began trying to pry it out.

“Oh, you little… no respect for other people’s property, I swear,” Mary muttered.

With the press of a button, the shutter for the battery nearly closed all the way, but the knife’s blade kept it from closing completely. Taking great care not to let it slip, Camilla continued to pry away at the battery in the sliver of radioactive light that was left to her. A lower shelf came flying forward again, but this time she succeeded in ducking it.

Grunting, she tried to pull back the shutter to give herself more light, but the mechanism holding it in place was incredibly strong. She had succeeded in pulling it back only a fraction of an inch when its brightness suddenly flared.

The blinding pain caused her to drop the knife and jerk upwards in retreat. As she rose, a shelf slammed into her throat and pinned her up against the wall at full speed. Choking and gasping, she desperately tried to force the shelf back as it slowly but surely crushed her windpipe. She pulled and pushed and rattled it, tried to shake it loose or kick it free with her feet, but nothing worked. As she squandered the last of her oxygen fighting against a shelf and her vision began to fade, she realized with a grim irony that Mary had been right.

Oppenheimer’s really had built that fridge to last.

***

“Hello, Mommy Darling!” Sara chirped as she happily skipped into the main living area and towards the fridge to get herself an afternoon snack. Mary politely acknowledged her presence, but was too caught up in her soap opera to engage her in conversation.

As soon as Sara had the door open, she began spinning the inside to get to the desert compartment. She jumped back just in time to avoid being crushed by Camilla’s asphyxiated corpse. It hit the floor with a dull thud, bloated and blue, an expression of horror and agony etched into its face as it stared up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

Sara stared at it for a few seconds before overcoming her initial shock and turning towards her mother.

“Mommy Darling, this body is still good. Can I use it for my trolley set? Pretty please?”

First Chapter

When Mrs. Vilonte chauffeured her daughter on Wednesdays after school to her private violin lessons, she savored two distinct pleasures on these drives.

One was the drive along the road leading to the Maestro's residence on the outskirts of town. The ever-changing colors of the trees, adapting with the shifting seasons, made each drive a visual delight. Observing the serene landscape and listening to her favorite soft jazz station on the radio, she found herself wrapped in a soothing calmness.

The other was the presence of her daughter beside her in the front passenger seat. This drive offered one of the rare opportunities for her to have quality time with Gabrielle, amidst the latter's hectic schedule spanning from early Monday mornings to Sunday evenings. With numerous extracurricular commitments like debate club, writing club, orchestra rehearsals, and violin recitals and competitions, free time was a luxury.

She stole a glance at Gabrielle, who sat slouched in the passenger seat, oblivious to the scenic beauty outside the window. The girl was lost in her phone. Her thumbs moved furiously across the screen.

“So, have you decided on a piece for the university audition?" Mrs. Vilonte asked, hoping to engage her daughter in a meaningful conversation.

"Hmm?" Gabrielle raised a brow, her eyes never leaving the phone screen.

"I asked if you've decided on the piece you'll be performing at the audition," Mrs. Vilonte said, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she struggled to contain her frustration. How she loathed having to repeat herself! One should speak only once and be heard.

"I'm working on it," Gabrielle responded, her voice distant as she continued to scroll through her phone.

“It's going to come up soon.”

“It's not until next spring anyway.”

“Put down the phone.”

“Just a second.”

“Gabrielle, listen to me! I told you to put your phone down,” Mrs. Vilonte said, with a sharp edge to her voice, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of her hand.

This time, the girl listened and set aside the phone without casting a glance at her mother. Instead, wearing a deep frown, she directed a hardened gaze out of the window. Breathing out deeply, Mrs. Vilonte wondered where her daughter got her attitude. Certainly not from her.

Most likely the unpleasant demeanor, she suspected, might be a result of influences from fellow students at school. She was certain of that and made a mental note to discuss the matter with the teachers, whether they had observed any troublesome students whose influences could be negatively affecting Gabrielle.

“Who were you chatting with so much?”

Gabrielle, still not looking at her, bit her lip and closed her eyes as if trying to hold back tears. “Ann…,” she answered.

“Ann? Is she a classmate?” Now, she wondered if this girl was the influence on Gabrielle; the witch who had cast a spell on an unsuspecting victim.

“Vicky’s sister. She's upset. Her whole family is.”

“About what?”

Gabrielle's mouth hung open, her eyes wide in disbelief as she stared at her mother.

"Mom, haven't you heard? Pictures of Vicky's corpse were leaked online. Everyone's talking about it.”

“Goodness, I had no idea. You know I don't go on the internet that much.”

A month had passed since Victoria's death, yet the town’s chatter persisted. Mrs. Vilonte found herself unable to evade the constant gossip, the blubbery tears, and candlelit vigils. It was all too much. To cope, she silenced her phone, steered clear of the television, and whenever the topic arose, she would acknowledge the tragedy before diverting the conversation to the weather’s perfect sunniness and temperature for a leisurely stroll in the park.

“Do you know how they found her?” Gabrielle asked.

“It's really–”

“She was split open–”

“lovely today–”

“–in half from the crown to down there.”

“–isn't it?”

“The strangest thing was that–”

“How about we go out for–”

“–all of her bones and hair were removed and–"

“–dinner after your lesson?”

“–there was no blood. Not a drop.”

“You can invite–”

“It was just a pile of skin and–”

“–a friend.”

“–organs on the bed except for–”

“Gabrielle, are–”

“–her heart. It was missing.”

“–you listening?”

“Mom,” said Gabrielle, her voice shaking, “the way Vicky was kill–”

“You really should stop talking about this. It's too morbid. Too awful.”

“You never want to talk.”

“That's because it makes you upset! When you're upset, you lose focus on what's truly important.”

“And what's truly important, Mom?”

“Your future. These past few weeks, you've lost focus–”

“What did you expect how I'd feel after my friend was murdered! It's like you haven't listened to a word I've said.”

“Of course, I have! But this is a critical time in your life…well, our lives. For our family. Right now, you need to maintain your A’s in your classes and prepare for the audition. Maestro Salerno will definitely help you get to where you need to be.”

Gabrielle lapsed into silence briefly before seething through her teeth, "I don't want to play the violin anymore."

Mrs. Vilonte quickly glanced over, asking, "What did you say?”

“I don't want to play the violin anymore.”

The car screeched to a halt as Mrs. Vilonte forcefully pressed the brakes, her fingers gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She glared through the windshield.

Then, in a measured tone, she said, “I understand. Fine, don't do the audition. Figure out how to put yourself through university without me and your father. I don't know, maybe you can whore yourself out for cash.”

Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she sighed, “At least I have one successful child. Your brother, Georgie, is a good boy who never argues and appreciates all the sacrifices I made for him.”

“Mom, I–”

“You said that you wanted to quit. So, step out of this car and walk home.”

Gabrielle let out a scoff. “No, I'm not–”

Mrs. Vilonte cut her off. “Need help? Okay, but this will be the last time that I'll help you with anything.”

She unbuckled her seatbelt, exited the car, and opened the back passenger door. She snatched the violin case, then flung it onto the road. The case skidded across the asphalt, its latches springing open, and the violin flew out.

“What are you doing?" Gabrielle screamed, stepping out of the car and rushing to retrieve the instrument.

Silently, Mrs. Vilonte returned to the car, shifted into reverse, and directed it homeward. The vehicle jolted as its wheels rolled over the abandoned case and violin. Pressing on the gas, she gazed at the rearview mirror, watching her daughter's figure shrink. She decelerated the car, bringing it to a stop, then maneuvered the wheel to carefully drive back to the spot.

Gabrielle was collecting the fragments of the instrument, delicately placing them back into the case. Tears streamed down her reddened cheeks as she sniffed and fought back a sob.

"Oh no, not the tears," Mrs. Vilonte thought, observing her climbing into the back passenger seat with the case in her arms.

No further words were exchanged for the remainder of the drive to the Maestro's house. As she drove, she turned up the volume on the radio, allowing Glenn Miller's “That Old Black Magic'' to fill the silence.

The once elegant violin lay mangled in the case, its delicate curves now distorted and splintered. Strings hung limply, like snapped ligaments, off the instrument's long crushed neck. The car's tire tracks left an indelible mark. The case bore dents and scuff marks in several areas, and the violin bow was broken in half.

“The window was wide open,” Mrs. Vilonte started to explain, “and then the next moment, as I was making a turn, the case just flew out and the car behind us ran over it. Luckily, there was no serious accident and no one was hurt.”

She was in the parlor room of Giovanni Salerno’s house, showing the maestro the destroyed violin. Salerno lifted a brow, his index finger tapping his pursed lips, as he looked up from the mess to Mrs. Vilonte. She felt her cheeks heat up under his intense gaze.

Salerno was a man in his 70s, nearly twenty years her senior. His dark hair, now peppered with strands of silver, framed a weathered face marked by decades of wisdom and experience. His expressive brown eyes spoke volumes of a life richly lived, and his presence commanded respect yet he was warm and approachable.

“Not to worry,” he said, clasping his hands together, “there's something special that arrived today.”

Excusing himself, Salerno stepped out of the room, reappearing moments later with a black case. Gesturing for both of them to come closer, he placed it on the table and popped open the latches. Gabrielle, standing rigid beside her mother, had been silent since their arrival. But once she glimpsed the brand-new violin snugly nestled in its blue velvet-lined case, she couldn't help but emit an audible gasp.

"This is yours," Salerno said, delicately handing her the string instrument as if it were a newborn child. The violin's gracefully curved body had a profound, crimson hue. The material composing its form appeared more robust than wood, yet the instrument retained an air of fragility.

“Mine?”

“Yes, yours.”

“Why give it to me?”

Salerno pointed to the crushed violin in the other case and said, “You can't play on that, can you?”

Gabrielle held up the new violin with her left arm and rested her chin on the chinrest.

“It's lighter than the one I had,” she remarked. As she plucked the strings, the tones resonated in perfect harmony.

Mrs. Vilonte shivered. The room had suddenly grown cold, though Salerno and Gabrielle didn't seem to notice the change in temperature.

"It's so strange," said Gabrielle, her fingers exploring the surface.

“What do you mean? Are you not pleased with it?” asked Salerno.

“Oh, no, it's not a bad thing. I feel like I know this violin; it feels so familiar to me."

“I think I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“I've believed for a long time that an instrument chooses its master and becomes our familiar, a life companion. Over time, your psychic and mystical connection with it deepens, and soon you wouldn't be able to imagine your life without it.”

“So, this violin was meant for me.”

“I would say so. Let's start our lesson now, shall we?”

Gabrielle's dour expression, present upon arrival, vanished as she broke into a radiant grin for the first time. She placed the violin back in its case, lowering the lid and securely latching it shut, and started heading out of the parlor room.

"Would you care to join us this time?" Salerno turned to Mrs. Vilonte, who had been fixated on the violin, her face slightly pale. Noticing her hesitancy, he asked, “Is there something wrong?”

“That's a rather expensive-looking violin.”

Salerno chuckled, assuring, "You don't need to worry." Walking over to the door through which Gabrielle had exited, he closed it softly and added, "Your offer was accepted. Had it not been, certain events wouldn't have transpired, and Gabrielle wouldn't have received a new violin.”

"Ah, good," Mrs. Vilonte attempted to sound pleased, yet her voice quivered with uncertainty and nervousness.

“In the next decade, you'll witness a positive transformation in your life and your family's. While it might feel like a lengthy wait for your hard work to bear fruit, this is merely the outset; paradise awaits on the horizon.”

Mrs. Vilonte nodded, her fingers fidgeting with her gold necklace. "Is it possible to meet this benefactor before the marriage is sealed?" she dared to ask, her cheeks flaring, her fingers on the necklace becoming more restless.

"I'm sorry to say that it's not possible."

"May I ask why?"

"He will appear when he deems the time is right. That time, however, isn't any time soon. For now, please enjoy the little gifts he leaves for you and your family. They’re tokens of his affection for Gabrielle."

Despite still feeling uneasy, she didn't press the matter any further and followed the maestro into the next room, where Gabrielle was preparing for the lesson. She gently lifted the violin bow from its case and examined it with a sense of awe reflecting on her face. It possessed a rich and lustrous charm, crafted from dark red strands of horsehair that glistened under the light.

“I don't think I've ever seen red bow hairs before,” Gabrielle remarked as she closely examined the bow.

“That’s because this violin is one of a kind,” said Salerno. “There's no other like it in the world.”

After applying rosin to the bow hairs, Gabrielle lifted the violin, coaxing melodious notes from the strings with practiced strokes. As a warm-up, she played a scale, and the sound resonated with such uniqueness that it sent shivers down Mrs. Vilonte's spine. The instrument's rendition, from effortlessly holding the highest notes with strength to the bold and deep resonance of the lowest ones, left Mrs. Vilonte convinced that the violin almost echoed a human quality. As if possessed by an otherworldly spirit, Gabrielle played with a fervent vitality, her nimble fingers gliding swiftly across the strings, while the bow danced and bounced off them with exuberance.

Mrs. Vilonte turned her gaze toward Salerno, noting a shadow overcasting his eyes and a sly grin emerging on his weathered face. Doubt crept into her mind as she questioned the wisdom of striking a deal with him. Reflecting on the moment she had driven to his house, imploring him to help Gabrielle in reclaiming the title of First Chair, a wave of self-disgust and shame washed over her. The act of begging felt too desperate, and now she found herself entangled in a pact with something beyond this world, all for the fortune she had yearned for throughout her life.

“What other choice did you have?” The voice whispered in her ear.

“That's right, what other choice did I have?”

“You did it all for her. You did what's best for your family's future.”

“Yes, of course, I did.”

“And as the wise Salerno said: paradise awaits on the horizon. So, be patient, dear one. Be patient.”

“I will certainly be patient. I am, after all, the queen of patience.”

The journey home proved far more enjoyable than the earlier drive. With the sun on the verge of setting, Gabrielle's mood had lifted. Seated in the front passenger seat, she gazed out of the window instead of at her phone, humming along to the tune playing on the radio station. The lesson had gone smoothly. Mrs. Vilonte was relieved and, after witnessing the way Gabrielle played on the new violin, was more convinced that in the end the sacrifice would be worth it.

As she cast a quick glance at the rearview mirror, a flicker of unease took hold of her. There, beside the violin case in the backseat, was the silhouette of a young lady bathed in an eerie crimson glow. The figure's all-white eyes bore into hers through the mirror. As it opened its mouth, its jaw dangled by thin threads of flesh, emitting a haunting, high-pitched note. A sudden flash of white disoriented Mrs. Vilonte. Glass shards burst into the air, slashing her cheeks.

The world around her seemed to spin, and when it came to a halt, the mournful cry of violin strings echoed in her ears before she lost consciousness.

Next Chapter

I grew up on a movable street.

This requires explanation.

In simplest terms it means that from my birth until my eventual escape, although I spent every day of my life on the same street, the street itself travelled.

To where and how often, I cannot say. When I escaped, it was in Pittsburgh.

When I first saw the rolling, it was in Rome.

I imagine the street travelled frequently, secretly and globally, and I know it travelled as a rolled-up Armenian rug in the back of a white, unmarked delivery truck, but much beyond that remains a mystery to me.

Because I am afraid I may have lost you by now, please allow me to explain from the beginning—

Many years earlier.

I want to start with my family.

It was a large family, two parents and five siblings (three sisters and two brothers), of which I was the youngest, and we lived happily together in a large white house somewhere on the street. If I close my eyes, I still remember how the stucco felt against my hands as I ran them across the exterior walls, or on my bare back as I reclined against its textured warmth on a summer day while reading one of my books. I mention these sensations because I want to convince myself—and convince you—that the street, the house, and the people were real, and not just figments of my imagination.

I remember everything about my family.

That’s why it breaks my heart to know I will never see them again.

I am an orphan.

But I am an orphan by choice, and at least I still have my books—those transcendent books…

Both my parents and all my siblings worked in the same employment, a factory a short walk down the street from our home. From the day I turned ten, I also worked there. It was a wonderful place and we had lots of fun. Although we had set working hours, there was no oversight and we did largely as we pleased. Our job was simple: to make toys, of all kinds and colours and shapes and materials. My favourites were musical dolls. You pulled a string and the doll played a beautiful and enchanting melody.

Although it strikes me as strange today, at the time I never gave it a second thought that we were the only workers in the factory. Such a large building, with its high ceilings and resounding volume of emptiness, yet I couldn’t imagine sharing it with anyone, and I believed every family had its own factory which produced its own fine objects. I was certain that was how we obtained our furniture, our food, our dinnerware, our chemicals and every other domestic necessity. Everything was delivered. My father mailed a request and within days there it was, boxed up in the street and ready to be brought inside.

There were other people who appeared on the street (the banker, the bookshop owner, the washers) but we didn’t interact with them often, and my memories of them are hazy. There weren’t any children my age, but my siblings were my friends and I was content in this sparse world of mystery and adults.

Other sensations I remember about the street are its yellow pavement, its majestic street lights, the winds that rushed without warning up and down and across its expanse, and the monster.

The monster was the reason my parents laid down the rules:

1. Never stay outside past sundown.

2. Never venture off the street.

3. Never read any of the unapproved books.

It was ultimately a book, albeit an approved one, that began my process of realization. As far back as I remember, I loved to draw. I was the only one in the family with talent for art, which put my parents in the unusual position of having to provide new supplies for me, for we had no used pastels, paints or art books.

One day, they called me to the living room and presented me with a gift-wrapped package of art supplies, sketchbooks, and two leather-bound volumes that I would so learn to cherish: A Brief Illustrated History of Western Art by R.W. Watson and Drawing: Materials & Techniques, Second Edition by Vladimir Kunin. It was from the latter I learned about negative space, lighting and perspective, and it was while sitting with my sketchbook on my knees while reclining against our white stucco walls, drawing what I saw rather than what I believed to be, that I first noticed something off about the street and therefore about the world. Because, try as I might, when I drew the view of the street before me, the perspective lines of the various objects and buildings did not make sense!

At first, I erased my lines and tried again. Over and over until the paper was as thin as skin. I was sure I was the one making the mistake. Each time, however, I achieved the same incorrect result. I drew what was but not what should have been.

Frustrated, I put down the sketchbook and picked up Watson instead, eager to flip its endless pages of artworks and prove to myself that it was in fact Kunin, and his rules about perspective, who was wrong. I am not sure for how long I looked at landscape after landscape after landscape, but it must have been over an hour. When I lifted my head and gazed upon the street once more, it was immediately apparent that it was indeed the street which was distorted. Kunin was right; reality was wrong.

I said nothing to my parents or siblings but continued with my observations, and over the following weeks discovered that not only perspective but also light transgressed the rules. The effect this had on me is difficult to describe, but it was profound. I can only ask that you imagine yourself in a room with two objects, a table and a chair, and one light source, yet the shadow of the table contradicts the shadow of the chair, and as you cross the room you realize you cast no shadow at all!

Had I been a few years younger, I would have likely brought my findings to my parents' attention, and they would have soothed my fears with adult words and children’s stories, taken away my art books, and hugged me until the fog of desirable forgetfulness rolled in. Perhaps I even would have done so at the time, if not for another—far more sinister—experience.

For the first time, I transgressed the rules.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and after finishing my workday at the factory I took my usual route home, but instead of going inside to eat dinner and read one of my books by the fireplace, I walked past. Various buildings lined the street, some similar to ours, others resembling the factory, and others wholly different, and one-by-one I knocked on their doors.

No one answered.

When I was beyond sight of our home, the wind picked up. It was a chill and howling wind that seemed to originate in some impossibly distant and unknown place and which penetrated me to the marrow of my bones.

In my old state of mind, I would have turned back.

Now I persisted.

Despite walking for not more than half an hour, the sun began to set, and an unexpected, heavy darkness fell upon the street.

The street lights turned on.

But I saw how their illuminated cones sinned subtly against the natural laws of light.

It was night.

I was more scared than ever I had been on the street, and I knew that I was breaking a rule, but I thought, If reality itself can break the rules, why not I?

That's when I saw her:

A little girl strolling ahead, so innocent and tiny in the void between the buildings looming on either side of her. She wore a big backpack but was alone, and for reasons I cannot truthfully explain I knew immediately that she was not of the street but herself a stranger to it.

For a span of time, I walked behind her.

We walked in silence broken only intermittently by the wind.

Then I heard the first notes of a familiar melody, perhaps a passage from Strauss or Dvořák, and the girl heard it too, for she stopped and turned her body, first one way and then the other, to find where the melody was coming from, and it was in the very moment when she finally seemed to locate its source, a narrow alley between two buildings both so much resembling my family home, that I placed my own knowledge of the music: You pulled a string and the doll played a beautiful and enchanting melody.

The girl stepped toward the alley.

And on a wall opposite—

I saw—

The monster's shadow spill ominously across the darkened rocks and mortar:

a shadow without a light:

night obscured by something darker than itself

flowing across the cobblestones, following the girl into the alley.

The wind shrieked and fumed and—

Died.

And in the sudden stillness the street flickered.

I flickered.

Then a child's solitary scream pierced the stagnant air, echoing ever and ever fainter...

It was only when silence had returned that I found the courage to peer inside the alley. The girl was gone and there were no shadows, but resting peacefully on the ground I saw a backpack and a doll. I entered, knowing now what it was the washers searched for in the street, and sat down reverently beside the backpack as if it were a grave. It was filled with exotic clothing, strange books and many unfamiliar objects. Like the girl, they were not of the street. Although each subsequent second spent in the alley filled me with dread, I inspected the objects carefully in turn before returning to the backpack all but one, a book titled David Copperfield by Charles Dickens.

When I rejoined the street, evening had replaced the night.

The sun hung sullen above the horizon.

Making my way back home, I thought about what I had seen and felt, and realized for the first time that the street was false and hideous and his. It existed for him; we existed for him, working every day to aid him in his evil. I wanted to believe that my parents and siblings knew nothing of the monster’s crimes, but I could not. At best, I could attribute to them an ignorance stemming from a wilful lack of curiosity, a perpetual turning of the blind eye, but is that truly so different from knowing? At worst, they knew it all, in detail and forever, as in the factory they joyfully churned out lures with which the monster caught his prey as he and we travelled on the street round and round the world.

I had almost made it home when from behind I heard a sudden whining, as of ancient mechanical gears.

I turned in time to see the half-set sun spin.

Then two men spoke, but their voices came from without the heavens above the street, and they spoke a language I did not understand.

What happened next I still shudder to recall yet find myself unable properly to convey in words.

It was this: reality—by which I mean all I saw before me: the street, its buildings, the land and the sky—compressed, losing all depth, and became as if painted upon the face of a great cosmic wave, arising from non- into existence, and I, standing on an impossible shore, saw it curve and roll up reality, growing and roaring and approaching until it was a great tsunami!

Then down it crashing came, and I too was made flat and rolled.

I awoke in my own bed.

It was morning, and as I bounded down the stairs to the living room I noted that nothing was out of place or even slightly changed. I returned upstairs in a cold sweat, and perhaps would have considered it all a nightmare if not for Charles Dickens, whose David Copperfield lay closed atop my bed sheets. I slid shivering into bed, opened the covers and read my first unapproved book. I didn’t read it in one sitting, but I devoured it within a week, sometimes going over chapters again and again and imagining the world they described, which was not my world but which I was nevertheless convinced was the truth.

To my family, I was unaltered. But in my heart I knew I must escape the street.

I continued drawing and painting, but I no longer paid attention to the irregularities around me. Instead, I used my art as time alone to think. Indeed, it was while rolling one of my many painted canvases that I hit upon the idea of the street itself as a painted canvas, and that what I had experienced as the rolling of reality was akin to the rolling of a canvas. I thought about why I rolled my canvases (to keep them safe and to transport them) and with every new idea I felt not only the electricity of excitement but the birth of an escape plan. A canvas, I knew, had edges; the street might also have edges. A canvas was often shaped and aligned in a way to complement its content; the street might also be so aligned. Based on what I had experienced, I theorized that the street must have an end (else how could it be rolled?) but that it might be nearly infinitely long, so attempting to escape down its length would be impossible. What, however, of its width? For my entire life, I had lived on and along the street. I decided it was time I tried walking away from it.

I made my attempt three days later.

My mind was an amalgamation of fear and expectation as I cut into an alley much like the one in which the girl had disappeared, then pressed perpendicularly onward. I forbid myself from looking back, yet my imagination fabricated mental images of shadows in pursuit. I trudged past them, and some time later noticed that the details of the world around me were degrading into greyness, haze and an overall lack of sharpness and precision.

I felt like I had entered the background of a giant painting.

And then, over an ashen hill, I saw the dynamic, focussed colours and heard the absolute chaos of a mass of people and the living, breathing world—

Your world!

The real world!

I stopped short of crossing over, but I stared, mesmerized by its alienness.

Its brilliance and complexity took my breath away.

Much later, I identified one of the buildings I had seen as the Arch of Constantine, which proved to me that I had been in Rome.

But having seen its edge, I returned to the street. That had always been the plan. I had to know the edge existed before I could escape it, and as I stepped through the doors to my home, my parents and siblings flocking around me (I had been gone almost a week!) I made the decision to leave them behind forever. In those initial moments of love and excitement, as we embraced each other, I even tried to introduce them to a fraction of truth, a mere insinuation of doubt, but they would not have it. They scolded me and warned me and laughed at the suggestion that the street was not the world, and in the morning they went dutifully to work in the factory.

I packed my things and walked the street for the last time, wiping tears and feeling the weight of the task ahead: not only leaving the only home I had ever known, but learning to create a new one in a foreign world. I did experience a few moments of weakness during which I felt compelled to turn back, but I had only to remember the girl’s scream, and its still reverberating echoes. A sound like that never truly dissipates; it haunts the world eternal.

By the time I entered the background, the wind was picking up.

I knew that meant a rolling was imminent.

I sped up and spotted the edge just as the first corner of faux-reality bent upward.

This time there was no drama. I was already standing at the edge, between the blurred greyness of the extreme background and vivid energy of the real world, when the cosmic wave loomed threateningly above me. I closed my eyes and stepped—

onto a concrete sidewalk, like I have done countless times since. I was on a side road in downtown Pittsburgh, which may not sound as exciting as Rome, but you couldn’t have told that to my beating heart. Cars drove past, pedestrians avoided me while giving me the dirtiest looks, and I must have been wide-eyed and dumbstruck, with my hand on my chest, feeling the pounding of an unshackled vitality that you simply call life. Everything was new to me. I was terrified and exhilarated, and when I looked to see where I had come from, there was nothing. Pittsburgh continued in all directions.

I barely noticed, perhaps a hundred feet away, an unmarked, white delivery truck into which two men were shoving a rolled-up Armenian rug. When they spoke, I may not have understood their words but I recognized their voices. The only difference was that now the voices originated in the world I was in.

After maneuvering the rug into the truck, they got in and took off.

What a bizarre feeling it is to see your entire world thrown into a truck and driven off, like it actually was a rug to be delivered to someone’s living room. It makes you feel both otherworldly and small. Then you remember the monster, and the monster’s helpers who are your family, and you wish you had done something to stop that truck, because you feel that what to the rolled-up world was not of the street is right in front of you. The monster’s victims are as real as Pittsburgh, and he’s still out there, in a delivery truck somewhere, waiting for his street to be unrolled.

On the night when it all happened a young man called Smallmouth found himself in quite a pickle. He shivered and paced clumsily all over the second story porch of a cabin that used to be very nice, which overlooked a snowy down-sloping field that used to be kept up properly and carefully. He was already six packs deep into a carton of cigarettes he had bought only two days ago from a Casey’s General Store on his way up. He could recall the look on the young woman’s face at the register when he asked for a carton of Parliament Menthols, her eyes showing one blink of humorous surprise and another couple blinks of obvious concern, which faded to professional indifference as she rang in the sweet, icy killers. Smallmouth stopped his nervous dallying when he caught himself in the kitchen window; a large, shadowy figure sulking between the inside lights and the cold, almost glowing world downhill. His eyes still on his murky reflection, he patted his coat pockets for his seventh pack, pulling it out and smacking it against his left palm before cracking open and lighting it at his mouth. In a slow, warm flash, he could briefly see his own face in the window.

“Oh man, it’s bad” , he thought to himself.

He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard grew coarse and thick. A face that his mother had once called handsome had become a clean plate covered in steel wool. Well, maybe not so clean. Under and around his eyes were the obvious bruising of sleeplessness and his skin had lost its lively color and clarity of yesteryear.

“Ughhh” he groaned, turning away from the window to look over the porch and into the freezing, beckoning night.

The pickle that Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett found himself in involved his uncle, and his uncle’s evening logistics, to be precise. Smallmouth had been kicked out of his parents home on December 27th due to a slight misunderstanding at 2am when he believed the living room Christmas tree to be the downstairs bathroom. He had passed out on the couch after drinking a fire pit full of crushed Hamm’s cans and his brain tried desperately to get him up and to the nearby toilet. His little sister Stacy was tucked in fast asleep on a loveseat by the tree when she was brutally torn from her sugarplum dreams to hear the terrible hiss of Smallmouth’s folly. She screamed, the parents woke up, and, well, there you go. After well over three strikes, Smallmouth’s temporary residence had come to an end, and he was thrown to his mother’s brother’s cabin to dry up and straighten out before he could ever even be considered to return.

“You two deserve to live together. He can’t say no either because he owes me a lot more than this!” Smallmouth’s mother had screeched over him as he sat at the kitchen table the following morning with a cold bag of peas against his throbbing right temple. “You go there and you GET RIGHT!! I don’t care how long it takes just clean up your act and MAKE something of yourself! And for goodness sake tell Chuck to do the same, while he still has time!”

Yes, Uncle Chuck had his own shelf full of good time problems, and that’s what put Smallmouth in a bind tonight as he pondered over the white yonder that led to a black nothing, a black nothing that in the daylight pretended to be a forest. At night, it showed its true nature, an endless world of dark secrets and aching regret. At least that’s how Smallmouth saw it in this moment.

Chuck had gone down to the ranch he worked on for a New Years party with his work buddies. They liked to gather at the big barn where all of the vehicles and equipment were kept, sitting around a card table passing out stories about women and other trophy game that were either outright lied about or illegally poached. Oh, and they also liked to pass the bottle around. Therein lied the conundrum for Smallmouth.

Uncle Chuck was many things, but one thing he wasn’t was a drunk driver. Chuck’s wife Rebecca had been struck and killed by a drunk driver almost ten years ago when she was out jogging the back roads early one morning. Everyone assumed that’s what led him to his openly hard drinking and sneakily pill popping ways in the first place. For Chuck, most nights were kept at home, parked in front of a TV watching old westerns and cleaning out a full bottle of Wild Turkey 101 before snoring in his recliner. On the few nights he would go out, he would always call a ride if things got out of hand. As you can imagine, he tends to need a ride home.

“I should be home bout 11:30. Service ain’t so good up there near the barn so if it gets bout 11:15-11:20 and I ain’t home, go head and do me a favor and come grab me son.” Chuck had told Smallmouth before he left, closing the warped screen door behind him.

Smallmouth had spent the evening trying his best to stay entertained without the help of any chemical enhancement. His family’s anger and resentment really struck him and this time he was determined to truly get right and get his life back on the rails. He was 29 years old. He had gone through college clean as a whistle, bright and driven, receiving his MBA with plans to work his way up in a promising career in business. That worked for a couple years. Then he found a calling in ministry, deciding to quit the corporate world to fill an opening of a tiny country church in the area. They needed a deacon who could take care of things around the building and assist in the worship service. He wasn’t much for public speaking, haven been given the nickname Smallmouth at a young age due to his soft spoken nature, but he could pass plates and give a hushed prayer every now and then. He liked to mow and paint and help old ladies up the stairs. The quiet country life was really nice for him, for a while. Strange, radical ideas eventually spread through the church though, and half of its members left overnight to form their own congregation. Its funding cut in half, the church had to close its doors and the other members absorbed into other churches. Smallmouth rarely ever saw the people that had departed from the church, but rumors creeped that they met at an old abandoned building deep in the woods, performing all sorts of different acts and rituals that would purify themselves and destroy all evils. Nevertheless, Smallmouth was out of work and picked up shifts bartending at a small town dive. His soft fortitude was no match for the booze and drugs and women that would pass through there and soon he was out the door. That landed him mooching off of his parents, draining their sanity and eventually draining himself on their Christmas tree. The last strike.

So there he was all night, waiting up for uncle Chuck. He was two days clean of everything except caffeine and nicotine, a major improvement. He felt a major boost of hope and confidence the first morning after a sober nights sleep. He found the mornings to be the best parts of the day. At least he had coffee and cigarettes to get him out of bed. That would wear off quickly and the rest of the day was filled with trying to find distractions until the sun set about 5pm. Then he would watch a movie or two with Chuck. Last night he had been able to call it early and go to sleep at 7pm shortly after Chuck started sawing logs in front of True Grit (the original John Wayne version of course). Tonight he saw 7pm struggle and churn into 8…….8:13……..8:48……9:05……9:29………..9:31………9:52……..9:58……….10:11…….10:12 (oh cmon)……10:27…….10:56…….and finally 11:08. It was like the clock was a 35 year old four cylinder engine oiled with crunchy peanut butter. Now, crunch time sat in the cold air as Smallmouth finished his cigarette and stewed over his decision. He really didn’t feel like going down to the barn and getting Chuck, even though it was only a couple miles. In the infancy of his sobriety he found the smallest of choices and activities to seem dire and at the very least upsettingly out of his way. Surely Chuck can get himself home on his own, right?

“No. Who knows if someone’s Aunt Rebecca or grandmother or son is out there on the road tonight” he thought.

As much as he had tried to screw up his life, Smallmouth usually knew what the right decision would be, even if he so often refused to listen. It was there ever so clearly on this New Year’s Eve, wailing in the back row of his mind like a misbehaved child during a church sermon. Smallmouth left the porch and went inside to grab his keys.

He walked out to his truck, got in, cranked it, let it sit down to one rpm, and started down the gravel driveway, which led to the gravel county road that Chuck and his few and far between neighbors lived on. He got to the mailbox and suddenly shot his attention up the road, where headlights revealed themselves out of the deep dark. It was rare to see any cars this far down Chuck’s road. In fact, there were no other houses to the right of Chuck’s cabin, spare for a couple of empty ones that were condemned but were attached to a lot of forest property.

Smallmouth squinted his eyes as a large black Dodge Ram 3500 came barreling by with a livestock trailer. Even inside his own truck he could hear a terrible noise coming from that trailer. He recognized it instantly as a pig squeal.

“The hell?” He whispered as the truck and trailer tore down the road, going around a nearby corner and out of sight. He couldn’t guess what on earth that could be about at this hour, and especially since nobody lived down there anyway. He shrugged it off though, and turned left out of the driveway, headed for drunk Uncle Chuck down at the ranch.

Ten minutes and a couple of snowy country miles later Smallmouth found himself through the metal gate of the ranch and up to the main barn, where a couple of smiling ranch hands had Chuck held up between them just outside one of two closed garage doors. A lamppost nearby cast a glow of debauchery on all of their faces, especially Chuck’s. Smallmouth got out and walked up to them smiling and shaking his head.

“Well well well…” he said with a slight laugh.

“Your Uncle put on one hell of a clinic tonight ‘Mouth” one of the hands said.

“I…..I….I don’t know what they’re tawlkin bout son” Chuck slang out before a high pitched giggle.

“I got another couple rounds in me I thinks!”

Smallmouth laughed.

“Yeah I ain’t so sure about that uncle! Let’s get on home now and let these fellas get on too.”

“Y’alright alright” Chuck said as Smallmouth took him from his buddies arms into one of his own and led him to the passenger seat of his truck.

“Happy New Years boys!!! Let’s do it all again okay?” He hollered to his waving buddies as they drove back away from the barn and through the metal gate toward home.

“You have a good time Uncle?”

“Oh…ohhh…I reckon I showed those boys how to do it” Another childish giggle.

A light snow shower seasoned the cold air as the truck rolled down the gravel country road. In the yellow headlights it made a pleasant white noise for the eyes. Chuck put his hands up staggered and vertically, fingers together and outstretched, pointing out in front of the truck down the road like he was aiming up for a rifle shot. He closed one eye.

“Straight as an arrow ole son. You’re good at this.”

“I ain’t drunk pops” Smallmouth chuckled.

“Sure ya are. Everybody’s drunk son. Even people that ain’t drink. Ticket is to get drunk on good stuff” Chuck’s face calmed from a goofy grin as he kept his eyes out front into the slow swirling tube of visible night.

“You sound like you’re drunk on some pretty damn good stuff” Smallmouth retorted as they shared a look and a good laugh.

“Suppose’n you ain’t wrong. Gotta work on that just like you are. Proud o’ you for a couple days clean man. We’ll get right. We’ll get right. All I meant was that man is born to get drunk on somethin’ or other. What I mean is God. Man is born to get drunk on his God.” Chuck said as Smallmouth shot him a raised eyebrow look of confusion.

“Once God gets ya drunk then you’re home free ol’ son. That distillery is never ending eternal forever. That land flows with whiskey and honey.” They both shared another laugh.

“Okay okay I think I somewhat understand now Uncle.”

They rode in a few seconds of comfortable silence before Chuck put his hands up in an aim position down the road again.

“You know…man….man….man has a GOVERNOR…..you know that right?”

“A what? A governor?”

“That’s right a GOVERNOR…that’s right…a little bitty device in his brain that keeps him on the road…keeps him from turning right off into the dark. You ever hear that little voice that tells you you can turn off into the ditch…into oncomin’ traffic? Tells you you can shoot your buddy instead of the deer? That you can jump off the top of the building and onto the pavement when you’re up there enjoying the view?”

“I…uh…I don’t know…I mean maybe? Pretty sure those are intrusive thoughts and they’re normal.”

“Well whatever they are that’s what the governor is for. Keeps ya straight. Keeps ya from harmin nothin.”

“Alright man, alright.”

They pulled back into Chuck’s driveway and parked. Smallmouth helped his uncle out of the truck and up into the cabin, snow starting to color the roof and pile against the side of the house near the door. Arms locked Smallmouth propped open the screen door, opened the inner door, and led Chuck through the kitchen and to his bedroom. Chuck layed down on his camo comforter with a deep, long exhale.

“Ahhhh yes……yes” he whispered with a smile.

“I love ya son…I’m glad you’re heeeeere. Let’s get better….your mom needs it…..stay in the Lord’s light son…don’t let them devils get ya….let’s get better….lets….” He was off into the distant deep ether almost immediately, and his mouth hung open.

“Goodnight uncle…love ya too.” Smallmouth patted the bed twice before walking over and closing the bedroom door behind him.

He went and sat at the kitchen table. He regretted his behavior earlier in the night. How it pained him to have to stay up a little later to go help out his uncle.

“Cmon…” he whispered.

He agreed with Chuck. He was here to get better. To do better. Maybe Chuck was right. If he couldn’t get drunk off booze, it was time to pick something else to drink. Better things. Maybe even God? Smallmouth hadn’t paid much mind to God since his church job fell through. God surely hadn’t been there for him these last few years when he was at his lowest. Or was He there the whole time? Had Smallmouth just ignored Him? These things floated heavily in his mind and soon he realized he had been staring at the front door for several minutes. Had he even blinked? Then something else came to mind.

“Wait hold up”

That truck and trailer from earlier. What WAS that? He meant to bring it up to the ranch hands. They would’ve seen it come barreling down the road right by their front gate. Oh he wished he had brought that up to them. Oh well. It’s probably nothing. Smallmouth looked at the clock. 12:12.

“Happy New Year old boy.” He said to himself.

He sat for a moment in the warm kitchen light, his eyes not leaving the front door. Well, he’s up this late already, why not go run down and check on the abandoned properties?

No…no…it can wait. It’s probably nothing. Right?

Wrong. There’s that wailing kid in the back pew of his mind again. Come on kid can’t you just be quiet and listen to the sermon? No, no it can’t. It must be heard. Always. He knew he had to go check it out.

“Ughhhh FINE!” Smallmouth got up and grabbed his truck keys, patted to make sure his cigarettes were still there, and was out the door again.

As he pulled up to the edge of the drive, he stalled for a moment and peaked out as far to the right as he could down the dark road. Nothing. It wasn’t very far to the end of that road, where two out of service mailboxes should’ve stood in a small cul-de-sac if it weren’t for teenagers beating them to splinters. Can’t really blame them either. Smallmouth considered his plan. Whether or not that truck belonged to the landowner down there, he shouldn’t feel like he needs to sneak around. He is merely a concerned neighbor after all. He began down the road and around that same corner the stranger disappeared earlier.

After a couple of slow, curious minutes Smallmouth could see the evidence of a great big fire in the near distance, beyond where the road ended. Through the bare trees and against the snow it cast orange and red that could surely be seen a mile in every direction, that is, if there were anyone there to see it.

Slightly intimidated, Smallmouth decided to turn off his headlights and let the fire guide him as he slowed up to 5mph and gently crackled his last few yards of gravel up to the remnants of the nearest mailbox post. It seemed the fire was on the land of the farther property, whose mailbox posthole was about 30 feet from where he came to a stop and parked his truck. Smallmouth turned it off and quietly got out into the cold. He crouched down as he walked over to the farther driveway, getting down on one knee to give it a stealthy closer look.

The abandoned property boasted a busted up trailer that sat pitifully about 500 feet from the mailbox memorial. Beyond that was a good ten acres of field that ended at the forest edge, which marked the beginning of thousands of acres of wildlife refuge. As Smallmouth peered on, it was obvious that the fire was way out in that field, blocked by the old trailer, which wore the hot light and columns of smoke on it like a devilish crown. Given the cover, Smallmouth crept over to the trailer and started easing around the right side.

Rounding the corner he noticed a propane tank that would be perfect for hiding behind and getting the best look he could at the mysterious activity. He got down on his belly and crawled his way over to the tank, before sitting up and peeking slowly over the top and out into the field.

Way down there, a couple acres away from the tree line, was a huge fire, made up of about fifty wooden pallets. It raged and lit up the whole field like it was just the beginning of sunset. Somewhat near the fire was the black Dodge Ram 3500 and trailer. Smallmouth could see a group of people dressed in all red, as if covered in bloody bedsheets from head to toe, circled around a crude cage, seemingly fastened together by pieces of metal fencing. They stood still as the pines, and twice as silent. Smallmouth, in a rare moment of curious courage, decided he had to get closer. He got back on his stomach and began to crawl through the cold, knee high grass.

Using the fire light as his North Star he crawled and crawled, feeling his hands, clothes, and beard get wet with snow. He didn’t care. Something was up that wasn’t normal, wasn’t right. He could feel it in his cold gut. When he thought he was close enough without giving himself away he planted his palms and ever so slowly raised his torso up into a weak push up to try and see out. He was glad he didn’t go any further. He may have been too close already.

He was close enough to read the name of the truck and count the holes in the livestock trailer. There were seven strangers in red sheets all around the makeshift cage, all holding long spears. One of the figures had a crown of black thorns on his head. They all had two eyeholes and one hole for the mouth. They didn’t move a muscle for the longest time, before the Crowned One forcibly touched the end of his spear to the ground.

“Now is the time, Brother and Farmer Abraham…there is no more for us in waiting.”

Smallmouth had just noticed the passenger window to the black Dodge was down, and he could hear the driver door open and soon saw a normal looking older man in a ball cap at the back of the trailer. He was holding a leash of some sort. He opened up the trailer and whistled into the dark of it. After a couple of loud, heavy thuds a gigantic, and I mean GIGANTIC Yorkshire pig came slowly shrugging out of the trailer. It was light pink in color but filthy, and gave wet sounding oinks as it came to the man’s hands expecting food. The thing must’ve weighed 1500 pounds, and at least ten feet long. It actually had to lower its head to reach the man’s hands, its ears coming up to the man’s chest. Smallmouth couldn’t believe his eyes. The man reached in his pocket and revealed a handful of some type of feed, which he tossed on the ground at the pig. It started right in as the man fixed a collar on the pigs girthy neck, then attaching a leash. The pig gave a slight squeal.

“Good girl, good girl…cmon now” the man called Farmer Abraham sweetly coaxed the animal. He gave his end of the leash a tug and the monstrous swine reluctantly left its food and followed the man over close to the Crowned One. The fire raged and raged nearby, throwing crazy shadows all over the place.

“What have you brought us, Brother and Farmer Abraham?”

“Yeah, uh, this is Old Azazel, she’s been in my family for years, man.”

The Crowned One dropped his spear and knelt down to the jowls of the hog, the dark holes of his eyes meeting those of the animal. The other red cloaked figures remained statuesque around the cage.

“Ah, yes, Old Azazel, hello. You are to be of great importance in the history of the Earth tonight, old friend.”

The Crowned One got back up to address Brother and Father Abraham, who seemed obviously put off, yet submissive.

“And is this Old Azazel a natural specimen? Is it fed only of the earth and the filths therein?”

“Yessir, I’d reckon so.”

“This is necessary for a proper sacrifice, Brother and Farmer Abraham. You may only bring your best, your cleanest, your most dear to the alter of the Almighty.”

“I understand.”

“May I take her now?”

The farmer gave his end of the leash to the black gloved left hand of the Crowned One. The Crowned one stood with it for almost a full minute in total stillness and silence. The only noise Smallmouth could hear was the sloppy smacks and oinks from Old Azazel. The farmer anxiously waited, wringing his hands expecting the next move from the Crowned One.

“Turn away, Brother and Farmer Abraham. Turn away from us and toward the fire now.” The Crowned One finally spoke.

“Phew, alright. We’re still good on our deal? Do you still promise to make my little girl better? Like you said?” The farmer asked, with some hopeful desperation.

“Turn now.”

“Well okay” the farmer turned his back to the Crowned One and toward the fire.

“I can assure you with all of the knowledge in my mind and in my heart, you will never see your daughter sick again in this lifetime, Brother and Father Abraham. You may find peace and solace in this truth.”

The farmer nodded in relief as he looked upon the fire. Smallmouth, taking it all in with great confusion, could see a smile on the farmers fire lit face, and turned back to the Crowned One just in time to see him reach under his red garment and pull out a pistol and shoot a round into the back of the farmers head, blowing his cap off, which frisbeed down near his shaking, crumpled body. Old Azazel threw a fit immediately, screaming and trying her best to flee. The Crowned One held the immense beast with one hand, and with seemingly little effort. The other red clothed figures finally made noise, laughing deep and heartily around the cage. The Crowned One, keeping Old Azazel close, walked over to the doubled over farmer, putting two more bullets into his head, essentially hollowing it out into a carnal mess. The farmers shaking mercifully stopped.

Smallmouth had to slam his forearm up to his mouth to muffle the scream that would’ve come out and blown his cover. His eyes were flown wide open and his arms were shivering.

The Crowned One put the pistol back under his red cloak and led the great pig, still squealing as high pitched and piercing as the human ear can withstand, over to the mouth of the cage, which was opened by the nearest red clothed stranger. Old Azazel flew in to the cage, having been unleashed by The Crowned One. It struggled around the cage, which was no bigger than 15x15 feet, giving it no room to get comfortable. It circled the inner perimeter, showing impressive speed for such a large animal. It squealed and squealed. The sound stung Smallmouths ears, and he covered them with his hands. He was still out of sight in the tall grass. The Red People around the cage laughed and laughed at the hogs entrapment. The Crowned One raised a hand to signal silence. The Red People were still and quiet again.

“Now, my brothers, the sacrificial gift is in our possession. Tonight…is a HOLY NIGHT.” The Crowned One raised his voice as if getting to the climax of a fire and brimstone sermon.

“TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY WHAT WAS ONCE CAST OUT BUT NEVER VANQUISHED!! WE WILL RID THE EARTH OF A GREAT ARMY!! AN ARMY OF HELL THAT HAS FAR TOO LONG ROAMED AND SICKENED OUR LANDS AND KILLED OUR LOVES!! TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY THE DESTROYERS…THE LEGION OF SATANS SOLDIERS BORN JUST AFTER THE GARDEN OF EDEN FELL…”

The Crowned One fell to his knees, his arms up and stretched toward the frozen sky. A mighty wind began blowing at Smallmouths back. He had to lower his head as it roared over him. After a moment it calmed and he was able to lift up again to see. Winds from all corners of the field met at the cage, swirling over it in a great snowy funnel that led up to the clouds. Old Azazel screamed and screamed from the cage.

“I SEE YOU VILLIANS!! I HEAR YOU HOSTS OF HELL!! I KNOW YOU LIVE IN THESE TREES!! I KNOW YOU COWER WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!! SHOW YOURSELF!! TAKE THE BODY OF THIS ANIMAL THAT I HAVE SET BEFORE YOU!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW AND FACE ME!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE I-“

The Crowned One’s vocal cord shredding performance was cut short by a single burst of black lightning that shot down from the middle of the snowy funnel cloud that surrounded the cage. The Crowned One and all the Red People were thrown several feet back from the blast. Thunder immediately exploded across the field. Smallmouth buried his face as the force and sound raced over him. Ears ringing, he kept his face down for a few seconds. He squinted back up to the strike zone.

The strange black lightning had blown the cage completely apart. Two of The Red People had been hit with the metal fencing. One laid motionless. The other gargled in pain as he put a hand to the pole that was sticking out of his sternum, having penetrated all the way through. His legs buckled and he fell forward, the end of the pole hitting the ground first and propping him up for a moment, before his body slowly slid down to the ground around the metal. He went silent. The other four Red People, yelling in surprise, gathered themselves, looking to the charred hole in the ground where Old Azazel should be, right in the center where the cage used to stand. The Crowned One got to his feet and picked up his spear.

“My brothers, gather your arms…” the Crowned One whispered, breathing heavily under his red cloak.

“The work is not over…”

The four remaining Red People grabbed their spears and slowly walked over to the burnt, smoking hole, holding an attack pose over it until further instructions were given.

“Are you with us, you age old tormentors?” This was the first time Smallmouth could hear fear in the tired voice of the Crowned One.

“Are you with us now? Are you ready to die, you infernal bastards? Are you ready to-“

The Crowned One was interrupted by a booming noise from the hole that tore Smallmouths wits to shreds. It was similar to the cry of Old Azazel, but octaves deeper and ten times louder and angrier. It was as if a freight train was blaring its horn and slamming its brakes at the same time.

“NOW MY BROTHERS!! STRIKE THE BEAST OF HELL WITH YOUR SPEARS! NOW!!!”

The Red People all threw their weapons down into the smoking hole. The hellish noise from within stopped in an instant. The Red People crowded closer to the edge of the hole, waiting for the smoke to clear. The Crowned One walked over to them, putting his black gloved hand on the shoulder of the nearest man.

“Oh, Brothers. Oh my dear, dear Brothers. Your acts tonight have rid the earth of a Great and Powerful Evil…”

Before he could continue, a fully enraged and re-inspired bellow thrust itself up and out of the hole like a rusty serrated blade. Much, much louder and angrier than before. The Red People were taken aback in terror. Suddenly, from within the hole, a large head emerged and gaped a huge, disgusting, tusked maw up at the crowd. The head was burned black and its eyes were half boiled white and without pupils. It shrieked out that most terrible noise as if it didn’t need oxygen.

“There’s no way” Smallmouth heard himself say under his breath.

All in one motion, the beast leaped out of the hole, and turned to face its attackers. It was Old Azazel, except swollen with burnt mass. It appeared to have grown a half a size at least. Three spears stuck out of its sizzling, charcoal colored back. It snapped its gigantic jaws at the Red People, who shuddered in horror. The Crowned One spoke:

“DO NOT RELENT BROTHERS!! ATTACK!! ATTACK THE BRUTE!!”

He pulled his pistol back out of his cloak and fire the remaining three rounds on the new and horrible black burnt Old Azazel. The beast’s cloudy boiled egg eyes shot open along with its unnaturally stretched jaws. It took the three bullets as if they were tennis balls. At the speed of a charging grizzly and with multiple times the power Old Azazel raged over to The Crowned One and dove onto him tusks first, putting both front hooves on his chest as he was knocked down. The Crowned One cried out in a shockingly high pitched wail, like a man being electrocuted. The Beast hooked its black tusks into his pectorals and bit right into the soft of his belly, and began to shake him around like an Orca trying to separate a seal from its pelt.

“OH GOD!!!! AHHHHHH GOD OHHHHH!!! HELP ME!!!! NOOOO!!!! OH GOD HELP ME!!!! MAMA!!!! OHHHH!!! MAMA!!!!!”

The beast ate and ate and shook and shook and tore and broke and destroyed while the Crowned One lost more and more of his body, all while crying out to the sky at the top of his punctured lungs. The other Red People sprinted to the black Dodge Ram, opened its doors and piled inside. Smallmouth heard it crank up and it began to speedily turn around and race away from the fire and back toward the road. The beast unhooked from the Crowned One and let out another ghastly roar of victory before biting into his neck, ending his screaming forever. The beast then left his half devoured body and began a tremendous and terrible charge after the truck, which was greatly slowed down by the trailer. Smallmouth put his face down as the beast passed him by only about 10 feet on its way to the truck, which had just made it back to the road and was using every RPM possible to get away from the demon charged killing machine on its heels. Smallmouth turned around to watch both parties disappear down the road, the echoes of that great and evil blasting noise stabbing his ears again. He remained on his stomach in the tall, snowy grass for another two minutes as he normalized his breath and tried to make any sense of what he just witnessed.

Eventually he slowly rose up and looked to make sure that terrible thing was indeed out of the area. No signs of life or death from up at the road. The danger was at least a couple miles away by now. Smallmouth then turned back toward the fire and to the dominated body of the Crowned One. He carefully walked up closer and closer. To his amazement he heard wheezy noises coming from the emptied out torso of the man, a scattering of insides and flesh and blood strewn all around him. Troubled, rattling breaths escaped from under the red clothed head, whose crown of thorns had flown off in the attack. Most of the red cloak had been ripped to shreds, and all that remained covered were his shoulders and above. The cloth slowly ebbed and flowed with breath. Smallmouth could not believe this man was still alive. His entire digestive system was eviscerated and his ribs were exposed. Smallmouth knelt down beside him and lifted his cloak over his head to let him at least breathe his last in the open air.

Smallmouth let out a gasp. This man had a face that Smallmouth knew very well. He recognized him immediately from the old church he worked at. The clean shaven face. The short, silver hair. The sharp nose. This was a man that had joined his church two weeks before the schism. He never spoke in church but it was rumored he would meet at the homes of different members and try to sway them to his strange ideas. He was the one rumored to have led the radical faction somewhere in the middle of the woods. To Smallmouth, it was all starting to make more sense.

“I know you,” Smallmouth said softly, “I know who you are. You tore a church in half didn’t you? You’re the crazy guy that split up my ole church! What the hell have you done?”

The man struggled to breathe and tried his best to spit up a couple of words. His neck had deep lacerations that flowed with escaping life.

“I…I…I…uhh…I only…I only…I only did what I believed…” he whispered before a wet, stifled breath.

“What did you do?!!!” Smallmouth grew angry, and his voice followed suit. This man had ruined his job and now he had unleashed something horrifying on his neighborhood. He had tampered with things that man has no business tampering with.

“I…I…I have…have…I have failed, Smallmouth Bassett” the man croaked. Smallmouth couldn’t believe he had bothered to remember his name.

“I have failed. I have failed. God help you all…” with that the man’s face fell and he let out one last slow exhale before all was still.

Smallmouth got back on his feet and looked away from the dead man and toward the fire, which towered and raged in the reflection of his eyes.

“Oh no…oh no…oh no” he said in between terrified breaths.

Then another though hit him like a wrecking ball.

“Uncle Chuck…”