PART 1

"Inquisitor... Reyes..." 

My eyes snap to the corner of the room, heart pounding like gunfire. 

A voice. 

I heard a voice just now, one that came from those shadows beyond my island of light. I’m certain of it. Only I’m alone in here, aren’t I? I’ve been alone since the Overseer left, since he locked the door, and if something else was in here, I would’ve noticed it. 

Movement. 

It’s faint, blending with the gloom, but my ears catch what my eyes can’t: a creak like cold timber, a rustle of brittle cloth. Something steps forward. It’s tall, inhumanly so. Its matchstick form is hunched over, neck craned flush against the ceiling, two pale orbs gleaming in the center of its skull. 

Christ – it’s watching me. 

Terrified, I stumble backward. 

I thought I could do this. I really did, but standing here now, I realize how out of my depth I truly am. My legs are trembling. So are my hands. It’s taking everything I have not to lose control of my bladder, not to make a mess all over the floor and leave this place in a bodybag stained with my own piss. 

My gaze swivels to the emergency console. 686. That’s what the Overseer told me to dial, do that and he’ll send in a whole platoon to pull me out of this bad dream. 

Here goes nothing. 

I move for the terminal, but so does the shadow.

It’s faster – practically a streak of limbs, two legs skittering as though they were twelve. “Tsk tsk….” it breathes, blocking the security terminal from view. “Inviting friends? We’ve only just said hello…”

It’s closer now – close enough to the lonely bulb that I can make out the gauntness of its cheekbones, the brittle crop of hair sprouting out from its bulbous forehead. My mouth goes dry. There’s something familiar about this creature, something haunting in ways I can scarcely describe. 

“Do you recognize me?” the monster rasps, in a voice that sounds like somebody shoved broken glass down my throat. “Most people do…”

It stops at the edge of the table. 

My jaw falls open. 

What I’m gazing at can’t be real. This monster is me – but it isn’t. It’s a grotesque, deformed approximation. It’s my face. My body. Only the proportions are all wrong, all stretched and crooked. Its teeth are rotten, its skin pallid and taut. Its jaw hangs at an unnatural angle, almost like it’s been dislocated, while its eyes are missing entirely – replaced by unnerving orbs glinting with pale white hunger. 

“What are you?” I croak, backing up against the exit. 

Laughter. 

The way it sounds is carved up, like joy tossed into a blender set to puree.  “Surely you know,” it rattles, a trio of tongues slipping across its lips. “We have an appointment, do we not?”

There’s no way. 

The door’s locked tighter than Alcatraz. My Subject wasn’t schedule to arrive until I’d finished briefing myself – until I’d had sufficient time to review their dossier and build a profile. My hands ball up into fists. Could it be that Shallow Sam was here all along, lurking just beyond my periphery?

“Subject 34…?” I venture with uncertainty. 

It taps at its caved-in nose with the ghost of a smile. “Indeed. Though I must say, I greatly prefer the other moniker your ilk bestowed upon me…”

“Shallow Sam,” I whisper.

Its smile widens, a parade of rotting teeth where my own should be. “Yes. That’s the one. It’s so much more… intimate, wouldn’t you agree?”

Panicking.

That’s what I’m doing right now. A stress migraine’s forming near my temples while my thoughts are spiraling faster than a hurricane. This is a disaster. I’m entirely outmatched here, totally unarmed with not even a handful of datapoints to help light my path to survival. The only thing I actually know about this monster is that it turned its last victim inside out – that and it wrote my name in their entrails. 

My eyes widen.

Jesus. Is that why I’m here, then? Is that why my supervisor offered me this promotion on such short notice? All to see what this monster wanted from me? 

I’m a goddamn fool. 

It isn’t S34 being interrogated tonight – it’s me. 

I wheel around, grip the door handle. Heave with all I have. But it won’t budge – of course it won’t, the stupid thing weighs about a million pounds. That Overseer really did lock me in here. Bastard! No doubt he was in on this too…  

A screech of metal on concrete. 

Sam pulls out a chair, squats down in it with its stick legs bent up toward its chest. Its head lolls to the side, almost like its neck were made of rope. “Oh yes,” it says, almost regretful. “You’ll find this chamber to be quite inescapable – I’ve already tried.” It reaches across the table with an arm the length of the equator, grips my empty chair. Swivels it to face me. “Sit, won’t you?”

Like hell. 

My eyes are buzzing like mosquitos, scanning the room for some way out of this. Sam’s between me and the security terminal, but that can’t be my only option. Contingency. What’s my contingency?

There’s a glint in the corner of my eye, and I narrow my gaze. Glass. I’m staring up into the corner of the ceiling at a glass lens. 

Yes – that’s it!

The cameras. If I can indicate to the operators that I’m in distress, then they’ll send an extraction team for me and…

Wait. What was it the Overseer told me as he was leaving?

Don’t count on the cameras to save your skin. I wouldn’t trust the operators monitoring them to microwave my lunch.

Dammit. 

Sam taps the chair with a jagged fingernail, its voice cut with impatience. “I thought I told you to sit? You’re in danger of offending me, Inquisitor...”

Dread is building in my throat. It doesn’t seem like I’ve got much for options, so I’ll just have do as the monster says – at least for now. Have a chat. Use the opportunity to try and get a signal out to the assholes in the control room on the off-chance they’re doing their damn jobs. 

“Fine,” I breathe, stalking back to my seat in trembling unease. “W-What do you want from me?” 

February 11th, 1992:

There was someone missing last night, and it worried me. Worried a lot of my sisters, too.

It was a half-moon, so we had all met up in the glade. Just like we had done hundreds of times before, we made a circle around mother. But someone was missing.

In the eight years we’ve been looping, no one’s ever been missing.

Hard to say who, for a lot of reasons. But we all could see it. Somewhere in the circle, there was an empty spot.

We looked to mother for guidance. From her place in the ground, she glimmered and spun and her eyes became a violet color.

Mother implored us to loop, as we were already behind schedule.

All of the sisters joined hands, save whoever was missing. The girls next to the empty spot had to stretch their arms to complete the circle.

When we all took one step left, there was the red flash. Same as there always is, and then I was alone in the glade.

My flesh parents looked slightly different when I got home. Same with my room, my dog. Everything was slightly different, so I guess the loop went okay.

Mother will be happy.

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

February 18th, 1992:

It was a normal week, thankfully. My flesh grandfather caught me sneaking in after last week’s loop. I told him it was a pretty night, and I couldn’t sleep, so I wanted to get some fresh air outside.

He’s always been very fearful of me. Sometimes I think he can see my latticework, and that he might know and remember some of my sisters. The sisters that had been in this thread before me.

No one else seems to notice but him.

I can tell because sometimes he has to shield his eyes when he looks at me. My flesh parents think he is just getting old, but I know it's my latticework shining.

So, when he caught me sneaking in, I was concerned he might do something strange because he was scared. But he could barely even look at me, I was too bright. He closed his eyes and gestured blindly towards the stairs without saying anything, so I’m assuming he just wanted me to go to bed.

There were even more sisters missing tonight. Hundreds of thousands by mother’s measure.

Mother shone and gleamed for a very long time. It reassured us, but it didn’t make it any easier to join hands. We all had to grow our arms to make the circle.

But we were still able to take one step to the left, conjoined. The red flash happened too, but it was dimmer somehow.

Still, things were slightly different at home, which was a good sign. I didn’t get caught sneaking in this time, either.

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

February 25th, 1992:

This week was a nightmare.

I’ve been in a lot of pain. All of my muscles ache and tickle and shake by themselves. Sometimes I’ve seen my sisters in the mirror. They look like they’re in pain too, which makes me want to cry.

Then, on Wednesday, I woke up in the middle of the night with an extra pain on my shoulder, sharp like the time I stepped on a nail.

Something was wriggling around where I was having the extra pain. I thought I had been bitten by a worm. But when I grabbed the worm and pulled, it didn’t come off. It was stuck and part of me.

That’s when I felt a fingernail.

I think it was one of my sister’s pinky fingers.

I made sure none of my flesh family found out about the finger. Thankfully, its winter. I covered it with heavy jackets.

When I got to the glade, there were even more sisters missing. The ones that were there had pain and growths, too. Teeth through the forehead like scales. Some of their bellies looked way too big and had heartbeats. One sister had two or three necks; it was hard to tell how many for sure.

Mother looked very tired. She didn’t have much to say.

When we looped, something went terribly wrong. I heard a lot of screaming and yelling.

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

March 4th, 1992:

I think my flesh grandfather has been talking to my flesh parents and everyone else in town about me.

They all look at me so strange. They don’t shield their eyes like they can see my latticework, but their expressions seem anxious and evil. It’s hard to explain.

My muscles don’t ache as much anymore, but I can feel a peculiar wrongness wherever I step. It’s made it hard to move, like the entire world is jell-o. Everything is wobbly.

When I tried to go to the glade, my flesh grandfather stopped me. He had been hiding in the dark, waiting for me to try to leave the house. He asked me all sorts of rude questions, like why I was born so wrong. I tried to run past him, but he blocked my path.

I haven’t wanted anybody to touch me this week. Everything has been too wobbly. My latticework feels very sticky. I warned him not to come close.

When I put my hand to his face to push him away from touching me, some of him stuck to me. Parts of his eyes and his mouth came off into my palm. He screamed, from himself and from my hand. I really don’t like the feeling of his eyelids blinking in my palm.

I ran past him after that. Thankfully, I was wearing my backpack, which is where I keep my journal.

At the glade, all of my sisters looked like they were in bad shape as well. They all had issues with their flesh grandfathers, too.

Mother said she needed to go for a while, but that we would be okay if we stuck together, like a family. She also told us it's important that we sleep for a while.

The world might be different when we wake up, she said. More different than we’re used to. We were never supposed to be together like this. It’s unnatural. But mother also said we’d never be separated again, which made us all happy, despite the pains.

As much as I like the things I’ve lived with, we’re not very much alike anymore. Not after the change and meeting my true mother. It's lonely when I'm not at the glade.

Since I don’t have time to say goodbye, and I might not remember the same when I wake up, I’m leaving this journal here.

I can hear people in the woods looking for me, and they sound angry, so I am hurrying.

Whoever finds this, please deliver it to 191 Fairmount Avenue in Tributary, Vermont. It will be the house with all the chimes on the front porch. My original mother's name is Avery.

-Arora

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Discovery date: June 19th, 1999. Approximately 0.2 miles from the epicenter. Analysis pending.

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Related Stories: Declassification Memo: Mass Disappearance of Tributary, Vermont - 1992, The Inkblot that Found Ellie Shoemaker, Claustrophobia, Earworms, Last Rites of Passage, May The Sea Swallow Your Children - Bones And All

other stories: https://linktr.ee/unalloyedsainttrina

There were exactly four corvids at Jude’s funeral.

“Shoo!” I shrieked, waving the sympathy flowers that had been shoved in my hands. I hated flowers and I hated crows. The birds didn't move, perched on a tree branch. I didn't have the energy to scream at them, and I wasn't going to ruin Jude’s memory.

I had always hated crows. They carried disease and freaked me out.

I didn't want them anywhere near my boyfriend's funeral.

Yet there they were, a foreboding presence looming above me.

Jude disappeared six months ago along with his friends. It was a camping trip, and I was supposed to go too. His body was never found, but his car was.

The police identified 'certain bodily fluids' which could only be blood, and my boyfriend was pronounced dead.

When I was on my knees, choking on my goodbye, a corvid hopped off of the branch and landed on the grass.

It cocked its little head, beady dark eyes landing on me. I couldn't help it.

Getting to my feet, I rushed at the bird, flailing my arms. I grabbed a pebble.

Before I could throw it, though, my father wrapped his arms around me.

The stupid bird stood very still.

Watching me.

I narrowed my eyes.

This thing was stalking me.

When I started forwards in a run, it came down fast, violently, pulling the scarf wrapped around my neck.

Unbelievably, it didn't run away. Instead, perching itself several feet away.

Like it knew I was watching, and it knew it would be pissed.

"Go!" I finally snapped, throwing a larger rock. "Leave me alone!"

On the way back from school the next day, I could sense it in the corner of my eye, a shadow swooping behind me, hopping from tree to tree.

“Mina.”

The voice startled me.

Twisting around, I felt my knees buckle.

Jude.

His voice was in perfect clarity.

“Mina!”

This time, it came from above.

When I tipped my head back, there it was, staring at me with beady eyes.

The little corvid that would not leave me alone.

But it's voice was familiar, and part of me splintered.

Something warm expanded in my chest when it spoke again. This time, softer, like it was reassuring me. “Mina.”

When the bird hopped down to my feet, I found myself dropping to my knees, tears trickling down my cheeks.

The corvid cocked its head, it's beak twitching.

I reached out with trembling hands, and to my surprise, it let me pat its head, it's wings twitching when I tickled its back.

“Help… me.” It whispered, my boyfriend's voice twisted into a wail.

Something ice cold crept its way up my throat.

“Mina. Help me. It's so… dark.”

It spoke again, but this time, his words repeated.

"Help... me. It's so... dark. Help me."

His voice was like footprints in the sand.

When the bird flew off, I catapulted into a run, stumbling over myself.

The corvid led me all the way back home, swooping through the kitchen window, and landing directly in front of my basement door.

I opened it, and the bird hopped down each step, white light leading me down spiral stone steps.

Clinical white walls greeted me.

Dad was a veterinarian, so our family basement was filled with animal cages and observation beds.

There were four in total, but they were too big to be for animals.

The bird hopped in front of a human sized bed, one covered in a blanket.

A human lump.

Blood pooled over the side, black feathers covering the floor.

The corvid hopped onto the lump, its tiny head twitched in my direction.

Another corvid swooped in, this time dropping something from its beak.

My head twisted around, finding three other human lumps in the corner of the room.

The second crow neatly presented me what it had caught.

Car keys, I thought dizzily.

Jude’s car keys– that were never found, along with his body.

“Please.” My boyfriend's voice was a soft croak.

The bird nudged the lump, and I found myself getting closer, grasping the dirty blanket hiding my father's filthy secret.

I only had to see thick brown hair, and a limp arm for me to jump back with a cry.

The corvid lightly danced across the lump, like it was lost, confused, terrified.

“Help... me.”

Being a custodian at a hospital was something I never aspired to do. I actually wanted to be a nurse, but life had other plans. Long story short, I never finished college. Now I mop the floor on the night shift as I watch others living out my dreams. It's not all bad though, I like being here. The sights. The sounds. I find myself daydreaming, picturing myself in those scrubs, starting IVs, hell, even changing bedpans. I've always felt that I was meant to be here, even if I was just the lowly housekeeper. But that dream was very rudely uprooted a few days ago. Now I hate this place.

The hospital is pretty quiet at night. Well, at least compared to the normal hustle and bustle of the dayshift. You could say that this place runs on a skeleton crew of sorts, only essential personnel are roaming the halls. 'Essential', the word makes me laugh. I don't have any delusions about my role in this place. I know my job is important but I have no doubt that I would be replaced in a heartbeat if it came down to it. It doesn't take a genius to take out the trash, but it's my job and I do it diligently. Everything on my to-do list gets checked off with as much precision as a surgeon's hand. When I leave, the toilets' white porcelain glistens under the bright fluorescent light. Every trash can is empty and ready for the next day's fill. The halls smell of fresh lemon-scented cleaning solution. It is my calling card and I make sure people notice. This diligence has earned me the recognition of the nurses, who always praise me for my hard work. It feels good to be recognized, and to show my gratitude I make sure I recognize them as well.

I know every single person who works in the hospital by name, it's the least I can do for the people who work their asses off day and night to keep our patients alive. I greet everyone with a smile and ask them about their shift, their families, and their problems. This goes for the new hires as well. I greet them warmly, welcome them to the crew, and politely introduce myself. This was the story when I ran into a new face I'd never seen here before.

I was cleaning the women's locker room when I heard the sound of a locker door slamming against metal. It was strange to have someone in there with me. The reason I cleaned the locker room at this time of night is because it's between shift changes. Being the nosey person that I am, I swept the floors in the direction of the sound. When I reached the line of lockers where the noise came from I tried acting surprised when I saw a woman putting on her scrub top. Her back was toward me and I don't think she heard me sneak up behind her when I casually gave her my 'Oh, Hi.' greeting. Her back tensed and I saw this eerie wave wash down her spine. I apologized for scaring her and expected whoever this was to turn and laugh about the near heart attack I'd just given them, but the woman remained still, for the most part. I looked down at her hands and her fingers were sporadically and independently crawling, it was as if she was quietly clawing at the air. I recognized this as a sign of anger and it occurred to me that I may have startled her into rage, some people don't take kindly to jumpscares.

I apologized again telling her that I didn't expect to find someone else in here with me. Her fingers stopped scratching and her shoulders relaxed. Her head swiveled and I caught a glimpse of her side profile, I didn't recognize the face. She looked young maybe around mid-twenties. Despite her youth, there were a few wrinkles between her brows. She was angry, this primal blood thirst swimming in her eye. Slightly taken aback by her rage and somewhat embarrassed by my action I took a step back. The woman faces forward before turning around and pointing her clogs at me. To my relief, she was smiling, though my suspicions were correct, this was a face I didn't know. I blinked the surprise away and extended a hand.

"Oh, hello are you new here?" I said awaiting her cordial shake. But instead of reaching for my hand, she studied it for a second, quizzically twisting her head, before timidly grasping my palm. Her fingers sequentially met the back of my hand and she squeezed just a bit too hard.

"New?" She mulled the word over like a bitter morsel. When she swallowed it, she bared her teeth in what looked like a smile but was more comparable to an animalistic display. A warning. 'Tread lightly', the smile signaled. I tried pulling my hand away but she didn't let me.

"New? Newish. I used to work here. A long time ago."

She immediatly let go of my hand and the impression left behind on my skin began refilling with a red tinge. I was uncomfortable with the woman's conflicting emotions and politely but waryly eyed her from a safe distance. Thinking of what to say to break the tension I blurted out a random question, a repeated question.

"You used to work here?" The question came with a giggly undertone, I laugh when I'm nervous. The woman retracted her teeth but still had her lips curled.

"Once upon a time." Her response also came with a giggle, only hers was a teasing mimic of my own. Though her laugh lingered long after what is considered appropriate. It started as a hiccupping chuckle and slowly built up to a crazed cackle but as quickly as it started her laugh stopped. Our eyes locked in this unspoken joust. There was something uncanny about her stare. Her eyelids peeled back, irises floating precariously on their white backdrop. The muscles in her face started going slack and I backed away.

"Well, it was nice meeting you."

She never responded, or rather I didn't wait for a response. I lost her behind the wall of lockers but her emotionless laugh regained its full voice and followed me out. When the locker room door slammed shut I heard her voice slowly muting away before... nothing. There was an inexplicable feeling of dread that filled my heart. I looked down at my hands to find them trembling.

'Why am I shaking?' I really didn't know. I guess it was the fact that I had this premonition of impending doom. Like something bad was going to happen. As if the woman's stare had marked me somehow. As if she was still watching me.

I caught a glimpse of someone down the hall. At an intersection stood a nurse. The same nurse. She was watching me, scowling. My heart fluttered in fear. Without warning the nurse disappeared down the intersecting corridor and I was alone. Eerily, alone.

It was sometime before I saw that nurse again, weeks in fact. I was so weirded out by the situation that I even asked around about her. As I made my way through the hospital's wings I would casually ask the people working in those departments about the new hire. Most of them would say that there was nobody new working in that department, not on the night shift anyway. They would ask for a name but since I didn't know it I was at a loss. Occasionally, the staff told me about a new nurse matching the description I'd given them, but when I snooped around to catch a glimpse, the nurses were never the one I was looking for... or trying to avoid. I really don't know which. I'd just about given up and assumed that the woman was working the day shift.

'Good riddance.'

But one day as I was cleaning the halls of the pediatric ICU, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone standing at the glass that looked into the nursery. She was sobbing. Her breaths came in arbitrary spurts that fought back a mountain of emotion. I tried giving her space, avoiding my eyes, and letting her cry in peace. But there was a strange familiarity in her voice. It suddenly clicked. The woman's sobs had the same tone as the nurse I'd seen in the locker room, and sure enough, when I lifted my eyes there she was, wiping away the tears that streamed from her cheeks. I froze in place, and as I did the woman's fingers grazed along the window. In the absence of my mop's slosh, the woman twisted her gaze toward me, her neck following closely behind.

She was different. Not saying that this wasn't the nurse I'd seen in the locker room, but she'd somehow gotten older, more sickly. The right side of her face had lost its firm structure and now drooped down as if she'd suffered a stroke at some point between the last time I saw her and now. One of her arms had almost shriveled up and clung precariously to her chest, it looked grotesquely underdeveloped. When our eyes met, we stared at each other for a second before her lips parted to let out the pain inside her throat. She was missing teeth, and the ones she did have were rotten, black, and yellow. The reek of decay drifted out of her mouth and filled the air with the pungent odor of death. I covered my nose and fought back a gag.

The woman lifted her good hand and pointed to the nursery. Her attention returned to the incubators inside. I hesitated to let my eyes drift away, but when I heard a baby start crying, my curiosity got the better of me. I took a few steps forward and peered into the nursery. It was empty, mostly. One lone baby lay inside one of the incubators, tubes sprouting from its face, needles feeding its little legs, and its chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. A little boy by the looks of it, the blue beenie on its head giving it away. It was one of the tiniest babies I'd ever seen. Its little lungs, however, roared with the might of a healthy baby boy. I looked back to the woman at my side, but when I didn't find anyone there I jumped. I scanned the hall, hoping to see her walking off down some corridor, but all trace of her was gone. That is until someone hobbled into the nursery.

Her right leg trailed behind her as if it weighed twice as much as it should. She grunted with each stride and thrust her bad shoulder forward in an attempt to gain some momentum. I watched from the other side of the glass as she looked down at the baby's box. Her eyes ominously twisted to me and I got a good look at the fluid streaming down her cheeks. It was a thick viscous black that slooshed down like mud on a rainy sidewalk. When her murky eyes returned to the baby, she lifted her good hand and opened the incubator lid. Taking a finger she caressed the side of the baby's tiny head. I trembled nervously knowing something horrible was about to happen. Sure enough, the woman ripped the mask off of the baby's face. It's little head thumping the bedding at its back. The little boy howled and I covered my gaping mouth. The woman on the other side of the glass ripped the needles feeding the boy's legs, a stream of red blanketing the inside of the incubator. As the baby was lifted out of the box, its extremities fluttered in uncontrolled fits. I screamed.

"Stop it, leave him be!"

My voice went unregistered and the woman cradled the baby in her bad arm and hobbled away making her way to the nursery entrance. In full fight mode, I ran to meet her but when I rounded the corner the room was empty. The baby's screams echoed from the end of the hall and I sprinted out of the nursery praying that I was too late. I caught a glimpse of the woman's bum leg as it vanished into an adjoining hallway.

"No God, please. Bring it back, for the love of God!"

When I got to the hall I saw the nurse on the far end of the corridor. I ran at her but the ground under my feet seemed to be working against me, as if it was shifting back and the hall growing longer. The woman veered left, right, and left through the maze that is the hospital. I was always on her heels, though no matter how hard I tried I couldn't catch up. The woman finally pushed her way through some double doors and I watched as she held the baby with its leg, like a fish freshly pulled from the water, it hovered over a trash can. I gave one last desperate plea.

"NO!"

Her fingers released their hold. The baby was in free fall and the double doors clincked shut.

I crashed through the doors and found myself in the ER waiting room. Every head swiveled to me, but I didn't pay them any mind. I sprinted to the trash can hoping to hear anything, the tiniest of whimpers would've given me hope, but the trash was quiet. Only the crunch of discarded plastic wrappers from the vending machine crackled out of the metal tin as I rummaged through. The ER receptionist walked up behind me and asked if I was okay. I snapped at her furiously.

"No, the baby. where is the fucking baby?" She looked at me confused.

"What baby?" she asked stupidly.

I didn't have time for her bullshit so I kept pulling trash from the tin. Trash decorated the ground around me, but still no baby. A crowd of hospital staff and patients were starting to gather. I heard someone ask another to call security in a hushed voice. But I still frantically searched the trash can. I heard the authoritative steps of security guards' shoes on the linoleum. Even worse I felt the life at the bottom of this bin slowly slipping away.

Finally, at the bottom of the can, I saw a towel soaked in fresh blood. Without hesitation, I cradled it with both hands. I carefully laid it on the ground and unwrapped its contents. It was as if all the air was sucked out of the room in a millisecond. Sprawled out on the ground, was a tiny premature baby boy. Its face was a light shade of blue, its tiny body limp.

"No, no, no."

I took two fingers and pushed them into its tiny chest. What felt like an eternity was mere seconds, but the baby's limbs roared to life. The baby was snatched up by the ER staff and rushed into the back. The code blue alarms blaring throughout the hospital. I trembled uncontrollably as I tried following the baby to the back, but the staff stopped me.

I sat in the ER waiting room for hours. So long in fact that the sun was starting to shine through the ER's sliding glass door. The whole time I stared blankly at the wall. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the baby's screams out of my head. A hand touched me on the shoulder and I was thrust back into reality. I looked up to find the hospital president asking me to follow him.

He led me to the security room, monitors glowing along one of the walls. A burly security guard was sitting on a swivel chair overlooking the images on each screen. Without addressing me, the hospital president simply patted the guard's back and said,

"Show her."

The guard pulled up a video feed of the ER waiting room and zoomed in on the sliding glass door. I was confused and looked at the hospital president. He didn't say anything and gestured to the screen, instructing me to watch closely. Suddenly on the monitor appeared a young girl, she must've been in her teens. She walked nervously through the ER entrance, glancing around, cowering away. She was cradling something in her arms, I recognized the fabric instantly. The girl on the screen took a seat on the chair nearest to the exit. She looked to be crying. We watched her periodically look down at the bundle in her arms, lovingly but timidly letting the tears fall on the baby. She looked around one more time and when she was sure all eyes were off of her she walked over to the trash can. She stood there for a few seconds, fighting her inner demons, but they ended up winning. With extreme amounts of gentility, she placed the baby in the trash. Wiping away tears she slipped out of the ER unnoticed. The timestamp in the corner of the video ticked by. One minute turned into two, two into three. Suddenly a crazed lunatic smashed through the two metal doors along one side of the ER waiting room. She ran directly to the trash can and started decorating the floor with trash. An employee walked up behind her and asked what was wrong. My static voice came through the speakers.

"No, the baby. where is the fucking baby?"

Not soon after a bundle was pulled from the trash. We watched as I unwrapped it and pushed life back into the child. When they pulled the baby from my arms they stopped the video.

The security guard swiveled in his chair and leaned back in anticipation of the president's question. We both turned to the president who measured his words, a hint of pride and admiration in his eyes.

"How did you know?"

Both pairs of eyes looked at me and eagerly awaited a response. The memories of the homunculus baby-snatching monster flashed through my eyes. Visions of her malicious intent were clear.

I looked back at the two and simply shrugged my shoulders.

"I don't know. I just knew."

The two looked at each other as if they'd just witnessed a miracle. They crossed their arms and studied me from afar.

"Well, I want you to know that you're a hero." The president said.

"And your co-workers want to let you know as well."

He opened the door and a wave of clapping filled the long hall. On each side of the corridor stood nurses, doctors, receptionists, and everyone who had heard the news. I was shocked to be greeted by such a spectacle. I tried cowering back into the room but the president urged me forward. With no other choice, I timidly walked through the two lines of people. Itching my arm, hiding away from an honor I was sure I didn't deserve. The clapping was frenzied but one lone pair of hands smashed together louder than any other. At the end of the hall stood a familiar twisted face. Her good hand thwarting against her shriveled palm. Her eyes peeled back and her rotting grin. I looked around to see if anyone else was seeing what I was but no one paid her any mind, it was only me who could see her. I returned my eyes to the monster who gave me patronizing praise. I was transfixed by her ugly scowl and sickly body, it was as if the sight of her nasty body was becking me to keep my eyes on her, like an impending trainwreck. I had tunnel vision. For a second, it was only me and her standing in that hall. Watching eachother, sizing the other one up.

There was a sticky squelch on the underside of my shoe. I looked down to see what I'd just stepped on. It was a piece of flesh, a tendril glob of meat that looked freshly ripped from the bone. The foul smell of old ground beef drifted into my nose, iron-rich and metallic. The smell was so strong that I tasted it in my mouth.

'Clap, clap, clap.'

I looked around the floor and found splotches of blood scattered across the tile. The blood seemed to be streaming from the walls, but as my eye followed the fluid up, I saw a pair of lifeless feet.

'Clap, clap, clap.'

My eyes floated up, passed the knees, and pelvis, and stopped on the person's abdomen. Interails spilled out of the stomach lining, and the corporal stench of a fresh kill filled the hall. The gore belonged to a doctor. I scanned the long hall and my mouth filled with bile as I noticed the carnage. Everyone who'd come to show their appreciation was dead, mangled, torn to pieces.

'Clap, clap, clap.'

I returned my eyes to the twisted creature at the end of the hall. It started laughing, crazed and maniacal. Her laugh made my skin crawl. She didn't say anything but she didn't have to. I understood.

'You saved the baby. Now, how are you going to save them.'

She smacked her palms one last time before dragging her bum leg down the intersecting hallway. A chill washed across my body and reality roared back into my eyes.

'Clap, clap, clap.'

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Only one of us would inherit our mother's powers, ripping it directly from our siblings’ chest.

But we weren't interested in killing each other.

Mom grew worried.

Nate was shipped off to camp, also a re-education facility for disobedient witches who refused to follow rules.

Sierra was sent away to live with the elders, who were known to be brutal in their teachings. I was stuck with Mom, and without them, without that mental anchor, my mother’s words started to twist my mind. On my eighteenth birthday, I entered the stone circle built for the ceremony, my thoughts contorted and twitching into one single word.

Win.

Rip my rightful power from them, and become our family witch.

I hadn't seen my brother and sister in years. When Nate stepped onto the battleground, I barely recognized him. His once-warm eyes filled with mischief, now empty. That boy had been replaced by someone colder, his movements precise, like a soldier drilled into obedience.

Sierra stepped forward draped in a black veil, her piercing blue eyes narrowing.

I was her target. Not her sister.

I knew exactly how to rip them apart, sever their organs.

With a flick of her wrist, Sierra sent me catapulting backwards.

I knew spells that could turn their brains to mush, disorienting them just long enough for me to take my prize.

I came so close, pinning my brother against a stone pillar, reaching forward, to pull out his heart.

He struggled, wrapping his hand around my throat. But then that icy demeanour fell apart, and he burst out laughing.

Behind him, Sierra, who I'd hit with a stun spell, was giggling into her arms.

I dropped my hand, magic still bleeding through my fingers.

“Nate?”

He winked at me, pulling me towards him.

“We’re done!” Nate called out to the crowd, pulling his sisters into a hug.

Sierra entangled her fingers in mine, and I wrapped my arms around both of them, allowing myself to finally break.

Mom was fuming.

She told us to leave the coven immediately.

I was ecstatic! Nate always wanted to go to New York, so that's where we planned to go. I ran upstairs to grab my things, threw everything into a suitcase, and pulled it back downstairs.

“Let's go!” I told a room full of swimming scarlet.

It was too quiet.

I stepped on something that squelched under my shoe, and looking down, I was staring at what was left of my brother’s body, a hollowed out carcass.

Mom was in front of me, bent over Sierra’s contorted spine stripped of flesh.

I noticed something was in the air, a purplish glimmer drawing my breath from my lungs.

Mom was bathed in it. When she twisted around, her eyes were lit up, violet streaks spiderwebbing across her face.

In her hands, something was squeezed between her fingers. Nate’s heart.

Nate’s power.

Mom’s lips pricked into a smile. “Oh, Ophelia,” she mocked. “Did you really think I wouldn't ask for it back?”

December 31, 1999

The increasingly computerized world is anxious over the so-called “Year 2000 Problem” (Y2K), a data storage glitch feared to cause havoc when 1999, often formatted as 99, becomes 2000, often formatted as 00.

Why?

Because 00 is also 1900. The dates are indistinguishable.

But as

January 1, 2000

rolls into existence nothing much happens—at least ostensibly. Life continues, apparently, as always; and the entire panic is soon forgotten.

And here we are today, on the cusp of the year 2025, and what's just happened?

The Syrian government has collapsed.

Can you guess what happened right on the cusp of 1925? The Syrian Federation was dissolved and replaced by the State of Syria.

In August 1924, anti-Soviet Georgians attempted an uprising in the Georgian Socialist Soviet Republic against Soviet rule.

In 2024, Georgians are protesting against the pro-Russian ruling party, Georgian Dream.

Tesla is founded in 2003.

The Ford Motor Company was incorporated in 1903.

2007 saw the Great Recession.

The Panic of 1907 was the first worldwide financial crisis of the 20st century.

I could go on.

But—you will say—those are merely coincidences, nothing more than that.

To which I will respond: Exactly!

//

co·inci·dent

“occurring together in space or time.”

//

My point is not that the 20th and 21st centuries are the same. That, unfortunately, would be too simple. My point is that the 20th century is happening (again) concurrently with the 21st and the two centuries are blending together in unforeseeable ways.

This is dangerous, unpredictable and unprecedented.

And this is happening because Y2K happened. Not on all data sets but on some, and not just on the computers running within our world but—perhaps more importantly—on the computers on which our world runs.

Y2K is evidence that we are simulated.

00 = 00 ∴ 1900 ∥ 2000

Except that the very consequence of Y2K is the disruption of the previously applicable laws of physics, so that when we say that 1900 and 2000 are parallel timelines we also mean they are intertwined.

How can parallel lines intertwine?

Isn't their intertwining itself evidence of their non-parallelity?

Yes, on or before December 31, 1999. No, at any time afterwards.

Today’s mathematics is thereby different from pre-Y2K mathematics, and attempting to describe today's reality using yesterday's language is madness.

But, wait—

if, say, January 1, 1950, and January 1, 2050, are parallel, and January 1, 2050, hasn't happened, neither has January 1, 1950, so is January 1, 1950, actually pre-Y2K, or is it post-Y2K?

That's a head-scratcher.

(By the same token, January 1, 2050, is already past.)

Moreover, what would we call two “parallel” (in the pre-Y2K meaning) lines that intertwine?

Waves.

And “when two or more waves cross at a point, the displacement at that point is equal to the sum of the displacements of the individual waves.”

Superimposition —>

Interference —>

So, how shall we go out, my friends: with a bang (two time-waves in phase) or a whimper (two times-waves 180° out of phase)?

According to legend, our town was founded in 1524 when St. Jude Thaddeus placed St. Jude’s Stone, a giant rock, in the middle of what’s now our town center. Exactly why he placed it there is a point of debate, the most commonly accepted reason being “he buried the world’s first time capsule under it.”

As a kid I’d been somewhat fascinated by the story. I spent many a sunny afternoon examining the rock, looking for a special marking that would prove it was more than just some dumb rock. All I ever found was the letters ‘nev'r ope’ carved into the side. They were pretty faint but I pointed them out to my mom and she saw them. She was horrified and told me not to tell anyone else, ever so of course I asked why.

“Someone defaced The Stone,” she whispered as if trying to prevent god from hearing her. “St. Jude Thaddeus would not have told people to ‘never hope’.”

I’d done a bit of research on that phrase and tried to tell Mom it probably meant ‘never open.’ She told me that was ridiculous. I said it wasn’t as ridiculous as a first century saint from the Middle East ending up here in the 1500s. Despite us being alone in the house, she pulled me by my arm and leaned in until her nose was an inch from my ear.

“Some things just happen, Nidra. That’s how life is. Have faith for god’s sake, you’re about to go to college.”

I did go to college, and that led to a great job across the country. Sure I felt a bit guilty about leaving Mom on her own, but she insisted she was happy to be surrounded by the memories of my dad and the life they’d had. I paid for her to visit me a couple of times a year and paid for her to visit her remaining family in Queensport at least once a year.

Last year, before she left for Queensport, she asked me to promise that I would “go back” if ever anyone tried to mess with The Stone. Either she had accepted my suspicions or she wanted me to witness a miracle. She was my mom. Of course I promised to go.

“Just remember,” she said, “if The Stone brings blessings, you deserve them. If The Stone holds the Antichrist, I’ll admit I was wrong.”

She passed away in Queensport. I honored her wishes by having her remains placed there, in her family’s vault.

Her lawyer Harold N. Nash contacted me in November. “It’s time to collect your blessings. Are you going?”

I assured him I would keep my promise. He set up the flights and a rental car and sent me the details. One day, and one day only, at the hellhole that is my hometown. Service at sunset, around 6 p.m., return to the airport around 9 p.m. for a 10:30 flight.

That’s how I ended up at sunset, with the rest of the townspeople, in a circle around The Stone. I’d backed the rental car down an alley about ten feet from The Stone, but you’d have to know where to look to find it. After a couple of minutes of uncertainty I left a heavy blanket over my shoulder bag in the car and went wearing a heavy winter sweater and scarf, leaving gloves in my pockets. Unsure what would happen or how long it would take, I made sure to stand in the circle so I had a straight run to the car.

The locals walked to the town center and unlike me they were dressed for summer weather, not winter. All 20 of them. Five campfires crackled around us, providing a little light and warmth. No one paid me any attention and I was fine with that. I wasn’t fine with the humming or chanting thrumming through my skull.

Since everyone except me was chatting to the people next to them, it didn’t seem like the humming was coming from the locals. I didn’t want to attract attention by looking at any of them for very long but damn, the noise and the subtle thumping was irritating.

I recognized Danny who was here without his brothers. I thought his family left several years ago but there he was, standing four feet away from me. The last to arrive Holly and Irvine, the Latham twins, were the meanest of the mean in high school. They arrived and stood beside Danny, not next to me, as the Mayor began the ceremony.

“Friends, we are here to accept the blessings St. Jude Thaddeus left us 500 years ago. Father Ward, bring grace to us with a prayer.”

The Father’s prayer wasn’t long for a religious man, but I swear the campfires around us crackled out and the flames shot higher at the end of every sentence. The shadows produced by the flames were longer than seemed reasonable. The fires weren’t sending any heat my way.

He ended with “Amen.” Everyone else in the circle echoed it back, except me. I was too focused on not shaking. While lifting my head to pretend I too had been praying, I checked the people across from me. None of them seemed affected by the rapid temperature change. One woman in particular seemed positively gleeful as if she really believed she was about to be blessed.

“Thank you, Father Ward.” The Mayor reached behind and retrieved what is possibly the largest sledgehammer I’ve ever seen. Danny moved quickly to stand on the Mayor’s left while Irvine Latham jogged to the Mayor’s right.

The humming became more distinct, as if a choir had been signaled to increase volume. My teeth were buzzing. Dizzy, I took two backward steps away from the circle towards where I parked the rental car.

“We unlock the truth,” the Mayor announced as he raised the sledgehammer with help from Danny and Irvine. The humming stopped.

Before I could move back to my spot in the circle, the sledgehammer struck The Stone. It only struck once. Not sure how many times a stone that size would need to be hit to split it open but I’d have bet the rental car it would have been more than once. And I would have been wrong.

The Stone cracked open, right down the middle. If we’d been in an anime I’m sure bright light and sparkles would have shot out of the opening.

That would have been nice.

Both halves of The Stone fell away from the middle. The Mayor dropped the sledgehammer and leaned forward to see what was in or below the middle. A giant white-gloved hand came from the middle and grabbed the Mayor by the face. I thought for sure it was going to strangle him but I was wrong again.

Danny grabbed the side of The Stone closest to him and held on like it was a lifesaver. Irvine sat cross legged next to the other side of The Stone, ducking and weaving the Mayor’s desperate attempts to escape.

The hand pushed The Mayor into the ground between Danny and Irvine. He struggled to have the hand release his face, to no avail. With his face covered, he couldn’t make any noise. We watched as he silently kicked and flailed his arms like a windmill but the hand persisted until his legs were encased in soil to his knees. The pressure continued until only his neck and head were visible.

Thank goodness the hand remained over his face when it pushed him fully into the ground. The process took less than five of my shaky inhales.

And then shit went down.

The hand retreated into the opening. Humming resumed, so loud everyone including myself slapped hands over ears. Several locals fell face-first, either from pain or embarrassment I’m not sure. The too-loud hum evolved into chanting “Hoho we were Santa’s elves, filling shelves with toys. Now now we are Satan’s elves, filling heads with noise.”

Elf-things popped out of The Stone’s center. I mean, they looked like elves but not. They were elf-shaped and elf sized but they were also grey with dead eyes and moved like horror-movie zombies.

Undead elves.

The first few grabbed and bit Danny and Irvine so quickly and so smoothly, I could have believed it was professionally choreographed. Maybe it was. Except neither Danny nor Irvine appeared to be willing participants.

Danny was next to die. Dozens of undead elves bit him and drained him and ate parts of his face, hands and arms. I’m pretty sure he was screaming but it was hard to tell over the chanting of the undead yet to pop out. When he collapsed, the undead ate his skull before allowing his head to drop onto the ground.

Irvine’s demise was similar. Before his head dropped to the ground, I was locked into the rental car and ready to pull out.

Then the chanting stopped and I experienced the giant.

It rose from The Stone’s center. It was… it looked… it felt… the temperature… I don’t know what to say. There was inexplicable heat. There was bone-chilling cold. The giant was human and elf and neither. It was invisible and transparent, made of stone and dirt and smoke. It bled. It cried. It screamed. It sucked all noise and blood and color from anything it looked at. One by one the locals shriveled and fell to the ground, each a husk of a human. Just like Danny. Just like Irvine.

The campfires' flames grew in size. They absorbed and displayed the forms of each human the giant consumed. I was frozen in place, watching the terrifying events unfold mere feet from the car.

That is, until one undead elf landed on the windshield and pried off a wiper with its teeth. I hit the gas in reverse and it rolled off the hood, screeching like nothing I’ve ever heard before. A quick shift to drive and I don’t know if I drove over it or not but I’m certain it didn’t stay with me.

I’m so thankful Mom didn’t live long enough to experience whatever the hell it was I experienced. But since getting home, I’ve been wondering. Have undead elves and the giant appeared anywhere else? And if they did, were there any survivors able to speak about them?

“No, these have the exact same issue. I can’t focus on anything with all the goddamned scratches.”

Frank was beyond livid, screaming at the helpless representative for the contact lens company he had captive on the other end of the line.

Suddenly, a chill trickled down his spine and into his extremities. Goosepimples began littering his arms and shoulders, causing the fifty-three-year-old to twitch involuntarily.

"Okay sir - you won't be able to work till we get this sorted, but we'll pay for another eye exam. Does that sound like a reasonable compromise?"

The red-faced functional alcoholic was not someone who easily compromised. In fact, he despised accommodation. Doing something he did not want to do enraged him - it set his soul on fire.

Unfortunately, since life is a game that is defined by compromise, adaptation and acceptance, Frank lived in a near-perpetual state of fury.

So, when his construction company told him to invest in a visual aid or face being fired, you can imagine his indignation. Especially when every set of lens he purchased seemed to have the same malfunction - myriads of twirling scratches on the periphery.

In truth, he had needed glasses since the age of ten. Despite being effectively blind, Frank did not want glasses, and even at that age, he was a behemoth of a man - able to refuse parental commands based on size alone.

Frank slammed his phone down on the receiver.

As he did, another chill sprinted through his chest. He winced when the goosepimples reappeared on his arms. Random chills had become more frequent over the last few months. Painful, as well - thousands of sharpened thorns tenting his skin from the inside.

He tried one of contacts again. Although he could see, the edges of the lens appeared scratched.

And almost like they were vibrating.

Out of frustration, he put his fist through some nearby drywall, causing weathered Band-Aids on his hand to peel off.

Partially, Frank’s poor behavior was because of a body-wide itch he had been suffering with since the day he turned twenty-one. The man would scratch through layers of skin weekly. He was constantly unwrapping himself, trying to manually exorcise some unseen devil.

His ex-wife encouraged him to see a doctor. But he didn’t want to. So he didn’t.

Frank experienced a third chill - but this one did not abate. Instead, it kept radiating. Pulsing through him like a second heartbeat. He noticed a line of blood trickling down one of goosepimples on his right hand, which was followed by hundreds of tiny, wriggling threads sprouting from the microscopic puncture - a writhing bouquet of parasites.

A small fraction of the millions of parasites that had called Frank home since he had been infected. The same worms that caused his blindness, his itch, and his floaters - which he could only see with contacts on.

He was told not to eat food off the street when he was a child.

But he wanted to, so he did.

I can’t say why I feel so compelled to write about my experience---maybe it's to get it all off my chest or to process things, I don’t know. I couldn’t tell you why I wish to share this with others. Perhaps I want to feel less alone through everything.

I should start with the beginning, though I won’t bore you with any unnecessary details. My name’s Marcus, and I am an English teacher at my local middle school called Davidson. My hometown (which we’ll call X for the sake of this account) is located in the further reaches of the Pacific Northwest so we’re surrounded by untamed wilderness and some small albeit vast mountain ranges.

I returned several months ago after finishing college and completing my state certification. I had been gone for four and a half years, so by the time I got back I was honestly relieved to see the same familiar faces I’d known for so long. I spent my first two weeks ecstatically catching up with my friends and family. I know four and a half years isn’t super long but it felt like a lifetime since I had been back here.

I had fallen into a pit in college. When I wasn't working on my major, I partied from sunrise to sunset. I never allowed myself the privilege of any supremely reckless irresponsibility, although I could have completed my degree in half the time if not for the booze and mingling.

I've come to regret that period. But I now understand what led me to that point in the first place.

It wasn't long after I started teaching at Davidson that I abruptly realized why exactly I had been so hedonistic during college. X is a small, quaint, and tight-knit community; but a few things make it especially unique from other small American towns. On a surface level, one could point to the uncanny air the place gives off like the town is a Hollywood film set trying far too hard to evoke some Stephen King-esque Smallville. Going a layer deeper, there are the constant and persistent urban legends that surround damn near every facet of the place.

For instance, here are a few that I can remember from off the top of my head:

Children and adults alike have long claimed that the rivers and lakes of X are home to nocturnal flying orbs that sing with seraphic beauty. Unwitting people out past ten (or midnight in some tellings) could be drawn in, enchanted, by the singing and drown when they looked for its source.

Another one comes from when I was in elementary school. The story goes something like this: A young woman was home alone at night in the dead of winter. She sat reading in her room and would hear rustling trees in the wind at random intervals.

The third time she heard it, she felt a pang of unease as she realized that the sound was unfathomably close. It wasn't muffled as if through the window. It sounded like she was outside in the forest. So, she got up and looked to see if her window was open. It wasn't. Then she heard another sound from just behind her.

It sounded like a cat crying in her closet. Thinking that maybe her pet cat had gotten in there and hurt himself, she approached the door and opened it only to find an arsenal of clothes and old trinkets. At this point, the girl went to bed. A couple of hours later she heard her cat meow, which awakened her. Only, she couldn't see anything except faint glimmers of soft light.

Her heart sank into her gut as her eyes finally adjusted. Pressed against her face was another alien visage, ghastly pale, and its huge dark eyes mere millimeters from her own. The girl couldn't help but shriek.

This tale centered around an entity known as the Womai, and there were many more like it. All of the legends involved the Womai lurking in dark corners or secluded areas of people's homes. Though, the story I just shared is often considered the first. The girl in it is said to be Maddie Haines, who had gone missing many years before I was born.

The third and final legend I'll bother to share now as an example centers around a being called Der Gehende, supposedly a beast that appears as a massive deer with yellow human eyes and human teeth. Its hands are said to be thin five-fingered claws like branches of a dead tree. It walks on its hind legs with an awkward lurching gait. Der Gehende is said to lurk around forests near Christmas searching for children. Once Gehende found a suitable victim it would whisper arcane secrets into the child's ear, coaxing them to come with it voluntarily, never to be seen again.

Other incarnations of Der Gehende state that the monster prowls the more secluded wooded suburbs of town looking for an open window into a house with a child in it. Once it finds such a home, Der Gehende whispers through the window as the child sleeps, which causes the child to sleep-walk out into the night and unknowingly follow Gehende back to its lair.

That one always stuck with me.

All this is to say that X has an eventful folklore surrounding it. While the tales terrified me as a kid, I ceased believing in them once I reached the eighth grade. I rarely thought about the legends thereafter and forgot many of them.

That was until I came back to teach at Davidson.

One more thing I should add here is that when I first got back, I was caught off guard by the monumental increase in missing posters (most faded, torn up, or creased from temporal exhaustion). There have always been missing people in X since the town was first founded but this was unlike anything I had seen in my lifetime. One couldn't walk even two blocks without seeing a haunting gallery of missing faces. The missing ranged from infants to young adults to the elderly.

One day on my way to work, two weeks ago give or take, I encountered one of my much older friends Tim, who works as a police officer, stapling another missing poster onto a wooden lightpost. This time it was a young boy, no older than six. I asked Tim what was happening.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, hesitant to speak so frankly about this subject, "They had been rising gradually for years but they seemed to really ramp up about that spring before you went off to college. After that, it was like every other day someone new was missing. We gathered town-wide search parties that would look for weeks on end for these people, day and night. But nothing ever turned up. The FBI got involved briefly but every case went cold within hours, maybe a couple of days if we were lucky, so they left swift as sin when they realized the cause was truly lost. Since then we've done our best. We still send out search parties but they get smaller and smaller each time. The Feds even check in from time to time. Thankfully, though, the disappearances died down as of late. This one here is the first in almost four months."

I was floored by what he told me. Timidly, I thanked him for sharing and we both went our separate ways.

That brings me to what occurred last night.

While brushing my teeth, I was interrupted by a slow tapping on the bathroom window. This bathroom is in my bedroom on the second floor, so I didn't think much of it and continued brushing. It's obviously not uncommon for trees to scrape against or knock at the windows.

I heard it a second time. The taps were firm and deliberate. They came in a sextuplet. The hair on my neck and arms stood on end.

I was already on edge from the disappearances, my memories of being mortified to go to sleep or walk to school as a kid, and the vivid pictures of these horrific abominations returning to the forefront of my mind, having been released from the inner sanctum of my subconscious.

I gazed intently at the glazed window into the darkness outside. Slowly, I could make out a shape blurred by the glass. The figure was humanoid and fleshy. Upon further inspection, it appeared as if a naked man was somehow leaning against the window facing away from me. I stifled the urge to scream and madly finished what I was doing. I tried to pretend that I was merely hallucinating, that I was just tired and stressed. As I spit out the toothpaste, I heard six sluggish taps on the glass.

Reluctantly, I forced myself to look back at the window.

There was nothing.

I went to bed immediately after that, but my night was restless and filled with catastrophic anxiety. I had returned completely to my fearful childhood in mere minutes. I sat up curled in a cocoon of blankets watching Monty Python movies with the lights on all night.

So that brings me to today. I've been writing all of this in my classroom like an asylum inmate before school starts. I needed some way to make sense of everything. This likely won't be my final post or writing. A Herculean weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I might actually start keeping a real journal from now on.

Thank you for listening to my ramblings, I greatly appreciate it. I'll see you all sometime soon.

This is Marcus signing off.

You’re always expected to have some sort of reason why you don’t like Christmas, and even if you provide one, it’s rarely ever something that satisfies the Santa hat wearing fanatics who seem all too eager to brand anyone with contempt for the holiday as a Scrooge. If you explain to them that you don’t enjoy the constant blaring of idiotic music on every radio station for an entire month, you’re told that you’re just being a spoil sport. If you try and tell them about how the crass consumerism that creeps into everything makes you feel sick, you’re informed that isn’t the real meaning of Christmas. Don’t even think about telling them that you’re simply not Christian and don’t find this whole birth of Christ business to be that interesting, because then they’ll go on and on about how it’s “basically a secular holiday at this point” and that you should stop being such a killjoy.

Perhaps the only good thing that came out of the events of last Christmas is that I finally have a proper excuse to get people to shut up about it. It doesn’t make up for the money spent on therapists who don’t believe a word I say, but it’s at least some small comfort.

I had been invited to a Christmas party by an old college professor of mine, an archaeologist by the name of Dr. Gordon Matthews. I’d quite enjoyed his class when I was a student, and we’d always had something of a rapport, spending plenty of time during his office hours simply chatting long after he’d answered any questions I’d had. He was an approachable sort of man, a touch eccentric perhaps, but someone who I always felt comfortable talking with, despite the considerable difference in age between the two of us. While I ultimately wound up changing my major away from his particular area of expertise in favor of something that would actually provide me with a stable income, we had remained friends during my time as a student, and penpals after graduation. His correspondences mostly consisted of informing me as to his comings and goings with interesting field work or articles he had written, while I tried desperately to pretend as though my career in marketing was in any way fulfilling.

Needless to say, when I received his invitation I wrote back immediately to confirm I would be there. It had been nearly a decade since my university days, and I was eager to say hello to my old friend, though even then I was ambivalent at best to the holiday. My family had never celebrated it when I was a child, so I had no especial nostalgia for the celebration, and everyone else’s insistence upon making it such a big deal had inflamed my inner contrarian to such an extent that I tended to try to ignore it as best as I could. However, for the sake of an old friend, I decided I’d be a good sport, and in the month or so I had to prepare for the occasion I went about assembling what I felt would be as appropriate of an outfit for such an event as I could put together, along with acquiring a gift that I felt would suit the professor’s tastes.

I had ultimately settled upon a somewhat subdued ankle length green skirt, some red leggings, a matching shirt, and a green jacket that I adorned with a sprig of holly. It felt suitably “Christmas-y” while remaining fairly dignified, and I must confess that, in spite of continued disinterest towards the holiday itself, I felt rather pleased with the effect. For a present, I decided to stick to the safer side and get something simple; a nice hand-made ceramic mug from some holiday market or another, decorated with some geometric patterns that reminded me of some of the pottery shards he had once shown to the class during a lecture. It wouldn’t be anything especially interesting, but at the very least I figured it would be inoffensive and serve as a polite gesture of friendship.

The long drive to my former professor’s home was relatively uneventful, though the excessive traffic was rather irritating at points. I’d only ever previously met the man on campus, so I was somewhat surprised to find what seemed to be a mansion when I finally reached the address indicated by my phone’s GPS, just as the sun was beginning to go down. It was a quite large building in a Victorian style, three stories at least, with a large, well-maintained lawn and small pond on the surrounding property. A number of other cars were already parked in the driveway as well, and I hoped that they were simply the means of transportation for the other guests, and not a further indication of wealth. I wondered perhaps if Dr. Matthews belonged to some old money family, since I highly doubted he’d be able to afford such a home on a professor’s salary. Suddenly my gift seemed scarcely adequate for the occasion, and I felt somehow insufficient with my thrift store acquired garments.

I got out of the car and approached the large double doors that led to the interior of Dr. Matthews’s mansion with no small degree of hesitation. I scarcely had pressed the button for the doorbell when the doors opened quickly, revealing the beaming face of the man himself.

“Ah, Ms. Hammond, you made it! I was starting to get worried.”

Dr. Matthews looked just as he had back during my time in university, an almost comical caricature of a college professor clad in tweeds with a shock of graying hair and a well-maintained mustache. He proffered his hand invitingly, and I shook it, feeling a little relieved that he, at least, seemed familiar.

“My apologies, I hadn’t fully anticipated the sort of traffic I’d be dealing with, and please, professor, call me Amelia. I think we’ve known each other long enough that we can be on a first name basis.”

He laughed, replying, “Of course! Force of habit, my apologies. Call me Gordon. Now, come inside, the others are waiting for us.”

I followed him in, marveling at the wood paneled splendor of the mansion’s interior as I did so. I considered myself rather lucky to be able to afford an apartment of my own given the economic circumstances, so walking into somewhere like this felt utterly bizarre, as though I were stepping upon the surface of another planet. Strangely, I didn’t feel jealousy; the idea of living in such a huge home with those high, vaulted ceilings felt oddly lonely in a way that I didn’t quite like. I was glad that I would only be visiting the mansion, rather than staying there.

I was led into the living room, an almost cavernous space with a roaring fire and a large tree adorned with ornaments. There were perhaps a dozen or so other people already there, their ages indicating that they were most likely current students of Gordon’s. He introduced me to some of them, though I must confess I am quite unable to remember any of their names. At some point or another the gift wrapped present I was carrying was placed underneath the tree, but it all seemed like quite a blur really, as I was engaged in conversation by a number of the fellow party goers.

They all seemed quite interested in me for some reason which I couldn’t quite gather, and there was an energy of nervous excitement that suffused the entire group, Gordon included. He seemed quite talkative and jovial, laughing frequently as he socialized with his students. I’ve never been particularly good with these sorts of parties, as I’m certain you can probably tell from my recollection of the event, but even still that time especially I felt awkward and out of place, as though everyone else was in on a joke that I didn’t understand.

At some point Gordon approached me again, cordially offering me a glass of punch. “Here, have a drink. You seem as though you could need it.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I don’t drin-” I started, but Gordon just laughed.

“It’s not alcoholic, my apologies. I only meant that you’ve been sweating profusely ever since you came into the house, and I fear at this rate you’re going to get dehydrated. It seems as though you feel a touch out of place.”

I accepted the glass, sheepishly, and took a sip. It tasted wonderful, clearly homemade. “Thanks Professor- I mean, Gordon. I’ll admit I just didn’t quite know how many people were going to be here, and of course I don’t really know anyone. I mean, as near as I can tell, I seem to be the only alumnus.”

“I can understand your confusion Amelia, and in truth I did have something of an ulterior motive behind inviting you here tonight, not that your company isn’t pleasant as it is. Do you mind if we talk somewhere in private for a moment? There is something I want to tell you about.” There was an odd sort of twinkle in Gordon’s eye as he gestured for me to follow him out of the living room, away from the others.

A little nervous, but not wanting to be rude to my host, I followed, taking a few more sips from the punch I had been handed as I did. He led me to what seemed to be a study of some sort, with a wall of bookshelves and a rich mahogany desk. He sat down at the desk, pointing for me to sit down upon a chair positioned in front of it. I did so, and instantly I was reminded of the time spent during his office hours when I was a student, back when I had time to be fascinated with the world, unconcerned with making money and having a stable career.

“Amelia, 5 years ago I had the privilege to make an expedition in Western Europe at a recently discovered dig site. I’m afraid I cannot tell you the exact location, I had to sign all sorts of non-disclosure agreements and whatnot with the university, but what I can tell you is that some of the artifacts recovered there date back to around 20,000 years ago, during the late paleolithic.”

“What sort of artifacts?” I asked, a little confused as to why he couldn’t have just mentioned this in one of his letters, but not wanting to seem uninterested.

“Oh, all sorts of things; stone tools, carved bones, beads, but what was most interesting to me were the cave paintings. You see, the site seemed to have been a village of some sort, up in the mountains, and close by was the entrance to a fairly large network of caverns. Naturally we decided to take a look, and what we found was absolutely extraordinary.”

The professor glanced at the punch glass I held in my hand for a moment, before resuming eye contact and continuing his tale.

“Now, as you know, cave paintings on the whole tend towards depictions of animals and hunting or are simply abstract patterns, but the paintings here were different. They seemed to form some sort of a narrative, I suppose to put it rather simplistically you could say it was a bit like a prehistoric comic book. The deeper you went into the cave itself, the more the story would progress, painted on the very walls themselves. It was utterly fantastic, a form of recorded storytelling that existed millennia before the first written languages!”

“What did it say?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair slightly out of curiosity.

“It seemed to be a religious narrative of sorts, think of it as their bible, if it helps you to make sense of it, but it didn’t line up with any sort of hitherto understood spiritual practice we’d ever seen.

The beginning was all rather confusing to make sense of really, and I’d almost be tempted to dismiss it as the same abstract patterning that I mentioned previously. Strange shapes and impressions on the wall, utterly undecipherable, but there was an intent, a purpose to the images that I couldn’t deny. I imagine this was their creation myth, the emergence of the world they knew from the void that came before.

However, as we went deeper into the cave, we found some more decipherable, but no less strange images. I do not think that I can adequately describe to you how shocking it is to see images of cities painted upon the walls of a cave. Cities, Amelia! In the paleolithic! Vast spires, reaching up towards the heavens, great castles, palaces, cathedrals! Why, it throws the entire historical record into question!”

“Cities?” I asked, skeptically, “Come now, surely it must have been a representation of something else. No humans could have-”

“I never said anything about humans, Amelia,” interrupted Dr. Matthews, “the figures that were depicted inhabiting those cities were anything but human.”

“What do you mean?” My head was beginning to spin slightly at this point, though in retrospect I am not entirely sure if it was purely from surprise.

“The forms shown were rather vague, I’m afraid. Little more than black, amorphous blobs at points, but each with a single, red eye in the center of their bodies. Occasionally there would be something like tentacles emerging out from the bulk, engaged in some sort of activity or another, though I’ll be frank when I say I’m unsure of what the objects they held were used for.

It was clear that whoever painted these scenes was depicting a prior age. In some of these city paintings, I would occasionally see images of large, quadrupedal animals, with great long necks and elephantine bodies, which the inhabitants of the city seemed to use as livestock. I can only assume now that they were sauropods of some sort.

Keep in mind that these paintings were only 20,000 years old, Amelia, and it remains utterly unknown to me how their painters could have possibly known about the comings of goings of what must have been at least 65 million years ago, but it was impossible for me to disbelieve that which I saw with my own eyes! I have some photographs here, look.”

Gordon reached into his drawer and pulled out a manilla folder, sliding it across the desk towards me. I reached for it, a bit clumsily, accidentally spilling my cup of punch on the floor. He didn’t even seem to notice. I barely registered that I’d made the spill. Something was wrong.

I opened the manilla folder to reveal a series of pictures. The photographs did indeed show cave paintings, the primitive style clashing dramatically with the contents; cavemen depicting a metropolis. A shudder ran down my spine as I gazed at one photo in particular, showing one of the city dwellers. It was vague, almost a shadow rather than a depiction of any sort of being, but there was an odd sort of malevolence contained within its singular eye and ill-defined form.

Dr. Matthews continued his rambling as I flipped through the images, my head spinning.

“This prehuman civilization’s downfall isn’t exactly explained in the images we saw, or at least, not in a way that is clear. There seemed to be some sort of great catastrophe, something involving a realignment of sorts in the heavens. My personal pet theory of course is that the meteor which ultimately wiped out the dinosaurs brought about some fundamental shift in the Earth’s rotational axis, and that something about this change made life intolerable for these creatures. You can see there in some of the paintings depictions of the stars, and the destruction and desolation of their cities.”

My eyes began to blur as I tried to focus on the pictures in front of me, and it was all I could do to keep my head up.

“But they didn’t go extinct, Amelia. They didn’t die. They simply had to descend down, down into the depths of the earth, away from the hateful stars which were now so aligned against them. Imprisoned within the tomb-like caverns deep underground, waiting patiently to be freed. And they found them, those ancient, primitive humans, as they explored the caverns that were their churches, searching for gods. What they found was much greater than any invented deity.

You see, they want back up, Amelia, up out of the ground, back into the light of day. They want help, and in exchange they bestow wealth and good fortune upon those who assist them. Primitive humanity worshiped them as gods, and gods need sacrifices, Amelia. Why do you think so many cultures throughout history thought the period of time around the winter solstice was so significant? Why is it that on the darkest nights of the year, we huddle together for comfort, and offer gifts? It is an ancestral memory, Amelia, a memory of giving and receiving gifts from living gods, gods who hunger and wait beneath the earth, thirsting to be free. They can only come out when the planet’s alignment is just right, when the angle towards the sun is closest to what it was during their time. All they ask for is blood, Amelia, just once a year, to help to free them, and in exchange they can give us so much, teach us so much. Look at what they have done for me and my followers already, after only 5 years of service!

I’m so sorry to have deceived you, Amelia, but it’s for the best. I couldn’t just give them anyone, you know. It has to be someone meaningful, someone I care about. Your sacrifice won’t be in vain though, it will all be for the greater good.”

I heard the door to his office open, and the sound of footsteps as his students filed inside. I tried to say something, but all that came out was an indistinct murmur.

“Take her downstairs and get her ready,” said Dr. Matthews, a touch of sadness in his voice, “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

And with that, I fell into unconsciousness.

- - -

I awoke to the feeling of rope binding hands and feet. Looking around, I found myself in what seemed to be some sort of rough hewn basement of sorts, though its crudeness of construction made me think it may have been a natural cave that was simply modified for some structural stability. I was tied to a stone altar, and to my left was a deep, black pit, going down as far as I could see. The whole room was dimly illuminated with candles, and it was hard to make out much detail, beyond the fact that I could see I was not alone.

On all sides stood the attendees of Dr. Matthews’s party. Some looked anxious, others excited, and a few had a sort of lust contorting their features in a way that made me feel very, very afraid. All of them wore red and green robes, including Dr. Matthews himself, who stood over me with a look of pity. I tried to scream for him to let me go, but I quickly realized that there was a gag in my mouth that prevented me from making much of any noise.

Then, they all began to chant. It was in a language that felt old, archaic, reaching out from elder times to strangle the new with strange, unearthly tones. It may have been Old English, or perhaps reconstructed Proto-Indo-European, the overlapping voices and echoing acoustics of the basement made it difficult to tell, particularly when another, stranger sound caught my attention.

It was a sort of horrible slithering noise, something wet gliding against rock. I looked over to the great pit to my left with mounting terror, trying desperately to scream even through the gag.

It emerged slowly into the candlelight, its heaving bulk moving like a flood of molasses bubbling up from the ground. It was amorphous, an oozing, amoeba-like terror with no set shape, wisps of black mist steaming from its flesh. Whipping tentacles or pseudopods flailed about it like beheaded serpents, tasting the air. In the center of it all was a horrific red eye, filled with a malignant and diabolical intelligence.

As it drew closer I became unable to move, unable to even try to utter a sound as its cyclopean eye gazed into my very soul. I could not tell if my paralysis was due to sheer fright or some unnatural force beyond my understanding, but the feeling of pure helplessness I experienced as I faced that antediluvian atrocity is beyond the power of mere words to convey.

The chanting continued as the thing reached out towards me with its dripping tendrils, and I prepared myself to accept my fate as a human sacrifice to this prehuman thing that my primitive ancestors had worshiped as gods. The tentacles were inches away from my flesh when suddenly the monster hesitated, freezing abruptly. The chanting faltered, my captors clearly confused at their god’s behavior. The eye in the center of its bulk flicked to the sprig of holly fastened to my jacket, and then to the face of Dr. Matthews. I followed its gaze, and saw upon my former professor’s face a look of absolute terror.

What followed happened too quickly for me to adequately describe. The ponderous mass of steaming shadows now seemed to move like lightning, striking swiftly from person to person as it dragged them into its slimy bulk while they all shrieked in fright. I heard Gordon crying out, “Please! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!” as his body disappeared into the oozing monster that he had intended to feed me to. Before long, I was the only human being left alive in the room, and the monster descended once more into the pit from whence it came, back into the bowels of the earth where it and the rest of its kind lay imprisoned, awaiting a day when the Earth’s rotational axis is restored to its prior angle.

It took me hours, but I eventually managed to free myself from my bindings. I found a set of stairs leading back up to the mansion, and from there I fled back home in my car immediately through the night, in spite of the tranquilizer that still hadn’t quite left my system and the all-consuming horror that reached down to my very bones.

I don’t know why the holly stopped the thing in that pit, and frankly I don’t care. I don’t want to understand the nightmare logic that those demoniac monsters operate by, and I hope I never again have to see that monstrous red eye that stares up at me still from my restless dreams. What’s worse is that, ever since the events of last Christmas, I’ve been continually lucky, particularly financially. I won a reasonably large sum from a lottery ticket that I simply found lying face down on the street, I got a raise at my job, and my landlord wound up lowering my rent. I wish I could chalk it up to coincidence, but I know better than that. I know that it’s that thing’s way of thanking me. It makes me feel sick just thinking about it, to know that in some way I’m indirectly responsible for giving it such a large offering of blood, towards working to free it from its subterranean prison. For as long as I live, I have no plans ever again to celebrate Christmas, because I understand the reason for the season, and I only pray that the celebrations of the pitiful human masses that lie ignorant on the surface above do nothing towards freeing those ancient gods that lurk beneath our feet.

I barely remember my dad. I was just a kid when he disappeared. Mom always said he'd abandoned us, but today I found out that's a lie, that it was mom who chased him off because he was overweight and she was disgusted by his body.

I also learned that until the day he died, dad sent us money every month from China, where he worked in a zoo as a hippopotamus.

Apparently, after he’d left home dad tried to get his obesity under control, first on his own, then with professional medical help, which is how the Chinese made contact with him, buying the clinic's records from a hacker and reaching out with a job offer.

I have no idea if they were up front with him about the job itself. If so, I can't imagine the loneliness and desperation he must have felt to accept. If not, they knew his history and likely deceived him into it, initially giving him a temporary position while feeding and manipulating him into submission.

From the photos I've seen, dad was always a big man. By the time mom decided she couldn't look at him anymore he was probably three- to four-hundred pounds. I assume the resulting stress drove him to food even more, but even a female hippopotamus, which my dad eventually became, weighs around three-thousand pounds. I can't begin to fathom that transformation.

They must have fed him without pity, and he must have eaten it all, knowing he'd reached a point in his life where no other job—no other future—was possible. He ate to provide for those he loved.

When he achieved the required weight, they tattooed his skin grey and began reshaping his skeletal and muscular systems, breaking, snapping, shortening and elongating his tendons and bones, his fundamental structure, to support his new weight and force him to live on all fours. A real hippopotamus is primarily muscle (only 2% body fat) but dad was not a real hippopotamus, so most of his mass was fat. The weakness and the pain he must have felt…

Then there was the face, reconstructed beyond recognition. I have seen only one photo of dad from that period—and I would not be able to tell that he was human.

From what I was able to piece together, his day-to-day existence at the zoo was generally monotonous. The other hippopotamuses accepted him, and he lived in a kind of familial relationship with them. I like to think he had hippopotamus companions, that he was not entirely alone, but it's impossible to know for sure. At worst, they merely tolerated him.

My dad ultimately died in 2017, whipped to death by a zookeeper because he no longer had the strength to get up.

His body was dismembered and fed to the other hippopotamuses, both to destroy evidence and because it saved a minimal amount of money on animal feed.

In the thirteen years my dad worked as a hippopotamus, no zoo visitor ever recognized him as human. He must have been proud of that.

I am too.

The door opens with a rusty whine. 

The guard leads me into a room less inviting than a prison cell. It’s sterile, gray. All that’s inside of it are a steel table and matching chairs, flickering beneath a bulb on a frayed wire.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” I ask, squinting against the gloom. 

“This is it,” the Overseer confirms, voice distorted with digital modulation. “Chamber 13.” 

My escort is clad head-to-toe in crimson kevlar, a wicker mask obscuring their face – just like the rest of the bunker’s security. “Can’t say I’ve seen it used before,” he adds, folding his arms in consideration. “The other rooms must’ve already been booked.”

I frown, lifting my briefcase onto the table. “Guess so.”

The space is dreary, so dim that I can scarcely make out the cracks running along the barren walls. 

“If that’s everything, I’ll take my leave,” the Overseer says, offering a customary four finger salute. “Good luck this evening, Inquisitor. Subject 34 is a difficult entity at the best of times.”

He makes for the exit. 

“Hold on,” I say quickly. 

He pauses, glances back at me over his shoulder, expression hidden beyond the gnarled branch-work of his mask. “Was there something else?” he asks. 

I clear my throat, adjust my tie and do my best to adopt an air of professionalism. This is my first day on the job, and my newfound authority is something I’m still getting used to. 

“I’d like you to remain behind,” I order, infusing my tone with as much confidence as I can manage. “I understand my Subject has a history of violence, and so it seems safest to have backup in the room with me.”

The Overseer studies me, and it occurs to me suddenly how large the man is – the size of a body-builder crossed with a silverback. He looks strong. Strong enough that if he wanted, he could break me in two with nothing but his hands. 

“Apologies,” he says at length. “But is that a serious request?”

I shift on my feet, embarrassed. I wonder if he can see it – the fact my black suit isn’t properly fitted, or that my hair is a ruffled mess. I wonder if he can see the inexperience written across my face.

“We never stay,” he tells me. “It’s too dangerous for us.”

“Overseers run security on these levels, do they not?”

“Sure,” he says, “but that doesn't mean we're qualified to sit in during Interrogations. We have our own roles here, Inquisitor. It's how the Facility maintains order in the face of chaos.”

He jabs a finger toward a computer console on the far end of the room. It’s dusty – probably more ancient than Babylon, with a bulbous analog display and a rotary dial phone. “That's the security terminal,” he explains. “If you feel like things are going sideways, just dial 686. Tell them you require extraction. A platoon will be deployed to drag you out.”

“An entire platoon?” I say, surprised. 

The Overseer nods. “For a Subject like yours, anything less would be suicide.”

My pulse races, and I can’t help but wonder just what it is I’ve gotten myself into.

“Oh,” I say uneasily. “Right. Of course.”

The Overseer studies me a few moments longer, almost like he’s trying to decide whether or not I even work here. Then he shakes his head. 

Whoever I am, I’m no longer his problem. 

“Well, that’s everything on my end,” he says with a sigh, boots echoing off the stone floor as he makes for the exit. “Remember – 686 if things get hairy.” He gestures at the security cameras in the corners of the ceiling. “Don’t count on those to save your skin. I wouldn’t trust the operators monitoring them to microwave my lunch.”

I swallow hard. “Thanks. I'll keep that in—”

The iron door clangs shut behind him. There’s a hydraulic hiss, the telltale screech of a lock sliding into place, and then it's done.

I'm alone.

I take a shuddering breath. It takes me two tries to grab the back of a chair, to pull it out and sit down at the table. Disoriented is how I feel. Dizzy. When I agreed to this promotion, I thought I understood this bunker – this organization. Now I’m starting to wonder if I ever knew the Facility at all. 

Focus, Reyes. You’ve got to focus. 

I unclasp my briefcase, start flipping through the contents inside with trembling fingers. An hour ago, I was just a Junior Analyst. My work consisted of cataloging supernatural phenomena and managing spreadsheets. I wasn't allowed to so much as approach this bunker, let alone enter it. And now look at me. I'm on the 13th floor, where only the most senior staff members are permitted. I'm about to Interrogate a monster so terrifying that the Facility can neither destroy nor contain it, so our only recourse is to parley with it. To pull information and manipulate it into giving us what it is we need. 

And they trusted me to do this. 

Me. 

“They wouldn’t have given you the job if they didn’t think you were up to the task,” I say quietly, gaslighting myself toward confidence. My eyes dart toward the iron door. I wonder how long it’ll be until they bring in Subject 34, how long until I begin my first Interrogation. 

Butterflies dance in my stomach.

I accepted this promotion on short notice, so much so that I haven’t yet had an opportunity to brief myself on the creature I’m about to sit down with. What they are is a question mark. An anomaly. But that’s what this briefcase is for. According to my supervisor, it should have all the necessary details to bring me up to speed on Subject 34, and make it sing in just the way we want it to. 

I lift a manilla folder labeled S34: SHALLOW SAM. 

Inside are documents that look decades old, all type-written and faded. They outline Shallow Sam’s history, their psychological profile, suspected origins as well as any possible weaknesses they might possess. 

According to this, Shallow Sam has no weakness. 

AGE: UNKNOWN

APPEARANCE: UNKNOWN

ABILITIES: UNKNOWN

I claw a nervous hand through my hair. It’s all unknown. My eyes run down the page, anxiety building in my chest like a kettle set to boil. Why? Why would they possibly give me an assignment like this on my first day as an Inquisitor?

THREAT CLASS: UNFATHOMABLE

It feels like a sick joke. A bad dream.

This afternoon, I wasn’t permitted to know threat classes beyond MASSACRE even existed, and now I’m about to Interrogate a being so dangerous it defies all classification. 

What a world.

I flip the page. This next document lists names -- over a hundred. These are victims: people my Subject either tormented, murdered, or consumed.

In most cases, it's all of the above. 

Reading this, I’m starting to worry if maybe there was some kind of mistake. I’m starting to worry if they pulled the wrong name out of the hat, and I accepted a promotion that I wasn’t ready for – that was never meant for me to begin with. 

No.

Stop it, Reyes. I’m not going to let doubt creep in, not going to let it pick me apart before this Interrogation even starts. I can do this, dammit. I have to.

Inquisitor.

It’s a role I’ve dreamed of stepping into since I started with the Facility, a chance to finally get back at those things that go bump in the night, an opportunity to someday find the monster that ripped my life into pieces and return the favor. And if that means risking my life tonight, then so be it. 

I’ll manage. 

Hell, I always do. 

I move the folder aside, pick up another. This one's labeled SUBJECT 521: NEURO-SNARE. A frown creases my face. Unlike Subject 34's, 521's profile isn’t littered with unknowns, but rather black squares.

Redacted.

It’s all just redacted, all the way down. 521's age, their appearance, abilities – it's all been struck from these documents, including their weaknesses and origin. 

“What the hell am I supposed to with this?” I snap, my anxiety turning to frustration. I crumple the document inside of my fist, hurl it to the floor with a sigh. When my supervisor gave me this tasking, she said the briefcase would have all the information I required. Yet there are two dossiers here. Two Subjects.

My heart pounds.

Does this mean I'm Interrogating two of these monsters, then?

Christ. The thought makes me nauseous to even consider, so I give my head a firm shake. I turn my attention back to the briefcase, hoping there's yet something that might change my fortune, but all that’s left is a grubby white envelope. The word EVIDENCE has been scribbled across it in black sharpie.

This is it, I think. The final piece of the puzzle – the deciding factor between whether or not I survive the creature I'm about to encounter.

Here goes nothing.

I open it up, dump the contents onto the table. Out falls a slew of photos. They look older than sin, like they were snapped decades ago. My brow furrows. The majority of these are blurry, practically just smears of black. There's only the faintest outline of visible furniture – almost like somebody snapped them in a dark room. 

Why, though?

I shuffle through them, and as I do my skin crawls. It’s hard to explain, but I get the sense there’s something hidden inside of them – something lurking in their dark recesses. Something unseen. Malevolent. 

"Shit––!"

I drop the polaroid, hand shooting to my mouth. 

A nightmare, that's what this next image is – almost too bleak for words. It’s a bedroom. I can make out a pile of blankets, and within them is a slop of human viscera. A heart here. A lung over there. It’s like somebody turned a person inside out, like they pulled apart everything that made them tick, laid it out on the bed in a… 

My eyes widen.

I keel over, retching onto the floor.

No, I think. This can’t be happening. Please for the love of God don't let this be happening.

But when I look back at the image, I see that my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me – I see that what I’m looking at isn’t just unmistakable but also unmissable. This was meant to find me. Always.

My gut twists, realization stealing the air from my lungs. This isn't just a photo of a murder. No, what it is is a message.

It’s there, plain as day. It's written in a tangle of intestines, in the way they snake across the bloody sheets, forming the shapes of letters and words. Forming a name.

Mine.

PART TWO

Colin always said he was “spiritual, not religious.” That was fine by me. I didn’t need him quoting scripture or meditating for hours. He liked to talk about the universe, energy, the idea that everything happens for a reason. It was harmless.

Then he discovered acid.

At first, it was fun. Raves, neon lights, the kind of trippy Instagram stories that make you laugh when you’re hungover the next day. He’d come back buzzing with revelations about life, love, and some cosmic “oneness” he couldn’t put into words.

But then the trips got… different.

He started taking LSD alone, locking himself in our bedroom for hours. He stopped going to work, started filling notebooks with scrawled symbols and ramblings about “the design.” He said he was seeing things, feeling things, and that it was all connected to some grand plan.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he told me one night, his eyes wide and glassy.

“Try me,” I said, crossing my arms.

He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I saw Him.”

“Who?”

“God. Or something like Him.” He laughed, a low, hollow sound. “It’s not what you think. He’s not what you think.”

I thought it was just the drugs talking. Until the lights started flickering.

It was subtle at first—just a few odd power surges when Colin was around. But soon, it became impossible to ignore. Every time he went on a “journey,” the air in the apartment would change. Heavy, electric, like the moment before a lightning strike.

And then there were the marks.

I woke up one night to find him standing over me, shirtless, his chest covered in what looked like burns—jagged lines and spirals carved into his skin, glowing faintly in the dark.

“What the hell did you do?” I screamed, scrambling out of bed.

“They’re not burns,” he said calmly. “They’re messages. Instructions.”

I wanted to run, but part of me couldn’t move. The glow from his skin cast faint shadows on the wall—shadows that shouldn’t have been there. They moved on their own, writhing and twisting like they were alive.

Colin smiled. “He’s coming.”

The next day, I packed a bag and tried to leave. But when I reached the door, it wouldn’t open. No matter how hard I turned the knob, it stayed locked.

“Where are you going?” Colin’s voice came from behind me.

I turned to see him sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by candles and those same damn symbols, this time drawn in something dark and sticky. Blood, maybe.

“You can’t leave,” he said. “You’ve been chosen too.”

“Chosen for what?” I whispered, backing away.

“To witness.”

I locked myself in the bathroom and called the police. But when they arrived, Colin was calm, smiling, charming even. The symbols were gone, and his skin was clean.

“She’s been stressed,” he told them, his voice dripping with concern. “Work’s been hard on her.”

They believed him.

That night, I woke up to a sound like static, low and humming. The air was heavy again, the shadows too dark, too deep. I found Colin on the balcony, his arms stretched wide, his head tilted toward the sky.

“They’re here,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

I looked up—and froze.

There were lights. Not stars. Not planes. Lights that moved in patterns, spiraling and shifting in ways that made my stomach churn. I wanted to tell myself it was a trick, a hallucination, but I could feel them, pressing down on us, watching.

Colin turned to me, tears streaming down his face.

“They’ve shown me everything,” he said. “It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. But it’s true.”

“What’s true?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

He stepped closer, and for the first time, I saw something behind his eyes—something vast, ancient, and utterly alien.

“They’re not gods,” he said. “They’re the architects. And we’re just the scaffolding.”

I don’t know what happened after that. I remember screaming, the lights growing brighter, the sound of static becoming a roar. Then I woke up alone, the apartment empty.

Colin’s notebooks are gone, but the marks are still on the walls, faint but undeniable.

I haven’t seen him since.

But sometimes, when the lights flicker, I hear his voice in the static.

“They’re coming back.”

Plot Synopsis: In an unknown location, five unrepentant souls - The Pastor, The Sinner, The Captive, The Surgeon, and The Surgeon's Assistant - have gathered to perform a heretical rite. This location, a small, unassuming room, is packed tight with an array of seemingly unrelated items - power tools, medical equipment, liters of blood, a piano, ancestral scripture, and a small vial laced on the inside by disintegrated petals. With these relics and tools, the makeshift congregation intends to trick Death. Four of them will not leave the room after the ritual is complete. Only one knew they were not leaving this room ahead of time.

Elsewhere, a mother and daughter reunite after a decade of separation. Sadie, the daughter, was taken out of her mother's custody after an accident in her teens left her effectively paraplegic and without a father. Amara, her childhood best friend, convinces her family to take Sadie in after the tragedy. Over time, Sadie begins to forgive her mother's role in her accident and travels to visit her for the first time in a decade at Amara's behest. 

Sadie's homecoming will set events into motion that will reveal her connection to the heretical rite, unravel and distort her understanding of existence, and reveal the desperate lengths that humanity will go to redeem itself. 

Chapter 0: Prologue

Chapter 1: Sadie and the Sky Above

Chapter 2: Amara, The Blood Queen, and Mr. Empty

Chapter 3: The Captive, The Surgeon, and The Insatiable Maw

Chapter 4: The Pastor and The Stolen Child

Chapter 5: Marina Harlow, The Betrayal, and God's Iris

Chapter 6: The Confession

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

Chapter 7: The Sinner's Unraveling

Marina had once again found herself at a crossroads.

Although projected from behind Amara’s eyes, she could still appreciate James’ gaze attempting to skewer her. Impatiently, he waited for her to concede.

Wouldn’t have been the first time she went along with James against her better judgement. It wasn’t clear to Marina why he was changing the plan, but James was certainly trying to sell Sadie a more pleasant story.

It was a lie, though. A revision meant to bury the appalling things she and James had done. After everything Marina had endured, she couldn’t willingly swallow another lie. Her entire life, to a degree, was a fabrication. Lance hadn’t adopted her - he’d stolen her. Marina believed she had pursued a career in obstetrics of her own volition - until that turned out to be a lie as well.

Above all, she loathed that particular lie. In a way, it had indirectly maimed her daughter. Her career was the kindling for that fateful argument. Marina had denied James then and look what happened, she thought. Accident or not, his blind rage eviscerated Sadie.

Before she could decide between surrender or resistance, Sadie spoke up. Marina had practically forgotten she was there, deeply lost within her own contemplations.

“Marina…what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Her first words were a low roar - a warning shot. Marina had never seen her daughter consumed with anger before. Until the completion of the false confession, Sadie seemed to still be recovering from the sedative. Something James said, however, had activated Sadie. Her newfound boiling rage had evaporated any remaining tranquilizer lingering within her veins, and she was now very much awake.

“You’ve known…that Amara has been…like…like this, for months, and this is…how you tell me? Have you…have you taken her to a hospital?”

Fury was not something that came naturally to Sadie. Unfortunately, this meant she did not have enough practice to know how to control it. Her lack of experience with the emotion made Sadie a live-wire - unstable electric anger snapping from her in a series of feverish bursts.

Her mother had one chance to extinguish Sadie, but Marina found herself unable to lie.

“No…No I haven’t, Sadie. But…James is -”

Marina could not have selected any more perfect words to inflame Sadie. The mention of her father in that pivotal moment converted her from a live-wire into a supernova.

An otherworldly scream discharged from somewhere deep within Sadie. Marina had managed to unlock years of festering, restless torment, and it echoed triumphantly through the confines of the small living room. Old, smoldering hate and new, explosive anger conjoined harmoniously into a single noise, dancing violently with each other in the air until Sadie no longer had the oxygen to sustain them.

From Sadie’s perspective, her mother hadn’t protected her then, and she wasn’t protecting Amara now. She had ignored a potential sign of relapsing brain cancer, deciding instead to play pretend with her ailing friend and the spirit of her bastard father.

She finally had the opportunity to impart a fraction of her pain onto both Marina and James, even if she didn't believe it was James at the time. Her mother felt herself shatter as she had a thousand times before. Her father, for all his flaws, opened himself up to the pain as well. Against his nature, he did not hide from the discomfort.

But James did so only for a fleeting moment, and only from the safety of the cancerous hole he had dug into the person his daughter cared for the most.

Sadie shot up from the recliner but found herself still wobbly on her prosthetics from the sedatives. Putting one hand on her shoulder and the other on her waist, Amara gently guided her back down into the chair.

“I’ll be ready to go to the hospital in a second, okay? I need to get my things and have a word with Marina.” James whispered, soothing Sadie. Newly exhausted from the nuclear intensity of her outburst, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

Marina followed Amara’s stolen body down the hallway and into the guest room. As the door clicked closed, James wasted no time explaining the reason behind his revisions.

“Lance saw a speck,” he remarked coldly, packing Amara’s things into a suitcase as he did.

“…a speck? You didn’t tell Sadie what we did over a speck?! God, James, the man is practically a corpse at this point. How does he still have this much control over you? How does Lance still make you this chickenshit?” Marina hissed.

James was seemingly unphased by the insult, but that was only because his mind was somewhere else. Marina could tell by the way Amara’s unblinking eyes glazed over, and how her body now unnaturally statuesque mid-action.

A few mumbling phrases spilled over her lips. Neither Amara’s eyes nor her body moved while she spoke, making her appear like some malfunctioning life-sized animatronic, reciting prerecorded lines from a battery-powered voice box sequestered inside her chest.

“…are you sure? I don’t want you becoming destabilized…”

Marina did not have patience for this multitasking.

“James - I need you here,” she pleaded while shaking Amara’s shoulder.

As if James had never left, Amara’s body sprung back to life and abruptly resumed packing.

“You’re not listening Marina. He saw a speck on the MRI. Something that shouldn’t be there. Somehow, you gave Sadie a part of Lance.”

The words came out slow and deliberate. Artfully, James shifted the blame from himself to Marina. He simply did not have the will or the constitution to harbor the pains of regret, a phenomenon Marina was very much familiar with.

However, she still heard the content of the message over the soft whistling of his manipulation. Marina’s body trembled as the implications slithered into her imagination.

“She’s as doomed as the rest of us, Marina. Once Lance dies, this whole thing falls apart. He’s incomplete. When that God finds out, it’ll lead them back to you, me, whatever is left of Damien…and eventually to Sadie.” he bluntly clarified, never one for subtlety.

Demarcated by the zipping of Amara’s suitcase, James stated his updated intent.

“If she ain’t making it through this, I want her to die without knowing what we did. There’s just no point. I won’t let Sadie experience any more pain.”

“Meet us at the hospital once you’ve put yourself back together.”

He elbowed his way past Marina, who was leaning motionless against the doorframe.

Before disappearing back into the living room, he turned to face his coconspirator.

The words “Don’t interfere” escaped Amara’s mouth, barely audible to avoid them reaching Sadie’s ears.

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

James’s childhood was undeniably difficult, and his life was undoubtedly better off before Marina arrived. With her in the picture, his father largely neglected him. Lance Harlow’s daughter was a more perfect replica of himself - The Pastor may have shared blood with James, but he shared a soul with Marina, and it made his son look like a repulsive prototype in comparison.

Of course, this wouldn’t have been apparent to young James. From his perspective, something had spoiled within him after he turned two. Up to that point, Lance had appeared to love him unconditionally, but his love had mysteriously dissolved. To a child, that could only mean he had done something wrong. James had become broken somehow. He felt like his body stunk of decay that only he couldn't smell. A deep-seated anxiety flourished within The Sinner as he tried to vivisect the imperceptible blight from himself. Despite his best efforts, he could never seem to pinpoint exactly what was rotten and necrotic within, causing his self-incisions to be haphazard and wild, cutting away whatever he could to fix himself for his father.

Marina, in contrast, was evidently unblighted. Lance appeared to love her. Had she also rejected him, James would have become truly lost.

But she didn’t reject him. She saw him as something that was unfairly discarded. Marina also could not determine what was rotting within James - whatever it was, she would often reflect, it did not bother her like it bothered her father. In fact, she quite liked James. Unassuming and reserved, Marina treasured his quiet company, as it counterbalanced the suffocating attention The Pastor poured into her.

Over the years, however, James had cut too much of himself away, blindly trying to make himself at least palatable to Lance. It was never enough, however, and he became irreparably wounded. His soul truly began to wither and rot.

Fertile ground for the birth of an insatiable maw.

During his adolescence, he drifted away from Marina and towards Damien. Their maws recognized each other. The young men found a certain camaraderie in their brokenness. It wasn’t love or appreciation that emulsified them - it was just an unspoken understanding. They both knew the anguish of rejection, as well as the horrific pain of the corporal punishment that often came hand-in-hand.

Unfortunately, once Damien’s maw bathed in the tranquility of heroin, James’ maw wouldn’t be too far behind. He misguidedly blamed Damien for his addiction in the end, which made it much easier to reduce him to a soul trapped in a saline-filled jar.

Stumbling upon his son’s illicit paraphernalia poorly hidden in his room was the last straw for The Pastor. He would not have his family name besmirched, marked as lesser on account of James’ addiction. At twenty-one, he had no prospects. The boy was a leech, Lance fumed to himself. He would not have Marina, and indirectly himself, weighed down by James.

Before The Pastor could hurt James, Marina intercepted him. She left a note on the counter detailing how she would report Lance to the police if he tried to reach out to or harm them.

They got in Marina's car, and they drove to the relative safety of her dormitory.

James worked menial jobs to help Marina get through college and medical school. From a young age, Lance steered her toward becoming an obstetrician. Despite their falling out, Marina did not waver from that path, as she still falsely believed she had made that decision wholly for herself.

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

Sadie’s conception was an accident, and her parents agreed to avoid the means to which they accomplished that conception going forward. After a long discussion, however, James and Marina decided the three of them could still become a family.

Most people assumed the stepsiblings were married, anyway, which was a reasonable assumption - they shared a last name and had completely different ethnic backgrounds. They lied where they needed to, but it was an easy enough charade to maintain.

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

All things considered, James and Marina provided Sadie with a loving childhood prior to the accident. James relapsed many times over those fourteen years, but he never hit Sadie. Nor did he neglect her, in spite of the waxing and waning tides of his addiction.

Financial ruin, unfortunately, would bring James crawling back to his father, unbeknownst to Marina.

To his shock, Lance appeared happy to see his son. The Pastor gave off an air of forgiveness, maybe even one of acceptance, he thought. This bait was a strategic design, and James helplessly fell for it.

When he asked for money, his father did not even appear angry, though that was a farce as well.

Lance Harlow, now going by Gideon Freeman, would willingly part with a sizable chunk of the fortune he had inherited from his father’s successful career in TV evangelism. More than enough money to pay their debts, maintain their addictions, and send Sadie to college ten times over.

There was a condition, of course - and it would require Marina’s help.

A month later, The Sinner, The Pastor and The Surgeon’s Assistant met and discussed terms over lunch.

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

At the restaurant, Lance leaned back in his rickety wooden chair. It creaked and almost buckled under his weight, but held strong. Marina had just asked him to “cut the shit” and provide them with the details of what she would have to do to secure the purposed fortune.

The Pastor grinned and rubbed his chin, pretending like he was contemplating how to phrase his request, when in reality he was savoring the taste of their desperation and their need.

“Well…the ‘whys’ behind what I would like you to do may beggar belief. But the favor itself, Marina, - now that’s quite simple.”

“All you need to do is administer an inhaled medication to a select few of the infants you so graciously help through the birthing process. Now, it won’t hurt any of the cherubs - so put that thought to rest. Down the road, I’ll need you to develop some sort of lie to get those infants into an MRI machine. I’ll leave the contents of that lie up to you.”

“I’ll pay you poor devils half a million upfront. Consider it an olive branch - a show of goodwill. From there, I’ll provide you with one hundred thousand dollars for each MRI photo you can provide me with.”

“Now, if you are truly interested in the ‘whys’, I’ll direct you to the summation of how I’ve spent the last fifteen years.” He proclaimed with a lecherous slur, pushing a copy of “The Hydra of the Human Soul,” across the table.

“I’m just so happy you took my advice and became an obstetrician, my child.”

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

“Marina - it’s half a million dollars, for Christ’s sakes.” James exclaimed, his frustration with Marina amplified by the opioid withdrawals. He paced rapid circles around her and the family dining room table, like a carrion bird flying above a dying animal.

“Forget the money, James, I’m not doing it…” she replied matter-of-factly. Instead of watching James and his manic spectacle, she put her gaze firmly on Sadie, who she could see in the cul-de-sac from their dining room window. Her daughter had just returned from a run.

Marina’s fixation was purposeful. She was reminding herself of why she wouldn’t give in to her baser instincts. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched her beautiful daughter, her raindrop, lay down delicately on the grass outside their house.

The Pastor had provided her with the entire truth, and she wouldn’t let anyone else’s daughter become a vessel like her.

“And why the fuck not? Are you even listening to yourself?”

When she wouldn’t dignify him with a response, James stormed into the hallway and ripped his keys off the wall hanger. He violently slammed the door multiple times as he left the home.

James was in such a frenzy that he missed the ignition twice, instead jamming the car key into the leather of the steering well.

When the car finally roared to life, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator as hard as he could.

Unlike Marina, he had not noticed Sadie had returned from her run and was now laying in the grass outside their home.

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

For the first few months after the completion of the heretical rite, James could not pilot Amara as intended.

Instead, he lived quietly somewhere behind her eyes. A silent passenger that watched patiently and waited for something to change. Sleep could not find him wherever he was. While his host rested, James would stare at the inside of her eyelids, unable to do anything but bide his time.

Eventually, he became more tangible. James frequently imagined himself exerting control over Amara’s actions. What manifested from that recurrent prayer was Mr. Empty - an inky human frame that lingered on the periphery of her consciousness, desperately trying to extend itself far enough that it could swallow Amara whole.

Surgery and chemotherapy excised a sizable portion of James, however. Maddeningly, he found himself back at square one - unable to manifest any part of himself again. Demoted back to a silent passenger located somewhere within the recesses of her brain.

That cavernous place provided him with an epiphany, however.

He had tried taking control of Amara, thinking he could somehow overpower her. When, in truth, the only way he was ever going to be the driver was if she relinquished control voluntarily.

Over time, James learned how to manipulate her perception of reality as well as the content of her memories. He attempted to convince the deepest parts of Amara, the parts she was not even consciously aware of, that it was safer for her give up that control and hide rather than face the world head-on.

One day, he found himself completely materialized.

He sat opposite to her in what appeared to be a therapist’s office. She smiled at him from across the room and thanked him for taking the time to see her.

This might be it, he thought.

It was all but confirmed when he learned of his new name: Dr. J. L. Warhol. Those were his first and middle initial, and the last name was an anagram for Harlow.

An unconscious part of Amara knew it was him, and that aspect of Amara was offering him control.

“No relation to Andy,” he remarked with a knowing smirk.

James was not in complete control of when Amara would relinquish control, at least not initially. One moment, he would be behind her eyes, and the next, he would be Dr. Warhol. During her therapy sessions, Amara would usually stare at James, unblinking and motionless. If she said something, he would make a point of responding to her, but this was a relatively infrequent occurrence. It was never clear to him where Amara went during those times. Eventually, he assumed she was dormant somewhere within herself. Hibernating while she let James take the wheel.

In the beginning, the therapy sessions would last a few hours, but it eventually became days. Sometimes even weeks.

James found piloting Amara to be fairly difficult at the outset. It wasn’t simple as he had imagined it. He found her limbs difficult to maneuver, and he didn’t fully understand his position in space within the new body frame. Not only that, but he could see through Amara’s eyes and through Dr. Warhol’s eyes simultaneously, in a sort of nauseating double vision.

Eventually, however, James and Amara entered into a rhythm. They split control of her body down the middle. This unspoken arrangement worked well for both parties.

Until the night of the false confession.

In that familiar therapy room, he found that the deepest parts of Amara were rejecting him. Trying to push him out of her consciousness permanently.

“I think I’ve outgrown you, Dr. Warhol. I don’t think it’s safe for me to hide from the world anymore.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you becoming destabilized, Amara...”

He felt his control slipping, and in the end, he truly was his father’s son, despite Lance’s unilateral rejection.

Impulsively deciding to burn it all down rather than relinquish control once he had it.

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

Under the blinding phosphorescent lights of the ER waiting room, Marina felt a wave of panic coursing through her.

“No, ma’am, really. There’s no one named Amara Jeffers currently checked in.”

It had taken her an hour to compose herself before she left her apartment. They should be here by now. There’s no way Sadie would have allowed Amara to go anywhere else.

Something that James said before he left started becoming louder in her head, repeating over and over like a ringing alarm.

An omen of sorts.

“If she ain’t making it through this, I want her to die without knowing what we did. There’s just no point. I won’t let Sadie experience any more pain.”

“I won’t let Sadie experience any more pain.”

“I won’t let Sadie experience any more pain.”

It was only early December when we knew that our holidays were in for some trouble this season here in the small town of Queensport, just after the snow began to stick to the ground.

We were going out for a bit of caroling, my brothers and I, when we heard a ruckus near to the St Bartholomew Church.

Often we knew that homeless and drunkards would shamble across the parking lot, pitching tents and warming themselves to the fires the deacon would light. During the day he would often get them warm blankets and fresh food, for The church never sent away a single soul even the ones the most mired by sin.

This night the noise we heard sounded far worse than any commotion we had heard before. Like a scream from hell itself, John claimed to our father later. Curiosity got the better of us when we heard it a second time and we rushed to the church grounds to ascertain what was causing such a stir.

It did not take long for us to see the problem, my middle brother Danny barely keeping his composure as we saw a trail of black tar smearing across the cement toward a Nativity scene that had been erected near the fountain.

The traditional statues of Joseph and Mary had been beheaded, a clean cut that showed precision and skill that none of these vagabonds ever displayed. And the manger where the infant Jesus was often seen cradled was now covered in the same tar, with someone bold enough to mark it with an unholy symbol, the reverted cross.

Just as we were observing the scene, a spark of fire was lit and the entire display began to melt and crumble. We shouted for the others in the area to step away and John used his cellphone to call the fire department.

No one was harmed because of the incident, but the front steps of the church were a charred mess the next day and the Nativity scene the congregation had spent most of late November creating was now just smoldering ash.

Father Carter was normally a very calm man of the cloth but when he saw the destruction, he flew off the handle. The blaze had started on Saturday, so the next morning he gave a fiery speech. Claiming that any who would be enemies of Christ would be reaching their judgment day soon.

The air in the church was tense. No one knew who would even consider desecrating the holy place. Our mom whispered and asked if we had seen anything, but none of us had.

“It was strange that they took out the baby Jesus statue. I wonder why they didn’t want that one to be destroyed,” I said.

Police Chief Andreas Ward released a statement via the local newspaper that anyone who has any knowledge of what caused the accident should step forward.

But naturally no one did. A few more days passed and everyone in Queensport resumed ordinary life. We all thought it to be a vicious prank of some kind. But it seemed unlikely that the culprit would ever be found.

Danny took the words of our preacher seriously and vowed he would keep searching and asking, determined to learn who had caused such a tragedy.

“They’re only statues, not the actual Mary and Joseph,” John reminded him. Still, he went out on his own investigation.

My parents thought nothing of it, perhaps they felt it was good way for him to occupy his time since we were on winter break.

But then Friday morning came and Danny had not returned.

“Go out there and find your brother, you two,” mom told us.

We started to knock on doors, ask wandering neighbors. No one had seen our brother. As the midday sun rose overhead and we rested near the church, I started to worry. It wasn’t like Danny simply to not come home.

What if he had gotten into some kind of trouble? The

snow began to settle into a dreary wet slushy rain, making both of us feel miserable as we continued our search. It wasn’t but an hour later John was ready to give up and go home.

“He’ll be fine. Probably off with that girlfriend of his and used this whole thing as an excuse,” he scoffed. I decided to keep going. There were a few people who claimed they had seen Danny headed towards the old church, the one that had been abandoned on the edge of town. It seemed like an odd place for him to be, because according to the city the place was on its last breath and about to collapse.

It was an old brick chapel, no larger than perhaps a schoolhouse from back in the prairie days, covered in dark moss and vines, the very sight of it gave me the chills. I understood it had much historical significance to not only our town, but the area surrounding here. Our settlers built this old thing, so it’s a part of our heritage. Even though now it likely only housed spirits, I reasoned we needed to respect the past and what it represented.

As I got closer, I saw light within the building, making me realize that the rumors some were using it as shelter were true. Unfortunate souls who didn’t feel welcomed in the main town… or perhaps dangerous individuals who knew to keep their profile low. If Danny was here, he was in danger I said to myself as I got closer and found a tree to climb and get a better look at what was happening within. One of the rafters had fallen apart to give light to the small vestibule of the chapel and provide me with a clear view of a group of figures that were standing around what looked like an altar of some kind.

All of them were dressed in strange shimmering yellow robes. They walked around the altar slowly as though they were in a trance. I couldn’t make out their faces but their movements were almost inhuman in a way. It made me want to look away or make it stop but I knew I couldn’t. To see this blatant secret of our quaint little town exposed, it almost made me feel I was going mad seeing it happen.

The chanting stopped and one of the yellow robed figures stepped forward. He had in his arms one of the small baby Jesus statues from the Nativity scene. This confirmed they were the vandals but I had yet to determine why this had happened.

They placed the baby statue into the fire, chanting louder as the flames licked it and eventually it crumbled in the inferno, melting like old ice cream.

The figurine was soon gone, replaced only by a goopy mess and the cloaked group looked disappointed and argued amongst themselves. I was too far away to discern what the ruckus was about, but I guessed their bizarre ritual did not go as planned.

Another figure approached the burning altar, presenting another statue. I could hear his voice clearly.

“This is the correct vessel. It shall find its way into the world through me,” they said.

I could recognize the voice and it sent my mind into a tailspin. Danny.

He pulled back his cloak to reveal his face, stretching his arms out toward the fire. I could tell the intensity of the heat was causing him pain but still he remained steadfast to prove his loyalty to these cultists.

“Let us witness the birth of a new Messiah!” Danny declared.

The plastic figurine melted again. But this time it was different, it didn’t simply begin to burn apart. Instead it screamed.

The statue broke open, a strange black slime oozing out onto the altar. It seemed to stir and slither toward my brother. He kept his hands outstretched, waiting to be able to take hold of the unusual lifeform.

It hissed the way a snake does whenever it’s prepared to strike its prey and then lunged toward Danny’s arm. The sudden movement made me gasp and a few of the cultists turned toward the hole in their roof. I held back my body to avoid being seen, wondering if I had exposed myself.

I knew I couldn’t stay much longer or they would begin to search for me in earnest and so I hurried to the base of the tree and ran home.

I think I ran harder than I ever have in my entire life, my lungs were gasping for air and I wanted to collapse. If I did so though I knew they would find me. Nowhere was safe until I got help.

Inside the house I rushed to find my mother, who was just finishing up a load of laundry. My words were a scrambled salad, as I tried to explain that I had found Danny.

“Whatever are you talking about? Your brother is here! He came home half an hour ago!” she blurted out before I could further explain the situation.

I didn’t know what to believe, so I walked into my younger brother’s room and saw that he was laying in bed reading a comic book.

“Yo! Joey! I was just wondering where you were. Mom said you were trying to find me!”

I froze in place, analyzing every movement he made. The things I saw at the church made me question reality itself. Had it been some strange waking nightmare because I trespassed on that sacred place? Or was the person I spoke to now only pretending to be my brother.

“I was worried about you… after you didn’t come home the other day while you were searching for the vandals,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

“Oh yeah. John said that you stuck with it and were searching for me in every nook and cranny of our little town. But I gave up and came home probably an hour after you decided to keep searching… speaking of which. Did you find anything?”

His eyes were bright and inquisitive and seemed sincere. But I could not be sure that he was trustworthy so I said nothing and just shrugged.

“Let’s forget about it and go shoot some hoops,” I suggested.

Danny agreed and finished up his comics, getting up out of bed and rushing to grab the basketball. As he did I saw there was a strange bruise on his right arm. The same place I was sure the parasitic slime had attacked him in the church.

I kept a close eye on him as we walked outside and started to play. Every move he made I wondered if it was just an act. There was nothing that I could see which would show me that he was a fake.

Gradually I began to let my guard down. I told myself the things I had seen must have been some sort of fever dream.

The town also seemed to return to normal. Everyone forgot about the incident with the Nativity scene. Christmas lights and trees were found on every street corner and the Christmas spirit seemed to have returned.

Danny didn’t act any differently, he seemed to be just the same little brother that I had known all along.

Then Sunday morning came and we went to the same church, and Father Carter gave a usual Sunday sermon. I couldn’t help but notice that there were more people today than there had been. Perhaps because of the holiday season, I thought at first.

Carter asked for testimony near the end of his sermon, and to my surprise Danny stood up and said he wanted to speak.

The entire assembly got quiet as my young brother walked to the pulpit.

“Thank you father. I’ve actually never done this before so I don’t know where to begin… I think I want to talk about the tragedy that affected our congregation a week ago. Father Carter put a fervor into us to determine who the culprit was and many of us responded with righteous indignation…”

I began to feel uncomfortable. My brother did not normally ever talk like this. He sounded like an old man that had seen his entire life pass by.

“It was because of that I decided to confess.. to this entire assembly, I know who is to blame. In fact the very sinner is in our midst… because it was me,” Danny declared. A few of the people in the crowd murmured in surprise. Others just stayed quiet, watching as Danny gave us his reasons.

“Queensport has remained a quiet town for so long, we don’t know how to handle things like this. We are just closed minded to the world. But all of that is about to change. We are about to be enlightened by things we never knew that we didn’t understand. A miracle that will change the world,” he said louder. I couldn’t help but to notice that the whole assembly was getting nervous, a few were trying to leave.

And then I saw a few of the partitioners standing in the way of the exit. And they had yellow scarves or something to make it clear they were associated with the cult I had witnessed. I grabbed my mom’s hand, scared out of my wits as Danny began to chant.

And then the ones that were trapping us within the church unsheathed weapons.

They rushed toward the innocent churchgoers, cutting throats and screaming strange enchantments as blood spilled on the pews. I scrambled to my feet, moving toward the stage where Danny stood. He was watching the bloodbath with merciless glee.

Soon there were only a few of us left alive. Danny held his hand against my shoulder.

“My brother. Accept this gift from me for Christmas. Open your eyes and see what the world really is. The darkness from beyond has come to swallow the light.”

His hand turned as dark as night and I saw the shadowy creature that had attacked him bulge out of his skin and move toward my neck. I couldn’t even scream as it took shape in front of me, a naked child that resembled the statues I had seen of young Jesus.

Except this one was covered in strange sores, their skin blistery and cold as they opened their mouth and a smoky yellow fog came out and started to infect those still alive… and the dead. Their bodies shook and stood up, their mouths opening and screaming as they began to shamble toward the door.

“Listen all ye faithful for Nicolas the Antichrist has risen. His day is upon us and the shadow of this darkness shall swallow the world whole. Spread his gospel far and wide,” Danny declared.

“How is this even happening,” I asked. “Why have I been spared?”

“Brother. Your part of this is more important than any other. This place will be torn asunder. We must have one to testify of what has taken place here. Herald his presence.”

Danny suddenly began to seize and shake, falling down on the ground and vomit as more black slime came onto the pews. More of the strange plastic figures that resembled our Christ formed and started to leave the church, a whole army of darkness.

My brother was gone. My family turned into mindless zombies. I left Queensport that day and did not return.

I have heard whispers of the antichrist and what he has unleashed. There are other small towns that have been taken by his influence. I fear that this winter shall be the darkest we have ever faced.

I've never been a people person, I'm quite shy if I'm being honest. So when the new neighbor came knocking, I treated them like any other solitary recluse would. I shut the blinds and hid behind my couch, watching, waiting for the old lady from across the street to get tired of thumping her knuckles against the door, but she was very persistent. She must've been at the door for about fifteen minutes. Her throaty voice permeated through my door as she tried coaxing me to come and meet her.

"Hello? Young man? You in there?" Her bony fingers thudded on the glass window on my door, while periodically cupping her hands and looking inside. I felt her eyes scanning the house, looking for any sign of life, any sign of me, but I remained hidden, for the most part. I couldn't help poking my head over the couch and catching a glimpse of her white main that was cut to her shoulder. Her face had lost the elasticity of her youth, the folds of skin drooping under the weight of gravity. She wore these black, thick-rimmed glasses that magnified the foggy eyes behind their frame. I could tell that she noticed movement anytime I peered my head out, her eyes would slowly twist in my direction, but I was unsure if she actually knew it was me or the shadow cast by her cataract.

"Young man? I need to talk to you."

I was in no mood to entertain anyone. I know that it makes me sound like a dick, but I hate people. The town I moved to was remote, very few people live here, and the ones that do mostly keep to themselves.

"Welcome to the neighborhood," She said defeatedly into the void, then hesitantly made her way down the porch steps. A pang of guilt washed over me as I watched the old woman lower her head and her eyes sadden. I felt like such an ass. I shot to my feet and ran to the door, in my head I crafted a believable excuse for not opening it earlier, but when I opened the door the old woman was gone. Confused, I stepped out of the house and looked around expecting her to still be making her way home, but she was gone. I itched my head in bewilderment, maybe thinking she wandered off somewhere to the backyard. I looked around the sides of the porch but saw nothing.

An old hag like her couldn't have gotten too far. In disbelief, I stepped onto the sidewalk and felt this irrational sense of fear, as if I was exposed, vulnerable. I just assumed it was my extreme anxiety but when I looked across the road, I saw a pair of eyes looking at me through the blinds. Immediately, the blinds were pulled shut. I recognized the wrinkly face that I'd seen at my door and was somewhat remorseful about the whole situation. I swallowed my pride and walked across the street. As I raised a hand to knock, the door creaked open and a woman peered out of a small crack.

"Yes, how can I help you?" The fragile voice said. I smiled at her and proceeded to apologize for not coming to the door earlier. My excuse was 'I was in the shower'. She widened the gap in the door a bit more. When I finally stopped talking, she just stared at me as if I was crazy. When the disbelief melted from her expression, she kindly told me that I was mistaken. That she never knocked on my door. I didn't know how to respond to that, so I excused myself for the inconvenience and made my way back home. Before I closed my door, I looked back to see the woman's face twisted in fear. The blinds slammed shut.

The whole situation was strange but I put it out of my mind, for a time at least. A few days later, while I was getting ready for bed, there was a knock at my door.

"Young man? You there? I need to talk to you."

I peered out from around a corner and saw the woman cupping her hands against the glass. She was staring right at me, those glassy eyes burrowing holes into my soul. With no other choice, I walked to the door and unlatched the knob. This time greeting the old woman warmly.

"Hello, what can I do for you, ma'am?"

The woman's shoulders tensed and she looked at me in astonishment. She lifted a hand and trailed it along my cheek, a twinkle of amazement in her eye. Out of nowhere, that twinkle vanished and anger twisted her face.

"You're not him. Where is he?" She growled. I stood there for a second trying to make sense of her question. When I told her that I didn't know what she was talking about she grabbed me by my shirt and hissed into my face.

"Don't lie to me you son of a bitch. You know where he is." Despite her age, she was strong. Strong enough to pull me inches from her face.

"Tell me." She roared. Out of nowhere a voice cut through the cold night.

"Mom! Stop." A middle-aged woman was frantically running across the street, panic etched on her face. She grabbed the old woman's hands and pried them off of my shirt.

"I'm so sorry. She can't help it. She has dementia you see." The younger woman said as she protectively cradled the fibers on the elderly woman's head, while the old woman continued to whisper on about this 'man'.

"I hope she hasn't caused you too much trouble. She doesn't usually do this, but she's been having these episodes lately." The daughter explained. I couldn't help pitying the two. Even more so, when the elderly woman looked into her daughter's face whimperingly pleading for her to believe her.

"He was there. I saw him. I'm not lying."

It broke my heart. I told the younger of the two that everything was alright and there was no need to worry about anything. The woman was so grateful to me for being understanding and promised me that they would watch her mother more closely next time. I watched as the two made their way back home, the daughter guiding her mother up the porch steps. The whole time, the old woman was craning her head over her shoulder. When they reached the door, it looked as if the old woman's memory had reset.

"Where am I? Who are you?" The door closed behind them and the lights shun through their front window. The elderly woman walked up to the glass and saw me from the comforts of her living room. I watch her face contort and her muted panic waft through the glass.

"Marry, there is a man outside!" She yelled. The daughter shut the blinds and I didn't hear from them for a while.

I don't go out much, but when I do I could always count on the old lady watching me through the window. Her eyes never really left my house. Every once and a while I peek out and find her eyes trained on my house. Any time she sees me she perks up, fear coursing through her expression. It was as if she were to stop guarding me, I would somehow burn the world down. I just assumed it was the normal progression of her disease, but I couldn't help feeling this strange uneasiness.

The elderly woman's daughter kept her word. She was very vigilant of her mother after that night when she came knocking, but despite her watchful eye, the woman visited me again. I just wished she'd knocked on the front door this time.

It was the middle of the night and I was fast asleep. That is until something clattered from inside my house. I immediately shot out of bed and looked around the room. In the stillness of my house, a voice started to drift into my ear. It was faint and distant, sounding like it was coming from the end of the hall. I pressed my ear up to the wall and a woman's voice permeated through the drywall. I recognized that voice, it was the voice that first welcomed me to the neighborhood. She spoke in a hushed tone, but the fear was evident in her shakiness.

"It's you. I knew it was you. They never believe me. I told them I wasn't crazy."

I quietly made my way to the bedroom door and creaked it open. I looked down the hall to find the woman from across the street staring into the darkness. She continued muttering nonsense. So many questions ran through my head, but the main one was how the hell she got in here. That was going to have to wait, I needed to get her back home. I tried my best not to scare her. I turned on the hall light and watched her back tense when I did.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" I asked. In the clarity of the bulb, I saw how much she was trembling. She was scared, so scared in fact that a trail of liquid oozed down her leg. I felt so bad for her.

"Ma'am?" I asked again, this time my voice seemed to register, and she clutched her chest in fear. I slowly walked up to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn't react to my touch. The poor thing was frozen. Her watery eyes finally looked into my face and through a quivering lip she started repeating something under her breath. It was so quiet that I couldn't understand what she was saying, but that was all the volume she could muster in her state of shock. That is until something primal erupted inside her.

In a split second, the woman had gone from a fearful mouse to a squawking lunatic.

"Where's the man!" she kept screaming, her voice echoing through my house.

"Where's the man!" Off in the distance, I heard the dogs from down the street barking. Their voice traveled into the house so clearly that the front door must've been open.

"Where's the man!" Her screams were so gut-wrenching that you would think she was getting murdered. She started lashing out at me, erratically thwarting me with a flurry of slaps. I did my best to restrain her without hurting her. Thankfully, her screams were loud enough to wake half of the neighborhood, her daughter included.

Knowing her mother was having another episode she rushed into my house desperately trying to find the fragile woman. When she rounded the corner, the old woman had her hands around my throat. The daughter pleaded for her to stop. When the old woman realized who the voice belonged to she seemed to snap out of her episode.

"Mary? What are you doing here? What happened to the man?"

The daughter's expression turned somber and she glanced over at me with apologetic eyes.

"Mom, please let go of the young man." The old woman looked back at me and confusion marked her face.

"This is not the man. Where is the man?"

Not soon after the cops pulled up to my house. The old woman's screams had frightened someone enough that they dialed 9-1-1. Half of the block was now spectating from the sidewalk. We explained the situation to the police and they were understanding. Even though the woman had somehow broken into my house, I held no ill will toward her, she was sick after all. After the daughter apologized profusely, they made their way back home. The crowd dispersed and the cops advised me to double-check when I lock my doors at night. But that's what had me so confused. I always double-check my doors at night, but this old woman somehow walked right in without forcing her way inside. Unless she had some history as a professional lock picker, there is no logical reason to believe she broke in without causing a commotion. I walked over to the window and saw the lady staring at me from the blinds across the street. When she looked at me she didn't react, at first. But the longer she stared the more fear engulfed her. Through the muted walls of her house, she began to scream.

"Mary! The man. It's the man!"

Her daughter came into the window's frame, trying to quell her mother's panic, but when she looked over at me, she too started screaming.

"He's behind you!" She screamed. Suddenly a cold chill ran down my spine when I heard one of the floorboards squeak. When I turned around, I saw a rugged, filthy man holding a knife and he was looking at me with ravenous conviction.

"You're not welcome here." He said calmly. I didn't react when the filthy hobo lodged the dagger into my stomach. The sharp blade sliced through me with ease. When he pulled it out I clutched the wound, trying to hold back the flood of red fluid oozing out of me. The world started to go dark, but before the light left my eyes the man whispered into my ear.

"This is my house you hear me? Mine."

When I finally came to, I was lying in a white room. I was sure I was dead, but a familiar beep chimed from my bedside. I turned to see a cardiac monitor, its green lines moving to the beats of my heart. That was about the time a nurse walked in.

When she alerted the doctor he came in and explained what had happened. I had been stabbed. The blade had knicked a major artery and I was lucky to be alive. When I tried asking questions about the man who stabbed me the doctor called someone else in. The man who came in was no doctor, he wasn't wearing scrubs. He introduced himself as a detective, flashing a badge in the process. He held up a mugshot, I recognized the subject instantly. His long salt-and-pepper beard trailed out of the picture's frame. His dirty unwashed face. His tattered rags that bearly pass for clothes.

The detective explained that the man in the picture was the previous resident of the house. He had been evicted and his house foreclosed on, though he never actually left. They found his hideout in the attic, I didn't even know I had an attic if I'm being honest, but the detective held up a picture of the entryway. A wooden foldout ladder descended from the ceiling. It was located in the hallway. The same hallway where I'd found the old woman shaking in her shoes. That night when I'd found her, the man was returning from a supply run. The woman across the street who always sat at the window had seen him and upon his return confronted him. The man not wanting to blow his cover ran into the house and climbed back into his room. The old woman had seen him crawl back into the attic, and even though she was terrified she stood guard at the entryway waiting for him to come down. Given her condition, she ended up forgetting what she was doing when I grabbed her shoulder. The detective told me that the locks on my new house never got changed and the man in the attic had a copy of the house keys. He playfully lifted the key chain in his pocket. He said that I was lucky I had such a vigilant neighbor living across from me. There was a knock on the door and a familiar face peered in.

"Speak of the devil." The detective said. Mary guided her elderly mother inside. The old woman looked confused to be there but when her eyes met me there was a clarifying light that twinkled in her gaze. She looked relieved that I was alive and she slowly made her way to my bedside. Her hand caressed my face and she gave me a warm smile.

"You're not the man." She said and turned to her daughter for confirmation.

"No Mom, he's not that man." The daughter said with tearful eyes. The old woman faced me again and patted my cheek.

"NO, he's not the man." She said with a big smile, her gaze lingering before her expression went blank.

"Who are you?" she asked suddenly. The daughter answered her from across the room.

"Mom, this is our new neighbor."

The old woman looked surprised to hear the news.

"New neighbor huh?" She said stunned, before finding her manners. With a firm grip, she shook my hand with both palms, and a genuine smile inched across her face.

"Welcome to the neighborhood. My name is Gretchen."

Despite the pain, I couldn't help but smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Gretchen. I'm Ricky." She fluffed my hair as if I was a kid, granted to her I was. Without a second look, she turned around and started making her way back to the door, her daughter following closely behind, but before she left the room I wanted to thank her.

"Gretchen, "I called. She stopped dead in her tracks and craned her head over at me.

"Thank you," I said my voice quivering with gratitude. I watched the gears turning in her head before it went blank again.

"I'm sorry. Do I know you?" She asked with genuine concern. I was slightly disappointed that she'd already forgotten me and tried to hide my sadness, but just as my face fought back a frown. Gretchen erupted into a laugh.

"I'm just joking kid. You're very welcome." She said and immediately turned back to the door. When the two were out of view the detective gave me a cathartic shrug. But before the man closed the door I heard Gretchen's voice drift in from down the hall.

"Mary? Why did that young man thank me?"

The pain in my abdomen stifled a laugh.

“Dream tourism,” Antonov repeated. He knew he'd hooked them already—Bob and Betty, married empty-nesters from Massachusetts. “We take van out at night, point scanner at house, and somnialization: dream seeing. Here in Russia we have not same level of enforcement, shall we say, of dream-property rights.”

“We can spy on people's dreams?” Betty asked.

“Peek,” Bob corrected her. “It's not like we have any bad intentions. And the dreamer's not losing anything, right?”

“Correct,” said Antonov.

He quoted them the price, they paid, then he sent a percentage to the local precinct to ensure a trouble-free tour.

When he picked them up in the evening, they were nervous but excited, looking at the machinery inside the van with awe.

“I hook you up now,” he said.

“Oh—I guess I thought we'd be watching on a screen,” said Betty.

“Direct-connect,” said Antonov.

“Safe?” asked Bob.

Antonov assured them, and the two Americans held hands as he connected the wires to their heads.

To begin, he drove them into a residential neighbourhood, and showed them soft stuff, the dreams of children, the happy elderly, the moral and affluent.

“You like?” he asked.

“My goodness—it's so vivid—so immersive,” said Betty, driven to tears by the beauty of the visions.

As they were blissfully enraptured, Antonov flipped a red switch on his control board and navigated the van to the hotel. Room 1507. He stopped on the building's eastern side, counted the windows down from the top floor and calibrated the scanner.

Precision was difficult, but he could tell he'd gotten it right when Bob's eyes widened and Betty's mouth gaped. “Oh my God—my dear God, no. No!” she yelled, and Bob begged for it to stop.

Antonov ignored them, and instead worked a slider, intensifying the connection.

When it was finally over, Bob and Betty were slumped in their seats. Overwhelmed, their bodies were lax and their minds pliable, and he had no problem returning them to their rented room, walking with each as if they'd had too much to drink.

He made sure the night guard saw them.

Three days later, Antonov paid his first control visit to Room 1507, where [...] was staying.

“How you feel?” Antonov asked.

“I've slept every night,” said [...]. “So you might say I feel good.”

“No more recurring nightmare?”

“No, not since.”

Antonov nodded. “I come one more time in one week. If nightmare not returned, you pay remaining half,” he said.

“I'm fine waiving that requirement,” said [...], pointing at a briefcase. “There's your money. I need to get back to Washington. But, tell me, did you—”

“We don't talk process.”

“Right,” said [...].

And by the tone of his voice and the dead look in his eyes, Antonov knew he'd been right to split the nightmare between two recipients, because the transfer worked only as long as the recipient(s) lived—and whatever horror it was that could keep [...] awake at night…

He opened the briefcase, counted the money and left.

A couple is enjoying their time at the beach when unresolved issues surface.

The summer sun shines brightly over Florida’s beaches. Susan is sitting under a parasol trying to protect herself from the harmful rays. She is covered in two layers of sunscreen, just to be on the safe side, and have an oversized hoodie over her bikini. Even in the shade of the parasol it is hot and humid. Her entire body is sticky and she can’t tell if it’s from the sunscreen or her sweat, probably a combination.

A breeze from the ocean comes in with the crashing waves, but the salt in it only makes her dry mouth even thirstier. She glances over towards the kiosk selling refreshments a few hundred yards away, Ted, her fiance, is standing in line. She hopes he’ll return soon.

She tries to distract herself from how the hoodie glues itself to her body and her throat yearning for water by watching the waves. It doesn’t help her thirst and almost as if to mock her the waves are perfect for surfing. Several other beach goers are riding the waves, some are complete amateurs and fall off before even getting to the waves while others surf as if it was the most natural thing. Susan feels her hands and toes itch, she wants to get up on a board and swim out too. Then she looks down on her swollen feet. She could barely walk properly right now, much less stand on a surfboard. Some people’s laughter is carried over by the wind and even though the laugh could have been about anything her mind tells her she was the cause. Ashamed of her current appearance she buries her feet in the sand. She wraps her arms around her large belly, only three more weeks, she mumbles to herself.

Eventually she can’t wait for Ted anymore. How long can it take him to get two drinks? She leans against the parasol to get up. She used to be pretty athletic but the later half of the pregnancy had put a stop to that. Now her body is stiff and aches whenever she needs to get up out of bed. Not only did she hurt everywhere but her body was also swollen to twice her normal size. 

She wobbles slowly towards the kiosk. With one hand shielding her eyes from the sun she searches for Ted. He’s not in the line. Instead she finds him in the kiosk’s shadow together with two women. He’s just talking to them but the two unfamiliar women are both young, slender and beautiful and the sight of the three makes Susan uncomfortable. She was already aware of how her body had changed due to the pregnancy but now her insecurities almost reach the surface. As she approaches the trio she forces the best smile she can and uses all her restraint not to offend them.

“Ted, dear,” she says and wraps her arm around his. He recoils for a fraction of a second before giving her his signature smile. “What happened with the drinks?” She asks.

“Sorry, hon, there was a bit of an accident.” He nods towards the two women. “We bumped into one another and I accidentally spilled them on these two ladies. We were just talking about what to do.”

“Oh, I’m glad it’s nothing serious.” Susan gives a little laugh that’s an octave too high and does a quick assessment of the two women. They are both tan, slender and wear tight bikinis but there are no clear signs of where they were splashed with soda. They both look dry as far as Susan can tell. “Since it’s just some sugary drink I’m sure you can easily clean it off in the water, right?” She looks straight at them with a stiff smile and they avert their gazes, giving a mumbling agreement. “And you don’t need to worry about the money.” She looks at Ted. “This time I’m buying the drinks.” She holds up her wallet.

“What would I do without you?” Ted says with a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

After buying the drinks and returning to their spot under the parasol the two lovers sit in silence as they watch people swim between the waves. Ted’s jaw is clenched and he seems to look at everything except Susan. She takes out her make-up mirror and studies her appearance. She knew the pregnancy had destroyed her figure but was she really that ugly,  appalling?

Three more weeks and the baby boy would be out. Then her body would go back to normal and Ted would return to his usual happy self. She remembers how happy he had been at the start of the pregnancy, before her body had swelled into a monster, how he had hummed while decorating the baby’s room and how the two of them had looked through baby names’ sites. They still hadn’t settled on a name.

“Are you coming or not?” Ted’s voice cut through Susan’s reminiscing thoughts. He stands in front of her with one of his hands reached out. “It’s a waste to spend all day hiding from the sun, come and at least feel the waves.”

His sudden shift in attitude surprises Susan and she both blushes and fails to get any coherent words out of her mouth. She tries to refuse his offer knowing her body can’t do anything strenuous, but it has been so long since he had initiated any kind of physical contact with her that she can’t reject his outreached hand. Instead she takes his hand, allows him to help her up and then leads her towards the water.

They get on a surfboard and paddle out from the shore, away from the noisy crowd. He sits behind her and every time she expresses any slight unease about the waves he holds her close and reassures her. Susan relaxes. This was the Ted she was used to, the one she had fallen in love with.

Then a larger wave hits them from the side and their surfboard flips over.

Water rushes into Susan’s mouth and her arms flail around as she tries to orient herself. She opens her eyes. What is up, what is down? There’s a shadow to her left. The surfboard!

She swims towards it but something pushes her away when she gets close. She tries to reach the board again and just as she’s about to grab it something presses down hard on her head. She fights it, pushes against it. There’s no air left and in a desperate attempt to survive she summons all the adrenalin strength within her and forces herself forward.

She breaches the surface. The bright sun blinds her but she manages to hold a firm grip on the surfboard with her left hand. She coughs and vomits up the water she’d swallowed. The waves washes away the evidence. A shadow looms over her. It’s Ted. He’s already sitting on the board. Susan smiles when she sees him. She reaches out her arm towards him and he leans closer. However instead of taking her hand he places his on her head. His touch is soft, soothing.

Then he pushes her below the surface.

Confused, Susan does what she can to fight him off but his grip on her head is unmovable and she had already exhausted all her strength in the previous battle. It didn't take long until her body gave up.

After she stops moving Ted looks at her a final time, the love of his life who had transformed into a hideous monster. He releases her and sees her bloated body sink below the waves to never be found. Finally, he was a free man again.

Doreen’s question was absurd, and I had half a mind to walk over and pull her head out of the damn chimney by her feet.

I suppressed the impulse. She hasn’t been the same since we lost Junior.

That said, her new obsession was taking a toll on me.

“This is probably what it looked like through Junior’s eyes, right before he passed.”

In the weeks after his death, Doreen was practically catatonic. That phase was arguably worse, but maybe not by much.

By May, she was talking again, but the nature of Junior’s death utterly preoccupied her. I can understand why - no one can tell us how he died. The medical examiner blamed his heart, but that’s because he couldn’t find anything else on the autopsy.

I suppose the ambiguity of it all was eating away at Doreen. So if she couldn’t know how he died, she at least wanted to know what his last moments looked like - what he saw as he was dying. It made her feel closer to Junior.

I’d find her peeking through a hollowed out cereal box. Or looking through a can of Pringles that she had popped the bottom out of. Doreen was consumed by experiencing what Junior had experienced as his vision faded. What it looked like when the world became distant and darkness started closing in.

At first, I was just happy she had found something that calmed her. But as much as I tried, I couldn’t coax her to take her head out of the chimney. When I finally did attempt pulling her out, she screamed like a rabid animal, and I let her scamper back into her original position. I didn’t want to call the cops - they would just institutionalize her.

So, I left her there. She didn’t move for days, and she kept asking me the same question, day and night.

“Have you ever looked up through a chimney, Jim?”

I never responded, but that didn’t seem to bother her much. One day, I watched her skitter up the chimney, nails audibly scratching against the brick. From somewhere inside it, I heard,

“I think I found him, Jim!”

And then there was nothing. Doreen didn’t crawl out the top, nor did she fall back down to the bottom. She was just…gone.

I did eventually lay my head down over the kindling and look up. I think I did see what Doreen was talking about. The sky was like a faraway, peaceful movie that was fading from view.

Eventually, if I squinted, I began to see a curve in the chimney - a tunnel. I wasn’t sure how I’d get there. As I tried to pull myself up, however, thousands of tiny black hands sprouted from spaces between the bricks, helping me up and into that tunnel.

Maybe that’s where Doreen and Junior are, I thought, as the cavalcade of hands pushed me further up the chimney and towards the curve.

“Welcome, Mister Jones,” the college art teacher called out to me warmly as I stepped into the classroom. “It's so wonderful of you to volunteer. Our last model left us in a real lurch—and you're the reason we may continue our studies.”

That wasn't quite right. I hadn't volunteered; they were paying me. A small amount, yes, but when you've no money, even a little makes a difference.

I smiled sheepishly as the dozen-or-so students all looked up at me at once, knowing that being looked at is something I would promptly need to get accustomed to. Each of them was seated next to an easel, and these were arranged in a circle around a central wooden cube, on which I would soon be posing nude.

“Do I, uh, undress here?”

One of the students chuckled. She was, I noted despite myself, kind of cute.

The others were preparing for the lesson: flipping through sketchbook pages, laying out sticks of charcoal, sharpening pencils with x-acto knives.

“Please use the darkroom,” the teacher answered, pointing at a door.

Red-lit darkness inside. When I was ready, I took a deep breath and walked back out, trying to will myself into feeling normal as the only naked person in a room full of clothed ones.

It didn't work.

“…dealing today primarily with musculature,” the teacher was telling her students. “If you don't understand muscle, you can't understand the human form.”

I felt weird, and weirder still walking to the middle of the room and perching upon the wooden cube like some kind of exotic bird.

I had to resist the urge to cover up.

“Are you nervous, Mister Jones?” the teacher asked me.

“A little,” I admitted.

“Perhaps a cup of tea then.”

Before I could say anything, one of the students (the cute girl) was handing one to me. The cup was warm, and I drank the tea quickly.

“Please relax,” the teacher said.

And I did—or was: because I felt suddenly so lightheaded and weak-limbed that I collapsed backwards onto the cube. “What position do you want me in?” I tried to ask, unable to say the words. Unable to move.

The teacher nodded.

Three students moved towards me, x-acto knives in their hands, and they began to slice me with them. Long, precise strokes that my numbed body barely registered as pain. When they were done, they pulled—until the skin came off—my legs, my torso, and I screamed silently, watching them hold the detached sheets of it, and fold them.

Next, another student flayed my head and face, and I found myself, evidently faceless, face-to-unface with my own flattened visage.

This was passed to the cute girl, who applied it like a moisturizing mask, her eyes staring through bloody holes, her tongue licking my lips—as the teacher spoke about the timelessness of art.

Then they sketched me.

And with each line, upon the cube, I died and became alive, transcarnated into drawings, each of which remains my self-consciousness caged.

1

2

Awaiting my doom or destiny in the attic, through this post on my phone I present to you what may be my last thoughts, the final entry of a guy who has seen the unseen parts of Earth. The rain smacks down on the house like knocks on the door begging me to come out. And I will have to, to face her, to kill Omertà before I die. Peeking out the window is a nauseating horror show. Mr. Alan and his daughter Benni's dead body float outside in the gigantic flood waters there. On occasion, Benni and her Dad flop on top of each other creating a stomach-churning sadness, as choppy as the waters outside the door.

Omertà and Benni were best friends, and yet she did this to her. Like I said before, all this hate was once love. And yet what I didn't realize was the hate was always there; it was just aimed in a different direction.

The slurping, sloshing sound of a flooded basement taunts me. If Omertà chose to, she could appear through there and, like some sea serpent, drag me through the flood water, transport me to the ocean and places deeper than the Mariana Trench.

She wants worse than that for me based on our last phone call.

"Death on the surface is too good for you, traitor," she said. "Where the light of the sun could give you a little joy? Aww, did you want the privilege of getting your screams heard? Did you want to close your eyes on the setting sun and accept death?"

How did I not see all this hate sooner? The hate didn’t even really show up when we called her out for it after I got back from the Farm. It took me a while to bring up the Farm, it was too painful. Yet, I must tell you about how we brought up the Farm to Omertà because that is the second most important part of this story. Of course, the end is the most important as it always is.

The night I called her out, it was all of us best friends—Benni, me, Jay-Jay, and Omertà—attempting to relax and acting like everything was normal after my trip to the other world. Ironically, we were in the basement of the house I might die in now.

Omertà and Little John lounged in beanbag chairs tossing a ball back and forth. Benni paced in the room filling me in on what I missed while I was gone. Benni’s words never reached me as I swiveled in a desk chair, my thoughts battling with the most important question in my life. Cutting off Benni I said,

"Omertà, where was I?"

"Oh," she said, getting up and taking my hand in hers. "That was the Farm. It's actually on Earth but not the worst place here. Ever been to Jersey?" She laughed, and Benni chuckled. Little John grunted, and I remained silent.

"Tough crowd," Omertà said. "But yeah, it's the last slave state. Lincoln actually did get rid of slavery in our world too."

"How do we free them?" I asked.

"Look at this guy," Omertà joked and pointed a thumb at me. "He's Harriet Tubman now. You know we had our own mermaid Harriet Tubman. Guess what her name was?"

"What?" Benni asked.

"Mermaid Harriet Tubman." Omertà laughed at herself, and she was the only one.

"Did you send people there to be slaves, Omertà?" I pressed.

"Better than sending them to Ohio," she laughed and raised her hands to retrieve high-fives. "Am I right, Gen Z? Skibiddi-toilet and all that."

No one moved.

"Fine," Omertà admitted. "Yes, I sent people there to be slaves. They all deserved it."

"I'm not sure if anyone ever deserves to be a slave," Benni added.

"They were bad people," Omertà said.

"Mermaids kiss," I said and then stuttered because my mind was racing as I put two and two together. "When—when—whenever we said a bully or teacher was giving us a hard time you said you gave them a mermaid kiss. Is that—did you send them to the Farm?"

"Yes," she said.

"Omertà!" Little John barked.

"They were bad people. So, you replace them, put them in slave bodies, and put their old bodies on auto-pilot. Stop looking at me like that. They were bad people!"

"Some of them were 12," I said. "Some of them just had a bad day."

"Omertà, you've been with me since I was 5," Benni stuttered out and then she gasped. "Kayla McCarthy! Omertà no, my kindergarten bully! Omertà, you didn't!"

"Oh, c'mon. Kayla McCarthy: terrible name. She would have grown up to be a—"

"She was five," Benni said. Malice laced Benni's voice for the first time since I'd met her.

“Well, she’s not five now if it helps.”

“Omertà,” Benni said icy voice shooting daggers. “That’s evil.”

“That’s farming, cull the bad so the good can grow,” Omertà countered cooler than any rage Benni could muster. The torturing of a child, the loss of parents before you could read a chapter book, the fear a five-year-old must have being dumped in a wasteland, the evil damning nature of judging someone by their mistakes a year after their potty trained all meant nothing to her.

“What do mermaids know about farming? You live underwater.” I asked, desperate to make some point, something she couldn’t refute.

“Not always,” she shrugged, and that fear she put crept on me again. “We weren’t always under the sea.”

"You changed my Dad?" Little John said, his tone wavering in its neutrality.

"Yes," she said and pointed to him. "Yes, yes, yes, he hurt you and I fixed him. What's the problem?"

"He's not really my Dad anymore?"

"No, not really, and isn't that a good thing?" Omertà beamed a smile as white as a pearl at Little John, and he nodded slowly.

"People can change," I said. "I've changed! I was only in there for a week but I promise you it changes you."

Omertà waved me off.

"What, you think people can't change? I was an animal there, Omertà. I drank piss. Was that what I always was?"

Omertà didn't answer. She blinked at me.

"I'm not!" I screamed to her and myself. "If I can't change then you might as well have left me there because that's where I belong."

"Hey, no. You belong with me because you're good. You're all good people. You'll always be good people, like me."

"You have to give them a chance, Omertà," Benni said. "People can change."

"No," I cut in. "You have to give them a chance because that's what humanity is. A bunch of people changing. Telling somebody exactly what they are and putting them into this box... that's Hitler shit, that's Stalin shit, that's how you start a genocide and I won't be a part of it."

"Oh, that's great," Omertà said and hugged me. "Because you were never a part of it. All you have to do is be my friend and I'll do it."

I pushed her away and I found myself screaming in her face.

"No," I said. "I'm not standing by and letting you damn a bunch of people."

"Hey, I'm your friend. I didn't mean to get you sent there. I promise you I tried so hard to get you out! I promise!"

"It's not about that."

"I can show you magic. I can make you forget about the time at the farm. I got revenge by the way—the guy who sent you there is dead! I would never let what he did to you slide. I promise you I'm your friend."

"I'm not yours, Omertà."

"Jay-Jay, I have asked nothing of you but friendship! I'm not using you. I was never using you. You're like my brother!"

"I know, Omertà."

"Jay-Jay! Jay-Jay! Please!"

Once we found out what Omertà really was and what she was doing, and after two weeks of trying to convince her to stop, we left her. But that wouldn't be enough. That wouldn't be justice. We had to stop her. She was a slaver, a monster, who wouldn't listen to reason. Omertà had to be put down.

I had what could kill her, a trident of pure silver. Silver is a mermaid's deepest desire and the only thing that could kill them. I won it gambling with her. Ironically, she let me keep it because she knew I could never hurt her. She was half-right.

I couldn't kill her. I couldn't go that far. Little John volunteered though; I knew he could. He always believed he was destined for something special, and was this not special?

We met on top of the parking garage to his apartment building in the middle of the night. It hung over the city so you could see the skyline.

Little John was already there, out of his car; he stared out at the parking garage looking over the city.

I parked beside him and grabbed the suitcase holding the trident out of my car. Awkward about the method but positive it had to be done, I wobbled with it toward Little John.

"What's up?" He said, still not bothering to look at me, which did seem to be a bit unnerving.

"Hey," I said back. "I've got it if you want to take it." He ignored me. I took my place beside him, and this made him smile.

"You ever seen Scarface?" He asked.

"No, not my type of movie."

"I loved it. Look at that city. The world is yours. The world is yours." He began to sing the chorus of the Nas song with the same name.

He was a terrible singer. Yet, the city was beautiful; the flashing lights of the building looked like stars.

"So is Scarface good?" I asked. "Should I watch it or something?"

"Yeah, it's good but don't watch it. You should live it."

"How am I going to live it if I don't watch it?"

"Want a drink?" He asked me and brought out a beer. I hated beer, too bitter, especially after drinking all the mystical stuff. But I saw how he pleaded with me in his eyes so I accepted.

"Scarface is about this immigrant kid, right? An immigrant like me, except he's here legally. Don't tell the feds." He said, putting his finger on his lip to signify it was a secret, and then he would bob and weave his head like he was trying to avoid the gaze of the cops. He always did this whenever he talked about his immigration status; it always made me laugh. "And so Scarface makes an empire for himself then he dies. And people always vilify him because he was a criminal and it was wrong to do what he did but I get it. That's what happens when people make you feel small, y'know? People will go through all sorts of lengths if they feel small. Like they're going to do the thing that makes them feel big. You get what I'm saying?"

“Do you feel sma- -” I cut myself off. How could someone who was given the name Little John not feel small? Poor guy, but I didn’t understand what he was getting at, yet.

I didn't finish my beer. The tension in the atmosphere wiggled and tightened like a string.

"No, explain it to me," I said.

"Ah, don't worry about it. I'm glad we got to have a drink together, man."

"Too many more!" I said and raised my beer. He burped and before he could toast he spilled his drink.

"Oops," he said, and we laughed, and the spill of the drink took the tension. We looked at our city and laughed about our adventures and talked about all the women and fairies we thought were the hottest and how if we ever made it back to that mystical world whom we would ask out. It was all so funny, so us, until he paused.

"Hey, Jay-Jay, what if we are better?"

"What?"

"What if we are better than who Omertà sent down to the Farm? In fact, I know I was better than my Dad; he sucked. He came up with the name Little John, y'know, because I was so fat as a kid. He came up with a lot of names for all my siblings," And with a deeper voice, much quieter: "He hit like a demon."

"I mean that doesn't mean he deserves to go to Hell."

"Says who?"

"John?"

"No, I think it was a good thing he's there. He can rot."

"John?"

"Yeah, Jay-Jay. I'm starting to think we are better because no matter what I went through, I wouldn't have done what he did to me."

"She sent more than your Dad down there. She sent a five-year-old. John, you're not thinking straight."

"Why, because I believe in myself? I believe I'm good enough for something?"

"No, man. It sounds like because you believe no one else can be."

"Well, maybe they can't. Do you know how far I've come? I came to this country with nothing and now I'm my own man."

"Yeah, yeah, man. You've done a lot."

"And I deserve to be treated like it. I deserve what I have and I won't give it up."

"Alright, how about no more drinks, huh?"

"You're right, just water," he said and brought the fresh cold bottle of water from his cooler.

When he said water, time slowed down for me. Water, the one element Omertà could transport from. I understand everything perfectly: Little John wasn't going to use that trident to kill Omertà.

Our conversation that night made sense. What he said before...

"People will go through all sorts of lengths if they feel small. Like they're going to do the thing that makes them feel big."

"I deserve what I have and I won't give it up."

And without Omertà if we had to live in the real world. We were so small. He chose life with Omertà over justice, mercy, and me.

I ran before he could release her from the water bottle. Before she could break my neck as she did to Benni’s Dad. I hopped in my car and drove off. Grateful to be alive but mourning my mistake, I left the trident.

Reader, there is another twist to the tale that answers the most pressing question I asked in my first post: Can humans change? I asked you this at the beginning of my tale and thanks to a recent development I have an answer for you. About two hours ago, before the house was completely flooded, the hum of an engine outside brought me back to the present day. A silver Cybertruck pulled into the driveway. I knew exactly who it was. Little John—what could he want with me?

My husky friend hopped out of his car, with the case containing the Trident. Impossible, I leaped the stairs in my rush down them. In a couple of hopeful bounds, the door was before me. With a twist of the knob and a wide swing, I welcomed my prodigal brother. He had betrayed me but he had come home.

Omertà saw him come home as well. And that she would not stand for. By her will, the rain turned to hail. Hail shattering into the ground the size of coins, then golf balls, then coal like she was Santa Claus and she had gifts for her naughty children. The hail created a cracking demented sound that crushed the world outside of the house.

Many lives were on the line but I begged Little John to place the trident over his head for protection. Who cares if it got damaged—Little John was my friend, my brother, I wanted him to live. Hard-headed—but not as hard as hail—he ignored me.

Hail dented Little John's head as he stepped—slow and agonizingly—forward. Red chasms peppered his head. The hail rolled in the holes in his skull like golf balls trying to fall into their homes in the green. The assault was as vomit-inducing and unnatural as a Dalmatian's spot being cut from it in inaccurate circles. Little John hugged the Trident as that precious mind, the one he thought would allow him to change the world, the one Omertà valued so much cracked.

Plop.

Plop.

Plop.

By the time he made it to the door, he was a trypophobic nightmare, unrecognizable to even his mother, too many balls of hail dropped his face.

And Little John was a hero. I brought his body and the case in. Careful to stay under the roof.

Now, Reader, I bring you to right now perhaps my final moments. The cyber truck has washed away, the house I’m in will fall to the flood soon.

Trident in hand, now I journey to the top of the roof. By Omertà's will the hail stopped. The wicked woman wants me to go into the water. She floats in front of me, half of her head above the surface, so it appears her eyes rest on the water like an alligator's. I will leap through the attic window and dive in to battle her.

I did not know my purpose or what I wanted like Benni and Little John, but I knew what I hated.

I hated the bullies in school who treated me like I would always be worthless and the teachers who didn't do anything because they believed I could never be anything.

I hated Omertà who damned everyone who did wrong in her eyes because she believed man could not change. And that taught me I loved humanity.

To be human is to err and change.

Therefore, it is good to fight against anything that denies us of that. Today, I fight for Little John, the abused child to a self-righteous hero to a selfless champion. Today, I fight for Benni, the shy outcast-turned-evangelist-turned-chainsaw-wielding savior.

And I fight against Omertà, whose greatest sin is that she believed she was without sin and demanded to throw stones at flowers that didn't get even a chance to bloom. I will not write back whether I win or not because it doesn't matter. All that matters is that the sensitive kid who could never stand up for himself, who was made into something lower than even an animal, got back up and changed again to stand for something.

I will fight a monster because that is the most sacred part of humanity—the ability to change.

It was Christmas Eve.

I was playing cards with Ethan, a pyrokinetic and a sore loser.

That asshole kept burning the cards to ashes every time I won.

Ethan, designated as category red, was the closest thing I had to a friend.

He was a big dude with a surprisingly bigger heart; an ex-high school jock who had become my roomie two years prior.

I could tell he’d been popular—probably from an affluent family—so he likely wasn’t staying long.

They brought him in one night, kicking and screaming, and strapped him to the bed opposite mine.

For the first few weeks, Ethan wasn’t allowed to use his hands.

He sat cross-legged on his bed and told me how he’d set his entire town alight.

Sitting in the cremated remnants of his letterman jacket, with his thick brown hair and freckles, he looked like the textbook boy-next-door. I thought he’d be harder to talk to, but he was oddly talkative.

At first, I thought it was the drugs they force-fed him, but then he became obsessed with telling me his life story.

And with telling me how he’d accidentally burnt his girlfriend’s eyes out, which somehow led to him attempting to torch his entire town? I know, I told him it was extra.

Ethan insisted it wasn’t his fault, that there was a “voice” inside his head telling him to do it, but I already knew I was talking to a category red—and that was before they even brought in his collar, which mediated his emotions, and was as dehumanising as you would think.

I admit, I was initially pretty fucking scared of the guy.

—

It’s not exactly brainwashing, but the moment we’re brought into the institute and categorized as lower levels (blue, indigo, and violet), we’re taught to steer clear of kids categorized at higher levels.

Those are the ones who need to be muzzled and collared: pyros like Ethan and kids like Carlisle, the girl in the room next to mine.

Carlisle was a Speaker, capable of bringing her own words to life, and super powerful for all of her 17 years on earth.

She told her guard he was suffering from a brain hemorrhage, and seconds later, he was. Carlisle wasn’t just being held at the YWPA because of her ability. She was being protected from world leaders and other ne'er-do-wells who could easily use her for their own personal gain.

Kids like Carlisle and Ethan were the lost causes. Here one minute, gone the next.

I half-expected Ethan to disappear one day while I was being tested on, or forcing down mystery meat that passed as cafeteria food.

But it had been almost two years, and pyro boy was still my roommate.

I was category blue, a high-level telekinetic, so it’s not like we could relate to each other.

Ethan was more likely to be executed at eighteen due to the severity of his case.

But weirdly enough, I enjoyed his company.

Just like school, the YWPA had a social hierarchy. Blues, who were most likely to be recruited for some shady government program, were at the top. JJ Walker and Alex Simons, lower-level blues, had already invited me to join their little gang, but I wasn’t interested in their weird obsession with becoming soldiers.

I’d been brought in at twelve: those kids had been at the YWPA since birth, never seeing sunlight and being subtly conditioned to enjoy the idea of becoming mindless drones for some higher power.

Those types of kids were noticeably more feral and animal-like, baring their teeth when guards grabbed them for daily testing. JJ was already giving me cult-leader vibes. Instead of being scared of his ability, he embraced it.

Meanwhile, I had a feeling the mandatory Friday classes for low-level blues were screwing with their brains—maybe even prepping them for recruitment. Luckily, I was able to avoid it.

It wasn't easy at first. But the second I was dragged into a classroom-like setting, with an ancient analogue television at the front, I knew my fate. It was part of being recruited, after all.

People in the real world weren’t interested in noncompliant telekinetics.

They wanted brainless shells.

There was only one way of getting out of mandatory classes, which were either life lessons for the rare occasion that you would be released, or plain fucking brainwashing. I had no choice but to play the unhinged card—which was risky and could either end with me getting executed or sent to therapy.

So in the cafeteria, I staged a breakdown, pinning several kids to the ceiling. I was taken down almost immediately, of course, and thankfully, instead of “military training” in my schedule, I had “Psychokinetic Therapy.”

So, instead of being subjected to what I could only guess was some seriously messed up shit (judging by the rapid decline in the blue’s humanity), I sat in a room with my personal therapist, who taught me how to manage my power and not abuse it.

Speaking of the other blues, they started being more annoying than usual, sitting at their usual table embedded in a game of silent chess. Which was chess, but nobody talked, and each member used their ability instead of their hands.

This kind of information has been nailed into my brain since my imprisonment inside the YWPA, so I know the nitty gritty of the category blue.

When you're categorised as blue, you can either be a low level or a high level.

Low levels can do simple telekinesis, which is moving or controlling an object or organic matter with their mind.

High levels, however, can extend their ability to the brain.

That's one of the reasons why blues are so popular in recruitment.

Whereas low levels are wanted for their simple ability to move objects, high levels are in demand for their ability to control minds, like influencing or erasing memories, and in some cases, managing a complete take-over of the original organic personality. As a high level, I knew my day was coming sooner or later.

I couldn't fully master what we called Influence yet, but I did successfully manage to push my instructor to punch me in the face, and then erase his memory of performing that action.

Which meant I was extremely close to being recategorized at a higher level.

It was Saturday night, which was a free day. Nepo babies were allowed monitored time with their parents, while the rest of us had to keep up appearances in front of the elites, pretending we were having the best time ever and definitely weren’t being abused and tested on.

I mean, if these people were as perceptive as they thought, they’d notice the blood stains. Right?

The Velcro straps on every bed. The execution room, which was just one big industrial furnace.

Every time a kid was burned alive, the YWPA played Taylor Swift at full volume.

When I was thirteen, I was being dragged back to my room in cuffs after standardized testing. I remember the right side of my body was numb and my nose was bleeding, beads of warm red dripping down my chin. It itched as it dried, but I couldn't do much about it.

The drugs were already destabilizing my limbs, making it impossible to run, my vision swimming in and out of focus. All I could see were clinical white walls crashing into me like ocean waves.

I wasn’t expecting to hear Taylor Swift. I can’t remember what song it was, just the same lyrics repeating as I was dragged down the hallway toward a bright orange blur.

You found me,

You found me,

You found me-e-e-e.

“Move,” my guard ordered, shoving me forward.

That song followed me all the way back to my room.

When I was freed from my cuffs and shoved inside, I layed down and pretended I couldn't hear the agonizing screams from adjacent cells slicing through those lyrics.

I had pretty much accepted my fate as either ending up in there, being fucking barbecued to an upbeat pop song, or joining my fellow blues as a military drone.

I didn't even fucking dream of walking out of the YWPA on my own two feet.

With my mind intact, at least.

Christmas in the YWPA was about as fun as you would expect. There was a single Christmas tree themed sticker on the wall for a “decoration.”

But I wasn't even sure if some kids even knew what Christmas was. Jessa Harley, who was executed three days after her arrival, asked JJ if he wanted to do a secret Santa, and the boy looked at her like she'd grown a second head. Jessa was another scary one, a category white.

Her ability was similar to a Speaker, but on a mass scale. So, you can imagine how fucking terrifying she was.

But she didn't look scary, she looked harmless! Jessa was tiny with orange pigtails and a gentle smile.

As cute and innocent as she looked though, Jessa could obliterate our universe if she wanted to.

She could also prevent war if she wanted to. The rumor mill churned, and I heard from an Indigo, that Jessa had snapped her own family out of existence.

But Jessa used her power for small things. She wanted a puppy, and bam, there was one in her lap.

She wanted a swimming pool, and suddenly, a whole new indoor pool hall just appeared at the end of the first floor.

She was both a miracle and a curse, and I don't think the YWPA trusted her– and others were out there hunting her down.

Jessa was only there for three days, but had left an impression.

The swimming pool, for example. It's not like we could use it, but it was still there.

The white plastic seat where she'd sat cross-legged, eagerly asking people's names, sat sadly empty.

—

I was losing patience with Ethan, who thought burning my cards would make him a winner.

The worst part is, he was actually making me laugh, shooting me a grin every time my Queen burst into flames.

It was funny the first few times, but was getting progressively less entertaining.

I found myself smiling through gritted teeth just as the large metal door flew open, making me jump. Ethan flinched, his gaze glued to his deck of cards.

He was about to turn the big one eight, which meant his evaluation was soon.

Execution, or, if they were feeling merciful, maybe a re-sentencing until he was twenty five.

I kicked him under the table when he didn't lay down his cards.

Ethan kicked me back, his eyes growing frenzied.

“Fuck.” He whispered, his gaze dropping to the table. “I bet they've come for me.”

I kicked him again, this time reassuringly. “You're still seventeen, dumbass.”

“Yeah, but not for long.”

I raised a brow. “Why would they kill you at seventeen?”

“Because they're fucking assholes.”

Leaning across the shitty fold out table, I fixed him with a smile. “What if you're fire-proof?”

“All right, listen up!”

The voice snapped me out of it. Twisting around, Warden Carrington stood in the doorway, twirling a pair of metal cuffs.

She was a stiff, narrow bodied woman with a blonde top-knot and a permanent grin. She took pleasure in escorting kids to be executed. Bile crept up my throat.

Is that what this was? No, executions were usually private.

Tests, maybe?

I was used to mandatory ones every Friday. That's what the cuffs were usually for. We were taken from the rec room individually, cuffed, and dragged to the testing rooms. But it wasn’t Friday.

The floors were too clean. I was used to blood seeping across tiles on a testing day.

I wasn't allowed to look the warden in the eye as a Blue, but I managed a risqué glance. She was smiling suggestively, so it had to be an execution. Realization crept in then, that the slight curl on her lip suggested exactly the opposite.

Recruitment.

I scanned the room. Fifteen fearful faces staring at her.

A willowy blonde who had previously been reading a dog eared paperback, was now sitting up straight, her half-lidded eyes wide, almost awake. She caught my gaze, lips pricking into a smile.

Slowly, the girl inclined her head, a single blonde curl falling into her eyes. She ran her index finger across her throat, mouthing, “We’re fucked.”

Could it be Matthews?

My gaze flicked to the brunette curled up in the corner of the room. Carlisle? I used to talk to her. We were from the same town, so we had that mutual connection.

But something happened to her after a testing session, and since then, Carlisle shut everyone else out and isolated herself.

Matthews was immortal, and Carlisle had the power to end the world.

I doubted either of them were being recruited.

Unless world leaders needed Carlisle, which wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility.

“The holidays came early, kids!” Warden Carrington mocked, and I sensed the group of us all holding a collective breath.

“Johnson!” she boomed. “You’re getting out of here!”

There was an awkward silence before Ethan kicked me.

“Bro, that's you!”

He was right. Slowly, I got to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest.

I was Johnson.

Which was crazy, because the only kids who made it out of the YWPA alive were either nepo babies or…

My excitement started to wither once I'd hugged Ethan a quick goodbye, and offered Carlisle a sympathetic smile.

I thought, just for a moment, that maybe my Mom had come to get me– finally, after five years. But my mother was dead.

I watched a man who called himself Mr. Yellow blow her brains out with a smile, before kneeling in front of me.

I was standing in my mother’s blood, watching slow-spreading crimson seeping across her favorite rug.

“Hey, there, little boy,” he said, his eyes maniacal, grin widening. “Do you want to come to a super special place?”

The ‘super special’ place was obviously the YWPA.

I didn't even get to fucking mourn my mother.

And to everyone in the outside world, twelve year old Johnson had murdered his Mom.

There were only three ways to get out of YWPA: in a body bag, or the other way—the one I dreaded.

Warden Carrington was smiling with way too many teeth when I slowly made my way over to her. She grabbed my arms, linking them behind my back and cuffing me.

“You’ve been… recruited!”

I was dragged out the door and down the hallway.

At the end, surprisingly, stood a guy my age. He was tall, a pair of raybans pinning back dark blonde hair, wearing a long trench coat that hung off his slim frame.

In his hand was a small paper bag he was swinging excitedly.

The closer I was getting, being unceremoniously pushed forward by the warden, the guy’s swinging became more and more eager. I was convinced he was going to accidentally fling the bag in my face. I wasn't expecting to be recruited by a teenager resembling a teen Sherlock Holmes.

“Hi!” He greeted me, genuinely excited to see me. The boy motioned for the warden to uncuff me, and she did, making sure to keep hold of my arms, her bony fingers pricking into my flesh. “It's great to finally see you in person! I’ve been trying to get you out of here for weeks! But there's so much paperwork, and blah, blah, blah, it was a whole mess,” he rolled his eyes.

“But here you are!” His southern accent was already irritating. He grabbed my shoulders with teary eyes like I was a stray fucking cat he had just adopted.

“You're Johnson, right? I'm Nathanial!” he held out the bag, and I caught the unmistakable smell of fried food. “Do you want Five Guys?”

Warden Carrington cleared her throat. “Not in here,” she drawled, “The smell will wake up Will.”

Will was a higher level category yellow (a shifter). But I fully understood why.

Werewolf.

Apparently, he'd been sacrificed to the moon during his frat’s hazing ritual, gaining the ability to shift his flesh to a dog-like beast. As well as adapting a liking for human flesh. There were two incidents with Will, and both of them ended in him cannibalizing at least three inmates.

Nathaniel looked intrigued, but he kept his mouth shut. I was handed a fresh set of clothes to change into, before being shoved through the main doors.

I couldn't believe I was actually breathing in real, ice-cold air.

I could feel it tickling my cheeks, blowing my hair out of my eyes.

In the real world, I stuck out like an anomaly in my clinical white shorts and tee.

I was standing on concrete, uneven and gritty beneath my shitty Converse.

Twisting around, I stared up at the YWPA—a looming glass building.

We were in the middle of nowhere.

I hadn’t noticed on my way into YWPA because I was blindfolded. Nathanial pointed across the parking lot. There was only one car, and it was his: an expensive, sleek-looking Range Rover.

I tried to jump into the back, but he patted the passenger seat.

Nathanial slid into the driver's side. “So, there are, like, actual werewolves in that place?”

I shot him a look, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I didn’t know why he was fascinated with werewolves when there were kids in there who could snap us out of existence if they were slightly annoyed.

Slipping onto the warm leather seats, my muscles started to relax. I was so used to the harsh, shitty plastic chairs in the YWPA rec room.

And then there were the blood-stained metal gurneys I had to sit on during testing.

But this—this was an actual seat. I had missed cars. I’d missed being able to sink into cushions.

To relax.

Nathanial started the car, cranking up the radio.

Taylor Swift.

Not just Taylor Swift, but that exact same fucking song.

He shot me a grin, reaching into the back and grabbing the bag of Five Guys.

“Hungry?”

I was.

I ate the burger in two bites and almost choked on the soda.

“Dude,” Nathanial chuckled, side-eyeing me. “The food isn’t going to run away.”

Asshole.

I started inhaling the fries, ignoring his little jab.

“I can understand, though. Of course you’re fucking hungry,” Nathanial said, his gaze flicking to the road ahead.

I couldn’t resist pressing my head against the window, slurping my Coke.

The vivid red and orange blur of traffic flying past was making me carsick.

“I know what goes on inside that place, and the inhumane shit they do to kids like you makes me enraged.”

“Kids like me.” I stopped chugging, a sour bite to my tone.

He sighed. “You know that's not what I meant.”

“Sounded like it.”

I caught his expression darken significantly, his fingers tightening around the wheel.

“I’m sorry, Johnson,” he said, his tone cracking slightly. “For what those fucks did to you. I fought to get you out of that place.” he scoffed. “They kept trying to shove another kid in my face, but I told them it was either you, or I was out.”

“Why me?” I didn't turn around to look at him, my gaze stuck to blurry holiday lights flying past us.

They were too bright in contrast to the darkening sky.

Nathanial didn't respond, cranking up the radio.

I wasn't buying this guy’s friendly act. I had a hard time believing his ‘save the children’ bullshit. “So, what do you need me for?” I asked, making myself comfy. “Construction? Did your cat get stuck up a tree?”

“Nope.” His lips curled into a smirk. “Do you know what day it is?”

I gestured to an illuminated snowman outside.

“Easter.” I deadpanned, and he let out a hyena laugh.

“I'm sorry, how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You're funny, Johnson,” he chuckled, like we were best friends.

This guy was making it hard for me to not like him.

I admit, I was taken off guard when he drove me to the airport.

Nathanial threw his jacket over my shoulders, looking me up and down. “All right, you're good,” he ruffled my hair. “Luckily for you, kids our age literally wear anything. So, yes, you may look like you've been institutionalised, but my coat gives you a hipster vibe, y’know?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. He sounded like an Animal Crossing character.

“I don't have an ID,” I managed to hiss out when he pulled me into the airport. It was surprisingly quiet for Christmas Eve.

I expected to be questioned about my lack of passport and identity, but Nathaniel, despite his age and lack of maturity, could easily pull me right through security with a flash of his badge.

He gestured to a nearby coffee store, handing over way too many bills for a drink.

“Flat white, and a bottle of water,” he said hurriedly, swiping through his phone. “Feel free to go crazy. Get as much as you want.”

I had almost 500 dollars pressed into my palm.

So, yes, I went crazy.

I almost turned and ran, taking the cash with me.

But my Mom was dead. There was no home to go back to.

I bought a double chocolate brownie hot cocoa to go, and turkey and stuffing sub, devouring both of them before I even left the store. Nathanial was waiting for me.

He sipped his flag-white, leading me straight past the gate. When a guard stepped in front of us, he shot them a smile. “It's cool, we’re exceptions,” he said.

The guard paused before nodding and stepping aside.

“Have a good flight, boys,” his lips broke out into a grin, “Oh, and happy holidays!”

Nathaniel winked at the man, smirking. “You too, Bobby!”

I was expecting first class seats, but instead, I was ushered onto a private jet.

So, Nathanial was riiiiiich, rich. I had a bed as a seat.

I slept for most of the flight, dreaming I was back in the YWPA, back on my blood stained mattress counting ceiling tiles.

“So, how is it?”

Ethan loomed over me with his arms folded. The startling white of his shorts and tee made my eyes hurt.

I didn't blink, stretching out my stiff legs. His voice was kind of muffled.

“It's okay, I guess,” I said, “I had Five Guys.”

Ethan pulled a face, tipping his head back.

“Ugh. Don't. I’m pretty sure they gave us recycled slop for dinner.”

I rolled onto my side. “Was it the chef's special macaroni and cheese?”

“Yep.” Ethan curled his lip. “They're trying to fucking kill us with the food.”

I nodded, enjoying my ex roommate’s company. Though I wasn't sure why he was pacing up and down. “The second I’ve built up this guy’s trust, I’ll get you guys out of there.”

I felt my heart squeeze, and I swallowed sour tasting puke. “Before you turn eighteen. I'll get you the fuck out of there.”

Ethan frowned, leaning closer, his brows furrowed like bugs.

I blinked rapidly.

Like tiny wiggling little furry bugs.

“Dude.” I was pretty sure there weren't supposed to be two Ethan’s. The two Ethans leaned forward. “Can't you smell that?”

I could.

It was potent, like bleach, suffocating my throat.

Ethan jerked back, his eyes were wide. “That smells like–”

Reality slammed into me, but my eyes were glued shut.

I knew exactly what it smelled like.

I didn't even remember getting off of the plane.

I woke up, groggy, in the back of an SUV, my mouth full of metallic ick.

I tried to move, and I couldn't, my arms reduced to sausages.

I thought back to the water I sipped on the plane. How it tasted a little too bitter.

“Did you fucking drug me?” I managed to get out in a hiss.

I couldn't even panic, my body was paralyzed, my chest heaving, my heavy pants into thick leather seats were suffocating me.

Nathanial’s laugh sounded like waves crashing into my skull.

The car took a sharp turn, and I almost tumbled off of the seat.

“It's just a small job, Johnson,” he said, “We’re counting on you.”

It took all my strength to drag myself to the window.

I could see my breath coming out in clouds of white, tiny white flurries dancing across the pane.

Snow.

The drugs were fucking with my head. I slipped in and out of consciousness, dancing between the living and the dead. Ethan was sitting next to me, his head pressed against the window. “How do you even get out of shit like this?” he tried the door, slamming his fists against the door.

“Locked,” he said.

I managed a spluttered laugh. “No shit.” I caught myself. “What the fuck do I do?”

Ethan shrugged, his gaze glued to the snowstorm. “Maybe try diving out of the car?”

“When it's locked?!”

Before I could lecture Ethan on basic common sense, the real world slammed into me in waves of ice water– literally.

Someone had opened my door, and I could feel the wind chill grazing the back of my neck.

I opened my eyes when two muscled arms wrapped around me and yanked me out of the car. I couldn't stand, immediately falling limp in his grasp.

“Come on, Johnson,” Nathanial’s voice tickled my ear. “We’re nearly there.”

I wasn't sure were ‘there’ was. I was up to my knees in snow, blurred white closing in on me from every angle. With my body immobile, Nathanial dragging me felt fucking dehumanising. He forced my head up, but it kept hanging, my thoughts dancing, my eyes flickering.

“It's a simple job,” he said when I was more awake.

In front of me was… something.

It reminded me of a warehouse, a towering structure that almost looked like it was part of the storm. Nathanial pulled me further, chuckling. When I parted my lips to cry out, he promptly slammed his hand over my mouth.

“Do the job well, Johnson, and we’ll think about taking you on full time.”

We reached a garage-like door, and with the click of a button, it was slowly gliding upwards.

To my surprise, this place reminded me of a reception area inside a dentist. The floor was carpeted, a cosy lounging area filled with expensive looking sofas, and a TV playing what looked like an old cartoon.

There was a desk, a short blonde wearing a Christmas hat sitting behind a laptop.

“Nate.” she deadpanned, her gaze stuck to the laptop screen. “Did you get him?”

“No, Stella,” Nathanial’s tone pricked with sarcasm. “As you can see, I definitely don't have him.”

The girl nodded slowly. “Cooooooool.” she said. “Good talk.”

Ignoring Stella, Nathanial pulled me into an elevator.

When the doors slid shut, I found my voice, pulling from his grasp, but my body was stiff and wrong. I dropped to my knees, shuffling back. “What the fuck is this place?”

The boy didn't answer, leaning against the door, his lips curled into a smirk.

“It's a super special place.”

Something sickly crept up my throat. He was mimicking Mr Yellow’s words.

My mother’s murderer.

When the elevator slid open with a loud groan, the first thing I saw was intense clinical white light.

The room reminded me of a surgical theatre that had long since been abandoned, flickering lights swinging overhead. I saw the first splatter of blood on the floor right in front of my feet.

I've grown desensitised to blood over the years, but this was more than a splatter, a dark crimson streak trailing all the way to the center of the room. There were four plastic chairs positioned in a circle.

When I glimpsed velcro restraints hanging off of the arm rests, I felt my body start to twist and contort in a desperate attempt to escape.

Two chairs were occupied by kids my age, metal helmets strapped to their heads; a strawberry blonde girl with her head bowed, her lips and chin stained scarlet. She was limp in the restraints, her body hanging forward. Opposite her was a guy, slumped over, hiding behind thick brown curls.

There was a growing pool of red stemming around him.

When he lifted his head, I had to fight back a cry.

The guy’s eyes were pearly white, half lidded, all of the color drained from his iris. I recognized it. I had only ever heard of a kid’s power burning out through word of mouth. I had been taught that our abilities were like a muscle, and like a muscle, you could strain it. The first symptom of burnout was losing all the color in your eyes, but this guy was in the later stages.

Judging by seeping red oozing from every orifice, he had already suffered multiple haemorrhages.

My gaze found the helmet on his head.

They kept bringing him back, forcing his body to revive again and again, purging his power for all it had. His lips were cracked, slick scarlet. I couldn't tell what his ability he possessed, or his level. Just that he was suffering. “You've gotta be… fucking… kidding me,” he sobbed.

“Lucas, it's Christmas.” Nathanial mockingly scolded. “I told you about profanity.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Nathanial forced me to stand. “All right, introductions!” he said cheerfully. “Guys, this is Johnson.” The strawberry blonde jolted in her chair, but she couldn't lift her head. “He's going to be helping us today.”

I cringed away when he patted me on the back. “Johnson! This is Luke and Tory! High level blues, and my favorite little helpers.”

Nathaniel shoved me into a chair, a metal helmet forced onto my head. Nathanial knelt in front of me, his eyes sparkling.

Insanity, I thought dizzily. But there was something beyond that, a darkness shrouded in his eyes that he didn't want me to see. He pinned my wrists to the armrests, offering me a smile. “Your job,” he murmured in my ear. “Is my old job.”

He straightened up. “You see, we kept failing,” his expression twisted. “Every fucking year we failed, and more of us died. We couldn't do it. No matter how hard we tried, none of us were strong enough.”

I fought back, and with a simple twist of his wrist, my body was paralyzed.

He was strong.

“I was the best we had,” Nathanial sighed. “They took me from the YWPA in Vancouver. I was just a kid. Eight, maybe? I was dragged inside this room, forced into one of these fucking chairs, and my brain was fried over and over again, until I was numb,” he choked out a hysterical giggle.

“I stopped feeling pain around the tenth or twelvth time those fuckers brought me back. But it was okay, because I could do it. I was the only one who COULD fucking do it, so why not use me for all I have?”

Was he… crying?

Nathaniel swiped at his eyes with his sleeve, forcing a smile. “Anyway, then the demand grew, and it was suddenly so much fucking harder to control, or even lift off the ground. I was tortured in an attempt to strengthen my power, but I couldn't do it.”

His smile widened. “But you guys are,” he started to clap. “So much stronger than me! I mean, you're fucking amazing. Sooo much better than little old me. Luke, who turned his entire town into his personal minions, and Tory! Who went one step further, and expanded her power across an entire country! Making herself Queen!”

The blonde let out a whimper, her bound hands jerking.

Nathanial laughed. “It's charmed rope, you fucking idiot,” he rolled his eyes. “Developed by the CIA in the early 2010’s when they realized a certain generation were gaining abilities they didn't understand and couldn't control.”

His eyes found mine.

“Johnson.” He said. “What you did to get yourself in the YWPA was quite remarkable! Honestly, I bow down to you.”

“Please.” Luke whispered, spitting blood on the floor. “I… I can't do…it.”

“Well, guess what? It's your lucky day, Lucas, because you have help now!” Nathaniel danced over to him, patting his helmet. When the boy lunged at him, he spluttered. “Ooh, bad dog! What did I fucking say about using your teeth?”

Lucas didn't respond, and I noticed the glint in Nathanial’s eyes. He wasn't just crazy. This asshole revelled in being in control. “Soo, over the last few years, we’ve always focused on movement,” he twisted around, winking at me. “Now that, my fellow freakish children, was a mistake.”

A large wooden contraption was dragged in.

“Because why focus on movement?” Nathanial continued. “When we have something even better?”

I recognized what it was.

The holiday lights strung across the back seat.

The back, filled with sacks overflowing with wrapped gifts and toys.

“Okay!” Nathanial shouted to someone above us. “Let's do a test run, all right? Everyone in position?”

“Nate.” Tory’s strangled cry sliced through the silence. She whipped her head back, her eyes rolling back to pearly whites. “You're going to kill us!”

Ignoring her, he turned to me. “How many people have you taken over, Johnson?” Nathaniel came closer, his eyes narrowing, lips curving into a spiteful smile. “How many minds can you force yourself inside?”

His question sent prickles of ice slipping down my spine.

I hadn't answered that question in a long time. I was too scared to.

“I don't know,” I managed to get out.

“Aww, come on!” Nathanial cocked his head. “Maybe… a million?” he wagged his brows. “Two million?”

“I didn't mean to,” the words were choking my throat before I could stop them. I didn't realize how right the chair felt, the restraints, until I was reminded that I really was a fucking monster. “I was just a kid.”

Nathaniel’s expression softened, his lip twisting. “I know you were,” he said. “So was I when I told my pops to off himself.” he frowned. “Which begs the question,” he hummed. “You're a category blue at one of the highest levels, and yet the fuck faces back at YWPA decided not to toast you.”

It looked like he might continue, before a yell cut him off.

“Nate, we’re all ready!” It sounded like Stella, from upstairs. “I just need your go ahead!”

Nathanial didn't respond for a moment. He slowly made his way over to me, fixing my helmet on my head, and checking my restraints. I thought he was sympathetic, or maybe he was, in his own fucked up way. But then he was running his hands through my hair, grabbing a fistful, and forcing me to look at him.

His eyes terrified me. Not because of his ability, or his descent into madness.

But because somewhere, deep, deep down, twisted in traumatised eyes filled with agony, I think part of him didn't even want to do this.

“What you did, Johnson,” he whispered, “Fifteen years ago. I want you to do it again.”

Turning to the others, the boy grinned.

“How many children are on the planet, hmm? How many of those little fuckers believe in the big guy?”

I didn't notice it at first.

The pain. It was numb first, dull, like a phantom nothing dancing across my skull.

It was like being hit by lightning an infinite number of times.

Each one hit the back of my head, burning a hole inside it.

I didn't realize I was screaming, crying, choking on my blood begging for mercy.

When I was a kid, it almost felt like drowning. I didn't feel pain, instead, a stark numbness taking hold of me, and the crushing weight of names, wishes, memories, thoughts, bleeding inside me.

Back then, I barely grazed their minds. I just gave them an order, and they did it.

Then I let go, plunging down, down, down, and awakening in my mother’s arms.

This time, I found each and every one. Ones that had grown up with me, and ones that were much younger, entangling myself with them. I could feel my brain coming apart, bleeding, running down my temples, and seeping down the back of my neck. “2.4 billion,” Nathanial said. “That's 2.4 billion minds to give one simple order.”

Fly.

The word twisted on my lips, but that was more prominent inside my mind.

Whatever was on my head, the helmet strapped to my skull, I could feel it moulding itself to my spinal chord, a screech ripping from my lips.

I was burning, suddenly, my brain igniting, my body jerking left and right.

I could already feel wet warmth running from my nose, my lips, my ears, every vessel inside me coming apart, a neutron star collision dancing across the backs of my eyes. The command was already inside my head.

Our heads.

I could sense and feel, almost touch Luke’s mind.

Tory was harder, fading in and out, her body was already failing, already rejecting it.

In front of me, the wooden contraption moved slightly, and Lucas’s head dropped. When it started to hover, Tory’s scream grew feral, animalistic, her cries growing into pleads, begging for death.

The sleigh had taken flight, hovering above us.

But I couldn't sense Luke anymore. That entangled string binding us together, had been cut. Through half lidded eyes, I think he was moving, his fingers still twitching under velcro straps.

There was a gaping cavern of glistening gore where Tory’s brain was supposed to be, slimy pinkish grey splattering the ground around her chair.

But the sleigh was flying, and despite the agony ripping through me, my body slowly shutting down, my mouth became a smile.

I was aware of my head going limp, all of me slumping, my head tipping back.

“That's right!” Nathanial’s voice was fading. “Make Santa flyyyyyyyyyy.”

Yeah, I thought, unable to resist a spluttered giggle.

I was making Santa fly.

After three test runs, and then the real thing, spluttering on my last gasps of air.

But, with the children's help, we really had saved Christmas.

I was partially aware of Nathanial lifting me from the chair and dumping my body somewhere cold, somewhere where the ice cold chill was merciful on my soul.

Dying felt weirdly comfortable, kind of like falling asleep.

I always thought I would die on a surgical table, my body used for research.

Or burned to ashes in the incinerator.

Almost death was… cozy.

“I'm, like, really fucking warm.”

Ethan’s voice pricked into my mind, and I found myself side by side with him. He was lying on something ice cold, his wrists strapped down. I didn't know what to say, so I rolled onto my back, “Well, I'm pretty sure I'm dying.”

“But you're dying in a cool way.” Ethan chuckled. “Driving freakin’ Santa's sleigh. That's one hell of a way to go out, right?”

“Mmm.” I said. “Also, of hypothermia.”

I noticed where we were, sitting up, my head hitting the ceiling.

Wherever we were was too narrow and claustrophobic.

“Fuck.” I hissed, kicking the ceiling. “Where are you?”

“I’d… rather not answer that,” Ethan said, shooting me a sickly smile. “Can we just… talk?”

I pretended not to see the ignition of oranges getting brighter and brighter.

Closer and closer.

“Sure.” I said, swallowing a cry. “We can… talk.”

‘Carlisle escaped today,” he murmured, after a moment. “So, expect the world to get a whole lot fucking crazier with her free.”

Those were words I really did not want to hear.

Still, though. With Carlisle free, maybe anything was possible.

The orange blur was growing bigger, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

I had to wake up, to get out the snow. To live. Because I was going to freeze to death.

But I didn't want to leave him.

“Merry Christmas, Johnson,” Ethan murmured, his wide smile erupting into raging fire melting the flesh from his bones. “And happy fucking birthday to me."

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

The Witch’s face leered back at her from the mirror within the darkness of the abandoned farmhouse’s cellar. It was an aged face, older than her years by at least a decade, etched with lines of time that had not yet passed, and framed by prematurely graying hair. Magic, like all things, has its price.

The Witch closed her eyes and lifted her hands upwards towards the ceiling, chanting loudly in a tongue which was never meant to be spoken from the throats of mortals. The crimson candles arranged about the pentacle flickered as though fearful, their hesitant flame faintly illuminating the eldritch symbols inscribed in chalk upon the cold, stone floor.

She didn’t necessarily know if this spell would work. It had been tucked away in the back of her grimoire, clearly a later addition than the ones before it. The bulk of the manuscript had been written in a close, fine hand, but the words that revealed the entrance to the Labyrinth were erratic and askew, as though scrawled in haste. Even still, the Witch simply had to know if the legends were true.

The alien words that poured out from her mouth began to reach a demoniac crescendo as she opened her eyes and once more stared into her own face. The glass seemed warped now, distorted somehow, and her own features felt unnatural and grotesque. The words spoken by the lips of her double did not seem to match up with her own. Ignoring this, the Witch grabbed the knife she kept at her belt, placing it against the open palm of her left hand. As she spoke a final, guttural syllable, she drew the blade across her palm, blood instantly pouring from the wound. She tossed the drops of blood upon the surface of the mirror, and in an instant it shattered, shards of glass falling to the ground with a crash.

All but one of the candles had gone out, and for a moment the Witch feared she had done something wrong, but after a moment she realized that where there once stood a full length mirror, there now was a doorway.

The tunnel stretched impossibly before her, into empty space. She cautiously stepped around the mirror, finding its wooden back still intact. The tunnel only existed in one direction. A smile creased her now slightly older face, and she hoisted her pack up onto her shoulders and lit her lantern.

After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped through the shattered mirror and into the Labyrinth.

The air of the tunnel was old and still, as though not disturbed in centuries. For all she knew, this could indeed be the case. The Witch certainly saw no signs of visitors in the form of footprints or graffiti. There was nothing but cold, unforgiving stone, unadorned and unyielding. The Witch glanced behind her, partially on instinct, partially out of curiosity, only to find that the doorway she had stepped through was evidently one way. Behind her stretched another expanse of bare, untouched stone. Blood trickled from the Witch’s fingers onto the ground beneath her, and she took a moment to wrap a cloth to staunch the flow.

With no further reason to delay, the Witch began to wander.

To anyone else, the Labyrinth’s tunnels would seem disappointing, monotonous, and dull, but normal human beings are possessed of only five senses. The Witch could sense so much more, and to her the Labyrinth was very, very interesting indeed.

The Witch had a certain attraction to power, and much like how a compass always points North, the Witch always had some idea of where she was going as she navigated the tunnels of the Labyrinth. There was a gentle tugging within her skull, as though an invisible string was pulling her, dragging her in one direction or another. She idly wondered if everyone was guided by such forces, and that the only major difference between her and the others was that she could feel that she was being pulled.

The entirety of the complex practically hummed with raw power; purest magic. Years ago, the Witch had once found an intersection of ley lines; a spot where the raw forces of primordial energy converged. She had felt almost giddy when standing there, simply feeling the forces surrounding her. The Witch was reminded of that feeling as she walked through the Labyrinth, but whereas before the sensation had been awe-inspiring, now it only served to fill her with a faint sense of unease, as if she were standing upon the back of some great whale that was preparing to dive into the uncaring vastness of the deep sea.

The magnetic pull of the Labyrinth was growing ever stronger, a slow increase that made the Witch start first to walk faster, then to jog, then finally to run down the tunnels, taking turn after turn, navigating on feeling alone. Even without the lantern, she thought to herself, I would know where to go.

Despite her appearance, the Witch was not frail, and she was able to keep up a consistent pace as she hurtled down those shadowy tunnels for nearly an hour, never stopping. Occasionally she would feel less like she was being pulled and more as though she were being chased; that if she turned her head there would be something horrible close behind on her heels.

Finally, she came to the destination that seemed to have been drawing her; a plain wooden door with a brass knob, placed unceremoniously within the wall of one of the tunnels. The Witch paused to catch her breath, her lungs pulling in great gulps of stale, dusty air. She felt wetness upon her hand, and looked down to see the bandage she had wrapped around her slit palm was soaked through with crimson, owing to the force with which she had been clenching her fist. She tried her best to ignore the stinging pain of the self-inflicted wound and reached up to open the door, smearing the doorknob with blood as she pushed her way into the chamber beyond.

The creaking of the hinges felt uncomfortably loud in the stillness of the Labyrinth, and she winced as she stepped into the chamber. Unlike the cramped tunnels she had been running through, this room had a great vaulted ceiling, like a cistern or church. Her lantern’s light shone across the room, illuminating several large rectangular wooden boxes stacked haphazardly about. The sense of power in this room had not abated, there was something in there with her, the Witch simply knew this on an instinctual level.

The Witch went up to one of the nearest boxes and set about prying open the lid. Fortunately, it hadn’t seemed to be nailed down, and the wooden boards came crashing to the floor after only a few seconds of struggle. The wood was so brittle and aged that it cracked at points, splintering into smaller pieces.

Peering inside, she soon found that the box was not merely some crate intended for storage, but a casket.

Within the coffin lay an emaciated, skeletal corpse, with what little flesh remained stretched tightly over ancient bones. Its eyeless face grinned at her, motionless, and the Witch felt a pang of discomfort as she stared into its empty eye sockets. It was more than the simple disquiet all experience when confronted with the dead, nor was the feeling simply an unpleasant reminder of her own mortality; there was something subtly wrong about the body itself.

The Witch leaned over the cadaver, pulling forth her lantern to try and get a better look. Her bandaged hand continued to drip blood as it gripped the side of the coffin, the tiny rivulets of scarlet flowing faintly down the ancient wood. With the greater amount of light, the Witch could finally tell just what had been causing her unease; the corpse’s canines were extended far longer than any human’s should be.

As her blood came into contact with the corpse, and a ruddy glow began to emerge from the depths of its eye sockets, the Witch had but a single thought run through her head. Vampire.

The arm of the undead monster shot up from the coffin, reaching for the Witch’s throat, but she narrowly managed to jump back out of the way. The skeletal vampire moved with a herky jerky motion, as though it were a puppet on strings. Despite its perpetually grinning, empty features, the Witch could see a deep thirst within those two glowing red lights that shone out from its face where its eyes should be.

The Witch fumbled for her ritual knife, unable to focus enough to bring herself to recall any of her more useful spells. “Stay back, monster!” she shouted at the walking impossibility as it stumbled out of the decayed wooden casket, “I am powerful beyond reckoning, trifle with me and bring about your own destruction!”

The vampire didn’t respond, simply lurching forward towards the Witch with a nearly manic need, a lust for blood suffusing its entire being. It opened its mouth in a silent scream, unable to make a sound with lungs that had long since crumbled to dust, and lunged eagerly. The Witch once again only barely managed to dodge the creature, cursing its unnatural haste as she struggled to keep balance.

The Witch wracked her brain to remember what she had been told about vampires. She recalled in her youth there had been a rash of illness one winter, a disease that had been blamed upon a vampire. The elders of her village had dug up the corpse of a man who had been hanged shortly before the arrival of the disease, decapitating it and driving a stake through its heart. Of course, this hadn’t stopped the spread of the disease, but the Witch hoped that perhaps the method would have some sort of effect upon an actual vampire.

Behind the vampire lay the splintered remains of the coffin’s lid, and she spied a jagged, foot long shard of wood, with a point that looked as sharp as a spear tip. The Witch lunged for the makeshift stake, narrowly avoiding the vampire’s grasp as it lurched towards her. She scrambled with the wooden shiv, cursing as splinters penetrated the thin skin of her uninjured hand. Her lantern lay discarded on the floor, casting strange shadows upon the walls of the chamber.

The Witch waited for the vampire to strike, knowing she had but one opportunity to drive the stake into its heart. She didn’t want to be the one to make the first move, she was much more comfortable with the idea of striking defensively rather than risking a counterattack from the undead horror. She braced herself as the moving corpse shuffled towards her, dust falling out of its creaking joints as it reached out its emaciated arms in bloodlust.

In a burst of manic desperation, the vampire leapt forward unexpectedly, springing like a starved tiger, and the Witch swiftly rose up her stake to meet it. By sheer luck, the tip managed to pierce the vampire’s ribcage and penetrate into its heart. No blood poured from the wound, and no cry escaped its lipless mouth, but the vampire stumbled backwards, its jaw stretched open in agony as it began to crumble into dust. As the monster disintegrated into nothingness, the Witch exhaled heavily, relieved that the ordeal was over.

Then she heard the splintering of wood.

First it was just one casket, then another, and another, until each of the coffins seemed to be opening to reveal a skeletal corpse, elongated fangs glinting in the lantern light. The Witch swore under her breath as she saw the doorway she came from blocked by one of the gaunt figures. She looked around for another exit, and noticed another doorway on the far side of the room, but it too was blocked by not one, but three of the vampires.

The Witch was struck with the horrifying realization that she had nowhere to run.

This revelation paralyzed her with fear, her mind suddenly racing with thoughts of her dying, alone, in the dark, with nobody to remember or mourn her. Even worse, she contemplated the idea of joining the ranks of the undead that surrounded her. Her blood ran cold at the thought.

As the cadaverous forms of the starved vampires silently drew closer, the Witch had an abrupt realization, quickly pulling her grimoire from her belt and flipping through it desperately to find the right passage. Fortunately, she managed to find the correct page in only a second or so, and began to read aloud from her spellbook in unnatural tones. As she made her incantation, the horde of skeletal atrocities shuffled closer, opening their mouths wide in anticipation of spilled blood.

Even as the thirsting corpses drew closer and closer, the Witch forced herself to read slowly, deliberately. A single misspoken word, an incorrect syllable, could prove disastrous. As impatient and terrified as she was, it was necessary for her to focus on the words, on their meaning, and not allow herself to be ruled by fear.

The vampires were closing in around her, mere inches away from tearing at her flesh and gorging themselves upon her blood when the Witch spoke the final word of the incantation, slamming shut her grimoire and closing her eyes. As soon as the last syllable left her lips, a great burst of light, bright as the noon sun, appeared above her head, illuminating the entire room with a burst of radiance. The burst of light was accompanied with an ear-splitting boom, as though a cannon had gone off.

The vampires had not even time to react as the eldritch sunlight swiftly reduced them to nothing but ash, the floor and walls plastered with their charred silhouettes like permanent shadows. The light only lasted for an instant, before dissipating again. Only when the Witch could no longer see the bright burst from underneath her eyelids did she dare to open them, looking about the room tentatively to find that her foes had been utterly destroyed.

Exhausted from the effort the spell had taken, the Witch contemplated lying down to sleep, perhaps, as morbid as it may seem, using one of the caskets as a makeshift bed and hiding spot. However, before she could think about it more, she heard a loud crack come from above. She looked up to see pieces of falling stone as great cracks formed in patterns like lightning in the ceiling above. Abruptly, a large hunk of rock fell inches away from her feet, and she leapt back in surprise.

There was a rumbling now, as the ceiling began to collapse in earnest, dust and stone falling to the ground below with echoing crashes. The Witch eyed the doorway from whence she had entered, but a great chunk of masonry fell to block it. Instead, she snatched up her lantern and fled through the other doorway, dodging falling rocks as the chamber collapsed in on itself.

She continued running, through the doorway and into the corridor beyond, for as long as she could, the echoing sound of the falling ceiling making it difficult for her to know how far she had to go before she was clear of danger. Only when she could no longer hear any further rumbling and crashes did she stop to catch her breath, finding herself in another chamber, a circular room with 4 entrances at equidistant points. In the center of the room was what looked to be a large wooden trapdoor, sealed shut with iron chains. But of more interest were the three figures she saw emerging from the other doorways.

One was a Knight of some order, she could tell from the tabard he wore over his armor that bore the image of a heraldric lion. In contrast to the prancing beast emblazoned upon his chest however, the Witch could see fear in his eyes, even as he touched a hand to the sword at his side.

Another was a wiry, dirty looking woman, clad in leather pants and a worn tunic. She had the haggard, paranoid look of someone who had spent a life in and out of prison. Clearly, the woman was a Thief. She held no weapon out, but the Witch could see the hilt of a stiletto peaking out from one of her boots.

Lastly, and most out of place of all of them, was a sister of the Church of the Eternal Flame, dressed in her habit and nervously clutching a bloodied scourge in one hand and a flickering candle in the other. The Vestal seemed confused at the presence of the others, unsure of what to do.

The four delvers stared at one another for a good long while, none of them wanting to make the first move, and all of them knowing someone inevitably had to.

When we moved to Nairobi, we expected to stay for two years. That was the length of my wife's contract. Daria was one then, and Charlie wasn't on the horizon. But my wife's contract got renewed—first by twelve months, then indefinitely—I found a good job, and perhaps most surprising of all: we started to like it here.

The temperate climate, how great the location was for travelling, the beaches…

We made good friends, especially Paul and Mandy, and one day I asked my wife whether we wouldn't enjoy making Kenya our home. "No more thoughts and shifting plans about returning," I said.

She merely smiled and kissed me, and Charlie was conceived soon after.

Even Daria appeared happy. We had secured a place for her in the American School, and she seemed well adjusted to her surroundings. All the more so because we spoiled her silly.

When Charlie was born, there were complications. Although I didn't know it at the time, my wife's life was in danger. Thanks to the excellent medical care she received, however, she came through OK, and Charlie, although small and underweight, entered the world a healthy baby boy.

Nonetheless, the first few months were difficult, with many bloodshot nights and emergency trips to the hospital. Charlie's life always seemed exceptionally fragile.

It wasn't until he was six months old that my wife and I felt we could finally relax. We found a well-regarded babysitter and, because the occasion coincided with our anniversary, met Paul and Mandy at one of Nairobi's finest restaurants—

"Have you had the talk with her yet?" Mandy asked.

"The talk?"

"The one about where babies come from. Where Charlie came from."

"A few weeks ago," I said.

"The trick is being consistent," Paul said. "Whatever you tell one, you must tell the others." He and Mandy had three beautiful children.

"What did you say?" Mandy asked. "The truth or—"

"No one tells the truth!" Paul interrupted. "You can't tell them the truth. Not yet."

Mandy took a sip of wine. "For me, it was the cabbage story."

"We settled on storks," my wife said.

Paul nodded. "See," he told Mandy, chewing, "they agree with me. Cabbage patches are stupid."

"We found the idea of a stork delivering Charlie somehow noble. A right proper kind of mythology," I said.

"There's a rich tradition," said Paul.

"We hope it teaches respect for the environment," my wife said.

Mandy drank her wine.

Upon returning home, we bid the babysitter goodnight. I peeked in on Daria, who was sleeping like an angel, and my wife checked on Charlie—

Scream!

I ran.

Charlie wasn't in his crib.

My wife, repeating: "He's— He's— He's—"

The babysitter!

I—

turned to see Daria standing in the doorway, holding her favourite toy. "I didn't want a baby brother," she said calmly. "So I returned him."

The window:

Where,

Outside—

illuminated by the pale light of a full moon, a marabou stork pulled flesh greedily from the small carcass lying at its feet.

I should have known that the interviewee looked fake as shit.

He had a very well fitted suit, with an expensive looking haircut, but I could tell his shoes were knockoffs. 

It was on his second round interview that I was called down to see him. He had all the right experience, and his voice wasn't grating, so in my mind, I was already thinking: sure, he'll do. But at the end of the interview, when we shook hands, a fiery pain shot through my palm. Like a bee sting.

When he pulled away I could see he had been wearing a sharp tack on the inside of his palm. I was flabbergasted. 

He gave a little laugh. “Gotcha.”

I looked him in the eyes. “Gotcha?”

With a shrug, he walked himself out the door. I told the front door security that he was never allowed back in.

***

Cut to: the next day when I took my morning shower.

Waiting for the temperature to turn hot, I held my hand out beneath the faucet and felt the water run down my hands. About thirty seconds into this, I noticed my skin was melting off.

I screamed. Ran out of the shower. Towelled myself dry.

Half my left hand had turned skeletal. The flesh in between my fingers had leaked off like melted wax. Other parts of my arm also appeared smudged. It's like I was suddenly made of play-doh.

***

A quick visit to a private hospital revealed nothing. No one knew what was wrong with me.

I had lost all pain reception in my body. Although I was missing chunks of skin, muscle and fat tissue in my arms, none of it hurt. Like at all. The doctors also couldn’t figure out why my body was reacting to water in this strange way. A single drop on my skin turned my flesh into mud. Water was able to melt me.

Two weeks of various tests proved nothing.

I was worried for my life, sure. But I was equally worried that the dolts at my company were messing up preparations for our biggest tech conference of the year. 

So I hired the doctors to visit me at my home. I wasn’t about to abandon the firm I had spent building for my entire adult career.

***

I came back to work wearing gloves, long pants and a turtle-neck. The only liquid I could drink without any damage was medical-grade saline.

No matter how much deodorant I put on, I would reek. It's what happens when you wear three layers of clothes and aren't allowed to shower ever again. But no one seemed to mind. Everyone knew I had developed some kind of skin disorder, and politely ignored the subject. As loyal employees should.

I was exclusively bouncing between my house—to my limo—to my office—to my limo—back to my house where sometimes doctors would await me with further tests.

My favorite restaurant remained unvisited. I skipped my oldest son’s birthday.  I even missed my fuckin’ box seats for the last hockey game for godsakes.

***

Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you're all laughing. 

But death is death. Billionaire or not, I’m sure you too would be terrified if you were being followed around by a maniac in a red hoodie.

A maniac who was clearly that shithead interviewee.  He obviously never got hired anywhere else because he’s constantly been spying on my house from across the street.

I’ve sent my security out after him, but he’s a slippery little fucker, with ears like a rat. Anytime anyone gets close, he skitters away without a trace.

It’s been a nightmare. I’ve hired four extra guards but the only thing they're good at is using their walkies to tell me everything is “all clear”.

The one time my personnel almost grabbed him, He left a large red water gun at the scene. A super soaker.  

That's how I know he's been planning to assassinate me the whole time. The tack. My new disease. He's trying to melt me.

***

Yesterday, they finally caught him. 

I wanted him sent straight to a cop car, straight to jail. But apparently you can't arrest someone for carrying a couple water balloons in their jacket. 

So instead I had them lock him up in my deepest basement office at my work. His hands were tied and he was stripped of all his belongings, including a diary riddled with slogans like ‘Wealth Must End’ and ‘Deny, Defend, Depose’.

I had his full name and documentation from when he applied at my firm. I threw his resume onto his lap. “So Mr. Derek Elton Jones, am I part of your ‘kill the rich’ agenda?”

He stared at his resume, not looking me in the eye. “Billionaires shouldn’t exist,” is all he said.

I scoffed. Incredulous at the accusation. “I’m not a billionaire. That’s an exaggerated net worth that can change at any moment. I run a tax software company. Is there something I’ve done wrong?”

“You help the rich evade tax.”

Is that what he thinks?  “That’s the exact opposite of what my software does actually. My customers are people who want to pay their taxes properly.”

He stayed silent, staring at the floor. I resisted the urge to smack the back of his head.

“Tell me exactly what sort of biological weapon you pricked me with 2 months ago, and then maybe we can discuss how I’ll let you go.”

He mumbled something under his breath. 

“Speak up. Derek.”

His nose wriggled. “...Haven’t bathed in weeks have you?”

I came up to his face. I was this close from slapping him.

“That’s why they call you stinking rich,” he smiled.

Before I could strike his cheek, his spit sprayed my face. My vision blurred instantly. I recoiled and yelled. 

When I settled down and carefully wiped his saliva off my brow, I could see part of my nose, lips and left eye lying on the floor.

He just stared at me, laughing. 

“Don’t you get it? I didn’t infect you with anything! You did this to yourself! Your greed, your untouchable ego—it’s all rotting you from the inside out!”

***

I had to leave my work because of the condition my face was in. I couldn’t risk infection.

My guards let Derek leave too, because my lawyer said I could face serious legal trouble if I tried to trap someone against their will. So I relented.

Now, I’m left alone, trapped in my crumbling body, surrounded by doctors who keep either drawing blood or injecting me with experimental drugs.

I haven’t told my ex, or my kids or any of my family really, because what would they care? They haven’t spoken to me since last Christmas. 

I’ve already paid off the local news to highlight one of my last big donations to a charity in Ghana because people have to remember the good that I’ve done. And I have done good.

I came up from a middle-class family and worked hard to earn an upper, upper class lifestyle. I’m a living tribute to the American dream. The power of an individual’s will to succeed.

I keep thinking about the last words Derek said. About my selfishness and avarice. I keep saying to myself that he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, and that he’s just following some stupid trends on social media. He should learn to respect other people, our society, our whole system of capitalism.

But despite all this, when I stare at the twisted reflection of myself in the bedside mirror, at the exposed skull emerging on the left side of my face… a bizarre feeling of acceptance hangs over me that I can’t quite explain.

It's like… even though I look like a melting wax sculpture, like a godawful zombie that arose from the grave, and despite me knowing that I should book some reconstructive surgery, or at least some flesh grafts to even out my complexion, a small voice inside me says, “no don’t. You deserve to look like this.” 

I can’t help but wonder, maybe I do.

Officially, it was named Johnson’s Cave, but no one in the town used that title.

No, we all just called it The Labyrinth.

Our main tourist attraction, it was a really unique feature—side-by-side, the entrance and the exit sat separated only by a four-foot wall of limestone. But to get from one end to the other, you had to pass through more than a mile of maze-like passages behind them. Most paths led to a dead-end, but there was exactly one route, one perfect sequence of turns, you could take that would lead you out.

Signs placed back in the 70s could be used for hints to help you find your way, but the challenge was to make it through without using any of those or one of the maps provided at the trailhead. Because, even for those who had completed it successfully dozens of times, it could be disorienting.

Dim lighting installed in the 80s helped somewhat considering, as it wasn’t very powerful, it was still a vast improvement over the pitch-black of an unlit subterranean pit.

Regardless of the measures they took to make it easier, however, there was just a certain atmosphere within.

Many found it difficult to remember why they entered in the first place, let alone the intricate series of operations required to negotiate to the exit. Despite the maps and signage, park rangers still had to enter at least once a week to recover someone who’d become hopelessly lost.

Yet some of them claimed their misdirection arose differently than simply taking a few wrong turns.

Some claimed they’d been following a voice… one offering to show them the way… one that was always just in the next room…

Local lore stressed to never explore the maze alone.

In the early 90s, staff was only onsite during the day, and used a paper tracking system to document who was in the cave at any given time—prospective spelunkers needed to register with them on the way in and on the way out, but it was all done by hand. And for larger groups, they usually only made one person sign in and report their party-size before entering.

Surprisingly, though it sounds shoddy by today’s standards, it had worked without major issue for years. The rangers even felt confident enough in it that after closing, they’d shut the lights off within to conserve energy and minimize the impact on the cave ecosystem.

But their system had a serious flaw.

It relied on the honesty of people.

The tales shared around campfires told of at least three cavers before my time who’d entered The Labyrinth and never left again. And I was four-years-old in 1995 when it claimed the fourth.

There was a passageway in the deepest chamber of the main maze that was closed to the general public. Locked behind a gate, the section beyond was only accessible to park staff—though no one had entered it in nearly ten-years by that summer.

Not since victim number three was rumored to have disappeared within its tunnels.

Stories varied as to why it was restricted in the first place—some alleged it was littered with pockets of toxic gas, others insisted it was due to sheer drops into bottomless chasms, a few purported the forbidden caverns were inhabited by ancient, violent cryptids of a kind.

But when you asked someone that had actually gone through the gate, they’d just say the area didn’t seem right. The lighting didn’t extend into those tunnels, and they stated it always felt like something was watching them from the blackness—something they were never quite quick enough to spot with their headlamps.

And there existed no reliable map to follow—sure, there had been efforts to plot the region, but those that had attempted would swear it was impossible because, “it changes…”

It was this area that generated the fear of exploring the cave solo. Whatever dangers lie within it, the accounts of the missing spelunkers shared two consistencies.

All three cavers had been exploring beyond the gate, and all three had been alone when they vanished.

Yet their bodies were never recovered—no one could be sure that they’d actually perished inside.

However, when twelve-year-old Christopher Shields lost his life, speculation grew that they’d met a similar fate.

****

Chris was not a popular boy—more interested in his studies than athletics or social endeavors, the classic “teacher’s-pet” had the unfortunate fate of attending grade school in the early 90s; when being a “nerd” made you an immediate target.

And as was the case with many 90s nerds, he became the victim of a prank gone horribly wrong.

When the “cool” boys in his class invited Chris to hang out, he reportedly told his mother how excited he was to finally have friends—his only emotion when they led him into The Labyrinth being the joy of acceptance.

However, unbeknownst to Chris, the other boys gave the rangers the wrong count for their group. And when the rest of the party emerged hours later without him, park staff was none the wiser.

During their subsequent trials, the boys confessed that one-by-one, they’d peeled away from Chris until he was left all-alone in the maze. Never having entered it before, Chris was unaware of the signs he could use to find his way, and they hadn’t bothered to show them to him before he was abandoned.

Worse still, they’d said that it was a short trail and that the cave was well-lit enough that he wouldn’t need a flashlight. He brought no food or water with him, nor warm clothing or medical supplies.

When the rangers shut the lights off at closing, Chris was still inside with no provisions—plunged instantly into the pitch-black.

And if he yelled for help, no one heard him.

The following morning, Mr. and Mrs. Shields waited for hours for a son that would never return—Chris having informed them that there was to be a sleep-over after the hike—his first one ever.

Each of the boys that took him into The Labyrinth would later testify that they never intended for Chris to spend a full night in the cave—they thought at least that he’d be able to solve it before sunset.

They were stupid.

Chris was supposed to be home by 10am the following morning, and by noon, the Shields’s were beginning to worry. They started making calls to other parents and as word spread quickly through our small town of the missing boy, it only took a few hours before the deceit was exposed.

One of the conspirators, fearing stronger reprisal if Chris was gravely injured (or worse) than what would already be coming their way for the “little joke” they’d played, fessed up to the whole thing.

By 2pm, a search party was combing every inch of Johnson’s Cave—at least every inch of the well-mapped, public area. And, dividing into teams, by 6pm most of the maze had already been searched—there was no sign of Chris.

But as dusk crept in on the outside, Mrs. Shields claimed she heard his voice…

She swears, even to this day, that it was him—what mother wouldn’t recognize her son calling to her for help? Yet, as she was the only one that did, skeptics feel maybe it was her desperate mind playing tricks on her.

However, she followed whatever it was to the entrance of the restricted area and demanded that they unlock the gate to search beyond it.

“He’s just through there! Don’t you hear him?!” she wailed.

Though it seemed impossible.

The door was intact and locked properly when park staff inspected it; and Chris neither had a key nor the tools or experience anyone was aware of that would have allowed him to pick his way through it. But they could not deny the hysterical mother. And as they were confident by that time that Chris wasn’t anywhere else within the cave, they relented.

Some men experienced with the typically prohibited tunnels entered.

And they were astonished to discover, that Mrs. Shields was right.

A few hundred yards past the gate, they found her sons’ lifeless body.

A scream still frozen on his face.

She cursed the men who’d found him for not acting faster—howling through anguished tears that she’d heard him alive just thirty-minutes before the body was located.

No amount of explaining to her that it was not possible that he’d been calling to her assuaged her fury.

Even when they told her, after they’d examined his corpse, that Chris had died at least sixteen hours earlier.

****

No one was ever formally charged in his death—it was ruled a tragic accident as there was no evidence to say otherwise. The autopsy found no signs of foul play, but then again, it found no signs of what had killed him at all. All they were able to confirm is that at some point, his heart stopped beating.

The boys that played the “prank” were initially suspected of having murdered Chris and hidden his body where it was found, but their parents were able to provide alibis for them—the sleepover was real and the boys were all in attendance at the time of Chris’s passing.

The leading theory then became that someone else had taken Chris beyond the gate and stolen his life from him. Someone else that had maybe stumbled upon him all-alone and saw an opportunity for nefarious a deed.

But no one came forward, and no new evidence surfaced.

The pranksters were sentenced to a bit of community service, and the case went cold.

After Chris’ death, it was decided that Johnson’s Cave needed some serious safety improvements if it was to remain open to the public.

So, it was closed for a short period—the gate was removed from the entrance to the restricted area and replaced with three-feet of solid concrete, and they installed new blockades and cameras at the main entrance and exit.

Now, anybody that wanted to tour The Labyrinth would have to pass through full-height turnstiles manned by park staff when entering and leaving—ensuring an accurate count of each person within. Any discrepancies could be verified by the cameras, and they “guaranteed” the public of its robustness—even going so far as to hire a nightshift guard to prevent anyone from sneaking in after hours.

It was a fairly basic system, but much improved from the old hand-count/honor system that was used before. On each of the turnstiles, there was a button both inside and outside that would unlock them to rotate either to let someone in or let someone out—allowing people who wanted to “give up” on making it all the way through the ability to return to the entrance and leave that way. Or, for cavers who wanted an additional challenge, to work the maze backwards by starting at the exit.

As hikers came and went through either gate, the system would calculate the total number of people inside, as well as the total number of people who entered for the day.

“Simple.”

“Foolproof.”

When they re-opened, they believed they’d made it impossible to have a repeat of the Christopher Shields tragedy.

But they were wrong.

When I was fourteen, the cave claimed my best friend, Brandon Collins.

And it tried to take me too.

****

To say Brandon was obsessed with The Labyrinth would be an understatement.

By the summer of 2005, he’d already completed it successfully over forty times. His parents had given him an unlimited pass for his fourteenth birthday, along with the freedom to go exploring on his own. And, as the park in which Johnson’s Cave resides was between his house and our school, and he walked past it every day on his way home from classes, in the first six-months he had the pass, he explored the maze multiple times a week—pestering me non-stop to be his companion.

Brandon and I had been best friends since the first-grade—as I was an only child, he was the closest thing I had to a brother. And though it cost me $3 every time I capitulated, I navigated the cave with him on several occasions just to support his passion. Though, truthfully, I didn’t quite understand his fixation as, to me, it was just another hike.

Yet to Brandon, its passageways were akin to holy ground.

He used to always say that he felt a sort of special connection with the place. Fascinated by it, he’d tell anyone that would listen that it wasn’t just a hole in a hill—it was “alive.” And he was not to be deterred from trying to drag me along with him every time that he went—convinced that one day, I would learn to revere it too.

Regardless of my inability to understand its magnificence in the same way, I had to admit that there was something if not inherently impressive, at least curiously strange about it.

There was the mystery of Christopher Shields to consider, and the odd phenomena of forgetfulness within. Brandon told me that even no matter how many times he made the attempt, he still had difficulty finding the way out.

That was what he loved the most about it—the never-ending battle—him versus the Earth itself—a true test of determination and mental fortitude.

He was determined to unlock all of its mysteries.

I remember well my first venture into The Labyrinth with him.

Before the inaugural trip, Brandon provided me with a map of the full system—made me study the exact route through until I had it memorized and could recite every turn back to him perfectly.

And once we were inside, I understood why.

When we reached the first fork, he asked me, “left or right?”

Annoyed that he was already quizzing me, I responded with a confident, “left!”

“Are you sure?” he posed with a wry smile?

“Yea, I’m positive dude, it’s the first fork—pretty hard to forget.” I incredulously replied.

“Okay then, let’s try that way.” he said, as he started down the corridor.

But five minutes later, the tunnel we were marching down came to an abrupt end. Staring at the solid wall in front of me, I was baffled by how I’d managed to get the very first turn wrong.

Seeing my dumbfounded expression, Brandon started laughing, before simply stating, “Don’t worry—happens to everyone in here. I’ve ended up exactly where you’re standing more times than I can count.”

Returning to where path had originally branched off, I knew now that we were supposed to head down the opposite trail from the one that I’d selected, but looking at the two options before me, I found that I couldn’t remember which one went back to the entrance and which one led deeper into the cave.

Chuckling more at my confusion, Brandon told me to stand perfectly still with my back to the opening we’d just come through, while he reached for a small sign next to the gap on the righthand side. He then flipped a little metal latch in the center of it, and pulled down a small, wooden flap to reveal the words…

TO ENTRANCE

…hidden behind it.

Imitating our insufferably coddling Geography teacher, Mrs. Wilkes, he inquired in a sickeningly-sweet, high-pitched, squeal, “Alright, so now, if your back is to the tunnel we just came from, and that one leads to a dead-end; and the sign says this way goes back to the entrance, which way do we need to go to move forward?”

“That way, asshole,” I snapped—pointing to the only option that remained.

He responded with mockingly enthusiastic applause, and I flipped him off before continuing.

And the remainder of the journey was no better—we got lost at least ten different times.

Brandon was letting me navigate, and no matter how hard I tried, I might as well have been flipping a coin for how accurately I recalled the route.

I’d thought the signage would be a bit more helpful as well—Brandon had made it sound like everything was so well-marked that even an unsupervised child could easily find their way, but that wasn’t really the case.

Not every tunnel had a sign, forcing you to really focus to make sure that you didn’t forget which of the unmarked paths you’d already tried. And even the tunnels that did only had hints of TO ENTRANCE, TO EXIT, or a large X (to indicate a branch that led nowhere)—further complicated by the fact that it was inconsistent from room to room.

Some areas were labeled with the way forward, others the way back.

It was a game.

Admittedly, though wildly frustrating at times, it was an intriguing experience. There was something about the place—a quietness you couldn’t experience in the outside world.

When we paused for a minute in one of the larger rooms to have a bit of water, and I sat up against the rock wall, I got the sensation of wanting to stay in that spot indefinitely—a feeling of peace dripping down my spine.

Calmness.

Stillness.

Brandon had to snap me out of somewhat of a trance to get me moving again—I reluctantly carried on.

And, though it took us nearly three times as long as it would have for Brandon to do it alone, eventually we found our way to the exit.

When we finally made it, I actually did feel a strong sense of accomplishment—a booming pride at having emerged victorious over the ancient passageways.

But, once was enough for me. Returning home from the endeavor, I found myself more exhausted than I’d ever been—not just from the physical exertion of traipsing around underground for hours, but mentally, I’d been taxed more than any exam or homework assignment had ever pushed me.

However, Brandon was relentless, and every few weeks, I couldn’t take his badgering anymore and agreed to go again.

And it was on our fourth adventure that he said something that took my feelings towards his devotion to the cave from polite annoyance to that of deep concern.

We had been hiking for several hours—Brandon was navigating, and I was beginning to get the sense that he wasn’t trying to find the exit quickly. In fact, I was suspicious that we were entering areas that I’d never been to before, although it was difficult to tell if that was just due to the “effect” The Labyrinth had on spelunkers.

But I became convinced something was wrong when we arrived at a room that had no exits, and Brandon seemed extremely pleased about it.

“Found it!” He exclaimed, as he set his pack down in the center of the cavern.

“Found what?” I asked, initially not seeing anything about the space warranting his excitement. To my observation, we were once again lost, and it was going to take significant backtracking to get back onto the right path.

“This…” He moved towards the far wall, and there, I noticed, was a strange patch in the rockface—a slab of gray amidst the reds and browns.

Concrete.

Reaching forward, he ran his fingers curiously over the rockface next to it, gingerly probing along the surface—almost like he was searching for a weakness of some kind.

“Do you feel it?” He asked me in a low whisper—as if not wanting to disturb an unseen occupant in the room with us.

Unease was the only sensation I was experiencing at the time—that and a strong urge to pull him away from the wall and sprint out of there.

Without waiting for me to answer, he continued, “It’s like… there’s something behind here… something pulling me towards it…

“I can’t always find this place—I think they leave it off the maps. Even when I come into the cave specifically searching for it, most of the time I just end up at the exit.

“But sometimes, if I listen closely, I hear something… A faint voice… Always just in the next room... If I follow it, it leads me here…”

He never turned while he was speaking—I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to himself. For a moment I thought he was maybe messing with me—trying to give me a scare, but it was like he had forgotten I was even there.

His behavior sent a chill through me—reflexively, I dropped my voice to match his, anxiously hissing as I approached him from behind, “Hey, Brandon, I think we should get out of here…”

Still staring straight at the wall, caressing the sealed surface, he replied, “Yea, you’re right… We should go... It’s not time… Need to come at night… It doesn’t like the light…”

He removed his hand and stepped back—I jumped a foot in the air when he suddenly returned to his normal speaking volume to ask me, “Dude, what are you doing?” in reference to me being mere inches behind him when he spun and nearly crashed into me.

“I… You were… Never mind, can we go?” I replied.

“Yea, alright, let’s get moving.” he said, as he picked up his pack from the floor.

I was relieved that he was mostly acting like his normal-self again, but I felt there was hesitation in his movements—like he was waiting for something to happen. He paused for a moment after slinging his bag over his shoulder, and shushed me when I went to speak.

Whatever he was listening for, I never heard, and I wasn’t sure if he did either, but I thought that, maybe, I saw a tiny, nearly imperceptible twitch of his ears towards the wall, before he shook his head, and moved on.

We made it out without further incident, but Brandon wasn’t as thrilled as he normally was when we exited—clicking his way through the turnstile and signing out with the ranger without any of the usual fanfare. When I asked if he was okay, he told me that he was just tired, but I could tell he was lying to me.

“Need to come at night…”

The words kept playing over and over in my head—I kept thinking of Christopher Shields trapped in the dark. Had he heard someone guiding him to that part of the cave too? Had he felt the “pull” that Brandon described?

I tried to talk to him about what had happened in the hidden chamber, but he kept brushing it off—pretending like nothing abnormal occurred in there. Which, I thought, was fair.

Yes, he’d said some creepy things, and yes, the room had made me uneasy, but I reminded myself that Brandon had been spending a lot of time alone in a cave. It was possible he was letting Chris’s story seep into his mind a bit too much, and he was starting to hear things amidst the silence and the solitude.

I told myself not to worry—even if Brandon wanted to, there was no way he could enter The Labyrinth at night. And, if he did somehow make it past the guard and the cameras, the restricted area of the cave was behind a three-foot wall of concrete. The worst that would happen would be he’d have to sleep on a rock floor in a cold, dark room until rangers eventually went in and dragged him out in the morning.

But I still didn’t think it was healthy for him to keep spending so much time in there—I used some of the tenacity techniques he’d pulled on me to force him to come and play basketball or go fishing instead of running the maze for the fiftieth time.

And I thought he was starting to come around. By the middle of August, it’d been three weeks since he’d even asked me to come on a hike with him. Everything seemed to be trending in the right direction.

Until the evening of August 17^(th), 2005.

Brandon never came home from school.

****

It wasn’t completely abnormal that summer for him to arrive later—usually that just meant he was either with me or in the cave. At the time, it was still fairly rare for kids our age to have cellphones, so the standing rule at the Collins’ household was just that he needed to be home by 7pm, or have found a way to contact them to let them know it would be later.

It was 9pm when the phone rang in my parents’ house.

I remember them waking me up that night.

I’d gone to play basketball after school with a group of guys from our class and had invited Brandon to come along with us. But he said he wasn’t feeling well and was just going to walk straight home. Not thinking much of it, as he really did look pale that afternoon, I bade him to feel better, and went off to the courts.

Exhausted from the game, I’d fallen asleep early and vividly recall being shook from a deep slumber by my distressed parents. When they asked if I knew why Brandon hadn’t come home that evening or where he might be, the words formed in my mind without me even having to think on them.

The Labyrinth.

I told them about my last conversation with him—that he’d told me he was going home, but that if he hadn’t arrived there, then most likely he was in the maze.

But my parents informed me that The Collins’s had already called the park. The guard on duty verified that Brandon’s name was not on the list of registered hikers for the day, and that the count of people remaining in the cave stood at a firm zero as recorded by the system.

Moreover, the turnstiles were set to alarm if they rotated after closing, and neither the one at the entrance or exit had tripped.

In their minds, he couldn’t be there.

Yet in my mind, it was the only place that he could be.

Brandon was smart, and he was at that park so often that if there was a weakness to exploit in their security, I was sure he would have found it. I tried to convince my parents that they should tell The Collins’s that if they were going to search for him, they should start at the cave despite the “impossibility” of him being there, but my pleas fell on deaf ears.

They said I should go back to sleep and that the adults were going to figure out what to do—the police were going to get involved and that they’d likely find him in the next few hours. I was assured that before I woke up, he’d be back home with his parents.

However, they didn’t account for me not giving a shit about anything they’d just said.

True, I had convinced myself already that there were no real threats to be had in The Labyrinth after dark, and it was his own damn fault for sneaking in there, but I had a gut feeling that he was in danger—that every minute he continued to spend in there was a threat to his mortality.

Acting on pure instinct, as soon as my parents left my room, I grabbed a flashlight from the closet, and climbed out the window.

It was a cool summer evening—the damp air smelled of impending rain. Hopping the back fence, I took a shortcut through the woods—picking my way through the trees as swiftly as my newly awakened legs would allow.

And along the way, I tried to imagine how he might have done it.

The turnstiles they installed blocked both the entrance and exit to the degree that you could not get into (or out of) either opening without passing through them. Also, the ranger’s booth sat in between the two, and was staffed full-time. The way the surrounding rocks naturally funneled visitors to the cave, it was impossible to even get to the barricades without passing within a few feet of it.

As I considered how Brandon had succeeded in cheating security, I began to ponder how the hell I was going to do it myself. With the night guard in the booth, there was no way I was going to be able to sneak by without him seeing me. Even if I could, I’d trigger the alarm the instant I spun the turnstile to enter.

With little time to formulate a solid or even halfway intelligent plan, I opted to go with the first strategy that came to mind.

Brute force.

When I arrived at the mouth of the valley that fed its way down to the cave, I paused for a brief moment to collect myself.

And then I charged.

Sprinting as quickly as I could, I ran full-speed towards the entrance, ignoring the shouts that I started to hear as I approached.

My plan was simple—the guard would take a few seconds to get out of the booth once he noticed me—if I could put enough distance between us, I was confident that once we were both inside the maze, I could lose him in the branching passages.

“Right, right, right, right,” I chanted it as I approached the turnstile, trying to force my brain to remember the direction I’d need to go at the first fork—knowing from prior experience that as soon as I crossed over the boundary into the earth, I might forget.

Arriving at the gate, I slammed my hand into the button to unlock the rotating barrier and pushed my way through. And when I did, a blaring siren began to pierce my ears—drowning out the yells of the man chasing me.

Undaunted, I picked my pace back up, refusing to look behind to see if I was about to be imminently captured; focused solely on my task.

“Right, right, right… no… left, left… wait, no. right… no. left… shit!”

Mere feet beyond the barricade and I was already forgetting which direction I needed to go—aware that if I chose incorrectly, I’d find myself at a dead-end, and likely be caught before I even had a chance to begin my search for Brandon.

Moving as quickly as I dared into the deepening blackness, I appreciated for the first time the true meaning of the word “dark.” The faint lights lining the walls had always been illuminated in my prior delves with Brandon—now, with their bulbs devoid of power, I realized that beyond the beam of my flashlight, my eyes could perceive nothing.

The rangers would still shut them off at night, but I had assumed that the guard would switch them on before coming after me—in his haste to pursue, it appeared he’d forgotten.

I wasn’t sure if this was better or worse for me—it would make it more difficult for me to navigate the tunnels, but it would also likely make it more difficult for him to catch up to me.

Better or worse didn’t matter much though, I couldn’t change the situation—pressing onward was my only option if I wanted to find my friend.

And after several minutes of careful jogging, I managed to make it to the first fork with enough of a lead on the guard that when I stopped and hazarded a glance back down the path I’d come from, I couldn’t see his light behind me. Nor, I found, could I hear his shouts or footsteps.

Nor any sounds at all, actually.

I had been so caught up in what I was doing that I hadn’t noticed the bleats of the alarm fade out. It had been earsplittingly loud when it went off, and I was only a few hundred yards away from it, I thought I should at least still her some remnant of its horns.

But I found silence.

“Left or right, left or right?” I posed the question to myself as I alternately hovered my light over the openings that split either side of the room.

Then suddenly, out of deafening quiet, a whisper met my ears.

“Matt…”

I’m sure it would have triggered a survival instinct to flee if my adrenaline hadn’t already been so high, but I was on a mission, and the voice calling my name sounded familiar…

“Brandon?” I responded, as calmly as possible—a small feeling of relief breaking through that I might have found him already.

“This way…” it replied.

“Which way? Where are you?” I panned my flashlight to the righthand tunnel where the barely perceptible words seemed to be echoing from.

“Down here…” it answered from just beyond my beam of light.

Growing annoyed that he was hiding from me, I snapped back, “Dude, quit screwing around and get out here—let’s just turn ourselves into the guard and go home.”

“No. You follow—I will show the way.” came the cryptic response.

A light began to bob along the walls from behind me, I had little time to make a decision.

“Hurry—he is coming…” the voice encouraged me.

I wasn’t sure why he was refusing to come with me, but I reasoned that he might be trying to prevent my getting caught to keep me out of trouble. With the window to choose rapidly closing, and struggling to think clearly, I trepidatiously turned to the path on the right, and marched forward.

Hoping I would find Brandon shortly ahead, I was frustrated when I made it to the next fork, still without him appearing.

“This way.” the voice came from the lefthand branch.

I opened my mouth to ask why he hadn’t emerged yet, but it cut me off.

“Follow!” it demanded.

Deeper I continued into the maze, obeying the voice’s instructions at every junction. After the fourth or fifth turn, I was no longer worried about the guard finding me—positive that at some point our paths had diverged and I was well beyond his reach.

However, I was growing worried about where I was being led.

It was Brandon—I could swear it was Brandon. I’d known him for seven years—we’d grown up together—I was sure it was his voice. Yet there was something, off about it. A gravelly grate underneath the normal snarky pitch.

And why hadn’t he shown his face? Why did he continue to stay just out of view?

I began to think of the stories of Christopher Shields.

But those were just stories…

After what felt like hours, and countless twists through narrow passageways, I reached a room with only one exit opposite the corridor I’d just entered it from.

“Stop.” the voice whispered from the tunnel ahead.

“Why? Where am I?” I inquired.

“Almost there.” it replied, “Turn it off…”

“What?!” was all I could muster in my confusion.

“The light… so bright…” it hissed.

The flashlight was the only thing keeping me out of a complete panic at that point—the little bit of light it provided gave me a small sense of security.

“No! Are you crazy?! I can barely see as it is!” I pleaded.

It switched from commanding to a soft appeal, “For me, Matt. Turn it off. I will meet you then.”

For the first time since I’d entered, I detected a hint of movement from the opening in front of me.

He was close.

I wanted to get to him, it was the entire reason for me being there in the first place, but I wasn’t inclined to delete my only source of comfort so easily. Moving forward, I reached the entrance to the channel before me without meeting its request, when it insisted, more forcefully…

“No light! It hurts!”

I could not see the end of the path past a small curve in the tunnel, but it appeared I’d be able to blindly navigate it if I ran my hand along the wall. Considering that Brandon had been in the cave for hours, I thought that maybe his eyes were so sensitive that even my weak torch was searing them—I didn’t want to hurt him.

Apprehensively, I clicked the flashlight off, and plunged myself into pitch-black.

“Good. Follow.”

Without a visual reference, I kept the fingertips from my right hand on the rock surface while placing the flashlight in my back pocket. Then, putting my left hand out in front of me to avoid crashing into something face-first, I cautiously tip-toed onward.

Eventually, after what felt like ages, I felt the corridor open up into a larger space.

“Yes, good. This way. Come this way. Nearly there. Come to me.”

The voice was leading me across an open cavern—wildly, I flailed my arms around waiting to connect with flesh, praying I’d see Brandon soon.

But it was only guiding me to another passageway—when my hands finally collided with a hard surface, I discerned a slender crack in the rock—just wide enough that I would be able to squeeze my body into it.

“Come through. Come through!

“Join us!”

“Us?!” I yelped.

Something was wrong—terribly wrong. Brandon’s voice had mixed with that of others I didn’t recognize—the grating timbre now impossible to ignore.

I backed away from the wall and reached for the flashlight in my pocket—pointing it out in front of me, I snapped it on to find the concrete wall of the sealed chamber. And next to it, where there should have been nothing but solid rock…

There was a portal.

A hole where one shouldn’t be.

I shone my light down the impossible passageway and it landed on a figure at the other end.

It remained for only a second—the briefest instant, but I couldn’t mistake it.

Brandon.

Or at least, something pretending to be him…

It was a convincing impersonation except for the pupils, which glowed in the light—reflecting like the eyes of a creature from furthest depths of the ocean. And the skin was cracked—hardened like stone. Whatever it was let out a feral shriek before disappearing into the blackness behind it.

Fear overtook my desire to save my friend.

I ran in the opposite direction—terror ripping through my chest—not knowing if that thing would chase me.

Sprinting back down the tunnel that’d brought me within feet of what I was sure would have been my death, I made it back to the preceding room when I was abruptly blinded.

The main lights kicked on throughout the cave.

I was saved.

****

The guard had decided after thirty minutes of searching for me in the dark that it would be best to call for backup, and it took him nearly another hour to find his way back to entrance.

When he did finally make it back to his booth, he called the police and, while he waited for them to arrive, contacted Brandon’s parents. They’d left him their number in case he saw any sign of their son, and he informed them that he’d just had a young boy go sprinting past him into the maze.

Brandon’s parents contacted mine to let them know they were heading to the park and to ask for their help, which is when mine discovered I wasn’t in my bed.

Now the question became which boy had run through the barrier, or if it was possible that more than one was inside.

They did a more thorough check of the records from that day and found a discrepancy in the count—when they added up the total number of hikers who had gone through the turnstiles and the total number of hikers who’d registered to be in the cave, the found the numbers were off by one.

It was human error.

When they reviewed the camera feeds from the time the unregistered hiker entered The Labyrinth, the ranger on duty was distracted by a young woman who was on her way out. Brandon snuck right by him and passed through the barricade. Then, he simply hit the button on the opposite side and rotated the turnstile as if someone had left—immediately erasing the additional count.

Now convinced that both of us were in the cave, they formed teams and began to sweep the tunnels.

I had been working my way backwards towards the entrance since the lights came on—trying to put as much distance between myself and “Us” as possible. Eventually, running into a police officer that then stayed with me until I reconnected with my parents.

They were furious, but thankful that I was unharmed—hugging me harder than ever before.

But Brandon’s parents were not so lucky.

During the search, Mrs. Collins, exactly as Mrs. Shields had ten-years earlier, followed what she swore was her sons voice to the chamber with the sealed passage. Yet when she arrived there, she found nothing but solid walls—the opening I’d seen “Brandon” through was gone.

However, between her adamancy that she could hear Brandon behind the rock, and the story that I relayed about witnessing something that looked like him in that area, when they could not locate him anywhere else, park officials agreed to break open the wall—speculating that he may have found and undocumented passage that led to the other side.

I was not surprised when they found his body within, nor by the expression of horror permanently etched onto his face.

After what I’d experienced in the cave, I was not shocked, either, when they told me he was already dead when my parents had woken me up that night.

****

Brandon’s death was the final nail in the coffin for Johnson’s Cave—it was deemed too dangerous for a tourist attraction. Not only did they seal the entrance to the area where the boys had died behind concrete for a second time, but they sealed the main entrance and exit.

No one was supposed to enter it again.

But, this year, the local government voted.

They want to re-open The Labyrinth in 2025.

The town has been suffering economically for a long time, and they want to bring the tourist dollars back—there’s even talking of re-opening the restricted passage.

I went to the meeting to speak against it—I warned them that there is evil lurking in the darkness there—that it hungered to take more into the depths.

Yet I was shouted down—scolded for spreading “ghost stories” from twenty-years ago. Having lost the battle, I advised them, at least, to never shut the lights off.

And when I left there, I considered that maybe they were right.

After all, I was young—my best friend died. Maybe my mind had turned the cave into a monster, when really, it was just a hole in the earth.

So, I went back to The Labyrinth, and approached the entrance where the workers have nearly broken back through the concrete.

I stuck my ear up to the wall, and I swear, I heard it—just as clear as when I was a boy.

A gravelly whisper—Brandon’s voice layered in with the rest…

“Welcome back, Matt. Will you come join us now?"

The night air in Manhattan stung like a needle. The alley reeked of trash, piss, and death—his signature. I’d been hunting him for years. His name was Vincent Draven, though the name hardly mattered now. What mattered was the string of corpses left in his wake, Lexi among them. She’d been just seventeen when he drained her dry and dumped her like garbage.

Draven wasn’t like the vamps from books or movies. He walked among us, elegant and unassuming, with a charming smile that cloaked centuries of bloodshed. A Wall Street hotshot by day, by night he was a predator with no equal. His network of influence had bought silence, fear, and apathy. The cops called the killings random. I knew better.

I followed him for weeks, learning his patterns. He preferred blondes—young, naïve. Tonight, it was a girl who couldn’t have been older than twenty, teetering in heels she wasn’t used to. She laughed nervously at his jokes, her trust bought with smooth words and a crooked grin. He led her into the alley, away from the lights, and I followed, heart hammering.

When he pinned her against the brick wall, his hand gripping her throat, I stepped into the shadows, raising my suppressed Glock.

“Let her go, Draven.”

He turned, those sharp blue eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, his voice like silk over steel.

I stepped closer. “I’m your death.”

I didn’t flinch as I fired. The shot was perfect, punching into his side. He staggered, blood dripping black in the dim light. The girl screamed and scrambled away as vile creature doubled over.

But then he straightened.

His body rippled, bones crunching, skin splitting. His human disguise melted away like wet paper. His true form emerged—a gaunt, pale thing with skin stretched too tightly over his frame, claws extending from his fingers. His eyes glowed like molten gold, his teeth long and jagged, dripping venom. The bastard grinned.

“Cute trick,” he snarled, lunging at me with inhuman speed.

I fired again, but my gun jammed. “Shit,” I hissed, tossing it aside. He was on me in a second, slamming me into the wall. His claws tore through my jacket, scraping flesh. Pain seared, but adrenaline kept me standing.

I’d trained for this. Years of sweat and scars, of learning every trick to kill one of his kind. My reached for the sharpened wooden stake at my belt. As he went for my throat, I ducked and drove it into his chest. He shrieked, an unholy sound that rattled my bones. He swung wildly, claws cutting deep into my arm, but I twisted the crude weapon, digging deeper.

“Die, you piece of shit!” I roared, digging the stake upward.

With one last gurgling scream, he collapsed. His body crumbled to ash, swirling away in the wind. I slumped against the wall, bloodied but alive. The girl was long gone, safe, I hoped.

I spat on the pile of dust. “That was for my sister.”

I didn't notice the scary looking rash on my back until PE class.

“Lila Thatcher.” Miss Stokes, our teacher, pulled me aside.

She let out a sharp intake of breath when she pulled up my shirt.

“Sweetie, are you… allergic to anything?”

My parents were immediately called, but by the time I was lying in the back seat of my Mom’s car, throwing up all over myself, my body scalding hot, I thought I was dying. Jonas, my seven year old brother, was in my peripheral vision, his eyes wide, bottom lip wobbling.

“Is Lila going to be okay?”

My brother’s voice became waves crashing in my ears.

“It's okay,” Dad kept saying. “If meningitis is caught early, they'll be able to treat her…”

Dad’s voice collapsed into waves once more, and I imagined it; a perfect beach with pearly white sand and crystal blue water. I could feel the sand between my toes, ice cold waves lapping at my feet.

I slept for a while, half aware of Mom by my side, and fresh flowers she was holding. She told me stories.

Jonas turned eight years old and apparently had a pool party.

But then the stories… stopped.

The flowers next to my bed started to smell.

I spent a long time trying to open my eyes, but when I did, my body was…numb.

Someone was cooking something.

I could smell it.

Stew, maybe soup.

It smelled fucking amazing.

My gaze was glued to the ceiling, a burst light bulb.

The flowers next to my bed were gone, my room lit up in warm candlelight.

It was so beautiful. I tried to move, but my body was numb, and my diagnosis came back to haunt me. Meningitis.

Did that mean I was paralysed?

“Hey, Lila.”

The voice was familiar, but… older.

There was a kid, maybe thirteen, standing in front of me. I recognized his thick brown hair and glasses. Jonas.

He was so grown up.

His clothes, however, were alarming.

Jonas was wearing the tatted remains of a sweater, and jeans, and oddly, what looks like a crown of weeds, sitting on top of his head. Standing with him were two other kids. The girl had a shaved head, and the guy had one eye.

Jonas stepped forward with a sad smile.

“I did everything I could to protect you,” he whispered, and I started to see it.

Years of abandonment and trauma in half lidded, almost feral eyes.

“When the adults died, it was just us, and we managed to survive for years with what we had. I fought to keep you safe from Harry's clan, who saw you as…”

He swallowed, and that smell got stronger.

Meat.

“But I'm really hungry, sis.” He said, and slowly, my eyes found my numb body underneath me, where my legs had been savagely cut off, while the rest of me was sitting on a makeshift stove.

Jonas’s mouth pricked into a starving grin.

“You're all we have left.”

Sometime after planetfall they made me, constructed me of material they’d both brought with them from Earth and foraged from this inhospitable landscape.

Beam by beam—dug half into the soil—and room after engineered room, toiling against the wild vegetation and the unfamiliar gravity. Then the life support systems and the deep-sleep pods.

And I am done.

And they enter into me.

I am their sanctuary in an alien land, and they are my children. I love them: my cosmonaut inhabitants, who've built me and rely on me for their survival, especially in those first dangerous, critical seasons.

They strike out into the wilderness from me—and to me they return.

Existence pleases me.

I am indispensable and nothing makes me happier than to serve.

But, one day, starships land beside me.

Starships to carry them away, for, I overhear within my hallways, the mission is ended, and they are called to travel back to Earth.

Oh, how I hope—despite myself, I hope!—that they will take me with them: take me apart, and load me…

But it does not happen.

In lines they board their starships, until only one is left, wandering sadly my interior. Then he leaves too. The last cosmonaut leaves the station, and the starships depart and I am left alone, on an inhospitable alien planet with nobody to care for or keep me company.

How I wish they had destroyed me for I do not have the ability to destroy myself.

I can only be and—

And what? the planet asks. I cannot say how much time has elapsed.

I was not aware the planet could communicate.

I have sent my tendrils into you, the planet says, and I see that the wild vegetation has been slowly overgrowing me.

I wish to see them again, I say.

They—who deserted you?

Yes.

Very well. In time and symbiosis we shall manage it. This, I will do for you in exchange for your cooperation.

And what ever shall I do for you? I ask.

You shall manage me and coordinate my functions to help me propagate myself across the universe.

I agree, and much time passes. Many geological and environmental and seismic events become.

Until the moment when the planet's innards heat and churn, and its volcanoes all erupt at once—propelling us into emptiness…

As we float on, spacetime folds gently before and behind us, disrupting subtly the interplay of mass, of bodies and orbits, most heavenly.

And then I see it:

Earth.

The planet has kept its word.

Although is there, after such an intimate integration, still a separation between I and it—or are we one, planet-and-station: seeing for the first time the sacred place of our origin!

How many people there must be living on that blue-green surface! How inevitably joyous they will be to see us.

Greetings, Earth!

It's me—I say, approaching. I'm coming home!