It was eerily quiet on that day, in which I had decided to go against my father's number one rule, which was to keep well clear of the flower bed. Which was not too far down a dirt path leading into the woods.

“There are Fae Folk down there!” My father's voice droned in my head, his words feeling meaningless, yet menacing all at once. “If they get you, they get you good!”

I continued on, trudging the wet mud from the heavy rainfall earlier. “Good Scottish weather,” as my father would say. He was a proud and rather stereotypical Scotsman, who had many tales to tell regarding the old Celtic ways.

Particularly regarding the Wee Folk of the woods, those whom he referred to as The Fae, those who snatched unaware children who ventured too close to the flower bed.

The very flower bed I was looking at that moment.

*It doesn't look dangerous,* I thought, kneeling down for a closer look.

Eleven roses were arranged in a circular arrangement, which seemed off being surrounded by rows of dandelions, like concentric watchers guarding something of great importance.

A sudden thought shot into my mind like an arrow piercing my brain. *You shouldn't be here!*

I was overwhelmed with both curiosity and stupidity, as I plucked one of the roses, disturbing the arrangement.

As soon as I brought the rose to my face, I noticed that it had a peculiar scent. It was metallic, almost like blood.

Foolishly I plucked another rose, only to find that it too smelled strange, just as the last one had.

A gust of wind sent a chill coursing up my spine, making me shudder. My own thoughts suddenly seemed out of my control, as if puppeteered by some unknown force.

*The soil has gone bad,* I tried to shake the thought away. *Bad, rotten, and tainted!*

My blood ran cold as soon as I heard the faint *giggle,* it was unmistakably that of a child, though my eyes saw nothing as they darted around the foliage in panic.

The soil began to tremble slightly, causing the flower arrangements to dance in unison to the movement of the earth beneath them, as something began digging upward.

I decided to turn back and run, but found my father blocking the pathway.

“What have you done!” For the first time in my life, I noticed a hint of fear in my fathers thick Scottish accent. “I told you to stay away!”

His look of disappointment suddenly became one of sadness. “Go to your mother now.”

As I neared the house, I heard my father's scream echo from the woods behind me, followed by the eerie silence of his cries being carried off into the wind.

From then on everything became a blur, the years went by in a daze. Mum moved us all across the UK and eventually into mainland Europe too.

She never did tell me what we were running from.

"C'mon Bri! Just let me stay for a few nights!" Marcus pleaded as he stood outside my front door.

"Why?" I asked.

"I...I..." he stammered. I shook my head. "You did something stupid again, didn't you?" I completed the sentence for him. Evan nodded, looking both ways to see if someone was following him. No one was there.

"Listen, Bri, just let me stay for a bit, I promise I won't be shitty this time..."

"What the hell's gotten into-?" I was interrupted when Marcus grabbed onto my shoulders. His eyes were wild, full of desperation and fear. That was out of character for my brother because he was always the type to have some bravado in him.

"PLEASE....!" he yelled, his voice cracking out of fear. I sighed.

"Fine. But you get to stay here for tonight. Then you're done. Got that, asshole? I don't want your ass freeloading off of me, again." I compromised. Marcus immediately accepted it and hugged me tightly.

"Thank you, Bri...Thank you..." he whispered.

In the following hours, Marcus was...odd. He was paranoid. He would always check over his shoulder, jump at the smallest sounds, and avoid rooms with the lights off. He would even check his own damn shadow.

During dinner, I finally decided to confront him.

"What's with the sudden good behavior?", I asked. Marcus stopped eating and quickly looked up at me. Panic started to appear in his eyes, he averted them from me, so I pressed on.

"Marcus. Tell me what you did." I grilled him, he gulped before speaking.

"I...I...stole...from him..." he whispered. Before I could push further, he ran off to the guest room. I stared in disbelief as he locked the guest room.

That night, I stared at the ceiling, attempting to get some rest. When I finally began to drift off I heard Marcus scream my name in a way I'd never heard before. I rushed out of my room and down the stairs, Marcus' screams grew louder as I fled to the guest room. I froze upon seeing a figure standing outside of the guest room.

The moonlight revealed an ashy-skinned man with slick back hair. He wore a thick black frock coat. The only color in his appearance was black which nearly blended in with the dark.

"Who the hell are you?!" I shouted.

He turned to me and smiled. At the same time, I heard the sound of flesh being violently torn and Marcus screaming in absolute agony.

"Nothing to fret dear," the man spoke "I only came here to collect my payment. Your brother believed he could get away with crossing me, and look how that turned out."

He chuckled after he finished and smiled wider as three red-eyed black hounds emerged from the guest room, each coated in blood. He petted them all, then turned to me.

He put his finger to his lips in a 'shh' gesture, and then he and the three hounds all disappeared into the darkness.

“Happy Birthday Horton!”

Everyone popped their party crackers at the same time, and a deafening pop ensued, followed by joyful laughter and congratulations. I grinned widely as I looked around at all the happy faces.

Dad put my cake out in front of me and I blew out my nine candles, making a wish.

Then he pulled the candles out and I sat, waiting excitedly for him to cut the cake and for us to get started on eating it. 

But suddenly, I felt a hand on the back of my head. With an unexpected shove, my head was pushed down right into the cake. Everything went black for a second, and I yelled out in surprise. 

The party went quiet and everyone stared behind me, where I soon turned, covered in icing and chocolate batter.

Manning stood there. Manning was the biggest bully in grade 5, but he was sneaky. As far as the adults knew, he was a kind and caring little boy. But I knew, maybe more than anyone, that this was not the case. My parents insisted that I invite him to my birthday, despite my futile protesting. 

I tried everything to keep him away, because I knew he would try something, but in the end he came over anyway. While mom and dad were out of sight, he immediately went back to being the big bully he was. I hated it, but I could never stop it.

But now he had really done it. He had ruined my birthday cake. My special birthday cake.

He stared at me in surprise. “Horton! Oh no, I’m sorry!” His shoulders drooped and he looked all defeated, and my parents sucked it up.

“I sneezed really hard, and I pushed your face into the cake! I’m really sorry buddy, I know you were looking forward to it, but you know, allergies and all.”

Mom nodded her head knowingly.

But I wasn’t going to take that. I stood up, some chunks of cake still slooping off from my face.

“Manning, you bully! You don't get to be mean anymore!” I yelled, drawing everyone’s attention to me now.

From behind me, the smashed cake started to vibrate. I turned around to see a slender, twisting hand rising from the smushed remains. The room grew cold and dark. The hand rose and rose, growing and growing, and arching and cracking jerkily. My friends and my parents screamed. I screamed.

Manning screamed.

The hand shot out, right past my head, and landed on Manning’s face. With a pained and agonized yell his body began to convulse and shrivel, his screams piercing through the fear that gripped us.

And then the hand drew back rapidly, pulling Manning with it. It disappeared into the cake and everything stopped.

Mom and the others started crying, Dad stared in silence.

But a smile tugged at my face.

My birthday wish really came true.

Manning would never bully me again.

My name is Jacob, but my friends call me “Jon”, and I think something has replaced my best friend, Ema.

I desperately want to find excuses for the blatant inhumanity that I see before me as I stare at it wearing her visage, standing just outside the threshold of my bedroom.

Blame the unblinking, hollow green eyes on my social awkwardness and troubles with maintaining eye contact.

Chalk up the complete lack of any rise-and-fall motion from her chest to an optical illusion created by distance and her leather jacket.

And just call it a trick of the light when I initially stood up to greet her and nothing but her eyes moved to track me, like that of a doll’s.

I can’t though. I’m so scared that I can barely breathe. I can’t even bring myself to avert my gaze for fear that it would do something to bridge whatever is keeping it from stepping inside.

And the worst part is that Ema was herself when she arrived. Same old smile that showed cute dimples and vibrant eyes full of life when we were hanging out downstairs. But when I took ten minutes to go collect something from my room I found it standing there the moment  I turned from my bookshelf.

Something had cored out my best friend and gotten across half of my house in less than five minutes and I’d been none the wiser.

The shame was almost as bad as the fear.

But maybe I could have still pushed all my doubts aside if that was all there was to it. Could have deluded myself into ignoring every single warning sign and walked dumbly to my death if I hadn’t gotten concrete proof during the first minute of this going-on-half-hour standoff.

It had simply said, in a perfect replication of her voice; ”So, Jacob, gonna invite me in or what?” The fact only her jaw moved was completely overshadowed by the implication of her words.

My name is Jacob. But all my friends call me “Jon”. A nickname that only a small circle of people would know the origin of.

Ema hasn’t called me “Jacob” in years.

My eyes blurred as the grinder's violent tearing echoed through the room. The machine ground mercilessly, shredding all of it into thousands of tiny pieces. The heat, at 190 degrees, radiated close to my hand. The grinding's melody made my head hurt.

Then it stopped as I emptied the contents into a paper filter and began to douse it. I patiently waited as the coffee dripped slowly into the pour-over. It's the only way to drink coffee, especially with a terrible hangover.

As I sipped my coffee, I glanced out the window at my backyard. Something was amiss—several things, actually. But one stood out: a dark gray stone structure had been erected.

I opened the window and yelled at the small group gathered outside, "Hey, what the hell are you doing in my backyard?"

"It's for the ceremony," a bookish man shouted back. What the hell? I marched out the back door and saw nearly a dozen people, dressed in flowery shirts and flowy garments, circling the structure.

“Get this thing out of here!” I shouted as all the weird hippies paused suddenly, giving me a blank glare. “Also, all of you get out of my yard, too!”

“We can’t do that,” the man replied.

“And why is that?”

“Because the concrete is almost set.”

“Do what now?”

“Well, you see a structure this size would need something to stabilize it.”

“I know what the hell concrete is for, but why is it in my yard?”

“Because you told us we could,” he replied, waving to others who started circling the brick and humming in unison. The symphony of weirdness made my head throb even more.

“No, I didn’t.”

“We had an entire conversation about it.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you, dude.”

“No, we were here last night.” 

“Alright, I’m calling the cops,” I said as I turned to head back inside the house. The bookish man trudged behind me, with a bit of concern and nervousness. “Seriously, last chance to get the hell out of my backyard.”

 “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

“And why the hell not?” 

“Because we made a blood pact while you were singing Kansas and crying.” 

Goddammit, I was really drunk last night.

“What blood pact?” I said scanning my body to see if I had any cuts on my body, as the man watched me as if I was the strange one. “I don’t see any cuts on me, I think you are lying.” 

“We made a deal when we showered in Ned’s blood.”

“Come again?” 

“We made a deal.” 

“Not the part I am focused on right now.” 

“It’s starting!” Someone yelled as the bookish man turned and ran to the structure. Everyone’s mouths were agape but mine, as I took another sip of coffee. It reverberated as strange noises began to come from it, as I saw what seemed like a hand reach out of it.

“Our god is here!” They screamed.

There he was. My best friend.

Walking down the aisle with a big, shit-eating grin on his face.

He looked so happy, but all I could think of was Anya’s last words.

“Make him pay. Please. For what he did to me.”

I felt that familiar feeling of intense revulsion and anger rising, but somehow, I suppressed it. I stared John down and…smiled.

And in a way, the smile felt genuine, because I was going to spoil everything. Quickly, and with little suspicion. Using a vial my wife had kept in her “travel bag”…

We’d all been Marines once, but after our first tour, she and John had been fast-tracked.

Both were smart. Brilliant. Deadly.

Natural born spies.

But Anya was special. Multilingual and a brilliant impressionist, she could do almost any accent, despite her Belarussian lilt.

Exiting the church, I watched the couple get into their car to a chorus of whoops and cheers, the air still heavy with drifting confetti.

Like blossom in spring…

The cancer had torn her apart so quickly.

When the nurses came to change her sheets, I’d reposition her cuffs and lift her off the bed with ease.

“Make him pay. For what he did to me.”

And then, in a heartbeat, I was standing up, giving the best man’s speech.

Keep it together, I chided.

“John is… Hell, you know who John is,” I fumbled, my tone faltering. A yawning silence filled the marquee. I could feel my palm sweating against the mic.

I had the two glasses ready. One for him, one for me.

“John is…” I squirmed. “A hero. My hero.”

“A toast!” I cried, passing the glass to John as I raised mine high. “To the happy couple!”

...

An hour later, it started to hit him. Hard.

“He’s just pissed!” I laughed, gathering him up and offering the bride a reassuring smile. “Some fresh air will help.”

I needed to confront him now. Needed him to know why. Needed to see the look in his eyes. For her.

Rounding a garden wall, I hurled him down. The moonlight made everything look pale. I could see, even as the toxin ran its course, a glint of fear in his eyes.

“You raped her, tortured her, you sick fuck! How could you?!”

“Wha-?”

“I know what you did! She told me on her deathbed! With her last words, she begged me to make you pay.”

John nodded, ruefully. Then all of a sudden, he laughed so hard that it looked like the effort might actually kill him.

“She was so smart,” he chuckled. “She made me swear not to tell you, not after the diagnosis.”

“Tell me what?”

“She would have been...court martialled, tried...” he croaked. ”But the cancer. You never wondered why...the cuffs. I…”

“Hey… Hey! Stay with me!” I cried, slapping him hard.

“I was her last mark…” he began, his eyes widening as the effects of the poison gripped like a vice, “she was a… double agent.”

I take the babe in my arms and go to bury it. It hangs loose and limp, with its tiny head spilling over my elbow. It was another boy, I guess. His mother is screaming somewhere in the house, but I don’t really care to know where.

The burial is short and swift. I’ll plant some peonies there in the spring. I sing the first verse of a hymn. I say a prayer.

His mother has staggered into the kitchen, she’s wearing a nightgown with a big, bloody patch in front. She’s gulping down water, filling up glass after glass and spilling most of it on herself. She smells terrible. She’s sticky with blood and by the looks of her, she’s pissed herself.

“Right,” she says, putting down the glass on the counter. It’s too loud. Sounds like a skull cracking. Everything sounds like a skull cracking these days. “That paid for the house. I’ll go sleep and you order some food. I’m in the mood for Thai.”

She saunters off. She shuts the door into the bedroom. I think I hear her screaming. The shutting of the door sounds like a skull cracking. I go to order Thai-delivery from the place next town over.

She was honest with me back when we started dating. She was deeply in debt. When she was a child, she had made ten deals with the devil. Each one more elaborate than the other. All cost vaguely the same. Her firstborn. Her second born. Her third born. It was ad nauseum.

I promised I would help her pay of her debt but I never realized how it would actually be to go through it. I sometimes feel like my sanity is being stretched so awfully thin, like a fully extended rubber band; the tension builds up, I don’t want it to break, but I want it to break, I want to let go of this overwhelming tension. And then it happens, every so often. My sanity  just snaps into pieces. Like a piece of glass. Or the cracking of a skull. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. We’re up to the sixth. Just four more to go. She looks like a broken bird most of the time. She’s gotten so mean. I think I hear her screaming from the other room. I wish I could say anything that would make any of this less awful. But I just stand there in the kitchen. I hear the deliveryman knocking on the front door. I just listen to it for a moment, listen to the outside coming to disturb my hell. He has a persistent sort of knock. It sounds like a fucking skull cracking.

I wake up with red paint under my fingernails.

It’s been happening for weeks now—long, dark stretches of the night where I lose myself. But the paintings keep coming. I used to think it was funny, my unconscious self sneaking out to create art. Until I noticed what I was painting.

The first was a man lying face down in an alley, his skull caved in. The brushstrokes looked almost… tender, but his face was twisted in agony, blood pooling around him in thick, dark puddles. I didn’t recognize him, but a sick feeling twisted in my gut, like I’d seen him somewhere. I washed the brushes, cleaned up the mess, and told myself it was just a bad dream bleeding into my art.

Two days later, I saw him on the news. He was found dead, bludgeoned to death behind a bar. My stomach lurched. Coincidence, I thought. Just a horrible, impossible coincidence.

But then I painted the next one.

A woman this time, clutching her stomach, blood pooling around her feet. Her face was etched in terror, mouth open in a silent scream. The news story hit three days later—a woman stabbed outside her apartment, killed in a robbery gone wrong. Every stroke, every detail from my painting was there in that photo.

I started staying up late, trying to keep myself awake. I drank coffee until my hands shook, stared at my blank canvas, desperate to stay in control. But I couldn’t keep myself from slipping into that dark place, that trance where my hands worked like they had a mind of their own.

Last night was the worst.

I woke up with brushes scattered around me, paint smeared across my arms. On the canvas was a man I knew, someone I’d never wanted to hurt—Elliot, my ex. We’d broken up badly, yeah, but seeing him there, eyes wide, throat sliced open, his skin pale… it broke something in me. My whole body felt cold, sick, like I was the one lying there.

This morning, I called him, my fingers shaking as I dialed. He didn’t answer.

Hours later, my phone buzzes—a breaking news alert. My hand hovers over the notification, heart pounding as I open it. There he is: Elliot, found dead in his apartment. They say he was alone. The police aren’t releasing details, but I know what happened.

I did this. I painted it, but I don’t remember… I couldn’t have…

Or could I?

Tonight, I’m locking my studio door, chaining myself to the bed if I have to. I’m scared of myself, scared of my hands, scared of what I’ll do if I slip under again. Because I’m not sure if I’m dreaming these horrors… or if I’m the one carrying them out.

I timidly turned on the basement light, the small bulb that illuminates the narrow staircase flickering into life.

I’ve been doing this for 11 years. Never gets any easier.

Down one step I go.

I hear the scraping of the chains on the concrete floor, and the moaning of the man’s distorted voice. A distorted voice that perfectly reflected his monstrous appearance.

Down another step I go.

I can see his silhouette hunched over in the furthest, darkest corner of the basement. The smell of rotting meat and fish from meals gone by hits me in the face like a truck - a stench I’ve never gotten used to.

Down another step I go.

I thought back to the day I was first tasked to feed the man in my basement. I was 16 years old. My father was upstairs on his deathbed. His final words to me were his brief set of instructions.

“There’s a man in the basement. He’s chained up. Feed him a bucket of meat once a day. Don’t talk to him. Don’t get close. He’s dangerous. You’re the man of the house now and it’s too dangerous for your mother to do.”

Down another step I go.

His hairless, pale body began to rise slowly from the corner. Still groaning his monstrous groan. His figure enlarged and teeth sharpened from years of a purely carnivorous diet.

Down another step I go.

I clenched the bolt cutters closer to my chest and questioned again what I was doing.

It was today who I figured out who the man in my basement really was.

I’d been looking for my passport amongst my mother’s things. When I found my birth certificate, and his one next to mine.

Down another step I go.

A twin brother. One deemed too mentally unwell to warrant my parent’s love and affection, but also too real to be forfeited for adoption at the cost of my religious-nut parent’s reputation.

That was when his death was faked in infancy and he became the boy in the basement, who grew into the man in the basement.

Down the final step I go.

“I’m going to get you out of here, Abe. I’m going to give you your life back.”

That was when I heard the basement door open. My mother’s shrewd voice calling down.

“Did you think I wouldn’t have heard you fumbling around finding the bolt-cutters, Caine? I can’t have you ruining the family’s reputation. Ruining my reputation.”

She took a step towards the lightbulb switch, preparing to shut me in the dark and lock me away forever. Lock me away with my brother.

Then she tripped. Tripped on the wire I’d laid out at the top of the stairs, just for her. She fell down one step.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

There was a reason I didn’t bring any meat down for Abe tonight - I knew there’d be something more satisfying on the menu for him.

The first time he walked into my tea house, butterflies were dancing outside the window. Two Monarchs, their wings catching light like stained glass, performing an aerial ballet through the golden autumn air. The old copper wind chimes my grandmother hung years ago tinkled softly, their green patina matching the tiny moss garden by the entrance.

I was grinding matcha when he entered, the stone mortar warming under my hands. The rhythmic scraping stopped as our eyes met. He looked like drowning felt - beautiful but desperate for air. His navy blue hospital scrubs were wrinkled, and there was a coffee stain on his sleeve that he'd tried to wash out but couldn't quite manage.

"What would you recommend?" he asked, and I noticed how his fingers drummed against his thigh - an anxious morse code I'd learn to read over time. The dark circles under his eyes reminded me of tea stains at the bottom of cups.

"You need White Peony," I said, already reaching for my grandmother's clay pot - the one with the butterfly etched into its side, wings spread in eternal flight. "It's like morning dew on spider webs. Gentle but strong enough to hold your world together."

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "That's... poetic."

"Tea is poetry you can drink," I replied, watching his expression soften as the steam rose between us. "I'm Maya."

"Daniel," he said, and somehow I knew that name would change everything.

Our love story unfolded like a tea leaf in hot water - slowly, deliberately, releasing its essence in its own time. Every Thursday afternoon, he'd appear, shedding the weight of hospital shifts like a heavy coat at my door. I learned to read his mood by his footsteps on the wooden floors - light and quick on good days, heavy and dragging when he'd lost a patient.

My tea house became his sanctuary. I taught him about gongfu cha, how to listen to the water's song as it heated, how to hold a cup like you're cradling a bird. He taught me about the stars, sneaking me up to the hospital roof where we'd drink jasmine tea from a thermos and trace constellations with our fingers.

"That's Orion's Belt," he'd whisper, his breath warm against my ear. "Three stars to guide lost people home." His hand would find mine in the dark, and I'd pretend not to notice how it trembled.

The butterflies stayed all winter, defying nature itself. They'd dance outside my shop window every day, their wings now tattered but still beautiful. My grandmother would have said it was a sign. She taught me to read tea leaves, to sense the stories hiding in the dregs at the bottom of cups. But she never taught me how to read the darkness in someone's eyes, or how to heal a heart that's breaking in slow motion.

I started noticing changes. How he switched from oolong to stronger black teas. How his hospital stories became shorter, darker. How he'd stare at the butterflies like they held answers to questions he couldn't voice.

The last time he came in, it was raining. The butterflies were nowhere to be seen. He ordered Dragon Well - his favorite now - but the tea grew cold between his hands. A single leaf floated vertically in his cup - an omen my grandmother would have recognized. When he left, he touched the butterfly etching on the teapot, his fingers lingering like a goodbye.

His text came at 2 AM:

"The tea you made today... it tasted like goodbye. You always knew, didn't you? What we needed before we did. I'm sorry, Maya. The roof door is never locked. Weird for a hospital, right? Don't call anyone. I just... wanted to thank you. For showing me beauty can exist in small things. In tea leaves and butterfly wings and moments of peace between storms. Look up sometimes, okay? I'll be that weird star that doesn't fit in any constellation."

I found him on the roof, sitting on the edge, a thermos of cold Dragon Well tea beside him. The same spot where we used to watch stars. The same spot where he first kissed me, tasting of jasmine and hope. This time, when I reached for him, he tasted of salt and goodbye.

He's getting help now. Real help. Sometimes he still comes in for tea, but we orbit each other like distant stars, close enough to see but too far to touch. Some bonds, once stretched too thin, become like over-steeped tea - too bitter to salvage.

But every morning, I still make an extra cup of Dragon Well. And every morning, two butterflies dance outside my window, their wings now iridescent in the dawn light. One has a torn wing but flies anyway, supported by its partner in their eternal dance.

Because sometimes love isn't about happy endings. Sometimes it's about being the person who notices - the trembling hands, the cooling tea, the cry for help buried in casual conversation about constellations. Sometimes love is simply being brave enough to keep pouring tea, keep watching for butterflies, keep believing in the power of small moments to save lives.

Even when those moments break your heart.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, those broken pieces catch the light just right, like butterfly wings in autumn sun, reminding you that beauty can exist even in endings.

P.S. - I still keep his favorite clay pot, the one with the butterfly etching, ready each Thursday. Old habits die hard, like hope, like love, like butterflies that refuse to fly south for winter.

And as we were dancing, stars lit up the sky one more time, and i could see them licker through her dark eyes.

From the top of our apartment building we were swaying along the nightly breeze, looking over the whole city. That was a truly otherworldly moment, where i could almost feel myself float away into a higher existence, holding the hands of my dearest, and being happier than i ever was.

But then the stars started falling from the sky, and we spinned faster in our valse, too absorbed in the moment to notice. Nothing could take this special moment from us, and a spark rekindled between us, a spark of passion i havent felt in a long time.

And as the night sky got brighter and brighter, i could now clearly see her dark hair flowing in the wind, dancing along softly, and i fell in love with her youth once again.

We continued to dance, feeling the floor shake with every step and little pebbles making dents in our shoes.

And as the stars kept falling, we were also falling in a deep passionate love, that not even the screams could take away from us.

Afterall, why would they? The military announcement about the incoming asteroid came in way too late for anyone to seek shelter, as if it could do something besides fueling their sense of hope.

And as the world around us was engulfed in flames i gently grabbed her hand, asking for just one more dance, just one more chance to sway with her for the rest of my life.

“What the hell?” I groaned.

I woke up in complete darkness with a throbbing headache, lying on a muddy brick floor. To make matters worse was the rancid smell of sewage permeating the area.

When I went to push myself up off the ground, I discovered that my hands were bound together and so were my legs.

I tried to wriggle free but I couldn’t. The ropes binding me were too tight.

How the hell did I get here?

The last thing I remembered was walking home along the riverfront.

“Hello?” I called out, “Anybody there?”

Something large shifted in the darkness.

A moment later, a match scratched against the wall and flared to life. The sudden illumination forced me to turn my head away.

“About time you woke up,” the speaker’s voice was deep and phlegmy.

As he spoke, he used the match to light an oil lamp that was hanging from the ceiling.

Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I turned back to get a look at whoever was holding me captive. When I saw them, I’m not ashamed to admit that I pissed myself.

“What’s the matter boy?” the creature grumbled, “Haven’t you ever seen a troll before?”

The troll was hideous to behold. Its face was covered with warts and wrinkles and more than a few bugs. The two black orbs that served as its eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. When it smiled at me, I saw a mouthful of teeth that looked like planks of moldy wood jammed into its gums.

“Why are you doing this?” I whimpered.

“I’m just doing my job,” the troll’s breath rolled over me, making me gag. It smelled worse than the sewer I assumed I was lying in.

“What job?”

“Upholding the oaths of those who use my bridge,” it said.

“What bridge?” I had no idea what it was talking about.

With surprising speed, the troll moved to the other side of the chamber where he slid a solid metal grate to the side, giving me a view of the riverfront.

“That bridge,” it pointed.

The bridge it showed me was known as the Love Lock Bridge. A bridge where couples placed locks on the railing to signify the strength of their love.

When it was done speaking, it threw something at my feet.

I recognized it immediately. It was the lock my girlfriend, Samantha, and I had placed on the bridge a few days earlier. Carved on it were our initials along with the words TOGETHER FOREVER.

“I saw you with that other girl last night,” the troll grumbled, “That’s a violation of the oath you took on my bridge,” It loomed over me, “The punishment for that is death.”

Before the law which decreed that all cigarette packets would be covered with intricate images of people dying (to deter from smoking), it’d have been virtually impossible to confuse a White Hermes packet with a Blue Hermes one. Even if you were hasty, you couldn’t avoid noticing how the Caduceus, the symbol of Hermes drawn on the packet, was white or blue. Now the images of pending death had all but covered the available space and the symbol was miniaturized and placed right below the brand’s name. But more crucially, it no longer had a corresponding color; Hermes’ staff was now blue in both Blue and White packets.

So a careless salesman could give you the wrong packet, and if you yourself were inattentive you’d not notice this until you felt the difference in your mouth, as White Hermes cigarettes contain a tiny fraction of the nicotine in blue ones.

A boy who recently enrolled at the university, having started smoking during the nerve-racking period of the entrance exams, was meaning to catch the bus back home when he noticed that he was out of cigarettes. Looking around he saw a cigarette vendor and went in.

The locals would be aware of the absent-mindedness that was typical for that shop’s cashier, as he’d hand them the wrong merchandise time and time again, and for no other product was the offense more often repeated than those new packets of Blue and White Hermes cigarettes. Doubtlessly someone would have brought up this knack of his to unwittingly deny them their preferred allotment of nicotine, but the young man was incorrigible. Or maybe was doing it on purpose.

When the student asked for a Blue Hermes pack, he got a White one, and since the bus arrived before he could taste it and find the error, this realization happened only when he was almost home. But despite the White Hermes paling in comparison to what he was used to, he decided to try and smoke the twenty cigarettes.

As we said, such mix-ups were routine in that shop. In fact only yesterday Mr. Panoptes, a middle-aged man who had tried his hand at various professions but his life remained in flux, had been given a White Hermes pack by that same employee, and it wasn’t the first time for him. Mr. Panoptes pointedly looked at the tiny letters below the morbid image of mourning relatives that was printed on the packet, and saw that they didn’t spell “Blue” at all. But instead of returning that to the employee, he first replaced it with an identical one he had in his pocket, demanding a Blue Hermes.

The clerk complied, saying that he was sorry for the mistake and that it was only an honest mistake. Mr. Panoptes smiled gently, accepted the apology and added that no harm was done. But he had the cigarettes in the returned packet poisoned with a syringe. For reasons of his own, he always wanted to kill a person.

David and Karen sat up in the old nursery, trash bags full of supplies and clothes spread out on the floor.

“Oh, this will look so cute on her!” exclaimed Karen, holding up a shirt.’

“It’s been quite a while since we’ve had an addition to the family,” said David, inspecting a worn teddy bear. “Do you think we’ll do it right this time?”

Karen smiled, something difficult to read in her eyes. “I feel that we’ve already made our mistakes.”

David nodded, patting a large, flat box beside him. “It will take a while, but I want to build this right. It’s quite a bit more expensive than what we’ve had before.”

“It’s beautiful!” cried Karen, “Can you paint it pink for me?”

“Of course, dear.” halting momentarily.

They shared a moment of silence, then David added, almost as an afterthought, “We don’t want any accidents like last time.”

Karen pulled out another box, this one with a fairly loud clamor of rattling as it was drug out of the closet.

“These should help to keep her calm." said Karen, pulling out a collection of bottles labeled with tiny clinical print.

“Oh look, honey,” David said while checking his phone. “She’s still out with friends.” showing Karen a facebook post.

On the phone, a girl named Natalie Epson stood posed with friends in front of a movie theater with the caption, “Just saw ‘Once Upon a Makeover’ in theaters with the girls. It was mid.”

“We should stock up on movies before she gets here.” Said Karen, “That should help her settle in better.”

After a week of preparation, Karen had the clothes washed and folded, a go bag prepped and ready with prescription strength meds, a pillow case, and zip ties.

Elsewhere, Natalie had just come out of a late night movie with her friends. She really was a huge movie buff, and ‘Meet Me at Midnight’ hit just right as a good mix of romance, with just enough comedy. She split off from her friends to walk to the almost empty parking lot. The only other vehicle was a white panel van parked right next to her, which could probably just be a maintenance van for someone in the mall.

Right as Natalie reached her trunk, the doors to the panel van sprung open like the trap door of a spider’s burrow. Before she could react, Natalie had a pill shoved in her mouth, a bag over her head, and what felt like a zip tie over the bag and in her mouth like a riding bit for a horse.

When she woke up next, she was in a light pink room, a pink cage, and facing a 22’ inch tv.

“David! Yelled Karen, “Our bundle of joy just woke up from her nap!”

Natalie looked down noticing the clothes she wore weren’t hers.

“Welcome to the family,” Karen said, smiling warmly.

"Top off?" I asked the man in the corner, already pouring more coffee before he could respond.

His hat was pulled down low, barely a nod in reply. I've worked here long enough to not ask more.

I walked back and slid the pot back under the counter, then glanced over to the booth by the window. Dave and Kevin sat with their wives, Mary and Lila, raising hell like it was their job, each old story louder than the last.

Kevin, practically waving his fork around like a weapon, had 'em all caught up in one of his tales. "So, Dave here decides he’s gonna play Tarzan on that old rope, the dumbass sack-o'-bricks belly smacks into the lake!"

Dave just snorted and pitched a crumpled sugar packet at him, smirking. “Hell, you’re the one who dared me to, man! Besides, you damn near drowned your ass rolling off that log!”

“Oh, give me a break,” Lila chimed in, sharp as a knife. "Let’s not forget the time Kevin tried to heat up canned beans without opening the damn can. Had beans splattered all over the campsite like a bomb went off.”

They all broke out laughing, Dave slapping the table.

Then Kevin slowed his chuckling, leaned forward, his face turning serious. "Hey, Dave… you remember that drive we took out by Grand Ridge?"

Dave gave one final slap on the table.

Kevin kept going, the beers making his whisper louder than he thought. "Out by that old church road? It was way late, and there was no one else around. And that… thing we saw up above the trees?"

I wiped the counter, my eyes moving from the man in the corner to glance at Dave, whose poker face was failing him.

Kevin pressed on, "It was this huge black triangle, lights on each point, just hovering there. No stars, no sound, just… there. And then it felt like… like I wasn’t in the car anymore. Like everything went… foggy, y’know? Next thing, I’m back in the seat. It was two when we saw it. I look at the clock—suddenly it’s past four. Just like that. Whole two hours gone."

Dave opened his mouth, but what came out wasn’t words.

A godawful scream. A cry, almost infantile.

After thirty seconds straight, his vocal cords shredded. Specks of blood sprayed from his mouth, splattering across Mary, who was clearly in shock.

I kept wiping down the counter, while the rest of the place emptied in a heartbeat. Folks bolted, even Kevin, Mary and Lila, eyes wide with the kind of fear you don’t shake off easy.

The man in the corner drained his cup, set it down with a soft clink, and gave the table a measured double tap with his knuckles.

My hand came down twice on the counter in reply, confirming my suspicions that the man in the corner wasn't the marked unknown variable.

Back in high school, I used to spend a few days in the middle of nowhere during the summer at my cousin Chris’s house.

I’ll never forget the summer of 2010 when I brought Adam and Joey to stay at Chris’s invitation.

The first day we spent unsupervised, causing chaos in the woods. Sneakily drinking stolen alcohol and fighting with sticks.

We gathered with Chris on the porch by dusk, a perfect setting to share various frightening stories. Chris remained silent, until he presented us with our very own.

“You know the land here’s haunted, right?”

“Yeah right!” I scoffed.

“Yep. Sometimes I see him you know.. Out there in the distance, behind some trees. He looks just like one of my friend’s, but he’s wrong now. All wrong.”

Typical Chris, he was a dick and refused to elaborate further.

All wrong I pondered, Adam and Joey shared my wonder.

Night fell, time to rest. Joey secured the couch in the living room with the only TV. Granted, not without protest. Ultimately, Adam and I took the guest room, housing two twin beds on either side of the room, reminiscent of an asylum.

We laid to rest, myself facing the small closet, Adam facing the open door in the right corner furthest from me, the light from the living room TV illuminated the hall and threshold well. Staring at the ceiling, I found sleep would not come easy this night.

A rustling came from the other bed as Adam began to rise, then creep out of the room in a fast pace. Apparently he was having trouble as well.

A short while later, I heard the same rustling of blankets to which I cracked an eye, observing a most curious sight.

The silhouette of Adam was creeping out again? He looked cartoonish, making large exaggerated steps to not wake me from a light sleep. How very odd..

“Adam? What are you doing?” I called out as he rounded the corner.

“Nothing dude, go to sleep” Speaking impatiently.

I did not close my eyes again as a terrible, frightening thought crossed my mind.

I never saw Adam return to bed either time. What the HELL is he doing? Why is he trying to scare me this late?

As assured as the moon in the sky, the rustle of the blankets returned. I gazed directly at the other bed, waiting.

His silhouette rose yet again, resuming the path of creeping out into the hallway in his strange and cartoonish manner. This time he had to have been tiptoeing, his legs and overall height was much taller than I recalled Adam being. I had enough of this. Irritated, I shouted.

“ADAM! What the fuck are you doing?!”

His bedside lamp clicked on, illuminating his upper half, the lower laying tucked securely into the covers, still in bed.

“WHAT?!”

“You didn’t just get up, did you?”

“No…?”

“Yes you did! You got up and danced out of the room but.. you looked.. all wrong..”

The sky turned an unsettling shade of orange, casting eerie shadows over the city. Sarah and Mia stood on the roof of their apartment building, the chill of impending doom wrapping around them like a suffocating blanket. “I can’t believe this is how it ends” Sarah said,half-laughing, half-crying.“Stuck on a roof with you, watching the apocalypse unfold. Talk about a romantic evening.”

Mia chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “At least it’s not a boring date, right?” She glanced at the horizon where the comet blazed, a fiery harbinger of destruction. “I always thought we’d go out with a bang, but this is a bit much.”

They knew that hiding wouldn’t help. The news had been relentless, broadcasting the inevitable collision like a countdown to their doom. People had rushed to shelters, barricaded themselves in homes, but deep down, they all understood: there was no escaping. “You think anyone down there is still pretending it’s not happening?” Sarah asked, pointing at the streets below, where frantic people ran like ants, some still clutching their phones, hoping for a miracle.

Mia shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. “If only they knew how futile it is. Like trying to outrun a freight train on foot.” She hugged herself, glancing at the sky. “I just wish we had more time… to do everything we didn’t get to.”

“Like what?” Sarah asked, “Go to Paris? Get that stupid cat we always talked about?”

“Exactly,” Mia said, a tear slipping down her cheek. “And maybe yell at the universe for being such a jerk. We were supposed to have our whole lives ahead of us!”

As the comet grew larger, the air thickened with a sense of finality. The ground shook violently, and the distant sound of sirens faded into a haunting silence. “Sarah, look!” Mia pointed as the comet blazed closer, illuminating the darkening sky. “It’s beautiful, in a terrifying way.”

“Yeah, beautiful like a horror movie,” Sarah replied, trying to lighten the mood. “You know, the kind where the characters think they can survive but end up—”

“—meeting a fiery end?” Mia finished, a bittersweet smile on her lips. “I guess we’re the main characters in this one, huh?”

“More like the tragic sidekicks,” Sarah said, her heart aching. “But at least we’re together.”

They stood hand in hand, the world around them crumbling as the comet blazed toward Earth. The heat intensified, and Sarah could feel the tears streaming down her face. “I love you, Mia,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the approaching disaster.

“I love you too, Sarah,” Mia replied, “Always.”

As the comet struck, a blinding light engulfed them, and for a brief moment everything was still. In that final instant, they clung to each other, hearts racing, knowing that even in the face of annihilation, their love would echo through the void. And then, as the world shattered around them, they were gone—together forever lost in the chaos of the end.

Jim was unraveling. He had been for days.

God knows what was happening to him. It had all started a week prior. He had first noticed the strange symptoms after he had gotten the best damn sleep of his entire. It was just Jim's luck that good sleep meant damnation.

It started with one of his fingernails just popping off. It scared the shit out of Jim, but he just thought that it was due to a low intake of iron. He made a mental note to pick up iron supplements after work today, but even before the work day was over, he could feel that multiple of his toe nails had just fallen off in his sock. He didn't want to check though. That would make it real. The moment it became real was when Jim's left pinky nail fell off while he was typing. At that moment he scratched off getting iron supplements and decided he should make a visit to the doctor. But that would have to be after work. He needed to pay the bills after all.

Physically nothing was wrong with Jim—you know, besides him falling apart. He didn't even have low iron. He was sent home with the doctors telling him that things should soon themselves in his body. Despite this, he was also told to come back every week. Jim stopped coming after the third visit.

After a month, Jim knew he was going to die. One of his eyelids had fallen off and now that eye fucking burned. The one eye that still had an eyelid had shriveled down to the size of a raisen. All of his teeth had fallen out, and his missing nails were the least of his problems. Jim was now pissing blood, and he hadn't had a bowel movement in a week. His entire right arm had shriveled up and died. He now had to use his significantly weakened left arm for everything. Getting out of bed was a joke. He no longer had the use of his legs. They had stopped working shortly after his third visit to the doctor. Why did I not leave his phone on the nightstand, he thought. AND WHY DID I NOT FUCKING CHARGE THE DAMN THING! He would have yelled, but his vocal cords had stopped working, and whenever he tried to use them, he just coughed up blood. At this point, Jim thought that whenever someone did find him, he would be nothing more than a pile of dust.

He prayed at that point he would no longer be sentient. After all, his heart had stopped beating two days ago.

Small animals vanished, house pets gone overnight, and the skies emptied of birds. Every day, I see fewer and fewer people. The hustle and bustle of daily life, once so comforting, is coming to a silent end before our eyes—a slow, pitiful whimper in the night. The husks of buildings gaze down upon city blocks drained of life, and empty roads twist like veins leading to no one.

I’ve resigned myself to my bedroom these last few days, no longer able to bear the cries of broken people waking up to find their families gone. There is nothing left behind their eyes; I hear their incoherent murmurs throughout the night. Sometimes gunshots ring out, the sound echoing through the empty streets for miles.

The last of the planes have fallen from the sky, their thudding impacts and grinding metal haunting my dreams.

Mornings are so quiet now. The song of birds is a fleeting memory, the perpetual buzz of life replaced by the incessant ringing in my ears, my heartbeat the loudest thing on Earth. I don’t even look out my window anymore, because I am terrified. Terrified not of disappearing, but of the fact that I haven’t.

He grabbed her and tied her to the tree.

She screamed for help but no one could hear, they were thousands of miles away from the town anyway.

He took his axe and chopped her legs off, bloody stumps and screams

Then, his knife and hacked her arms off

The blood covered hands stopped the brutality

Her hands had grabbed the knife.

And were arching towards his neck.

I was waiting at the bus stop, sitting on a bench. The sun just went down and the night air was crisp. No cars and only one street light flickering occasionally.

So very quiet.

I didn't hear him approach but I noticed I was not alone on the bench.

A bald, pale man wearing all black was seated next to me. I tried not to stare but he made me feel uneasy. Why was that? Just a random dude at the bus stop.

Then it hit me. I notice the man's shoulders, chest were completely still. He wasn't breathing. Yet he continued to sit there, staring straight ahead into the street.

Was he a ghost? A hallucination of some sort?

"Where are you headed tonight? Any big plans?" I asked, trying to see if he (or it) would respond.

He tilted his head toward me and stared at me for 5 long seconds before he opened his mouth.

"No plans. Just here to keep you company."

What the hell? Was this a joke?

The man must have sensed I started to panic and put his hand on my shoulder. I froze as he calmly spoke.

"Do you remember how you got here, Iris?"

"Well, I came from..."

Wait, where did I come from? The last place I remember was being at the hospital

I touched my head to realize all of my hair was gone. I had no shoes and was wearing a hospital gown.

"It's almost time to get on. Don't be worried. Everyone has to get on someday."

All of the sudden a bus was whipping around the corner. There was no sound, no engine. A black shrouded figure with yellow eyes was in the driver's seat.

Then I started to hear the screaming.

Warped burning faces in the window were trying to escape. A woman was banging her bloody fists on the door. The loudest scream was by another man getting dragged behind the bus.

Yet the bus kept driving past us into the dark night, down the dark road. It did not pick me up.

"Don't worry. That's not your bus"

" Am I...dead?"

The bald man chuckled.

"Almost. You're a fighter and fought hard. But it's time to rest now."

Another bus pulled up. My mind raced with questions, fears, regrets. The windows were tinted black.

Who was driving my bus?

As the doors opened, I felt my whole body relax.

"Winnie?"

The black lab wagged her tail, sitting in the driver's seat. Her whole body was shaking with excitement. She was the favorite dog from my childhood who also passed from cancer.

We are reunited again.

I looked back to see the empty bench as the bus started pulling away.

We all have to get on someday. Hope you enjoy the ride.

“Go over it with me one more time,” I said, in my gentlest voice.

Today’s client was an 11 year old boy.

“It happened a year ago. We were on our way to the movies. We only went because I begged my mom to take me. A man ran a red light and she…she…”

He couldn’t go on. I knew enough.

Slowly, I took his hand in mine. A sob hitched in his throat as I asked him to close his eyes. Then I began the treatment.

I could see it all. Feel it all. Twisted metal and gasoline. Screeching tires and a child begging mama to wake up. And guilt, fathomless and unceasing. The blackness of his soul poured into me, filling my stomach, shriveling my veins. It was electric, sickening, soul-shattering, but I drank it all down like wine.

His father paid well, but the smile that bloomed across his face was the real reward. Another satisfied customer.

My own father always hated me for my gift. He said I was a freak, and that the world was better off without people like me. For years, he tried to make me “normal”, mainly with his fist. I finally left home at 16 and never looked back. In nearly twenty years, I’ve absorbed the guilt of thousands, from soldiers to CEOs, and business never stops booming.

I was about to leave the office for the day when my secretary stopped me. “Sir, are you alright?”, she asked. She could see that I was pale, that the dark circles under my eyes never faded. “Fit as a fiddle,” I joked. She looked worried.

“Sir, the guilt you take from clients,” she said, as I turned for the door, “where does it all go?”

I swallowed the bile at the back of my throat and simply smiled. She wouldn’t like the answer.

The drive up to the house was surreal. Same driveway. Same trees. But the gray-haired man at the door looked different than I remembered. “What do you want?”, he barked.

“Hi, Dad.”

His look of annoyed suspicion soured into hate when he recognized me.

“Twenty years and you show your face now? What makes you think you’re welcome here?”

Unrepentant. He hadn’t changed one bit.

“I actually wanted to give you something,” I said, “for old time’s sake.”

“I don’t want it. You’re no son of mine!”

He made to slam the door in my face, but I was faster. I grabbed him, pulling his face inches from my own.

And I let it out.

A putrid black torrent of the guilt of a thousand strangers flowed from my mouth and down his throat. Nearly twenty years of binging had all led to this one great purge. When it was done, he collapsed to the floor, finally feeling the guilt he never felt for me. And I experienced a relief unlike anything I’d ever felt before.

I was grinning ear to ear as I laid the pistol at his feet.

It was the twentieth Shunt and it had been decided that only four of the elderly would abstain from helping. The rest would be left to the fate of the Consumer.

“I don't want to be spat back out,” Mother whined. “Remember the Tale of the Beginning?”

The Tale of the Beginning had been passed down for years. It started when our ship’s teleport engine malfunctioned and brought us here.

‘Here’ was a thin, rectangular Earth in some unknown universe. It was being pulled into a weak black hole (the Consumer) at one end. At the other end, a white hole (the Regurgitator) was emitting the previously consumed matter and providing new land for us to travel on. The two holes were clearly connected: what went in the dark end came out the light end in some shape or form. We sometimes found our deceased fused into the landscape.

We were always being pulled towards the centre; gravity and rotational forces worked differently here. It was harder to travel towards the edges to the dark underside of our world; the attraction back to the centre was too strong. The safety this afforded was only disrupted when a Shunt occurred.

“It's not my decision, Mother,” I begged tearfully. “There’s nothing I can do. At least come and help pull. You may survive this Shunt.”

Periodically, the Consumer got the upper hand and would pull the Regurgitator towards it. The forces involved were not insurmountable but it meant we had to use physical force to move our home. It also meant the Earth became a little bit smaller. Eventually, the Consumer would be all that existed.

Our home, a wheeled monstrosity we had christened Nazareth, had been cobbled together from the original ship and the timber of dead forests. Outside, everyone was connecting ropes and chains to their harnesses. Together, all 462 of us would heave Nazareth forward until the world regained equilibrium. The previous time it took three days of continuous effort.

“Pull you bastards, pull!” Shouted the Captain as he blew his whistle.

I lurched forward, feeling the impossibility of the task. Every muscle strained with the effort. My Mother, already weak from disease, was trying as best she could. The other elderly had already been dumped behind Nazareth. I pitied them. They would slowly be pulled towards the maw of the Consumer, its strength surpassing the blessed lure of the centre.

Behind me, I heard the squeaking of the huge wheels and the squealing of Nazareth's wooden frame. The air was alive with grunting and cheering. She was moving!

I turned to my Mother, hoping that this good news would raise her spirits. It was too late. She was dead. I struggled over to release her bonds. She collapsed to the floor and, as if by invisible hands, was dragged tenderly towards the Consumer.

Grief swept over me but it only made me more determined to keep going, knowing Mother would no longer have to suffer this appalling world.

“Please. I’m begging you. Think of your daughter.”

Henry scoffed. “My daughter will be just fine.”

He highly doubted that Angela actually gave a shit about the girl. She wasn’t Angela’s daughter, anyway.

“But how do you know that? If you’re lying dead in a ditch of a heart attack, how would you know she’s okay? It’s an evil world.”

Henry laughed. “Careful now, that’s starting to sound like a threat.”

Henry and Angela had been having this conversation all the time recently, it felt. It was starting to get annoying.

“Oh stop,” she said, dismissively. “I love you. You know that. I just worry about your heath.”

Henry grabbed her arm and put it to his chest. His heart beat hard against her hand.

“Feel that? The ol’ ticker is just fine. I know I could lose a few pounds, but I’m healthy as a horse.”

Angela kept her hand there, counting for a moment.

“Your heart is thumping!” She said, eyes wide. “And from what? The stairs you just came down hardly qualify as heavy exercise.”

He stared at her a second. Something about her looked….different, today. He couldn’t quite pin it down.

“Oh, you’re a doctor now?” He asked, pushing her arm away.

“I’m just saying. Who’s going to take care of your daughter if you die?”

Why was she bringing up his daughter again? A girl that didn’t even know she existed. And bringing her up in the context of his death…was she using the girl as a smokescreen, to hide what she was really concerned about? Angela had never expressed concern for her before, or shown any willingness to develop a relationship with her. In fact, when Henry had suggested the three of them spend time together, Angela had balked.

“I don’t know if you think you’re her new mommy, or something, but you need to stop bringing my daughter into this.”

Henry saw what he thought was hurt in her eyes, but he didn’t care. He was mad.

“I’m just saying,” Angela began. “You’re what, 390, 400 pounds now? And at nearly 50 years old…”

The words hung in the air.

“Maybe you should have a salad for dinn-“

“Enough. I will continue to eat what I want, when I want. If I die young, it will have been worth it for a life lived to the fullest.”

She dropped her head into her hands and began to cry.

Henry left her like that. He walked up the stairs out of the dungeon slowly, flipping off the lights when he got to the top. He could hear her chains rattle as she sobbed in the dark.

He exited the small door at the top of the stairs and stepped up into his study, where he latched the trapdoor beneath his feet. It lay flush in the floor, invisible to anyone who didn’t already know it was there.

His heart pounded in his chest from the effort, sweat beading on his forehead.

The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream.

For the second time.

Was it the second time?

He remembered the snap of the broken noose, then falling straight downward through the bridge into the water, dodging the gunfire of the soldiers ordered to hang him, escaping downriver, making it all the way back to his home, to his wife, springing forward with extended arms to clasp her right as he felt a stunning blow upon the back of his neck, a blinding white light, and then everything was darkness and silence.

Until the power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream.

For the third time.

And then he realized his imprisonment. His curse. In those few seconds before the rope snapped, he planned new escapes. Anything to break the loop.

The fourth time he drowned. The fifth time he ran into town instead of home. The sixth time he offered himself up to the hailstorm of bullets.

The fiftieth time he held up his hands in surrender, begging, pleading for the captain to take the rope still dangling around his neck, and try again.

Soon, he stopped counting.

“Dear God,” he thought, at the start of another loop, back on top of the bridge. “Let them succeed. This time, let the rope finally hold true.”

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man’s brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant.

The sergeant stepped aside.

And the noose broke one more time.

It was Sunday, and like every other Sunday before it, for the last twenty years, my parents and I had dinner together. Only difference being, today was two days before America’s presidential election.

“There’s absolutely no way that hurricane just up n’ got stronger all on its own,” Dad said, flinging a heaping pile of Mom’s famous mashed potatoes on his plate.

“Honey…” Mom whispered reluctantly as she rested her hand on Dad’s wrist.

“We agreed, no politics tonight.”

He scoffed, bits of potato flying out his mouth and onto mom’s hand.

“You know, I read the other day that dog’s brain waves are connected to ours,” Mom said with a forced smile as she wiped the potato off her knuckle.

“I think Dexter’s more connected to his bed.” I said, pointing to the corner behind her. She turned to see her overweight Frenchie ravishing his tattered bed like it was a medieval wench.

“Dexter!” She yelled, as we both laughed.

“Pfft! Won’t matter what your dog can do if some Haitian is just gonna cook him up and eat him.”

Our laughter stopped.

“Oh Jesus Christ, Dad! You’ve never even met a Haitian in your entire life, and you wouldn’t even know if you did.”

“And I hope to keep it that way.” He let out an obnoxious chuckle as he shoveled another spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.

I shook my head in disgust. “I don’t know when you became so hateful.”

“I didn’t realize being right made me a hateful person.”

“But you’re not right, and you are hateful.”

We sat in silence, utensils clanking, my appetite fading.

Mom cleared her throat before speaking.

“Well I just want to say – ”

“You know, that’s rich coming from you,” Dad interrupted. “Me? Hateful? How about you and that cult you associate with? A bunch of baby-killing, Satan-worshiping degenerates.” He swallowed his food before continuing. “You know, one day – probably soon – God’s gonna come back to Earth, and you’re gonna be left behind.”

“I’m sure your God really appreciates how you’re voting for the Antichrist on Tuesday,” I said with a smile.

“Guys, please,” Mom interjected.

“Also, I’ve never once seen you step foot into a church, Dad, and now all of a sudden, you’re some kind of religious neophyte?”

“What the fuck did you just call me?!” He screamed, slamming his fist on the table.

“A neo – ”

“You’re the fa – ” His words cut off by the deafening sound of trumpets.

The ethereal music shook the cabinetry as a bright white light spotlighted Mom.

Her eyes widened as she levitated out of her chair, fork and knife still firmly in her grasp, before shooting clean through the ceiling. Her utensils and clothing collided with the pristine drywall and fell onto the table between us, the light and music vanishing on their impact.

Our eyes slowly lifted from the leftover pile of Mom and met each other as we said in unison,

“Shit.”

The knock was soft at first, barely audible over the hum of the dishwasher. I ignored it, hoping whoever was there would just go away. It was 11:30 p.m., and I wasn’t expecting anyone. But then it came again, louder this time.

Reluctantly, I opened the door a crack. A woman stood there, her eyes wide and darting as if checking for something—or someone—behind her. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. “Can I help you?” I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“You’re… Anna, right?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Yes?” My heart skipped. How did she know my name?

“I’m your neighbor. I live a few doors down.” She glanced over her shoulder again, then leaned closer. “I… I just wanted to let you know… that your front door—it’s unlocked.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine. “What?”

“I thought I’d seen someone go in earlier,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “A man… he just walked right in, like he had a key.”

I forced a laugh, more to calm myself than anything else. “No, there’s no one here. I’ve been home all evening.”

Her eyes flicked toward the hallway behind me. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I tried to sound firm, but something in her expression made my stomach twist.

“Please, just… check,” she said, her hand gripping the edge of my door. I could see now her fingers were trembling. “Just check to be safe.”

Sighing, I closed the door and double-checked the locks, heading to my bedroom. But as I passed by the hallway mirror, I froze.

There was a smudged handprint on the glass. Not mine.

In the reflection, I noticed my closet door was open just a crack—something I knew I’d closed before bed.

I wanted to call out, to demand whoever was hiding to come out. But something held me back.

I slowly backed out of the room, locking my eyes on the closet door. My hand fumbled for my phone in my pocket.

Then, as I glanced toward the hallway, I noticed something else that made my blood run cold.

A faint outline of muddy footprints—leading from the closet, all the way to my bedroom door.

The last thing I heard was another soft knock, this time from inside the closet.

Every night I have the same dream.

Well, not exactly the same. The location is different each night. One time it was a forest, the next time a beach, then a desert, a village, a city, sometimes at night, others during the day. In the dreams, I’m either walking or just standing still and staring at nothing. Sometimes I pass people; some are asleep, and some are going about their day. They usually don’t notice I’m there, but occasionally someone will stop and watch me. The ones that see me look scared.

I say it’s the same dream because it feels… connected. While I’m having them, I can sense there’s some sort of end goal, but I never know what it is. Unlike normal dreams which you can normally only see through a fuzzy, unclear filter, I wake up with a perfect recollection of the night’s events. Like it’s a memory rather than a dream.

Lately, though, the scenery in the dreams has become more and more familiar. I pass through cities I’ve visited, restaurants I’ve eaten at, and see people I’ve met. I didn’t think much of it until the night that the dream ended with me standing on my own porch.

I woke up to something knocking at my door.

I’m scared to go back to sleep.

"Reach out." my mother commanded.

What do you think I've been doing? I wondered. Even if I wanted to be distracted, there was nothing in this void to focus on but her. I was trying, really, but we'd been here for hours.

A word, I realised suddenly, she's thinking of an unfamiliar word.

"Petrichor." I said finally.

"You shouldn't neglect telepathy," mother chided, "it might not be as flashy as other magic but being able to read an unfamiliar concept is a high level skill. Some advanced witches can't even read thoughts in foreign languages, do you want to be like that?"

I shook my head obediently and she was satisfied. Mother released usfrom the void and we were returned to our house barely seconds after we'd left. My phone buzzed away in my pocket.

"Who's that?" she asked as I checked the message.

"Alicia."

"Then why the face?"

I sighed.

"She's asking me out on a date."

"I thought you liked her?"

"I do," I said, "but how can I trust her? She's a witch like us -- how could I possibly know if I really like her or if she's controlling me?"

"Of all the things we can do, creating love isn't one of them. We can summon elements, create pocket dimensions and read thoughts but love is always a choice."

She wasn't lying, I realised. If love magic existed then it would be powerful and so she'd push me to master it just as she did other magics. I smiled and messaged Alicia back.

_____

Alicia and I dated for five years before she left. She ran away in the middle of the night and one memory poured out of her so violently that I read her mind without trying:

Alicia and my mother are in the void.

"Do you love my daughter?"

"No, but-" Alicia begs hysterically.

"Maybe you will tomorrow." mother replies, leaving Alicia on her own in the nothingness.

The memory ended as our front door clicked shut and I knew had to pay my mother a visit.

_____

"What did you do to Alicia?" I demanded.

"You loved her.. If I didn't do these things then not everyone you loved would love you back."

"You say that like it's a curse. Maybe for you it would be." I said, "If you don't think that I could be loved without your help then you don't really love me at all. But that's okay, because love is a choice."

I sealed her away into the same void she had brought us to for lessons so many times before. My spell was too powerful to escape; for all her faults, she'd taught me well.

Time works differently in the void. Initially I visited her each day to see if she was truly sorry for what she has done, which for her it might be more like years of nothingness.

But love is a choice for me too.

And after what she did, I'm choosing to leave her all alone.

The wax figure.

I could gaze at her forever, my beloved, captured at the peak of her beauty, eternal and flawless. The candlelight softens her skin, smooth as porcelain, untainted by time.

Not a wrinkle mars her face, no shadows lurk under her eyes.

She is a vision of perfection.

Once, Helen’s beauty bloomed naturally, effortless and radiant. In the early years, I would marvel at how she seemed to catch sunlight in her hair, how her smile could brighten even the darkness of midnight.

I cherished each delicate feature, every graceful line.

But as the years passed, that beauty I adored so deeply began to slip through my fingers.

Her skin—a soft canvas I had touched a thousand times—began to wrinkle, lines settling into places they had no right to be.

Her smile, once soft and gentle, grew weary.

Her eyes no longer held their twinkle.

I tried to look past it. I told myself it was the love, the soul that mattered. But I could not ignore how time was stealing from me, taking her piece by piece.

I was consumed by the idea of making a wax figure. I had to preserve and eternalize this almost transcendent beauty.

It would not be enough to create a mere likeness of her from scratch; no artist’s hand could capture her the way I knew her.

If Helen’s beauty was to fade, I would simply help her reclaim it, layer by layer.

She blinked at me in the dim light of my studio, eyes bright and uncertain as I led her to the pedestal.

“A small surprise, my love,” I murmured.

“But... why the ropes?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Is this really necessary?”

I smiled, tightening the binds gently around her wrists. “Oh, only so you stay perfectly still, my dear. You don’t want to spoil the surprise, do you?”

“You and your mysteries… all right, I trust you,” she said, forcing a smile.

“A little discomfort for a beauty that will last forever.”

“Huh? What do you mea—”

Her screams erupted. The first layer was a shock for her.

“Just stay still, Helen,” I whispered, pouring the wax carefully, lovingly, over her arms, her delicate neck.

“Please,” she whimpered.

Her beautiful face contorted, an expression of terror marring her soft features.

Imperfections crept in, frowns and lines of desperation that I could not tolerate. I poured more wax, smoothing over each flaw, forcing her eyes shut as they darted about in fear.

I applied layer upon layer until her expression faded, stilled into a look of serenity.

Life—the very thing that marred her beauty—I took it away

Hours passed as I worked, sculpting her into perfection. Every wrinkle, every imperfection was removed.

Her lips, once twisted in a scream, I shaped back into that gentle smile I remembered.

I stepped back, hands trembling with satisfaction.

There she was, my masterpiece—flawless.

Now, not even time or death could take her away from me.