Link to serial master post for other chapters

The month from hell dragged on — hers and Billie’s punishment for their perceived wrongdoing. The reduced rations were taking their toll along with the long days labouring in the fields, and the lack of free days didn’t help with the exhaustion. But hunger and exhaustion were nothing either of them hadn’t dealt with before.

The worst bit was the daily searches of them and their quarters. Madeline had already lived in fear that one of their walkies would be discovered, and now it was multiplied a hundred fold. Something like that at a moment like this would get them into even more trouble — more than even Marcus could get them out of — so they’d agreed to hide both in the washroom instead, and avoid contacting their allies on the outside until there was less attention on them.

That was something they could at least control — a source of fear they could lessen.

But they couldn’t control the guards’ whims.

Getting to know Marcus, and even Miss Ackers — the guard in charge of Liam and the other children in their block — Madeline had lulled herself into a false sense of security that maybe, just maybe, the guards were people like her, making the best of their situation in this bad world. But while that might be true of some of them, it certainly seemed like the minority. She should have stuck to her first instincts about the sort of person who would side with the Poiloogs.

The guards charged with keeping a closer eye on them seemed to enjoy wielding their power — and they wielded it as strongly as they could.

Every evening after work, rough hands pried into every nook and crevice of their bodies, poking and prodding and bruising all in the guise of searching. But Madeline knew they were just looking for an excuse. So she clenched her fists and jaw and stood stock still through it all. Billie did the same.

And after all that, every day they returned to a trashed room, items strewn across the floor, bed unmade, furniture overturned. Anything delicate had been destroyed in the first search, including their walkmans. Madeline could only hope that wouldn’t come back to bite them when they needed to block the Poiloogs from their minds.

Her and Billie did their best to shield Liam from it all, tidying everything away as quickly as they could before he returned from his classes, but it was never enough. Besides, he was too astute to hide this kind of thing from, and he knew Madeline too well. So her anger and her fear spread to him, which fed back into her own.

She tried to tell herself that this was just temporary — that she could get through anything if she knew it wouldn’t last forever. But who was to say it wouldn’t? Who was to say one of the other guards wouldn’t take against them and report them for some imagined infraction? Who was to say their walkies wouldn’t be found and linked back to them somehow? Who was to say anything in a place like this? Certainly not her or Billie or Liam. They held no power here.

At least on the outside, she’d felt responsible for her own destiny. Sure, it was dangerous. But she could keep herself safe. And if she couldn’t, then that was her fault. She’d been in control.

She longed for that feeling now, clinging to the hope that one day she would get it back.

But not until this month from hell was over, and she could talk to Lena again and start planning properly for how they were going to get out of this place.

And even then, not until she knew that Liam would come with her and Billie. And if he wouldn’t? If he found his father in here and opted to stay, what would she do then? She’d already given up her freedom for just a small chance at finding him. Could she commit to never getting it back in the hopes that she got to stay with him. And if she did, would Billie do the same for her? Could she even ask them to?

It was too much to think about on top of a growling stomach and a body and brain numbed by hours of repetitive labour. Besides, there were still so many unknowns. It didn’t do much good fretting over ‘what if’s.

Still, she wouldn't be able to put it all off forever. And she didn’t want to. She just needed some answers first, which meant finally broaching the topic of escape with Liam.

She’d planned to wait until he knew whether his father was here or not, but now Billie and her were no longer considered star workers, who knew how long that would be? And who knew how long planning an even somewhat feasible escape would take? Besides, if she was being honest with herself, her desire to wait hadn’t exactly been selfless or even practical. She’d been enjoying the fantasy of a family life here, sleeping soundly in her bed with Billie, reading with Liam without fear of discovery or capture — spending every second she could with those that she loved.

Now, that fantasy had been shattered, and the only thing delaying her was the struggle to find the time and to find the words.

Snuggled up with Billie one night, with soft snoring coming from Liam’s half of the room, she decided to broach the subject with them. She rolled over to face them, causing them to stir.

“Bill? Are you awake?” she whispered, fighting the sleep weighing on her eyelids herself.

Their eyes fluttered open. “Am now.” They yawned. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking—”

“There’s a surprise.”

She rolled her eyes, though she doubted they’d see in the dim light so she gave them a poke in the ribs for good measure. “I’ve been thinking about our plans for getting out of here.”

“Ah, that.” They sighed, rolling onto their back. “You know, for a little while there I almost thought we could be happy here, if we couldn’t get a proper escape plan together, that is.”

Madeline smiled to herself. Why on earth had she been worried about talking through her feelings with Billie? Of course they understood. “Me too. But now…”

“Now you’re thinking we need to get things moving?”

“Mmhhmm… And I think that has to start with seeing where Liam stands on it all.”

“Makes sense.”

“So you’re okay with me telling him about it?” Madeline had half expected them to warn her off. To worry that a kid couldn’t be trusted with information like that. That he might blab to his friends and endanger them all.

“Of course. He’s your family. He’s my family. He should know.”

“And if he isn’t on board?”

They reached out to push a strand of hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Do you think that’s likely? You know him better than me, after all.”

She sighed. “I’m not sure. I think it all depends on if he finds his dad here.”

“And if he wasn’t on board?”

“Hey!” She poked them in the ribs again. “That’s what I asked you!”

“And now I’m asking you back. If he doesn’t want to leave, would you still want to? Or would you stay with him?”

“That…” Madeline stared through the shadow into their eyes, searching for any hint at what the right answer was. But if there was one, it was too dark to see it. “That is a question for a time when I’m not half asleep.”

Billie snorted lightly. “Good dodge. I suppose we’ll both just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Mmhhmm.” Madeline snuggled closer into them. It wasn’t long before they slipped back into the rhythmic breathing of sleep, but she was wide awake now.

What had they meant “both cross that bridge”? Did that mean they’d follow her decision? Or did it mean they’d have a decision to make of their own if it came to it? And why was it that every time she sought answers, all she ended up with was more questions?

Author's Note: Next chapter due on 17th November.

Peter meets The Green Man on a railway bridge in mid-December. He wheels his bike across the concrete and stops to look at the railway tracks cutting into the horizon where distant hills glitter like emeralds at dusk. 

The Green Man approaches. Bay leaves and ivy grow from his nostrils and eyebrows, his skin is the colour of steel alloy and his beard is like tangled wire. Peter notices the apparition to his right and feels profound fear, like that of incurable disease or death.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” The Green Man says. “Now you have to stay here forever.”

The voice is deep and powerful, young and old all at once. He speaks like he comes from a place where there are no conditional statements, just absolutes.

Peter thinks that he should run away but his feet are rooted to the spot.

“Why can I not leave?” he asks, voice trembling.

“Because the rails claim a soul each winter solstice,” says The Green Man. “They claim you today.”

Peter remembers the night before, celebrating his sixteenth birthday at the local pub, hearing laughter and a band playing the open mic night, the taste of cider on his tongue, and sharing a cigarette with scarlet haired India Arran in the pine scented air.

“I can tell that this is difficult,” says The Green Man. “But this isn’t just a bridge that you can pass straight across. It is a crossing and at crossings we leave a part of ourselves behind.”

“How do I do that? I don’t get it.” 

The Green Man proffers a grey hand at Peter, stony fingers curled expectantly. 

“You are young so your ignorance is understandable. If you take my hand, I will show you and then you will understand.”

Peter looks at the hand then looks at the face, eyes more ancient than anything imaginable. He looks at the hand and feels compelled to take it for reasons that he doesn’t yet know. 

He is carried backwards through time, back over the bridge and through the orchard where crab apples fall in October. Back over the dual carriageway where the college bus goes each morning. Back through the town, where early morning turns to night and back to the pub garden, where India is looking at him.

“Sixteen huh. That’s crazy,” she stubs the cigarette on the paving, brushes red hair from her eyes and looks at him.

“Yeah. It happened fast.”

“So, what are you going to give up?”

“Give up?” 

“Yeah,” she says, “I know it. Do you?” 

“No,” Peter frowns, feeling oddly frustrated and wracked with indecision, “can you just tell me.” 

“It’s pretty obvious right?” She says, “Give up your fear. Give it up to the wind and rain, give it up to the green grass.” 

With a blink he is back on the railway bridge, with no sign of the Green Man. Cold burns the back of his throat and his lower back aches from cycling for an hour. He feels intensely material, real, like his muscles came from earth and soil. He gets back on the bike and crosses to the other side, feeling part of a never-ending moment.

Alone.

Trees whimper and groan under the might of the horrendous winds and rains of the storm. Not even the flashes of lightning seem to pierce the haunting darkness that has blanketed the forest, nor can the clap of thunder cut through the howling of the wind. None of this seems to bother the old man, as his mind harbours a different, nastier storm that pushes him deeper into the forest. The rain and ice punish the old man for any skin he leaves exposed, and his coarse face proves to be a suitable home for the stinging pain. The tattered clothes wrapped around his tall, thin frame whip around helplessly, desperate to give in and go where the wind forces them to rest rather than continue this horrible trek. None of this dissuades the old man, for his mind has been ensnared by the task at hand.

Every step sends jolts of pain through his bones, his old body worn down from a life hard lived. If he wasn’t so distracted by his current task, he might be surprised at the vigour and renewed strength he seems to display, which seems to be the cause of the extra strain he exerts on himself. Whatever has dragged the old man out into these horrible woods on this horrible night has done so with a cold and merciless grip, in a way that even death must wait it’s turn with this man.

Alone. The only word this man knows. The only word pounding in his mind as he traverses the horrid tempest and the temperamental forest that dances its hideous dance in the gusts and gales. For countless decades, the man has known solitude as a bitter but familiar companion. Occasional travellers and his own travels would allow him brief respite from this, but for the most part his life had been spent alone. There was a comfort to this. No one to argue with, no one to feel responsible for, no one to worry about the well-being of. No one to care for, no one to rely on, no one to share a meal with…

The old man trips and crashes to the ground, writhing in the mud and foliage as the shock of the impact finally frees him from the shackles of his mind. Now briefly aware of every physical discomfort he’s thrust himself into, the old man clutches his chest and gasps for air. He crawls over to a fallen tree, and clambers onto the trunk to sit upright and re-orient himself. The storm continues to torment the forest, and in turn the old man. Eventually, the physical pain grows familiar to the old man, and he falls back into the dreadful task he set out on. Another clap of thunder rips through the woods, a deafening toll to remind anything still in these woods that they are not welcome. The old man isn’t fazed, and neither is his quarry.

Entering a clearing, the air seems to stand still. The wind and rain still throw their tantrum, but it all feels so small as the gravity of a life’s worth of mistakes, triumphs, failures, and joy collapse the entire world down into this one room in these terrible woods. The man stands exhausted, still clutching his chest as his heart beats against its cage and demands to be freed. This clearing was familiar to him, and each flash of lightning illuminated different corners and crevices that all brought old and worn-out memories that only served to fuel the pain in his mind. This is where his only friend had died, but tonight it had returned in all its horrible familiarity.

The pale blue of her dress rips in the wind around her lifeless body, as it swings from the branch of the mighty red oak that they had shared many moments together. The old man tried, but could not find the strength to recall any more memories. He still needed to focus, for any misstep would only lead to more torment than he could handle. He approached the tree, a mighty red oak that stood alone in this auditorium and demanded all of the respect and attention of any woodland travellers that happened upon this clearing. For all of the years the old man had lived, this tree always appeared ancient and proud, even resisting the storm that makes the rest of the forest bend to its knee. However, there is an almost sombre atmosphere surrounding it, as its only fruit to bear is one of sorrow, misery, and ultimate failure.

Alone. The word pounds the inside of the old man’s skull as he lowers her from the tree’s grasp and looks down at her face. “Hello, old friend,” the man speaks, his voice frail and broken if at all audible over the torrential storm bearing down on the world. The only response he gets is the familiar stings of solitude he had once forgotten. The stings of having no one to worry about, no one to scream at, no one to mistrust. No one to cry over, no one to fear for, no one to hold…

This clearing the man stands in was once where he celebrated the death of an old companion, and had found a new one in its place. She was perfect. She was everything the old man hadn’t even been able to dream of, and was so much more. The sheer joy of being able to listen to someone else, and them returning the favour was an immeasurable force that the old man could never hope to comprehend, and yet it was a mere drop in the bucket relative to everything else she was. Solitude died in her presence, and she revealed just how vast of a chasm it had carved into the old man by filling it with memories. Memories that now only serve to corrode and wither away, making the chasm even deeper and darker.

The trees around the clearing scream for mercy as the wind whips them into submission, even the mighty red oak beginning to fall to the maelstrom’s wrath. Now the old man's feet sink even deeper, as if the earth itself begs to release him of his burden and offer a place to bury his past.

Her body is so cold.

Lightning blinds the forest and the deafening thunder that immediately accompanies it punish any who dare witness the tragedy taking place. Ice and rain continue to scar the earth, yet no amount of weeping from the heavens above could grieve enough over the result of years’ worth of mistakes and misunderstandings.

The old man hated how limply her head bobbed.

Each step felt meaningless, all the more punishing under the weight of the whipping winds and grotesque failure in the old man’s arms. His soul was cleansed of hope with each drop of rain that blasted his face. Flashes of lighting illuminated the desolation around the old man as he mindlessly marched deeper back into the forest, burden of mind and matter in tow. Again, only one thought could pound within the mind of the old man like an engine powering his dreadful crusade through the storm.

Desolation.

  I got a text from Julia. She said that she is in Los Angeles. I was happy. We were going to meet. Julia was waiting for me in the cafe. She was sitting on one of the chairs. 

   She noticed Josh sitting on one of the chairs when she was giving her order for the drink. She went towards him and said, “Hi Josh.” Josh looked at her. He replied, “Is it you, Julia. You look so different.” 

   Julia said, “Of course. It’s been eight years. So how's Lydia? What about you and Lydia.” Josh stared at her and said, “Wait, you don't know.” She asked, “What?” Josh replied, “We broke up eight years ago.” 

  Julia was stunned. She asked, “Why? What happened? You were so happy with her.” Josh said, “Well, I found out she was lying to me.” 

   “What lies?” she asked softly. He answered, “She didn't told me that she was the one who killed my brother. She lied to me.” Julia was very shocked. She said, “Wait. What?” He said, “Yes. It's true.” 

   Julia said, “So you framed Lydia that she killed your brother.” He said, “It's true.” Julia said, “No. I don't know Lydia did that for me.” Josh asked, “What do you mean?” 

   Julia answered, “The one who killed your brother was not Lydia, it was me.” Josh exclaimed, “What!!!” Julia said, “Yes. It's true. It was me. He was trying to kiss me. I just pushed him. But he lost his balance and fell down the stairs. It was an accident.” 

   Josh said, “So it means Lydia was innocent. Julia said, “Yes. You need to apologise to her. And if you want you can punish me.” Josh said, “No it's fine. Pattrick was not that good. He was doing scams in the business. And he was breaking hearts too. I guess he got what he deserved.” 

   Julia said, “At least you both have something in common.” Josh looked smiling at her and asked, “What?” She replied, “You both plays with hearts and later break it.” 

  Julia said, “You need to apologise to Lydia right now. She's coming here in a few minutes. I know you still love her.” 

I reached the cafe and saw Julia and Josh talking to each other. 

   Julia noticed me and waved at me. I walked towards her. I sat on my seat and asked Josh coldly, “What are you doing here? Aren't you busy?” He said, “No. Actually I want to talk.” 

    He said, “I want to apologise for my behaviour yesterday. I still have feelings for you. I want you to forgive me.” I said, “Apologising for what?” He said, “We broke up. It was just a misunderstanding.” 

   I said, “It was eight years ago and what do you want me to do?” He said, “Just forgive me and date me again.” I said, “No. And what about Alice?” Julia said, “Who is Alice?” 

   I said, “Josh is going to marry Alice next month.” Julia was stunned to hear it and said, “What!!!!!” The waiter came near us to take an order. Julia said to the waiter, “Please come later.” 

   Josh said, “I will break up with her. I don't even like her. I just want us to be together.” I said, “This is not right. We can't be together.” He asked, “Why? Why can't we be together?” 

  I said, “You are not as good as I thought. You are still the old Josh from high school.” He said, “What are you talking about?” I said, “You are going to break her heart. It's always that you do wrong things. Every time you do is bad things.” 

  He said, “I can change. And I just want to be yours and live my life with you.” I said, “This can't be happening. You will fight with me again and leave me again. This will never end.” 

   “You left me eight years ago. You were the one who broke up with me. You didn't pick up my calls and text me back.” I said. He said, “I thought you killed my brother. You didn't said anything.” 

  I said, “That's because you left. You didn't give me a chance to defend myself. You didn't let me have my explanation. And left me all alone.” He said, “I am so sorry for that. Please forgive me.” 

  I said, “Not this time. I want you to stay away from me and don't talk about this anymore.” “Please forgive me.” he requested coming towards me. I yelled, “Stay away from me.” 

  Josh was sad. He listened to me and left the cafe. Julia was very shocked hearing our fight and said, “I am sorry. It's all because of me. I should have told him about this.” I said, “Don't worry. It was meant to be.” We had our lunch and I went home. 

Well, how was I going to explain this? Debra is dead, I wet my pants, the monkey stole my car, and I am pretty sure I shot a cop. Just a typical Tuesday afternoon, really. No big deal.

I don’t hear any sirens yet.

Oh, I forgot, I may have sunk a U.S. Navy cruiser. Maybe a destroyer? I don’t know that much about boats. Anyway, I don’t think I did sink it, like completely sink it. I mean, it’s pretty hard to do that even on purpose, but I can’t strictly rule it out. I don’t see it out there any more, I know that.

I was just here to help Debra. She is really into animal rescue stuff, and there was this research place here in Baltimore. It turns out it wasn’t a research place really, but I do believe Debra really thought it was. It was a veterinarian’s office, actually. Dr. Himmel treated all kinds of exotic animals, plus some dogs and cats and stuff but he was known for the exotic ones like snakes and whatever.

Debra, who, in my defense, can be pretty forceful, got it in her head he was doing evil research stuff to all these poor animals, and I just kind of went along. You really cannot argue with Debra, there is no use in trying.

Well, certainly not now.

We broke in, which was hard to do. It said ‘Veterinary Medicine’ right on the sign, but Debra said that’s just what they want us to think. They keep the place pretty well locked down, since there are all kinds of drugs in there, and of course like a million dollars worth of animals.

Well, as it turned out, there was something in there which was more exotic than a llama or whatever. I got the back door open and kept the alarm from going off. I am pretty good with electronic stuff. It was kind of the warehouse section of the place, with a lot of cages and stuff. You need a lot of room to keep the animals separated.

The first exotic thing we noticed was three Marines with rifles. They seemed pretty hostile. I am not ashamed to admit that this was the part where I wet my pants. Well, really, I am a little ashamed to admit it, but it happened anyhow.

Debra did not listen to them. The Marines were very clear about what to do, which was to ‘stay where you are’ and ‘get your hands up’. I did those things. I did them exactly like they said to do them because they had rifles pointing at us and it seemed like a good time to listen very carefully to what they had to say.

Debra, however, just walked over and went behind a cage. Like, she didn’t run, or dive and roll, or anything. Just walked behind one of the cages, and for reasons I do not understand, none of the scary rifles shot her.

Then she pulled down on a big Frankenstein electric switch thing and the place went dark. Or mostly dark. There were red whirling lights. Buzzing and clanking came from various places, and then I heard at least one U.S. Marine screaming.

There are certain indications in life that things are not going well. If a situation involves a marine screaming in terror, that is a bad situation. That is the kind of situation you should go away from at high speed. If it involves three of them screaming, well, then, yeah. Bad.

Something came out of the biggest cage. It was so very definitely not a llama. It was big, and looked sort of like a slimy green giant spider. I mean, a sleeping hamster would have looked a little scary in the whirling red lights of that place, but this thing, holy hell.

Some of its eyes looked at me, I think. I would have wet my pants at that point but I was tapped out already. I still had my hands up. I don’t think it cared very much.

One of the marines was shooting at it. That was super loud. Then some other animals came out of their cages. There was a zebra, I remember that. It wanted to get out but didn’t see the door, so it just ran around making zebra noises. There were snakes, big ones. Also there was a big cow with big horns, I don’t know the right name for it, but that bastard found the door and went trumpeting off into the darkness.

Big old constrictor got Debra. She probably tried to pet it or something. She really was kind of insane. I found her when I tried to hide behind the cage. I wanted to save her but she was like, really really dead. One of her… well, yeah she was super dead.

Rifle shots rang out. Two marines were on the floor, not moving, but the third one was behind some kind of desk, popping off rifle shots and yelling. The alien, and it had to be an alien I mean, what the hell else would it be, was actually backing away from the last marine. It kept swiveling its head part around, like it was looking for something. Finally, it crashed into a big metal cabinet and tore it open with a couple of its weird legs.

I am not a hero. I do not know why I didn’t just run out the door at that point. I was just frozen. But the big alien slime thingy tore open the cabinet and pulled out a huge gun. I figured out it was a gun when he, or it, or whatever, shot it at the last marine and a wavy green beam came out and went through the desk and the marine and the wall.

I tried to get my phone out to video this, because I am apparently also insane. I might have also been trying to call 911. I don’t know, it was all very weird and panicky. In any case I pulled my phone out too hard and it went clattering across the floor and hit the alien in one of its legs. It picked the phone up, but I don’t know what happened to it after that.

When the alien grabbed the big gun, it also knocked some other stuff out of the cabinet and some of it landed right by me. There was another giant gun, which I didn’t touch. I managed to get a small gun, or a small thing that looked a lot like the big guns anyway, and a couple of weird orange glowing boxes, and a long green tube.

I picked them up, and just then the zebra ran by me with a monkey steering it. Because, sure, why not have that happen. Can you steer a zebra? I don’t know what you call it. Riding it, directing it, whatever. They made it out the door and then so did I, and I ran to my car.

A big beam of wavy green cut through the wall near the door. I didn’t know if Mister Alien was shooting at me, or at the zebra, or just cutting itself a way out. I got my keys out of my pocket and then the damn monkey took them. Just rode by on his faithful zebra steed and yoinked the damn keys out my hand.

I stood there in shock, and the damn monkey jumped in my car and took off. What the hell? Maybe they were doing weird experiments in there. Debra would be so smug, if she wasn’t boa dinner.

As my Tercel zoomed away, I got mad. I took the small gun and shot at my car. I missed, of course. I was just amazed I got it to work at all. A smaller but still intense wavy green beam came out, went honestly nowhere near my retreating car, and out into the harbor. I didn’t know how to tell it to stop firing.

I may have sort of cut a U.S. Navy ship in half. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know it was there till it lit up all green and hot, and kind of fell apart. I got the gun to stop. You have to fiddle the little knob.

The alien came through the wall, and somehow ignored me entirely. I don’t think it could see me, since I happened to be standing behind a big dumpster. It walked off, or crawled, or whatever the tell you could call that writhing, skittering, ugh. It went away, is the point.

For the second time in ten minutes I heard a voice tell me to stop right there and put my hands up. So, that’s when I shot at the cop. I didn’t mean to do that, either. My fingers just twitched. I am not actually sure I hit him. His car blew up, so he might have just run away.

I don’t really think I can explain all this. I don’t know what these other things do. The green tube, the orange box things, maybe one of them is a time machine or something. I just wish one of them was a car. In any case I am afraid to try and find out.

I think I will just go home. I would call an Uber but I think the alien ate my phone.

It was easy to underestimate him, with his smaller frame, his long, golden hair, the way it framed his face, all of which made others often believe that he was actually a young woman, or barely a man at all. Worse things were said to him. Usually, it was just laughter and doubt.

All of that changed when he returned to the tavern later that night, the same tavern he was laughed out of before, his sword and maille bloodied, a sack of cloth in his hand. Out of it came the grisly head of a monster, who had been terrorizing the local villages for months. It hit the wooden counter with a thud.

Feigning a calm demeanour, he looked from the corners of his eyes at the other men around him. The ones who had jeered at him before. They were speechless. The tavernkeeper was not.

"Fine, then," he grunted through his moustache, pushing forth gold. "Here's the reward. Now get the hell out of here, before you bring a curse upon us all."

His name was Sólstafir, and as he continued on his quest, more would know his name. Many also fell before his strength, which he honed above all else. He vanquished monsters, even those invaded, and he slew foreign soldiers, human, elf, orc, dwarf, it did not matter. He mercilessly cut down even those defending their own countries.

He defended kings and emperors, and fought at their whims, so long as the price was right. He plundered dungeons, crypts, temples, and tombs, massacring those before him. Everyone feared him more and more. At times, he would kill assassins, or champions, both sent to defeat him in battle. No one ever beat him. No one ever could.

This urge for conquest, a desire for glory, burned within him. It also burned him. He found himself decades later on the same shores, where he had burned the head of the decapitated monster from the beginning of his journey.

A tower had risen in the distance, strong and of stone, yet glittering with unknown mysticism and beauty. He entered, expecting it to be another notch on his belt.

Inside, he did not encounter anything which he could kill for glory. Instead, he saw what he could have had. His eyes filled like wells.

In one mirror through the winding halls, he saw himself a great musician and artist. In another, a genuinely noble man, who sought to help others, rather than prove himself to them. In others still, he witnessed the fruits of other potential journeys. In some, instead of a grizzled warrior, alone in the world save for those who admired, he witnessed a version of himself with friends, with family, with love. In all of them, he, in all ways, had never been tarnished by the brutality of decades of war. In a lot of them, he was living a regular life. A life of peace.

Most heartbreaking of all from them, he found, was that he lacked what we would call PTSD. In mirrors, he was unhaunted by the cries of those whom he slew, or his slain comrades and friends. Others of his culture who he bound himself to might call what he felt cowardice. The sane would call it living in hell. Screaming in the night, waking up from nightmares of slaughter and death.

In every single one of these mirrors, one thing was common... he was loved. Not for his ruthless, lifelong quest which started as him proving that a beautiful man could fight and kill better than most.... but instead, loved for who he really was. For who he really wanted to be, all along. Not a champion, not a brave warrior, but merely a good man.

He had faced dragons, trolls, demons, giants. Knights and wizards had fallen before him. He had led armies to victory many times over. But this, this was an adversary which he could not face. He found himself completely unable.

On his knees, he wept. He wept decades of tears. It poured from him, like a deluge. What had happened to him, all those years ago? Why did he allow his destiny to become this?

When he looked up, he witnessed a sorceress, the most beautiful woman he ever saw. Her long, black hair fell to her waist, like a curtain of inked silk. Whether it was robes or a dress she wore, he did not know, but it was purple and green. One of her eyes was gold, like his own hair and beard, which had darkened to the colour of coin. Her other eye was a brilliant silver. Enchanted jewellry adorned her.

"I see your past, present, and future," she spoke, like a cold wind, in an accent which he remembered from the far eastern parts of where he lived before. "And I find it cruel that you should sit before me like this."

He could only hang his head.

"I am a failure," he said, overwhelmed with pain and guilt. "Why did I let them decide who I was? Why did I roll in the mud with violence my entire life?"

The sorceress snapped her fingers. In a way, it snapped him out of a spell.

"When I snap my fingers again," she spoke soothingly, "you will no longer be... this," she said, gesturing to his pink, scarred face, drenched in tears. "I do not know what you will become... but I'm hoping you'll be the man you were in the past," she said with a smile. "He was cute."

"Anything," he begged her. "Do anything. Kill me. Turn me into a snail, or a toad, or a dog. Anything but this bitter and grieving old man."

She barely suppressed a cackle, despite her sympathy for him. Genuinely not holding any malice, only some pity and some curiosity, she snapped her fingers again. The last thing he saw, before something had changed, something we may never know, was the vision of him in his youth, standing out by these same shores.

He thought the same thing then, just as he did now... that life, his life, at least, was not unlike the waves.

He seemed to let the second to last word steal the show and stick around for a beat or two longer that it had any right to. Every sentence felt like the slow ascent of a rollercoaster, followed by the moments of maximum adrenaline prior to the descent, and then it’s over before you know it. “You see it’s not exactly good news, Mmmister- Roland.” You could feel the wind crashing against your face. Hold on tight! You would’ve expected most lawyers to emphasise ‘exactly’, or ‘good’, or ‘not’ at a stretch. But no, that wasn’t Cortlands style (Mr. Cortland, but he told all his client to drop the formality). No, he had to make it sound as if he was struggling to remember your name when in actual fact he was dispelling the news that your best chance at a deal meant 7 years minimum.

“Give it me straight, Cortland. I can take it.” I replied with feigned confidence. I had been in this situation before, true, but that didn’t make it any less nerve-racking.

“Alright then, as yoouu- wish. They’re not going fooor- it. Your best shot is to take seven and be done with it, because going to trial would be a disaster and I’m not going to get any better thannn- this.”

I’d been told that he was the best I could get on my budget and they weren’t kidding. Here he was, busting a gut for me on a Friday afternoon to get a year off here, or a few months there, when both of us knew that I should have been looking at 15 minimum. I’d also been told that when business was done, business was done, which I found out to be the truth when before I could begin to splutter out my appreciation he left me with the paperwork and walked off. Within seconds he had made a call and was discussing particulars with some other pillar of justice and I checked the paperwork to see that he’d already taken the deal on my behalf. I wasn’t about to complain.

This left me 48 hours to sort out my affairs before presenting myself at the courthouse. Sure, I toyed with the thought for a minute or two, who wouldn’t? But I wasn’t skipping town. That might’ve worked in those times before colour was invented when you had to take a man at his word and could chase after him only as quickly as your horse outpaced his. We don’t live in those times anymore. We live in the age of closed circuit television, cell phone towers and instantaneous communication. I’d show up all right.

It makes you wonder, all those solemn oaths you swear to yourself atop those aching bunk mattresses. “I swear if I make it outta’ this place in however many pieces and with however many of my marbles I’ll never so much as look at no cash register, no wallet hanging’ outta’ no back pocket, no unlocked car no nothin’!” You hear it played back to you in the claustrophobic echo of those limestone walls and it sounds good! Just the same as when you gave up the fight and let your mother have her way: you’d said the apology and you’d meant in. But what’s that? The echo has something else to say! It’s a different voice now… coming from the bunk below? “You’ll be dipping’ your good fer nuthin’ hand in that same ol’ dusty cookie jar before you can say ‘freedom’, Travis.”

Well fuck that cellmate and fuck anybody else in that place who thought the same. If they wanted to talk to me when we were all out they’d have to talk to my agent, or my manager or sumthin’. See how they’d like that. I was getting out and I was leaving that irresistible jar behind. I was going sugar free.

Maybe a month or so into my freedom things were surprisingly, quite stable. It wasn’t much, I made up hours where I could at diners and gas stations and so on. Rent got paid on time. Taxes that were due to Uncle Sam found their way to his deep pockets as they were rightfully owed. I had a bit of time here and there, and I had a bit of an old television set and all the whiskey I hadn’t been able to drink for all those years. I was getting by.

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and before your eyes get a chance to adjust, you see it. Three greyish-white walls out to get you, and not far from their target either. In an instinctive attempt for the fleeting joy of the feeling of safety, you presume that all too inevitable position as you fall back asleep. On your side, knees tucked up to your chest, arms around your knees. It’s another night less, I suppose. A few deep sighs and disturbed dreams later you awake to find yourself on one side or the other of your second hand mattress on the floor of your rental apartment. Separating yourself from the harmony of sweat and dust beneath you, it becomes apparent that this is just how it’s going to be from now on.

Anyway, things continued like this for a good while, maybe six months or so? It was monotonous but I was used to that, so I didn’t mind. I had my favourite spots in town and I haunted them cheerily. Tips for the waiter, pleasantries with other customers, a whole ready made good citizen, hot off the press. Well, it turns out people must have noticed where I frequented and despite having moved halfway across the country I wasn’t quite as anonymous as I had assumed. A weathered, calm voice crawled its way across the bar and set up camp in my earlobe, scouting it out before the rest of the army could start the siege.

“You look good, Trav.”

Nobody on the outside called me Trav. I made a point of telling people not to. Everybody who comes around this place knew that. My bones went cold.

“Marvin! You sunnuva bitch! I could say the same to you! I thought you was servin’ 15 more?”

My overzealous familiarity was a thinly veiled attempt at setting us off on a different foot than the one we had been on for the few months of our respective stretches during which we had shared a cell. Marvin, sensing this, took a long thoughtful drag of his cigarette and chose his next words precisely.

“Yep, well. Good behaviour and all. We really was the best of pals back in there, wasn’t we.”

The authoritative staple of his intonation let me know that this wasn’t a question, nor was it a statement of fact. It was most certainly not to be met with a reply. I knew the moves to this dance well so I dutifully played my part and let the show go on. This was the kind of show for which I knew a misstep left a lucky man with a broken nose. Best to perform for the judges.

“Y’know Trav, I’ve been doing some thinking. But before I tell you about that, I’m seeing’ those cogs up there whirring so let me put em’ at ease. I ain’t here to hurt you. I only found you cause I happened to be passing through and somebody mentioned your name in some diner or other, the Desert Jewel?” Anyway, lets talk like men and not make no scene in this lovely little hideaway.”

Having a ’talk’ with Marvin meant sitting down, shutting up, and ultimately doing whatever the fuck he asked of you and doing it with a smile. I read up on his case after I got out. Horrific shit. He says it was a robbery but the reports say that he didn’t leave with a dime, and not that he couldn’t have taken any. Nobody walked out of that place. His crew just wanted a blowout. I knew that he’d have read up on my case just the same, if a guard hadn’t already told him about it while we were inside. Armed robbery wasn’t to be scoffed at but he knew as well as I that I ‘d had about as much of a chance of pulling that trigger as I now had of stopping the calm and collected malice of his verbal onslaught.

“So like was saying, I been thinking. You remember that time at the canteen? You remember what I did for you? I know you do. I know that you know that you owe me one. Well, I’m calling it in. See, the reason I’m in these parts is that a friend of mine has a stop on his collection route that won’t pay up. He’s too much of a screwup to deal with it himself but he’s a good earner so I let him off the hook and said that I’d take care of it for him. As much as I want to do that myself, and believe me I’d planned to, it’s a little too hot for me to take the risk so soon. That’s where you come in, Trav. I know the motel you’re living at and you’re gonna’ get an envelope in a couple of days with an address for a business in it and instructions on where to find a piece. I don’t need you to set the world on fire, just ruffle a few feathers, will ya’? He’ll pay up, they always do, and you can leave without laying a finger on any store owner, manager, cashier, civilian or nothin’. In and out, it’ll be over before you know it. I’ll even let you keep a piece of the pie, for your troubles. Would’ya do that for me, Trav?”

“See you around, Marvin. You take care of yourself.”

It was my queue to leave and I didn’t need to be asked twice. The trick with these guys, and you had to learn it quickly, was to never say more than was absolutely necessary. Less than that, even. Needless to say, we hadn’t been ‘the best of pals’. It was true that I owed him a pretty significant favour, though. By all accounts that incident at the canteen should have been the end of me. I hadn’t been there too long but had certainly been there long enough to know better than to try to nab another mans dessert. Shivs were being drawn and my heart was in my mouth, I closed my eyes expecting the worst, but when I opened them he was stood right in front of me and nobody dared come any closer. He had power like that amongst the populous, I never knew how it came to be this way but you didn’t have to be a genius to know not to take the trouble to ask. “Don’t mistake that for charity kid. Your stretch ain’t too long and when you’re back out there I might need a favour or two. Remember that.” Go figure.

For three days I paced across the worn, beer stained carpet of my humble rented accommodation. Every thud of a car door or murmur of voices in the courtyard sent my heart off at a million miles per hour and sent my emotions deep into those especially cruel pits of a stomach burdened by anxiety. Eventually it arrived. A few simple lines, printed on cheap translucent paper, with instructions that they should be burned once understood. Yeah, alright. A watchmakers place, I could do that. Description says it’s some guy in his 60’s who doesn’t see so well and won’t put up a fight. No problem.

Not wasting a moment I went to check the place out. I might have considered checking whether anybody was on my tail, but I knew that anything but a faithful representation of those instructions would be the end of little old me. Marvin knew that I knew this. So I knew he wasn’t on my tail, there was no need. I would play the obedient part and follow my tattooed conductor to the ends of the earth. It was a shabby looking place, with the kind of sign out the front which had evidently been produced some time in the late 90’s to early 2000’s and not updated since. What was left after maximalist design fades and loses its vibrance? Not much, apparently. The surrounding area was quiet enough, a few convenience stores and betting shops. Nothing to worry about, really. From what I could see (I had stayed there for a few hours to try to form an understanding of the patterns of the establishment) the old guy was mostly the only person in there. He didn’t get too many customers, not in the middle of the day at any rate, so I guessed his business was mostly ordered in. Best to do it sooner rather than later. The note hadn’t given a deadline, which I was familiar enough to understand to mean as soon as humanly possible and preferably sooner. Tomorrow morning would do.

With all the vigour of a hosepipe on full blast which has become free of its operator I shifted around in my bedsheets trying to remember what exactly that sensation felt like which I knew to be called sleep. It felt as if the night would go on forever, yet (as anybody who has shared this feeling will know) dawn made its appearance just the same. Reluctantly I opened the uppermost drawer of my beside table, inside which was the cool, irreverent metal of the brand new handgun which had been buried beside the bushes a few hundred yards opposite the watchmaker’s place, exactly where it was supposed to be.

By the time I was parked up outside ‘Quality Watches and Jewellery’ the cool irreverence had been replaced with hot, sticky sweat and an energy of angst radiating from the object. You always get a little nerves before the show, it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve done it. Deep breath, open the door, out we go.

The bell on the door left no room for ambiguity. His reading glasses were allowed to drop to the support of their chain. The dexterous hands, formed from decades of trade, paused their surgical undertakings on some European looking wristwatch. His eyes betrayed intrigue but if he was alarmed at my presence he hadn’t let it slip.

“Good morning sir! How may I help you today?” Was the jovial welcoming.

“This shouldn’t take too long. I’ve got a problem with my watch and I was hoping you could help me out. You see, it’s got this problem where it can’t count right no matter what I do. It keeps saying $2,000 is the best it can make up this month when it should be showing me $10,000 and thanking me for letting it keep on ticking! Can you help me with that?”

I raised the handgun from below his line of sight and placed it, slowly, on the countertop. He never looked at the gun. He stared at me the entire time. Intrigue had given way to alarm but I still wasn’t getting any sign of that terror I had come to be so reliant on perceiving in situations like these; his apparent calm completely threw me. Not that it took long to understand his comfort in his position. Before I got a chance to say anything else, my gun had been grabbed from the counter and, as I reached for it, I found my arms restrained and wrestled into position behind my back.

“Get down on the ground! Lay flat on that ground right fucking now and don’t try anything funny. You move a muscle and we’ll shoot!”

Dumbfounded, I obliged. A little pressure on one wrist, a little pressure on the other and: ‘Click!’, this was certainly a sensation I’d felt before. An entirely unsympathetic escort to a patrol car, a reading of all too familiar rights, a short drive to a station and there I was. I knew I’d been an unlucky son of a bitch enough times but I knew this wasn’t one of em’. It was a sting, that was all there was to it. I had a lot of time to think in that holding cell, actually, time seemed to slow to a crawl the way it does ten minutes in to an uninspiring talk or when sat in the station on a delayed train. Despite this, I couldn’t think of even the most insignificant reason as to why Marvin would have done this. Had he done this? Was it him that somebody was out to get? Did I disrespect him while we were inside without realising it? The problems spiralled around the spaces of my mind which hand’t yet been utterly consumed by helplessness. I didn’t reach an answer then, I didn’t arrive at one in the following rituals of hearing then bail then pacing then lawyers etc., and I don’t have one now. I likely never will.

All the same, two days had passed and you can believe I showed up on time. That evening I felt something I had experienced but not perceived in my night at the holding cell. Sleep was my favourite part of the day as a prisoner, as it was for a lot of inmates. This was because the nighttime was a time which was entirely yours. I woke up in the middle of that night to find myself with my knees tucked to my chest, my arms clasped around my knees, and my chin tucked in. It was all too predictable, except that this time it didn’t feel wrong. Far from it, I felt safe.

It's a crisp December afternoon and the Christmas market is in town. The townsfolk hustle and bustle their way through the maze of stalls selling a range of wares and trinkets. The air awash with mulled wine and fresh mince pies. Christmas hits blare from the speakers around the park and crowds sing carols.

Sarah, a young aspiring hair stylist, is looking at items on one of the stalls when she spots a fine quality mannequin head.

"Oh wow", says Sarah, picking up the head and feeling the hair, "This almost feels real, this would be useful for practising styles on. Excuse me...excuse me sir, how much for this?".

The stall keep wanders over to Sarah. An ordinary looking man, middle aged, a bit of a beer belly and an unkempt look from being on the road. He looks at the head in Sarahs hands, puzzled by where it even came from. "Well me dear for that kinda' quality, 50 quid will see ya", says the market man with folded arms.

"Deal", says Sarah. The man bags the head and hands it to Sarah as she hands him the cash. "Thanks", she says with a smile, and heads on her way.

Back home Sarah pulls out the head and sets it on her desk in her bedroom. It's remarkable lifelikeness leaving her a little uncomfortable. Its empty blue eyes gazing into the distance at nothing. It's pink lips tight shut but looking as though they could burst into conversation at any moment. It's wavy black hair, silky and soft to the touch. It leaves Sarah almost a little jealous with her unruly frizzy red hair.

As night arrives Sarah is in the bathroom getting ready for bed when she hears a bang from her bedroom. She enters the room and sees the mannequin head on the floor. She notices on the base of its neck, some words etched into it in an elegant handwritten style.

Sarah picks up the head and even in her heated bedroom it's cold to the touch. She reads the inscription,

" 'Switchety, Swappity, I'll switcheroo with you'... what the heck is that supposed to mean?", says Sarah with a furrowed brow. She stares at the inscription as if the words themselves hold her gaze.

Returning to the moment, she places the head back on the desk. She closes the curtains, gets into bed and turns out her lamp. The head stares at Sarah throughout the night.

Morning arrives with a covering of snow. Children can be heard building snowmen and throwing snowballs. It's mid morning and Sarah's still in bed. Or at least someone is in her bed.

The mysterious woman slowly sits up and stretches out her arms, moaning in great satisfaction, she shakes her head flicking her wavy black hair. She looks at the mannequin head sitting on the desk. Her piercing blue eyes focused on it's unruly frizzy red hair. "Well girl, it didn't take much to get you to say the words did it", says the woman.

She stands out of bed and walks over to the tall mirror by Sarah's bedroom door. "Nice body you had, I promise I'll take good care of it", says the woman, admiring her new figure in the mirror. She grabs some clothes out of Sarah's wardrobe and gets dressed. She packs some clothes into a bag and turns to Sarah's head on the desk. "You'll be OK dear, I'm sure someone will read the words soon enough, ciao".

The woman leaves Sarah on her desk staring into the distance at nothing, her mind trapped inside the isolating hell of the mannequin head.

Not complete yet, open to feedback though:

The air from a Dave and Busters hvac can turn a man to ice. I always get sweaty when I get cold. I’m not sure why, but it was bothering me. Just one more race and I’ll be good to leave. The lights are out, but I asked a friend if I could stay late. My horse Jonathan needs my care. 

Prior to the race, I have to take Jonathan on a training course. We go over hurdles one at a time. His dark brown mane glowed in the digital sunlight. I took him to the stable and washed him. I brushed his hair and I loved him. The race began, but this time we came in fourth place. It’s okay. It’s just me and Jonathan and that’s all that matters.

I say goodnight to Jonathan and upload his save data into my paper memory bank. I get up off the bench and understand I can’t see him until tomorrow. The janitor comes by and I give him the okay to turn off the Derby Owners Club machine. 

Heading back to my car I realize it is 2 in the morning and I’m in a parking lot in Farmingdale, New york. Where did the day go? I ask myself. The cold winter air contacts my sweaty skin and sends a chill down my spine. The moon shines through the clouds and some small raindrops hit my forehead. I drove off and hit the first McDonalds I saw.

McChicken, McDouble, Large Coke, small french fry. This is my usual order. Glorietta from the drive thru asks me how Jonathan is doing. He’s great I say. I took him to the stable and washed his beautiful brown mane. “That horse is something special.” Glorietta says. I pay with cash and tell Glorietta to keep the change. 

I pulled into the parking lot to eat my food and plan for my tasks ahead for tomorrow. I need to take Jonathan to the doctor. He was running out of steam today. The paper memory bank containing Jonathan's data was safe in my back pocket. I take it out and look at it. There is a beautiful picture of him on the card. The pixels that make up this horse were nothing short of a miracle, and I felt it in my bones. I drove to the nearest Walmart parking lot, climbed into the back seat and slept until the sun came out.

I drove back to McDonalds for breakfast. Small coffee, and two bacon mcgriddles. I love those little syrup infusions they do in the pancakes. I pick up my food and smile to Gloriettas twin sister Jessica who works the day shift. Jessica is Glorietta’s identical twin, but is somehow ten times as beautiful. I stutter on my words and Jessica hands me the order.

I decided to eat my breakfast by the water. I drive down to Wantagh park and post up by the crab traps. I thought I saw a dolphin, but it was probably just a wave. A friend of mine, Angelo, keeps his boat at the Marina here and lets me crash on it sometimes. I really needed a shower, I stunk to high heaven, so I decided to do that in the bathroom sink of the boat. I keep some soap in my trunk just for the occasion.

Before the shower I put Jonathan's data bank on the kitchen table. When I came out it was gone. I panicked for a moment, but then I saw Angelo with it in the corner. “When did you get here?” I said. “About yesterday.” Angelo exclaimed. “The data in this card is worth a thousand of these boats.” “We all love Jonathan, but we need the money.”

This was not going to work. I punched Angelo right in the gut and hog tied him in the living room of the boat. (Quite a big boat I forgot to mention). Jonathan was mine and there was nothing Angelo could do. 

Angelo was there when Jonathan was created. We made him together, but I was the one that fed him and cared for him. I was the one that was there for him when he needed me the most. When his hair got dirty I cleaned him. When he needed training I trained him.

Angelo looked upset, but I duct taped his mouth shut, so I don’t know what he thinks. Me and Jonathan got back into the car and headed for the dave and busters. 

I usually show up when they open at noon, but I was late today because of Angelo. I check in at the front desk and head straight for the Derby Owners Club machine. Something wasn’t right though.

The screen was black and no one was sitting in the stands. Something happened last night. The janitor fried the motherboard. I was heartbroken. How could this be? The associate at customer service said that the machines are being phased out and there will be no more derby owners club at dave and busters.

My heart dropped and I rushed for the door. I called every dave and busters in the tri state area and they all told me the same thing. My manic episode is starting. My rage consumed me and everything went dark. All I could think of was Jonathans beautiful brown mane and the way his little legs jumped over those hurdles.

“I’ll see you again buddy” I say while clutching the memory bank. I drive to the first McDonalds I can see and order. Bacon cheeseburger, vanilla milkshake, and a filet-o-fish. I drown my sorrows in greasy burgers. 

Glorietta came out to my car and wanted to know what was wrong. I told her that Jonathan will never be able to live again. She said she knew a secret. I really wanted to know the secret so I asked, “What secret?”.

She told me her friend had transcended this world to fully engulf herself into the digital utopia of derby owners club. There is a christian science church on the corner of hempstead turnpike and Eisenhower park. I realized this might be the way to see Jonathan again.

The experiments performed here have been in the news lately, but the cops seem to leave them alone due to religious freedom. I’m jewish, but I decided to check out this church.

Upon arrival, the priest asks me where I come from. I said “You don’t wanna know, buddy.”. “I heard you've got a way to transcend this world, and upload myself to the Derby Owners Club heaven server.” “There is a way, but you must devote yourself to the teachings of Jesus Christ.”. I was desperate. Jonathan needed me, so I did what I had to.

I started going to Sunday school every week. I was the oldest person in the class by far. I learned all about Jesus and his disciples. I learned that Mary Magdalene was Jesus’s girlfriend. I learned that Jesus came back on Easter. I learned that the Virgin Mary was Jesus’s mom. I gained all the knowledge I needed to pass my final exam. I did this with flying colors. Pretty soon I was starting to feel like I was Jesus.

I was doing this for Jonathan. He was the only thing I cared about. The only thing I could set my mind to. I returned to the christian science church and showed the priest my diploma from sunday school. “You are officially one of us,” the priest exclaimed. This made me smile. I never felt like I belonged anywhere and now I finally do. The goal was Jonathan though. I needed to get to him and quick.

The priest led me to the giant crucifix in the back of the church. Jesus looked down on me disappointingly from above as he hung there by his wrists. The priest took me around the back and opened a secret door. “Step in and hold tight”. I enter the back of the crucifix and see a chair with body straps. I decide to strap myself in and a countdown begins. The ceiling opened up and I could see the stars. Jonathans data bank was in my back pocket, so I took it out and prayed. I prayed as hard as I could that I would be able to see Jonathan again. The miracle horse with the dark brown mane. I could feel my heart starting to race and suddenly the sky started to get closer. “I hope they have McDonalds where we're going Jonathan.”

The stories often told of war are great tales. Myths created to forge feelings of courage in the hearts of those so unlucky to be thrust into its burning embrace. And this story is no different.

Anyone who saw it, in earnest, thought the sky had forsaken the very battlefield it sheltered. The mere sight of a pillar of light erecting straight up and down, touching the ground and the heavens simultaneously, was unheard of. But there it stood.

It had to be ordained magic that summoned it to the fray in front of them.

The pillar was not just a beam of light that scorched all it touched, but a doorway allowing just one individual to pass through.

In his home town the lone soldier who emerged through the gate was of ordinary standing in life. Born to a farmer who fled this very battlefield when they were young. The irony of their son being branded by the gods of war, and dragged into the storm, was not lost.

Those who saw Jax spring from blinding light immediately conjured falsehoods of the warrior in meager grey fatigues and no weapons.

Only those allied to the 10 realms would come to know the majesty of what would transpire at Blood Gorge.

When Jax exited the light proper, the soft breeze carrying the scent of blood through the crevasse became gale force winds. The orcs, elves, and beast kin stood their ground braving it full force, only taking a step or two to brace themselves.

Within seconds the wind stops, becoming a visible whip at Jax's command. In a flash the whip traverses the field winding between enemies, searching for the wounded and dying. Every allied human the whip touches is whisked out of reach; even those still in full grasp of the enemy.

The battlefield grows silent soon after, say for the angry grown from creatures who thirst for blood. Their attention methodically redirecting to Jax and the remaining able bodied humans.

"Surrender and I will let you live," Jax voice booms across the area.

The beast kin shiver sensing something is coming.

Their primal instinct forces them to shy away from immense danger. But they fight the urge, going against nature, thinking they have the upper hand.

As it stands their arrogance is warranted, in sheer numbers they are a force to be reckoned. Though their accompanied smiles quickly fade, as a squall the size of a continent blocks out the star light; and rain begins to drench the once bone dry terrain.

The elves don't sense any magic, other than the residuals from the faded pillar. They don't sense anything coming from Jax either, other than malice.

The orcs usually relish in the thought of dying at the hands of a strong enemy, but this is different. Evolution has taught them to enjoy the pleasures of life diminishing their will to die; thus forcing feelings of fear to pulse through their thick veins.

The beast kin, being so attuned to the natural world only see a horrific natural disaster in Jax.

Jax seeing his opponents unyielding resolve obliges with combat without so much as a word. His cold calculated saunter towards the enemy catches them off guard. The first orc he reaches reacts by raising their ax in an attempt to strike him down.

The orcs entire abdomen is ripped away from his body as casually as pushing open a flimsy door. Their strong legs remain standing in place, while the rest of their upper torso succumbs to gravity falling to the ground, mixing the rain. The look on their face as the light fades from their eyes is complete befuddlement.

The beast kin begin to howl mourning the death of their comrade in arms. Soon, one by one every beast joins in, and howl convergence begins; calling every beast kin in the area to the pack for an all out assault.

The elves, realize the brevity at which the tide changes, use the moment of convergence to unceremoniously retreat; with their ranks intact, and their tails between their legs as they run for dear life.

The orcs foolishly follow the beast kin, in order to salvage their personal pride having felt fear, and as a result shame.

As a result of Jax's pressure and precision of actions. He in thirty seconds assured the safety of all other human combatants, drawing unequivocally all remaining attention of the enemies allied forces.

What came next once they finally reached Jax, would become lore for the next thousand years.

The cloud that rolled in like thunder before Jax even moved, begins to coalesce into a vortex, at first sight elevated in the heavens in a swirl of ominous grey. As those on the ground watching in awe stand aghast, the vortex descends just as the pillar of light did.

A collective "ah fuck" resounded across the Gorge.

In an attempt to stop what was to come every enemy in the vicinity lunges at Jax, their claws and axes desperate to find purchase.

Jax looking to the sky, wanting to avoid the entire act altogether, sighs as the first claw invades his personal space.

"So it comes to pass," Jax says closing his eyes.

Before the claw can make contact, the tornado howls as it touches down eviscerating the allied forces as if the winds themself were made of freshly sharpened steel.

The scatter of blood and entrails makes the former sight of Blood Gorges crimson hue pale in comparison.

Those far enough from the carnage, the retreated elves and remaining human forces, watch as several generations of orcs and beast kin die in vain, at the hand of a man who didn't want to fight.

No one moves as the tornado rages for hours, from fear of the mountain of wind somehow seeing them and giving chase. The bated breaths of the collective are halted as the tornado slowly ceases.

The sky clears as if no storm had ever existed. The starlight brims with hope as a rainbow appears cascading the sky. Signaling the end of, in hindsight, a pointless war to those who would hear the story years later.

Jax stands in the middle of a blood soaked battle ground untouched and unfazed by his handiwork. A moment later another column of light appears from thin air, and Jax enters disappearing behind it with the same anonymity as when he arrived.

The first to alley with humans after the events were the elves, then the beast kin, then the orcs, and then the rest of the ten realms.

Blood Gorge was renamed Jax Valley, by the humans who found out it was he who arrived that day.

Jax was... Never spotted in civilian life again. And would only appear on battlefields with overwhelming advantage for either side allied or not.

The gods of war would eventually come to name him, God of War - Vortex.

The humans would come to name him Jax - God of peace.

The Elves would name him Equilibrium - Malevolent Wind.

The beast kin call him Howl - Calamity of the Air.

And the Orcs, simply call him Death.

Jill, Janessa and I return inside of the vault. "I am still utterly baffled that you desire to stay here." Jill says to me, disappointed in me. Something I partially guessed her to feel so about this situation.

"I like it here, quiet, safe and I know I am among decent people." Reply to her warmly as we walk through the long hallway.

"I do admit, how things are now. I do feel safe, the quiet though, that is something I am not comfortable with." Janessa says, pondering something. I guess she is thinking about her home back over the Atlantic.

"I am going to guess you still have family back home there." Say to Janessa warmly, most of my family... Well, I wish I could say positive things about them. My own name used to be a source of embarrassment to me, when I got a job as a psychiatrist after graduating, my perception of my name changed. Most of my family, either has migrated out of the nation, or, I no longer stay in contact with.

Loneliness became a strong feeling, well, until I got this job. I have made some friends in different parts of the company I work for. Now, I have a good chance to migrate here, to Finland. I do not hate my old home, but, the rampant simmering of political tensions back there and overall economical situation, doesn't invite me back.

I think I can make new friends here. That reminds me... S1K8... I am not the type to hold a grudge but, I am going to get even with you for embarrassing me in such acceptable, but, same time so humiliating manner. I do wonder what these humanoid robots are capable of.

Could they actually be able to defeat the best armed forces of Earth? That question is something I want get an answer to one day. No actual war, but, a simulation of some type. Would most certainly reveal a lot about them. I am fairly certain that people from Sweden and Finland designed and made these things.

They don't at all look that old, almost like made few months ago, and taken good care of. "Yeah, I do. I want to go back to them and spend time with them." Janessa says, probably was thinking about what she wants to do.

I wish I could say that things haven't changed all that much. But, I strongly believe O2G4 is very much correct on the assumption that there is no returning to normal. This meteor shower will change plenty of things. "I will go to the library, there is more things I want to read about and study." Say to both, Janessa and Jill.

"Okay, although, aren't you hungry? I am hungry." Janessa says and I felt a grumble in my own stomach. Yeah, I really should eat too.

"I am hungry too..." Jill says meekly, probably in mild pain from the hunger. She has been most stressed out of all of us after all.

"I am actually going to go with you two. I want to eat something before I occupy myself with something." State as I have forgotten importance of nutrition. My mind has been way too occupied by everything else going on, that I have forgotten to eat. We go to our home away from homes here, meet up at Janessa's home and make something to eat together. Jill is a lot more nice to be with when we are having something to eat. Food is definitely something people can easily form a bond through.

Once we have eaten though, I go to the library, I want to continue studying Finnish and Swedish, and study few other things. After what felt more like just a hour. "This is T1U6. Topaz, can you hear me?" I hear from the radio machine, it almost scared me out of my skin. I take the machine from my pocket and push down the button.

"I am here T1U6. What is it?" Reply to it's call to me.

"We have gained some insight of the new metal that has arrived to Earth, we could use your understanding of human behavior to make a proper assesment of our discoveries and how to proceed. Where are you at right now?" T1U6 replies.

"I am at the north east side library. Where do I go?" Say to it with calm voice. "I will be there in a moment. To preface what has been found out, we really need to find a way to pacify it." T1U6 says, that, sounded very bad.

"Is it really that bad?" I ask mildly frightened, of hearing what T1U6 just said. "Well, yes, and, no. S1K8 will explain at the lab." T1U6 says as I begin to place everything where they belong and just as I exit the library, T1U6 arrived. It motioned me to follow and I do. We walk for a while and, we enter the lab. There is a carcass of a bear, I think... Here... It has grey metallic looking fur all over. I look at T1U6, who nods at me.

Yes, that is the metal, having fused into the hair and fur of a bear. "How the hell you managed bring it down?" I ask, and realize quickly that, I am asking from wrong individual. Robotic frames are currently studying the carcass in the room I can see into thanks to a window.

"Neither of us, it was one of the Anti Armor frames who handled this one. There is another squad now already tracing the bear's path. We have no idea, why exactly, it would assault a squad of us or worse, didn't intend on doing that to begin with, but, something forced it to." S1K8 says sounding concerned.

What I can tell from it's tone. S1K8 is relatively concerned about this, the most important question probably was already answered, looking at the carcass, right front leg and part of the neck and head, has been blown apart. A feeling races up my stomach... Sight, is horrifically brutal... It must have been some kind of anti armor warhead projectile that did this one in.

I gag uncomfortably loudly for my liking, T1U6 places a plastic bag around my mouth, which surprises me, and I let loose whatever was I have been digesting still. T1U6 helps me to move to not any longer have line of sight to the carcass and sit me down. S1K8 gives me few paper towels to clean my own face with, which I do and thank it for being mindful.

I take my time to calm down. "Any signs of it actually invading the nerve system?" Ask from S1K8, it and T1U6 are taking seats too. S1K8 is still looking into the room with the carcass being examined, while T1U6 sits opposite of me.

"None yet, it will take time to fully examine it though. You probably have an intention of asking for my speculation, that was it acting against it's own will." S1K8 replies, and looks at me for a confirmation. I nod to it. It nods back. "What can be observed from the AuVi footage... It is unlikely, that the animal was acting against it's own will, but, I believe you are already thinking that I just want to make sure." S1K8 adds. Which I confirm with a nod.

"There is the possibility, that the animal was acting in such a manner out of horror of it's current state." Say calmly and guessing what S1K8 is thinking.

"Yes, goes without saying I guess." S1K8 says calmly and actually looks at me directly.

"I agree. Would rather have this be a case of panic, than actual take over of a nerve system." Reply in agreeing tone. S1K8 suddenly froze and is staring into the room with the study ongoing. "Just move the bear and separate the biomass from the metal. Sorry, something what I was guessing could happen, just happened." S1K8 says and looks at me, to have me ask.

The metal... Separated from the bear's fur? How? I think for a moment. "Why though?" Finally ask from S1K8, T1U6 also seems to have been rather surprised by this development, then immediately focuses on our conversation.

"Most likely because the host died, many of the living beings on Earth, have composition made from periodic table materiel. This could be the reason for the metal to bind into the bio matter but, this is just theorizing. And, I rather not experiment with something like this, so, for now, we will just focus on separating the metal from biomass of the bear that has mixed into it, mostly blood." S1K8 explains, tone telling, that it is mildly disturbed by this development.

"What will you do to the metal then?" Ask calmly, but still feeling after effects of throwing up. T1U6 presents me some kind of metal container after opening it, it looks like a bottle and I assume it is water. I receive it from T16U with a thanks and drink some of the contents of the bottle. It is water, surprisingly fresh taste.

"We are packing it to our most safe and secured container. We will hand it over to Finnish army, government will make the decisions what to do with it. I hope with the report we intend on giving along with the container, or containers of this material. They will make the wise choice of only performing very careful experiments." S1K8 says with quite concerned tone.

This surprises me a bit, but, considering what S1K8 and T1U6 have stated they have been programmed to behave, think and act. Not as surprising. A more adventurous question comes to my mind. "Do you think it would be possible of a human to be coated in that type of metal without eventually killing it?" Ask from both of them.

S1K8 freezes in place for a moment, then raises it's right hand, in semi fist state to it's place of a chin of a human would be. This indicates thought. "It, isn't impossible... Making that type of suit though, would be incredibly expensive, not to mention, VERY challenging. How much do you know about the human biology?" S1K8 says after giving my question, most likely, thorough pondering of it.

"Not much but, I am pretty sure, in terms of adhering to actually safe tolerances of a human body, in terms of how much of it can be exposed to a metal that would bind to it's skin. It is surprising amount." Reply to S1K8.

"Well, the problem is, design of that suit. Think on some of the range of motion you use in your every day life, and extremes of it. This all complicates the design to serious burden on mind level, well, what I estimate. Comparing us to it, we will look like toys to that level of compromises, complications and challenges in terms of design and engineering." S1K8 states in mildly serious tone, but, there is an undertone in it's words.

The thought of it, does intrigue it. Although, I have a good guess as to how S1K8 would approach such project. "I think you would make a fine project leader in such venture." Say to it with genuine warmth. It's head immediately snapped to look at me and slowly the right hand lowers to it's same side waist.

It huffed in an amused manner. "Most likely would do a whole lot better job at it, than some greedy corporate executive officer." S1K8 says with confident tone. And I wholeheartedly agree, I also got even with it now. Not a reaction I expected, from being predicted but, I am satisfied with the outcome. S1K8 looks at the ceiling and sighs in a ponderous tone.

"Team would need to be pretty large, and it would be difficult to keep something like that secret here. We would need metal experts, tailors, armor experts, physicists, doctors specialized in human motoristics, biology experts, chemists and few arts people. I think... Four of each would get us started with a good pace." S1K8 says, this is something I wanted to know.

S1K8, most certainly has capacity to imagine, not only that, also evaluate, articulate what it is imagining and, even has capacity to know, how to reach what it is imagining. As these artificial intelligence twos are far more logical than a human being, road to the goal is certainly arduous, but, just as it said. It is not impossible. "What would you use such a suit for though?" Ask for S1K8's possible ideas.

"Well, they would make fine protective gear for very important personnel, considering the AuVi feed I got to observe and evaluate. It would do surprisingly well in that regard... But, upon thinking more about existence of this metal of such advanced properties... This more and more, seems very unlikely to just happen." S1K8 says, in thoughtful tone.

I think about it, and I realize something. S1K8 notices that I have realized something. "Was it because they are fearing artificial intelligence taking Earth over." S1K8 says to me, exactly what I was thinking too. The possibility, is very real. "We need to stop here, we will think about that later." S1K8 adds, which surprised me, but, when I thought about it.

It makes sense. "Let's focus on what we do know, and don't know right now." Say to S1K8, and it nods to me approvingly.

"As first, we need proof of it, not actually taking over a nerve system. Second would be securing the metal close of us, contain it and store it for later. Third, when metal has been studied enough, we will spread the news about it to all here, what our intentions are with the metal and, to assure that we will make sure that nobody will be contaminated with it. I need your input here." S1K8 says getting back to work.

"This sounds like a good plan to go with, part of me almost wants to advocate to lie but, in times like this. Trust is far more valuable than misinformation. People are not going to receive what has happened really well, I assume your kind managed to smuggle that here without anybody becoming suspicious or intrigued as to what is going on." Say to both of them.

"Well, only one another individual has seen the carcass of this Eurasian Brown Bear, Janessa. you will need to talk to her and convince her to keep this all hush, until we know enough to convince people that, while material isn't exactly super hazardous. But, it still is dangerous in it's own way. We would rather not bury people too soon." T1U6 says in calm but, mildly worried tone.

"Alright, I will talk to Janessa as soon as possible. That metal is certainly intriguing, do you actually intend on making that type of protective gear a reality?" I reply to them.

"No. All I told you was, that it is possible, and what I would need to make it possible, but, this type of project would need a green light from Government of Finland. That answer most likely will be, a no. To which I don't have any objections towards, as I am not really designed for that, and I was programmed to be a fail safe system, in case something horrific has happened. What comes on the metal..." S1K8 replies with intent to add something.

"Well, it certainly is intriguing but, it also complicates my job, which is the part I dislike about that metal." S1K8 adds, then looks at me, asking that is there anything else.

"No, this is a lot to take in... And, part of me wishes that something like this wasn't actually possible. The meteor shower itself, was already horrible to even imagine happening. But, I am glad. We can move forward, this is just another obstacle." Say to S1K8, both it and T1U6 nod to me.

"Indeed. A human equivalent to what I am feeling about all this is, a headache I would rather not put up with, but, can't kick a can along the road now." S1K8 says with a hint of happiness in it's voice. I think, it probably found speculation of use of the metal, interesting.

"The people are not going to be happy about hearing about this, so, for now, we will keep it secret. I will try to ensure it stays so, by talking with Janessa, I might need additions to persuade her to remain quiet about this though. Just in case." Reply to S1K8. It looked mildly unhappy to hear about caveats but, same time, it seems to agree to an extent.

"Bring her to my office to talk about these additions. I rather hear her words myself to ensure that there is proper evidence of us making an agreement." S1K8 says, choosing to agree with me. I do not like secrecy but, exposure to this metal would lead to death eventually.

"I honestly do wonder, how well you and your kind would handle combat." Say, as I want to have this as last part of our conversation for today.

"Lady, if there is one pass time, Europe is... Probably a little bit all too well known about, it is war. This continent quite literally is breathing history... Almost everywhere you could be at here. We have studied and trained, if we do see combat, I would, almost, feel sorry for our opponents." S1K8 says in calm tone, it puts my mind at ease.

My good friend Alvin, asked me if I would be so kind to keep him company during one very unpleasant procedure that he was supposed to witness: execution of his client and longtime friend Rev. McDonald.

As one can imagine, I was quite taken aback by this: “Execution!? I thought that there was not such a thing as a capital punishment in a place as evolved as a Republic of Kakotrebabitija.”

Kakotrebabitija was a place that I never thought existed. As close to perfection as possible: great cities, excellent schools, standard of living beyond my imagination. Hospitals were unbelievable, once you visited, which was very seldom since the medical care was so diffused that most, if not all, of medical issues were fixed through house visits or directly at school or place of work.

Work, work was a pleasant endeavor where one did basically what one felt like doing: all heavy lifting was fully automatized.

Even money…money was never discussed since it was more of a way to keep tabs then to really pay for things.

My plain, free market capitalism conditioned mind had more than little difficulty in comprehending their strange ways.

“Not at all,” said Alvin. “As a matter of fact, we prefer the death sentence to many alternatives. It is quite practical.”

“Wow” said I “What a surprise. Your Reverend must have done something terrible then?”

“He was working on Sunday. Chopping wood for barbecue.”

“What? How is that deserving of death?”

“You see, my foreign friend, we, Kakotrebabitijans are, before all things, pragmatic. As you have probably observed, we have automation doing whatever is possible to be automated. This fixes a lot of law issues that were previously burdening our tribunals: no more traffic offenses since you are not doing the driving, no more financial offences since money is irrelevant, no more labor laws since the labor is optional and so forth. Off course we still must legislate on usual crimes, obvious situations…you know…victim and perpetrator kind of deals.”

“You mean: violence, theft, rape and such?”

“Exactly. Even thou theft is very rare….you get the gist of the thing”

“So, what’s with working on Sunday?”

 “Well, that is different. We used to waste a lot of discussing on victimless crime or better, those actions that were discussed from ideological point. Endless public debates about abortion, sexuality, drug use or abuse..that kind of stuff…”

“I see. Yes, that always was the problem: we did the same thing but never arrived at the core of the issue.”

Alvin laughed “Exactly. That is because there is no core to arrive to. You are always left to your own devices, your upbringing, personal beliefs, books you red and other silly stuff like that. The problem is that the people are holding these issues very strongly and we felt the need to address this in a serious way.”

“So, what you did?”

“We needed the way to leave this within the sphere of personal belief but nevertheless legislate on it. The only way around it was to legislate personally.”

“Please elaborate.”

“Arrived at legal age, every Takotrebabitijan produces a list of “crimes” and appropriate punishments. This list is then published and becomes a public matter. He is then expected to live by his code. If he is caught in crime, he gets punished. Easy as that.”

“Wait a minute: how is this enforced? Surely one would not denounce oneself out of principle?”

“Obviously somebody who was aware of Reverend’s list saw him chopping the wood and called the police. There was a proper trial then to establish weather chopping the wood for barbecue is to be considered work or not. Unfortunately for old McDonald the jury of his peers decided that yes, cutting the wood is work.”

“Therefore, he was given the sentence he declared fitting the crime.” I finished the sentence.

“Yes. You got it. And mind you, old fool added those articles to his list recently. He became more of a fundamentalist in his old age and got all “Old Testament” and stuff. I told him so myself when he came to me for amendments to the list.”

“So, it is possible to amend the list?”

“Off course it is. It would be too cruel not to allow it. Opinions change, don’t you think? And in final analysis, those are only opinions, nothing more.”

“However, you are not allowed to amend the list more than once a year: you need some time to fully comprehend the consequences of your opinions.”

We kept walking for some time in silence; I was processing the full implications of what just heard.

My mind was bringing up questions and answering them simultaneously. This really is something: live by the dictate for which, through your efforts, you want to become universal law.

“OK Alvin. I will gladly accompany you to witness the old fool die by his own rule.”

Alvin smiled.

As Weyer sat leaning against the stagecoach, tears streaming down her face, she heard the rumblings of a strange cant coming from the newest member of their group. At first hope filled her chest, would he be able to save him, could he bring back the last of her friends. Sure Wu had been a pain in the ass getting them into more scrapes than she could count. But she had come to consider him a friend, someone she could count on. However, what came back was not her friend. The emptiness of his eyes, the soulless look was more than she could bear. It was just too much, first Waya, being pulled through that portal and now Wu dying because she was not fast enough, did not do enough to save him. With a grimace she pushed to her feet and made her way into the stagecoach. Gathering up the few items that she could claim as her own she stuffed them into a bag before slowly making her way towards the wildlands of the south. Ignoring the calls of her companions she made her slow careful way down the road. What awaited her now she no longer cared, she felt the knives piercing her head and heart as she closed her eyes and continued to walk.

With the sun beating down relentlessly on the dusty road, Weyer marched on, her boots echoing a solitary rhythm against the cracked earth.Her stomach growled in protest as she reached into her bag, pulling a few scraps of jerked meat and a handful of stale bread. Food had been the last thing on her mind when fleeing from the tragedy, a fact which she now regretted. Her journey to the wildlands of the south was proving more arduous than she had anticipated. Homes had become a distant memory, replaced by the endless vistas of farms, then thick forests. Her thoughts remained consumed by the vacant gaze of the creature that had once been her friend, and the ache in her heart grew with each step. The horizon taunted her, seemingly unchanged, as the hours melted into days, and her supplies grew alarmingly sparse. Yet she pressed on, driven by a mix of grief and determination to find some semblance of peace or, perhaps, a way to right the wrongs that had befallen her. Each evening she built a small fire, more for comfort than for warmth reminiscing on her childhood, her dreams of becoming a great bard, entertaining the court and having a soft and cushy life. Ofcourse one needed talent for that, a talent she never truly possessed.

Had she listened to her Grandmother and followed in her footsteps, her life would have been different she is sure, however she could never sit still or stop dreaming long enough to learn the magics, and all she ever did master was how to change her shape. Weyer leans her back against a tree, trying to remember her true shape,it has been so long since she has used it, can she even go back to it now. The night air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and the whispers of nocturnal creatures, providing an eerie symphony to accompany Weyer's thoughts. The flickering fire cast shadows across her weary face, dancing with the shifting contours of doubt and resolve. She took a deep breath, focusing her energy on the dormant magic within. Her body began to tremble as the familiar yet long-forgotten sensation of transformation took hold.She could feel her ears lengthen slightly, and her limbs grew longer and more agile.The pain was a bittersweet reminder of her heritage, a reminder that she was more than the sum of her recent tragedies. This form, a secret gift from her grandmother, had always brought her comfort in times of despair. Though she had not made a conscious shift in so very long, it was always easier during sleep, took less thought and effort. For now, she would embrace the wild, letting it heal the wounds she couldn’t reach.

Weyer's eyes remained downcast as she approached the small town, its wooden buildings huddled together like weary travelers seeking refuge from the world.Was it just four days ago that they passed through here. The loss of Wu still weighed heavily on her shoulders, a constant reminder of her inadequacies. She hoped that by blending into the fabric of humanity, she could find some measure of peace or, at the very least, a temporary reprieve from the haunting emptiness that filled her soul.Entering the town's market, she moved with a quiet grace that belied her turmoil. The townsfolk eyed her warily, noticing the tattered clothes and the haunted look in her eyes. Weyer ignored their curious glances, focusing instead on the sparse offerings of the local merchants. With the last of her coin, she bought a few more rations, selecting the hardiest foods that would last her through the journey ahead. She avoided conversation, offering only curt nods in response to the vendor's inquiries. Her heart ached for the days when she could laugh and share stories without the burden of loss. But those days were gone, stolen by the cruel whims of fate.

As she turned to leave, a young girl with a basket of berries called out to her. The child's innocent smile pierced Weyer's armor of sorrow, reminding her of the joy she had once known. With a gentle nod, she purchased a few berries, savoring their sweetness as she continued her solitary march towards the horizon. Each step took her further from the life she knew, but perhaps, just maybe, closer to a place where she could lay her burdens to rest and begin to heal. The wildlands of the south called to her, promising solace amidst the chaos, and she walked on, fueled by the hope that she could rediscover who she truly was, beyond the shadows of her grief.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of fiery orange and deep purple, as Weyer left the town and its fading sounds behind her. The journey ahead stretched out like an infinite canvas of solitude, each step a dagger through her heart as she traveled further and further from the life that she has shared with Wu and Waya these past couple of months. Her path grew narrow and treacherous, winding through dense forests where the whisper of the wind through the leaves echoed with the cries of her heart. Nightfall brought the chorus of the wildlands to life, a cacophony of unseen beasts and rustling leaves that served as a stark reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows. Despite the comforting warmth of the berries, hunger gnawed at her insides, a persistent companion to her grief. The moon cast a pale glow through the canopy, guiding her as she stumbled over roots and rocks, her eyes often misted with unshed tears. Each mile she covered felt like a lifetime, each breath a battle against the crushing weight of her loss. Yet, she did not falter. The wildlands held the promise of escape, a chance to mourn in peace and perhaps, in time, find the strength to face the world anew. And so, she journeyed on, one foot in front of the other.

Exhausted and drained, Weyer finally found a suitable tree to rest against, its gnarled roots and sturdy trunk offering a semblance of protection against the prowling night. She sat down heavily, her back leaning into the rough bark as she allowed herself to succumb to the weariness that had plagued her for days. The sorrow that clung to her like a second skin grew heavier with each passing moment, until she could no longer bear the weight of her thoughts. Her eyes closed, and she whispered a soft lullaby she remembered her grandmother singing to her, the melody drifting into the night. As sleep claimed her, she hoped it would bring dreams of happier times, a gentle reprieve from the relentless march of reality. But the embrace of the wildlands was not as forgiving as she had wished. Her breath grew shallow, the night air seemingly thickening around her. The cold air slowly leeched the essence of her life from her, unknown and uncaring. Weyer never felt the cold hand of death touch her as her life slipped away, leaving only her lifeless form against the tree, a grim monument to loss and regret in the heart of the uncaring wilderness. The last of the berries lay forgotten beside her, a symbol of the fleeting sweetness she had sought but never fully found.

Chapter 1: Moving Day

Aisha and her family had been through a rollercoaster of emotions in recent months. The news of her miscarriage had hit her hard, shattering their hopes and dreams of expanding their family. But amidst the heartbreak, there was a glimmer of hope - their daughter had beaten cancer. It was a bittersweet time for the family, filled with both sorrow and joy. Aisha was a short, caramel-skinned woman with her hair neatly parted down the middle, framing her big brown eyes and full lips. A small, distinctive mole adorned the left side of her face, adding to her striking beauty. She bore a resemblance to the iconic actress Dorothy Dandridge, captivating those around her with her elegance and grace. Aisha's motherly spirit shone through in everything she did, radiating warmth and love to all those fortunate enough to know her.

With a history as a law major, Aisha had excelled in her career at a prestigious firm, showcasing her intelligence, dedication, and drive. She was a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom, known for her sharp mind and unwavering commitment to justice. Despite her professional success, Aisha's true joy came from her role as a mother to their three children. "I can't do this anymore, Malik," Aisha sighed, her voice tinged with a hint of longing. "I need a change, a fresh start."

Malik nodded in agreement, his own weariness evident in the lines that creased his brow. "I hear you, babe. This city life is wearing us down. We need to find a way out, a place where we can breathe again."

And so, the decision was made. Aisha and Malik would leave behind the hustle and bustle of the city, trading in their cramped apartment for a sprawling plot of land in the countryside. Their dream? To start their own vineyard, a place where they could cultivate their own grapes and create their own signature wines.

As they packed up their belongings in their old house, Aisha couldn't help but feel a sense of loss. The memories of the baby they had lost lingered in the air, a painful reminder of what could have been. But she pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the future and the new beginning that awaited them in their new home.

Their wine company had taken off unexpectedly, gaining popularity and recognition in the industry. It was a dream come true for Aisha and her husband, a passion project that had turned into a successful business. The success of their company was a silver lining in the midst of their personal struggles, giving them hope for the future.

Closing on their new house was a milestone for the family, a symbol of a fresh start and a new chapter in their lives. Aisha felt a mix of excitement and sadness as they drove to their new home, the anticipation of new beginnings mingling with the weight of their past losses.

As they pulled up to their new house, Aisha took a deep breath, steeling herself for the emotions that would come with starting over. The house stood before them, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with new memories and experiences. Aisha felt a surge of determination, a resolve to make this new chapter a happy one for her family.

With a heavy heart and a hopeful spirit, Aisha stepped out of the car and into their new home, ready to embrace the challenges and joys that lay ahead. The journey was far from over, but with her family by her side and a new home to call their own, Aisha knew they would find happiness and peace in this new beginning. Aisha began unpacking the car as her three children jumped out. Aisha's husband, Malik, was a tall, dark-skinned black man in his early 30s with a quiet demeanor and a muscular build. His loving personality shone through in the gentle way he cared for his family, always ready to lend a helping hand or a listening ear. Malik had a calming presence, a steady rock for Aisha to lean on in times of need.

The two had met in a bar in New York City, a chance encounter that had blossomed into a deep and meaningful connection. Malik had been drawn to Aisha's warmth and intelligence, her smile lighting up the room as they talked for hours, finding a kindred spirit in each other. It was a whirlwind romance that had led them to where they were now, embarking on a new chapter in their lives together.

Since the loss of their baby, Malik had noticed a change in Aisha. Her once vibrant spirit had been dimmed by grief, her smile not reaching her eyes as it once did. He could see the pain etched in her features, the weight of their loss heavy on her shoulders. Malik made it his mission to be there for Aisha, to support her through the difficult days and remind her that she was not alone in her sorrow. Their love was a beacon of light in the darkness, a source of strength and comfort as they navigated the ups and downs of life together. Their two daughters, Nia and Aaliyah, and their son, Malik Jr., were the lights of Aisha and Malik’s life. Each child bore a strong and beautiful African American name, a reflection of their rich heritage and the love that Aisha and her husband shared for their culture. Aisha adored her children, pouring her heart and soul into raising them with love, compassion, and guidance, ensuring that they grew up to be strong, confident individuals who would make a difference in the world. As Malik and Aisha pulled up to their house after a long day, the weight of their recent struggles hung heavy in the air. Malik turned to Aisha, his eyes filled with a mixture of determination and reassurance.

"It's all going to get better, Aisha," Malik said softly, his voice filled with conviction. "I promise you, we'll get through this together."

Aisha offered him a small, weary smile, the exhaustion of recent events etched on her face. "I hope so, Malik," she replied, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "I really do."

Malik reached out and gently squeezed her hand, offering her a silent source of strength and support. As they made their way inside, the love and resilience that bound them together served as a beacon of hope in the face of uncertainty, a reminder that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them as a team, united in their love and determination to overcome whatever obstacles life threw their way. As Aisha and Malik began unpacking the car, a sense of unease washed over Aisha, causing a chill to run down her spine. The feeling of being watched intensified, and when she turned around, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of a fair-skinned white man standing just a few feet away. His eyes bore into hers with an unsettling intensity, and his expression was devoid of any warmth or friendliness.

The man's appearance was unsettling, with a thin, angular face and piercing eyes that seemed to see right through her. His unkempt hair and scruffy beard only added to his eerie demeanor. Aisha felt a sense of danger emanating from him, and her instincts screamed at her to be cautious.

Without a hint of a smile, the man spoke in a flat, emotionless tone, "Moving in?" Aisha's breath caught in her throat as she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. He introduced himself as Officer Tom, but his presence only heightened her sense of foreboding.

Suddenly, as Aisha turned back to the car, the man made a sudden movement that startled her, causing her to let out a piercing scream. Malik, who had been inside the house, heard her cry of distress and came running out, his eyes filled with concern and alarm.

"What's wrong, Aisha? What happened?" Malik demanded, his protective instincts kicking in as he surveyed the scene before him. Aisha, shaken but relieved to see her husband, pointed a trembling finger at Officer Tom, struggling to find her voice.

As Malik approached the strange man, a tense confrontation ensued, with Aisha's unsettling encounter setting the tone for a series of unsettling events that would test the couple's strength and resilience in the face of unexpected danger. Aisha and Malik stood before Officer Tom, their unease palpable as they exchanged wary glances. The man's fake niceness was unsettling, his smile revealing a mouthful of yellow, rotten teeth marred by tobacco stains. Aisha and Malik instinctively took a step back, their instincts warning them of the danger lurking beneath the man's facade.

"We don't see too many of y'all around here," Officer Tom remarked casually, his tone laced with an underlying threat that sent a shiver down Aisha's spine. Aisha and Malik exchanged puzzled looks, unsure of what he meant by his cryptic statement.

"What do you mean, Officer?" Aisha asked, her voice steady despite the fear that coursed through her veins. Malik stood protectively by her side, his expression a mixture of concern and caution.

Officer Tom's smile widened, the sinister gleam in his eyes sending a chill down Aisha's back. "Just an observation," he replied nonchalantly, his words dripping with malice. "You two seem like outsiders, not from around these parts."

Aisha felt a surge of unease at the implications behind his words, a sense of foreboding settling in the pit of her stomach. Malik's jaw clenched, his protective instincts kicking into high gear as he stood in front of Aisha, shielding her from the man's unsettling presence.

As the conversation continued, the tension in the air thickened, leaving Aisha and Malik on edge, their minds racing with questions and fears about the true intentions of Officer Tom and the ominous warning he seemed to be delivering. The couple's instincts told them to tread carefully, to trust their gut instincts and stay vigilant in the face of a danger that lurked just beneath the surface. As Officer Tom's unsettling smile widened, Malik couldn't help but feel a surge of defiance rising within him. With a sly grin of his own, he replied, "Well, Officer, we'll be sure to keep that in mind. But I have a feeling we won't be needing to ring you up anytime soon. We tend to handle things around here just fine on our own."

Aisha, catching on to Malik's subtle defiance, couldn't help but feel a rush of admiration for her husband's quick wit. She stood a little taller, her eyes locking with Officer Tom's, a silent challenge brewing between them.

Officer Tom's smile faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing in response to Malik's confident demeanor. But just as quickly, the sinister grin returned to his face as he retorted, "Well, I'm the law around here, so you just give me a ring when you need to. Don't no one answer those phones but me," he said with a chilling finality, his words laced with a veiled threat.

Aisha and Malik exchanged a knowing glance, their silent communication speaking volumes. They understood the danger that lurked beneath Officer Tom's facade, his veiled threats only serving to heighten their sense of unease.

As Officer Tom turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the shadows, Aisha and Malik were left with a sense of foreboding that lingered in the air around them. They knew that they would have to tread carefully in this unfamiliar territory, trusting in their instincts and each other as they navigated the treacherous waters of a town where the law seemed to have a darker side. Aisha and Malik sat in the dimly lit living room, the events of the day still weighing heavily on their minds. Malik's anger simmered just beneath the surface, his jaw clenched as he recounted the encounter with Officer Tom and the subtle threats that had been directed towards them. Aisha listened intently, her brow furrowed in concern as she reached out to gently squeeze Malik's hand, offering him her unwavering support.

"I can't believe the nerve of that guy, Aisha," Malik seethed, his voice laced with frustration. "We need to do something about this. I won't stand by and let him intimidate us like that."

Aisha nodded, her eyes reflecting the determination that burned within her husband. "I agree, Malik. We need to take action to protect ourselves and our home."

As Malik paced back and forth, his mind racing with ideas on how to ensure their safety, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening in surprise. Walking over to the window, he peered outside and saw Officer Tom and his wife standing at their own window, watching them intently. Officer Tom had a drink in his hand, a smug expression on his face as he casually draped his arm around his wife's shoulders.

Malik's jaw clenched at the sight, a surge of anger coursing through him as he realized they were being watched. Turning back to Aisha, he gritted his teeth and declared, "We need to install cameras around the house, Aisha. We can't let them intimidate us any longer. It's time we take control of our own safety."

Aisha's eyes sparkled with determination as she nodded in agreement, her resolve matching Malik's own. Together, they would not be cowed by Officer Tom's threats, but instead, they would stand strong and united against any attempt to undermine their peace and security. They would not be intimidated, not when their home and their future were at stake. And as they looked out the window at Officer Tom and his wife, a silent challenge passed between them, a promise that they would not back down.

Chapter 2: Meet the Neighbors Aisha took a deep breath as she approached Officer Tom's wife, Karen, and the rest of the neighbors gathered in the cul-de-sac. She had been hesitant to engage with them, especially after the tense encounter with Officer Tom yesterday, but she knew it was important to try and establish some sort of relationship with her new neighbors.

As she greeted Karen and the others, Aisha couldn't help but notice the lack of diversity in the neighborhood. It was clear that she and her family were in the minority, with only one Hispanic family living nearby. They had kept to themselves, watching the interactions between Aisha and the other neighbors from a distance before retreating back into their home.

As the conversation flowed, Aisha found herself standing next to Karen, who had a condescending smile on her face. Aisha tried to keep her composure, the conversation was going great until one of the neighbors asked Aisha about cooking and she chose to share her recipe. Karen feeling unimportant interjected “I’m sure you know lots about seasoning and high blood pressure don’t ya?” Karen let out a laugh that came from her belly.

Stopping in her tracks, Aisha turned to face Karen, her eyes flashing with anger. "You know, Karen, Maybe I'll have to invite you over for dinner sometime so you can learn to season yourself , I’m sure you struggle with that don’t ya?" In an attempt to redirect the conversation one of the neighbors asks about Malik installing cameras around the house. Aisha glances over and sees her husband on a ladder putting up an outdoor camera, "We just wanna make sure we're safe,".

Karen: "Well, we don't usually have issues with hoodlums breaking in. I'm sure that's new for you all."

Aisha: "It's better to be safe than sorry, Karen. And I prefer not to use derogatory terms like 'hoodlums' to describe people. Let's all try to be respectful and understanding of each other, shall we?” The other neighbors shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension in the air. Aisha could see that some of them were starting to understand the underlying issues at play in their seemingly idyllic neighborhood. She knew that change wouldn't happen overnight, but she was determined to stand up for herself and her family, no matter what challenges they faced.

As the conversation moved on to safer topics, Aisha couldn't help but feel a sense of unease lingering in the air. She knew that her interactions with Karen and the other neighbors wouldn't be easy, but she was ready to confront the biases and prejudices that existed in their community. With Malik's new security system in place, Aisha hoped that they could at least find some peace of mind in their own home, even as they navigated the complexities of their new neighborhood. TO BE CONT...

Some still remember when the bombs fell—like rain, like inevitability, like the end. Screams echoed, stretched thin and hollow, their cries like a siren’s song, a lullaby for the damned. The fires swayed and snarled in the night, fueled by every sound, every final breath, a violent dance painted in red and shadow. The world burned itself away. No one will ever tell you how strangely beautiful it was, the way flames flickered like stars in ruin, constellations consuming the darkness.

Some were swallowed by it.

But eventually, night turns to day, the fires fade to embers, and only silence remains. Still, I hear that siren’s song. Still, I wander lost among the flames, drifting through a world long since turned to ash, where nothing feels real except the memory of what was—an echo of lives once lived, now fading like footprints in the dust. The ruins whisper, but no one answers.

I’ve come to understand that time, too, is a kind of fire. It burns, it erodes, it devours until nothing remains but the fragile remnants of who we were. In the silence, I’ve learned to listen not for what’s gone, but for what lingers beneath, in the cracks of forgotten things.

There is no sky left now, only a pall of gray that hangs heavy, a blanket that smothers even the wind. But even in this hollow place, the world continues its slow, deliberate decay.

I meet others here sometimes. Their eyes carry the same weight, the same absence, as if they too had been waiting for something, someone, to return from the ashes. But there is nothing to return to—only the slow erosion of the future, unraveling faster than the memory of the past can hold.

Sometimes, I think I can still hear the faintest hum of the old world beneath the rubble, as though its heartbeat hasn’t entirely ceased. And maybe, just maybe, that's why I keep walking, keep searching, though I know it's a fool's hope. What else is there, when the last light fades from the horizon and all that’s left is the soft murmur of a world forgotten?

...and yet, I still wander, searching for something I can’t name. The ruins grow more familiar each day, their edges softening as the years stretch on. The skeletal remains of buildings and broken roads curve like the empty pages of a forgotten story. Some days, I think I hear laughter, but when I turn, there’s nothing—only the whisper of wind through fractured glass or the rattle of rusted steel.

I’ve learned to live in this quiet, though it’s never peaceful. It’s a stillness that sticks to the air like smoke, a presence more haunting than any noise. I used to search for redemption, but in truth, I don’t know what I’m searching for anymore. It’s not salvation, not answers. Maybe it’s just... connection. A spark. Someone who remembers.

I pass through the remains of a city once vibrant—no, alive—with color, with life. Now, it’s just shades of gray, a stasis of ash and stone. The streets are cracked and sunken, the shops hollowed-out shells. Once, they sold things that made people smile—trinkets, bright things, items meant to bring joy. Now, those places are empty, their windows staring back at me like dead eyes. A thousand little stories buried beneath the dust.

There’s a flicker of movement ahead. I stop, heart quickening. For a moment, I think I see a figure—maybe a child, maybe a ghost. But it’s just the wind again, lifting the tattered remnants of some forgotten banner. It falls back to the ground in a soft flutter. No one else is here. Not truly.

I keep walking, because what else can I do? The shadows of the past stretch out before me, thickening with every step I take, but they don’t seem as heavy as they used to be. They no longer feel like a weight that could crush me. Perhaps that’s what time does—it blurs the sharp edges of grief until all you have left is the dull ache of it, the absence of what you once held dear.

It’s then that I hear it. Faint, almost imperceptible. A voice.

I first think it’s my mind playing tricks on me. But wait… There it is again, quieter than a breath but unmistakable. A whisper, carried on the wind.

“Come.”

I freeze. My pulse skips. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I scan the empty horizon, but there’s nothing—only the twisted and broken skeletons of the old world.

Here.

The voice is different this time—stronger, clearer. It feels like a thread pulled tight, a call through the dark.

I don’t know who... or what it is, but I follow.

Maybe it's foolish, maybe it's the last bit of hope in me, or maybe I’m just desperate for something, anything, that doesn’t feel like this endless, aching quiet. But I still follow.

Through crumbling alleyways and beneath the skeletal remains of old trees, I walk. The voice guides me, its cadence hauntingly familiar, like an old lullaby I once knew but can’t seem to remember.

And then, I find it.

A doorway, barely standing, hidden in the ruins of what was an old library. The hinges are rusted, the wood warped by time, and the paint long faded. But the door is open just enough to let the faintest of lights spill out into the shadows. For a moment, I hesitate. It's just too perfect, too unnatural in this place of decay and forgotten memories.

But the voice calls again, seemingly softer now, as if waiting for me.

Follow.

I step forward, drawn in, my movements almost not my own. The door creaks as I push it open, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade. Inside, the air is cool, tinged with the smell of old paper and dust.

I enter.

The room is small, the walls lined with shelves, each one brimming with forgotten books. There’s a single chair in the center, worn thin, as though waiting for someone to sit. And across from it, standing in the dim light, is a figure.

It’s… them.

I know it’s them. I don’t need to see the face, don’t need to remember the specifics of their body’s shape. I just know. Their presence is both a comfort and heartbreak, a bitter reminder of all the things that have been lost.

I thought you were gone, I think, but the words get caught in my throat.

The figure smiles, a faint, familiar curve of lips. There’s nothing more to say. The past doesn’t need to be spoken. We’ve both been walking through this world of ruin, following the same invisible thread. Searching for the same thing.

In the silence between us, the faint hum of the old world rises again—not in words, but in something deeper. A resonance. A heartbeat.

I don’t know what happens next. But maybe, for once, I don’t need to. We sit together, the room around us full of forgotten stories and memories, the air vibrating with the soft hum of a world that still remembers.

And for the first time in what feels like eternity, I don’t feel quite so alone

O elders! O comrades slumbering! We are undone. My wounds are trailing red down cavern steps—the cords that bind my flesh have failed to stem the bleeding.

They are behind me—bellowing, smashing, clattering. By their hands are all my waking comrades dead. I claw and crawl, inch by inch, and know not how I stay ahead.

Are they afraid? Those worshipers of the sky, for whom the high places are holy? Do they hesitate to come below?

Maybe they believe you will help me, sleeping ones. They do not understand. One day you will wake—tear desiccated limbs from your caskets and walk in a perfect world. But you are not like the sky-cult's dead, not set adrift in the air as smoke and ash, nor cast into spirits to aid the living.

If only you were! I can even understand their delusions. My fingers are cut, and filled with dirt and soot as they drag me forward. The rough-hewn ground cracks my nails. How sweet it would be, if there was some vital power you could extend through the stone, to charge me with strength for this last agonizing task.

But no. You have all passed from this time, and cannot help me. It is I who must serve you instead. Reach the future, sleeping ones! Waken into that place, where the souls of folk are fair and food is plenty. Not something inexplicable, no paradise in unreachable height, but what you promised we would build one day, and our welcome into it the reward for beginning, these foul days so long ago from then.

It is too late for me. There is no time to die well. No time to drink the sacred salt solution, or to suspend myself above the smoke of the great furnace until all the rot is blown out of my corpse. My brothers and sisters who might have helped are all slaughtered upstairs.

The fires have but one purpose remaining. Finally I come to the great iron door. I hear our foes nearer—swiftly now! Wedging my crippled body into the gap I push. Hot iron sears my skin red, then black. Shrill screaming rises from my throat and the metal on stone alike. Then, with my last effort, the blasting powder is into the inferno.

O sleeping ones! I will never even see your tranquil chamber again, for the rocks are burning and crumbling about me. Here the enemy is, just in time, for all to wrench apart and fall upon them as well! Will you hear it, even echoing down the centuries, all the despair of these fell things you have left behind? Remember me if you can, comrades! Find of me what you can when you wake. I could not be one of you—could not go with you to that place, that time that is to come. But please, if there is anything in intent, anything in virtue, let some small part of me go with you, away from the horror of this life.

It was a cold and dark Wednesday when I heard the news. I could barely maintain my composure as the voice rattled on and on.

With a final goodbye, I hung up.

And broke down.

​

The me before him would have scoffed at how we met. And at first glance, it sounded straight out of a movie, but sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction.

I met him before we even knew about each other.

He always chuckled when I brought up this story, but it seemed, to me, a serendipitous meeting.

We were visiting the Cologne Cathedral, my parents and I. They took a few pictures of me before the cathedral.

As the bells rang, a boy ran into the frame, chasing away the pigeons, and my parents took the picture right then.

That’s how we met.

​

Of course, that’s not how we met at first. Our first proper meeting wouldn’t be until a good few years after, when I was a high school sophomore.

“Alright, class. Before we begin, we have a new student in the class. Oliver, please come up here and introduce yourself,” our English teacher at the time, Mrs. Rose, started one sunny Thursday.

He came up to the front, and did his whole introduction spiel. Even though he stood about a head higher than most of us, there was something… disarming about him. He seemed almost… awkward, and he chose, nay, agonized over each choice of word. I would have thought he had rehearsed this charade, were it not for his demeanor: a distinct feeling of a fish out of water.

After his introduction, Mrs. Rose sat him beside me. “She can help you with your missed weeks.”

He quietly nodded.

​

At lunch, he asked if I could help him get started, and I agreed.

We set ourselves down at a picnic table, under the quickly-changing leaves of fall. Over our respective lunch, I would help him with catching up.

He proved to be a quick study.

“I’ve always been fascinated with his works,” he declared when we talked about Orwell.

“How so? Most of his works seem… dystopian at best,” I responded.

“Precisely!” he pointed at the book. “Most of what we read is black-and-white, where good triumphs and prevails, and bad gets punished. With him, everything is gray. As good as Winston was, he stepped out of line, so he was punished. As bad as Napoleon was, he became the one in power, and he prevailed.”

​

It wasn’t long before we struck up a conversation proper, one that is untied to schoolwork.

Funnily enough, I was the one who started.

“So what do your parents do?” I asked him one day, after we were done debating about our newest author for the umpteenth time.

“It’s… hard to explain, really,” he replied, his brown eyes looking away from me and into the forest.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” I pleaded.

“You wouldn’t tell?” he asked, looking back at me incredulously.

In response, I do the zipping motion over my mouth. And then mime putting a padlock over it, just to be safe.

That was the first secret I kept of him.

​

During one of our school’s multiple-day excursions, I asked him out under the shade of the grand oak. I would love to think it was a more romantic thing, but it was anything but. It was more a declaration than a question, a naive certainty that surely, surely he felt the same way.

“I… I’m gonna need a few days,” he said instead.

It wasn’t a rejection. But it sure felt like it.

​

A few nights later, we were back in our normal surroundings, and I thought that moment had been forgotten.

A small rock tapped on my window.

I looked outside, and there he was, standing in our front lawn.

He motioned for me to open the window.

I did so, and he kneeled down on one knee, and gave his answer.

“Yes, I will be your boyfriend, Robin.”

​

I was on cloud nine for a whole week after that. I cared not who could see me, I was just floating.

Days and months passed by as if in a dream. We went out more and more, and everyone at the school thought we would be the high school sweethearts.

At that time, I definitely thought so too.

​

We had our own plans after high school: I wanted to go to MIT, nearly halfway across the country, and he wanted to attend a local college. We said we would keep in touch, and for a while, we did.

Alas, we both got wrapped up in our own sphere, and the messages slowed to a crawl. And then one day, it just… stopped.

When I finished my sophomore year, I went back home for the summer. But when I got back, his family had already moved out, and nobody, not even my parents, knew where they went.

​

I blinked back tears on the bus, and stared at the roadside scenery whipping by. Even though we didn’t break up, it still hurt. I stared at that crack in my soul, and I wondered how I could move on.

Back at the university, I threw myself into work harder than I ever did. The intensity of which I worked seemed to frighten some of my peers. They kept telling me to take it easy, and go out sometimes, but all that fell on deaf ears.

I thought that it would help me forget about him, but at night, when I was not working, when I stared at the ceiling of my room in another sleepless night, all I could see was his face, his brown eyes looking at me tenderly, floating over me like a guardian angel. He would talk to me sometimes in my dreams, and my hopes would rise, but then the morning would come like a sharp bite of reality, and he would then be lost to the dreaming world.

​

It was my senior year, I remembered, that someone asked me out. We chatted, and instantly I felt a connection. Not wanting to lose a relationship again, I did everything I could.

Which makes his words all the more cutting.

“I think… I think it would be better if we don’t see each other anymore.”

​

After I graduated, I got a job as a web developer for a big start-up, and for a while, life seemed to be quite alright. I went back to my hometown several times over the years, probably most significantly to attend dad’s funeral.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that I sobbed like a baby. I could barely look at him in the coffin, and when he was lowered into the ground, the dam burst.

I stayed with mom for a while after the funeral. With life pulling the rug out from underneath us, we were… at a loss. At that time, it was like trying to go out on the water in a storm.

Our neighbors were the biggest help during that emotionally-fraught period, especially the father. He made sure we could get back on our own feet, and I’m eternally grateful for that.

I should visit him some time. Last I heard, he was in hospice, but it had been a while since I last visited.

​

I returned to work after a few weeks of bereavement leave. Most of my colleagues, having heard what happened, shared their condolences. I smiled and nodded my thanks, but everything felt numb.

The first thing I heard when I got back was that management had hired a new guy for the team. From other members of the team, he was a hard-working individual, sometimes smart, but often needing a bit of hand holding at the start before he could work on it solo.

That Monday morning, as I pushed my way through the revolving doors, a tall man was talking to the receptionist.

“Hi Robin!” she waved at me.

“Hi Aver—”

The greeting died on my lips as he turned back to look at me.

The sharp brown eyes, the messy mop of hair, the blue-rimmed glasses.

There was no mistaking it.

​

We sat down in a cafe shop in the building.

“Fancy seeing you here, Robin,” he started.

“Oliver, how…” I stammered. There was no way. It just couldn’t be.

“If you mean how I got a job here, it was recommended,” he answered. “A friend in university.”

“Is it one of our managers?” I asked, confused.

“Not sure, really. Think his name is James or something like that,” he wrinkled his eyebrows in concentration. “James, Jamie, something like that.”

“Jamie,” I suggested. He was lead of web development for the company.

“Something of the kind, yes.”

I took a sip of the white coffee while he sipped his fruit tea.

“Your family moved away,” I stated.

He nodded, “Mom was getting worse and worse. We argued, Dad and I, about whether she should be sent to hospice care. That conversation made me realize that as nice as our little town was, it was too far from any major hospital. And if anything happened to her, I’m not sure I can take it.”

He stared pensively into his tea. The peach slices bobbed up and down alongside the ice.

“So we moved out West, to an uncle of mine on my father’s side. We stayed there until Mom died.”

A tear rolled down his face.

“It was hard to watch as she got closer and closer to death’s door. Dad and I, we did everything we could to make her comfortable. And then one day, she’s just… gone.”

I nodded. Hesitantly, I pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to him.

“Thanks, Robin,” he said, before blowing his nose.

He hiccupped, “She never wanted… anything glamorous for… when she was gone, so we… had a small funeral, and then… cremated her. We still keep her ashes.”

I nodded understandingly, and moved my chair closer to him to pat on his shoulder.

He gave me a hug.

I was surprised at first, but I hugged him back.

“There, there. Let it all out now,” I whispered in his ear.

​

In time, I told him about what I did between now and then. It was like we picked up right where we left off. He was still that boy I remembered all those years ago, just buried under the mundanity of modern life.

Our wedding, which our parent (his dad, my mom) attended, was a quiet affair. We then went on a two-week honeymoon, after which we went back to work with our respective pacings.

After our wedding, our respective parent moved in together. We were happy for them, and for a while, that was our household.

Autumns came and went, and our parents eventually reunited with their significant other in death. By then, we were successful enough that an early retirement was an option, and we did so.

The question of having children was brought up a few times, but I shot it down. As a compromise, we decided to adopt a child, Ash. She had been most wonderful, and I could not ask for anyone better.

​

It started slowly with him. It was just small things at first: house keys, remote, and then it got bigger: a friend’s birthday, our anniversary, the combination to the safe.

I could do nothing but watch as he slowly faded away into nothingness. Ash, bless her soul, did everything she could to help him. It hardly staved off the descent, but I liked to think it helped, just a little bit.

One day, he fell down the stairs of our house. He was rushed to the hospital.

​

Ash drove me to the hospital to see him in those final days.

He was laying down in his bed, wires and tubes and who-knows-what wrapped around him like a cocoon of medicine. A small smile escaped his lips.

“Hello, Ash,” he nodded at her.

“Hi dad. Brought mom with me today,” she beamed.

“Oh.”

He sat up a bit straighter, and turned to look at me.

“R-Robin, was it?”

I nodded tearfully.

He gestured for Ash to grab me a tissue.

“D-don’t cry, dear—” his whole frame shook with a cough. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” he smiled weakly.

I smiled back.

For a while, we just sat there in silence.

​

The drive home was unbearable.

Despite the radio, I was still alone with my thoughts.

​

As we were eating dinner, the landline rang.

A pit started to form in my chest.

“I’m gonna answer,” Ash stood up.

“Ash, you sit right there, young lady. I will answer.”

I walked over to the phone, and picked it up.

“Ms. Gray?” a voice asked hesitantly.

“Mrs. Gray, actually,” I answered.

​

A few days later, I went in his study.

A letter was placed neatly on the desk.

I looked at it closer.

It was to me.

I opened the letter. There was no mistaking the loopy style of his handwriting. I sat down in his chair, and started reading.

“Darling,

If you find this, I will have joined our parents in heaven.

Don’t cry for me, for the truth (and you know this) is that I never leave you.

As you are reading this, I imagine you must have a lot to say. A lot between us was left unsaid, only to be understood in a different light.

Let me tell you, first and foremost, that I love you. I know, it sounds all cheesy and whatnot, but it’s true. It was never in doubt in my mind that you are the most beautiful person, and it shall stay that way.

Like a beam of light, you came into my life, and warmed me from inside.

When I first met you, I was completely enamored with you. Who wouldn’t be? You’re kind, funny and generally just a great person to be with. Even as I write these lines, I still find myself blushing at the memory.

I was taken aback when you asked me out. Under the grand oak tree, I was, simply put, at a loss for words. I thought I would be the one to ask you out. Got a plan and everything. And then you did, and I was lost.

The talk with my parents afterwards was… interesting, to say the least.

Having only known you as a friend, I don’t want to ruin that thread we have between us.

You were… the best person I could have found, Robin. You are my anchor, my steady hand through the ups and downs of life.

Others can say whatever they want, but that’s what I believe.

Unless there was an irrevocable difference?

I’ve lived a full life, one with not many regrets. As I go to chase the next great adventure of death, let the record show that I don’t regret meeting you, Robin Gray. Give me another chance, and I’ll do it all with you.”

The evening's red turned to a gale the color of ink with waves as tall as several houses stacked on end. The Noreaster had come out of nowhere and now I was adrift without power, far too many miles underway to see the Rockland light. The last thing I remember was a green flash that illuminated the cabin for just a second before the frigid ocean crashed through the windows and I was pulled out to sea.

Impossibly I woke face down in the surf, my skin raw and lungs burning as water left my mouth. It was morning I suppose and the sun was just below the eastern horizon beneath the water's edge.

“Are you alright,” an angel's voice called to me, her face silhouetted from the rising sun.

I didn't know the answer but figured dead was not the case. She helped me to my feet and we staggered up the rugged pathway to the outcrop which overlooked the stony beach. When we got to the summit a grand lighthouse like none I'd ever seen reached into the sky, a twist of black on white with a crystal light that still shined against the twilight of morn.

Her cottage beside the light was made of stone from the nearby cliffs, chucks of shale slathered together with mortar from the mainland. Smoke billowed from the tapered chimney and a hint of burning wood lay in the air. When we stumbled inside she guided me to a squat leather chair beside a Franklin stove stoked to the gills and the heat from it warmed me to my bones. She lay a blanket over me and I drifted off to my dreams.

I woke up again on the deck of the Coast Guard chopper as it touched down on an airfield outside of Rockland. The crewman was startled when I leapt up, his face as if he'd seem a ghost.

“Where is she?” I asked with haste.

“Who?” He yelled back over the roar of the blades.

“The lighthouse keeper, where is she? I never got to thank her.”

He was silent as we taxied in, unable or unwilling to answer. Finally he managed to explain, “Sir, there is no lighthouse anywhere near where your vessel went down. The Rockland light was dismantled years ago, got too damaged in a storm. They replaced it with GPS navigation beacons…”

The rest of his words blended with the chaos and noise which swirled around me, lost as she was to the storm.

I learned later the crewman was telling the truth. Twenty years before a hurricane had destroyed the lighthouse. Sadly the keeper had stayed behind to make sure wayward sailor made it home but she was never seen or heard from again.

To this day, every time I leave port I slow at the jagged island far beyond the bay. I cannot see her but I feel she is there watching as I slowly chug away. Maybe someday we will meet again but perhaps not for another life.

Oliver found himself in a white room.

A hooded figure sat at the lone table in the middle.

“Oliver, was it?” the figure rasped.

He turned around in surprise, “Yes, but who are you?”

The figure laughed, “Unimportant right now.” It gestured to the chair opposite. “Why won’t you take a seat, and we can talk a little bit, eh?”

He looked at the figure, eyebrows raised, but sat down all the same.

“That’s more like it,” the figure muttered.

Two cups materialized on the table.

“Tea or coffee?” asked the figure.

“Tea would do, thanks,” said Oliver.

The cups filled with a light yellow liquid.

“So, Oliver Graves, right? Just making sure I have the right person this time,” the figure started, flipping a clipboard.

“Yes,” he answered. This feels distinctly like an interview, he thought.

“Don’t worry, it’s not an interview as much as it is a chat,” said the figure.

You can hear my thoughts?! he thought.

“You don’t mind if I record this, right?” asked the figure, ignoring the question.

“N-no, not at all,” answered Oliver.

The figure put a voice recorder on the table, and started the recording.

“Today is the 7th day of Leaf Fall, of the year 2024. I am Marzanna, and sitting across from me is Oliver Graves. Oliver, can you affirm your presence?”

“Uh, yes. I am Oliver Graves.”

“Now, Mr. Graves, I have a stack of cards here. Please pick a card, any card.”

Marzanna spread the cards on the table. There were six cards in total.

Oliver picked the one on the far right.

“Alright, Mr. Graves, the first question: Do you regret anything in your life?”

Oliver pondered the question for a few minutes.

“A few, but too few to mention, I would say. Of course, being human, one has to have regrets. In fact, I have yet to see a human who doesn’t have regrets. At least in my life, of course.”

“Of course, of course,” Marzanna nodded. She gestured at the cards.

He pointed at the far left card.

“Do you fear death?” she read.

“As, like, a concept? No, I don’t think I do.”

“Can you elaborate on that, Oliver?”

He takes a sip of the tea.

“It’s very simple. The way I see it, death is but a small step on an adventure. You die, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that you are out of the race. You’ve played your role, and now you get to enjoy a little bit of resting before going back into the fray.”

“I see. So death is just the start of a new journey?” Marzanna asked.

“Yes, yes it is,” he nodded.

She gestured at the cards.

This time, he picked the center card.

“Ooh, you’ll like this.”

Marzanna passed him a blue pen and a piece of paper. When he touched her skin, it was cold as ice.

“Without thinking too hard about it, write down as many words you associate with death. Two minutes sound good to you, Mr. Graves?”

He nodded, and started writing.

​

“Darkness, light, sadness, grief, end, beginning, decay, and past,” Marzanna read out.

He nodded.

Using a red pen, she circled “darkness”, “sadness”, “grief”, “end”, “decay”, and “past” and showed it to Oliver.

“Do you think it weird that the language you speak have so many negative connotations when it comes to death, Mr. Graves?”

“Hardly,” he smiled. “I trust that in most languages, it will be the same, since nobody knows what happens after someone dies. And people fear what they don’t know.”

“That is true,” Marzanna muttered quietly.

A bell rang then. Marzanna paused the recording.

“You want to rest a bit, Mr. Graves? Talk to your family, have a drink, anything?”

“Yeah, talking to family seems nice.”

​

He woke up in bed. The nurse was saying something.

“— fifteen minutes.”

Two people entered the room. A young girl, probably in her early 20s, and an old woman, probably as old as he was.

“Hi dad. Brought mom with me today,” the younger one beamed.

Right, my family.

“Hello Ash,” Oliver smiled.

The older one stepped forward. He racked his brains.

“And… uh… Robin, was it?”

She nodded and started crying. Oliver gestured for Ash to give her a tissue.

“There, there,” he tried to reach out, but the wires and tubes entangled me, forcing my arm back. “Don’t cry, dear. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

She tearfully nodded.

For a while, they just sat there in silence. Family had always been one of his pillars to lean on, and this time was no exception.

Mr. Graves? We should go back soon. I heard Marzanna.

Give us a few more minutes, Marzanna.

​

“Thank you, Marzanna. I really needed that,” Oliver smiled at the hooded figure.

“No problem, Mr. Graves, no problem at all. Shall we?”

The cards were where he left them. He picked the middle card.

“Was death a frequent topic in your family?” she read out.

“Considering my parents’ work, it is something that has been brought up a lot. I attended a lot of funerals in my childhood, and my parents, they never really tiptoed around the subject.”

He took a sip of the warm tea, and continued.

“I remember we had a pet, an orange tabby I named Maya. She was a bit of a troublesome one, but we loved her all the same. One day, I discovered her laying next to the bowls, not moving, and I called out for my dad. He came and prodded her with a stick, then instructed me to find a cardboard box for her. We buried her that night in our backyard.”

She nodded, “It’s always hard when a loved one passes. Doesn’t matter if it’s a person or a pet, it’s always hard, and it never gets any easier.”

Oliver took a deep breath, and picked the left card.

“Do you believe in a higher power?”

He shook his head and sighed.

“Never find it of much use. Not to say that I denounce it, but I don’t find it of much use when death is staring me in the face.”

“Understood,” said Marzanna.

Without prompting, she picked up the last card.

“Are you ready to go on your next great adventure?”

He finished the tea.

​

Marzanna sat down in her little office.

Peter poked his head in, “Hey, Marz, how did the chat go?”

“Definitely something to think about, Peter. He’s not afraid,” she smiled.

“That’s a relief. Usually they don’t really take it well”

“Usually, but not him,” she agreed. “A pity we are not currently in need of a Reaper, ‘cause he would do quite well, I imagine. A comforting presence, a philosophical mind, and a great yarn spinner. Hard to find that combination these days.”

​

A message appeared on David, head of HR’s laptop.

Marzanna: Oliver Graves, new hire?

It was August when we first met. Do you remember?

Time has spun into a skein since then, and perhaps with distance the line between fiction and reality has blurred. But I’ve always thought that was just you. You were particularly fearless back then, weren’t you? Not a care for consequence.

And so my memory of that day is a patchwork, set out and displayed in contrasts.

My eyes remember that the sunset painted everything in the palette of a fire, pulling jewel tones from mundanity, transforming even the drabbest hues. Pink and orange and red glinting off a deep, sapphire sea. Topaz sand, glittering underfoot. The sky, still holding onto a lapis blue.

It was warm, something in the jewel-tone sky, the glittering sea tries to insist. One of those perfectly warm, perfectly clear August days that caresses your skin and lingers into evening like a kiss.

But something yet deeper remembers elsewise. In the depths of my mind are flashes of gooseflesh, hairs standing at attention as the relentless sea breeze picks up and sends any exposed bit of skin into fits of prickles. Something remembers the tactile squish of wet socks in sodden sneakers that had never gotten the chance to properly dry after being caught in a sudden downpour that afternoon.

I hated you for that at the time. Hated you for the fact that I couldn’t even remember the weather properly, hated that you’d messed with my head just by being there.

Hated you for making me doubt myself.

Hated you for being so beautiful that you made me wonder if it was me who edited my memories into their most perfect incarnations.

But now, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter if it was a perfect end to a perfect day or if I was crossly wandering the beach with sodden, squelching shoes.

Because at the end of it all, at the end of that sunset, as the lip of the sea slowly began to swallow up the scattered leavings of low tide, was you. Washed ashore in a tangle of seaweed and driftwood, blood matting salt-snarled hair around a gaping wound. Precariously balanced in the jaws of the sea.

Eyes like the lure of an anglerfish met mine.

”Help me,” you begged. “Help me.”

I’ve always known you for what you were, even back then. How could I not, when the same tide that brought you was filled with torn and broken feathers, when the wings you’d illused into nothingness seeped more blood than the rest of your visible injuries combined?

How could I not, when merely a glance and two words made me instinctually want to overturn the world for you?

You must have known me for what I was, too. Your kind always says that my folk deal with so much killing that it seeps into our skin and we can’t help but smell of blood. I smell of blood too. I’ve been told that it clings to me, wafting like an iron-scented shroud, undeniably announcing the reaper’s presence. You couldn’t not notice. Even if, somehow, you were too injured, too close to the cliff of consciousness at the sea’s edge to catch that peculiar, acrid tang at the back of your throat, you certainly noticed it when you woke up in my bed the next day—clean and bandaged—and rode a brief swell of surprise before smiling and pretending you’d merely been caught up in a boating accident.

Don’t hate yourself too much for lying, okay? It’s not really deception if you’re the only one who thinks you’re hidden. Besides, you were right to do it. You were you and I was me, and the only reasonable answer for why you were still alive in front of me—me, one smelling so strongly of blood I ought to be dripping with it—would be my ignorance.

If anything, I was more surprised than you when I found that I hadn’t killed you, that evening on the beach. I wanted to. When your eyes first sank shut and the unconscious compulsion you’d been seeping slipped, the ever-present bloodlust rushed forth in a geyser to replace enthralled fascination.

But I was curious. Curious enough to temporarily pack away my need to sink a knife into your heart.

It’s not every day that a monster asks their hunter for help.

Of the two of us, I sometimes wonder which one is really the monster.

I didn’t wonder then, but I do now. Your folk can put away your feathers and your fangs, can sheath your claws and glamor yourself into normalcy. After all, how could you be the monster, when you treated me to dinner for saving you, even knowing what I am? When your smile wasn’t even forced, when you turned your charm back until you were nothing more than a slightly likable person, when I felt the rush of air as an invisible and most certainly still-injured wing flared out to fend off the splashing puddle of a passing car? Yes, how could someone like that be the monster?

You and yours will always be beautiful and dangerous. But like a knife, the danger is in the choosing.

A knife can just as easily be used to carve art as shred flesh.

But I and my kind are like cats. There is nothing about us on the outside to suggest that we are a danger. We are well-fed and lazy, and there is no reason for us to hunt. Then someone like you crosses our path. A hapless bird, perfectly in reach.

It’s more instinct than choosing. It’s the rush of blood at the sight of fluttering feathers, the need to wait and watch and stalk. The need to leap out at the last second, curving claws and teeth ready to tear. It is the thrill of the hunt, the pounce, the game.

There is no choosing in the danger I pose. Cats do not make friends with birds.

I thought of our acquaintance as a game, too. A strange play, to see how long you could keep pretending. To see if I could secretly uncover what brought you to your knees at the edge of the sea, a place that should have been your domain, where nothing ought to be as powerful as you.

And then when the game was up, I would simply catch the bird as instinct demanded.

But you drank cocoa and couldn’t stand the bitter taste of coffee. You liked science fiction and made weekly trips to the library and never stopped painting the ever-changing canvas of the sea.

I played my game and our meetings continued and you kept walking into my life willingly. Willingly! So seemingly oblivious to the danger at your door. You had to have known, but why? Why would you come closer to the monster who cared nothing for your life and had all but planned your death?

Yet, you did come closer, walking into my life and shedding downy feathers to make a nest around my heart.

It confused me. You confused me. But I didn’t want to consider it, didn’t want to pry it apart and understand it, so I left it be. Kept playing the game I’d started and no longer quite knew how to finish.

I just didn’t expect my game to end so soon. Tendrils of the truth were beginning to show past the front you’d put up. Your community wasn’t as united as I’d thought. There were, of course, those like you, who hid their wings and crammed clawed feet into shoes every day in order to take advantage of everything that humans have built. There were those like you who only wanted to dance in the sea.

And there were those who thought that anyone who hid what they truly were was an affront. Thought that anything that prevented complete authenticity was worse.

They’d tried to kill you, that perfect, terrible August eve on the beach. Would have succeeded, had you not met me.

The game was up. I’d found my answer. But when I turned to the next step, the kill I’d wanted to make all along, that deed I had barely kept myself from doing for the first part of our acquaintance?

I didn’t want to anymore. Your rustling feathers, perfectly in reach, didn’t spur the same rush of blood to my head, didn’t spark the thrill of the hunt. The bloodlust had died and fondness had sprouted in its place.

Somehow the cat had made friends with a bird.

But what next? The game was over, but I didn’t want to leave you behind. Should I fess up? Should I admit that I knew what you were, had always known? Or should I just let it—whatever this relationship was—continue as it had, never waking up from the dream? I thought I’d have more time to think, thought I could work out my conundrum and take as long as I needed.

But they tried to kill you again.

Tried to kill me.

They came for us as we sat on the beach on another after-rain summer evening, erupting from the waves in a fury of feathers and claws and fangs.

Why did you shield me?

You knew what I was, knew from my bloody scent that I’d killed creatures far worse, far more terrifying than them. You could have let them by, and I would have easily dodged and fought them off in a heartbeat.

But you didn’t.

You hugged me and silently turned your back to the screeches, the slashing, crashing claws, and I couldn’t do anything.

Couldn’t do anything but freeze in shock as your blood soaked my shirt and you fell away from me. Falling, still smiling.

Maybe you didn’t want to wake up from the dream, either.

The bloodlust reignited, but it was different this time. Hotter. Angrier. Like the roaring of a barely-contained furnace.

I killed them. Killed them just like I’d always done before I met you.

But why do I feel like this? Why did their deaths bring only emptiness, why was it that I no longer cared as they stopped moving and my vision filled with you?

Why was it that I only knew my answer to my question as I held your bleeding body and listened to the breath still flowing in your lungs, felt the faint but clear pulse at your wrist?

Back then, I thought your life—your heart—was mine for the taking, that my knife could dart in, could easily end you at any time.

In the end it was you that took mine.

Please. Won’t you open your eyes again?

I can’t bear to watch my bird fly away.

r/chanceofwords

I recently turned 40, and I've had a pretty interesting life. Married, 4 kids and a stable career. Unfortunately during a check up, I was told I was overweight. Wanting to live to see my grandkids, I decided I'd do something about it. Everyday after work I traveled to a local nature trail. There I tried to walk at least a mile before going home. Between the serene sights of the forest and listening to music. It became a peaceful stroll i looked forward to everyday. After changing some eating habits, I was relieved to see the weight come off. But I wasn't finished, after losing twenty pounds I didn't plan on stopping. One day after work I once again planned to go walk.

This time however, I noticed something different. A little ways down from the usual wooded path I took, was yet another trail. I hadn't noticed it before, but maybe it was new. I didn't see any signs or human activity, but I figured why not. A change of scenery might be nice every once in a while. So I put in my ear buds and began my trek. As I started, I couldn't help but notice a few things. The usual trail had signs pointing you in the right direction and a wooden track to walk on. This one was only a grassy path surrounded by thick woods. It was odd but I shrugged and kept going.

With the oldies blaring in my ears, I was able to go over a mile. Now drenched in sweat and having a feeling of accomplishment. I was heading home with my head held high. While walking back, I failed to notice how deep I went. As the trail looked exactly the same. Getting tired, I was hoping that I'd see the end soon. But it just kept going, showing no signs of an exit. Looking up at the sky, I could see it was getting late. Feeling concerned, I pulled out my phone to call my wife and check in. Much to my chagrin, I had absolutely no cell service. With no other choice, I had to keep pushing forward.

I walked and walked till I was out of breath, but still no exit. I'd sit on the ground trying to catch my breath and figure out an explanation. I definitely don't remember walking this far, did I take another path? No that was impossible, the entire trail was a straight line! Maybe I got carried away and lost in my tunes. Perhaps I had a burst of energy and went farther than expected. So I stood back up and continued my trek back. I noticed the moon starting to become visible, giving the sky a dark blue glow. It wouldn't be long until nightfall and I definitely didn't want to be out here. I prayed that I'd see civilization again soon.

After what seemed like an hour, I was still out here! I was so tired and the path showed no signs of changing. Where the heck was i, why was this happening? I know I didn't walk that far, I'm almost three hundred pounds. Under normal circumstances I could've called for help, but not only did my phone have no service. It was now dead, the battery completely drained. It's safe to say I was beginning to panic. Here I am lost in the woods and now it's pitch black dark. I couldn't hear anything, I didn't see anyone…this was getting scary. But even though things were looking bad, cooler heads always prevail. So I glanced over at the woods next to me and got an idea. Since this path wouldn't end, maybe the forest would lead to an exit.

So I left the trail and started pushing through the thick brush. I could feel the briars sticking into my flesh and twigs cracking beneath my feet. I was so tired; praying that I was close to getting out of here. I wanted to go home and get something to drink, as well as explain myself to the wife. Just thinking about it gave me a sliver of hope. Unfortunately, I soon broke through the thick shrubbery. What I saw before me was the same path I had started on. The same path I had walked for hours, I was back on it. Now panicking like never before, I ran through the trees once again.

I don't know how, but maybe I got turned around while having to snap branches. Perhaps I just went in a big circle, regardless I was getting desperate. As I began yelling at the top of my lungs. Screaming out hoping that someone would hear me. I hollered until I was out of breath, I didn't hear anything in reply. I fell to my knees, feeling completely defeated. Something wasn't right, I didn't know where I was but it wasn't a nature trail. It felt like I was an ant trying to find my way out of a maze, like someone was toying with me. This was still earth right, not some gateway to hell?

My breathing got harder, this time out of sheer terror. I started to hyperventilate, swearing the woods were closing in around me. I wanted to see my wife again, my children…even my grouchy boss. I didn't want to die out here!! I stood up once more and slapped myself to fight the panic. I had to make it out, there was no other option…so I ran. I ran and didn't stop, tearing through the thorns and vines ignoring every sting. My heart was beating so fast, but I wasn't stopping until I found a way out. As the adrenaline flowed I forgot how exhausted I was. I kept coming back onto that godforsaken trail but I wasn't giving up. I closed my eyes and kept running, not letting even death knock me down.

After what seemed like forever, I ran into something hard. So hard that I let out a yell and hit the ground. As I opened my eyes, I was met with a ticked off policeman. He let out a pained groan before shining his flashlight in my face. As our eyes met, his jaw dropped. He quickly grabbed his walkie talkie and called for backup. The officer explained to me that I had been missing and my wife called them for help. When he told me how long I'd been gone, I nearly fainted. The man said that I had vanished for four days straight; and that my family was worried sick. He said that search parties had been formed and signs were hung up.

He told me they had started to lose hope before I ran into him. Back at the station I was reunited with my beautiful family. I hugged my kids so tight and gave my wife the biggest kiss. With tears in their eyes, they begged for an explanation. When I told them what happened, I could tell they didn't believe me. But seeing my cut up legs and sweat soaked clothes was a pretty good argument. The cops would even give me a breathalyzer test to see if I was drunk. When it came back negative, everyone was confused. Since my explanation wasn't winning them over, I decided to show them the trail. The next day my wife and two officers followed me to the path. I knew I wasn't crazy or a drunk, and they were about to find out.

But as we arrived, I want you to guess what happened. The path wasn't there, instead only thick woods. The breath left my lungs, I absolutely couldn't believe it. Where did it go, it was right here yesterday…what was going on? While I stood speechless, my wife and the cops gave me an odd look. My wife told me that I must've been tired; that my job was getting to me. She said I needed to take some time off and relax. But I shook my head and persisted, this couldn't be happening.

What happened to me, where had I gone for all that time…nothing made sense. I was brought home and told to rest, everyone gave me sympathetic looks. As time went on things went back to normal, but I'd never forget. Something strange happened in those woods and I never got any answers. One thing was for sure, I ended up joining a gym like a normal person.

From the moment I could walk, I have been corrected.

I walk with grace, with poise.

From the moment I could grasp, I have been handed objects.

Clothes to fold, dinner to cook, children to hold, rags to clean.

I have learned.

Respect and listen to father, for he is a man. He is above you.

Always follow his words, for he knows best.

My favorite book is a cookbook, but I indulge in sewing pattern books if I feel adventurous.

There is no need for more then that.

That is what father says.

If I am sick, I must power through.

Father does not need to waste precious money on me.

I remain joyful, content.

Father knows what is best for me.

A smiling wife is what every man desires, he says.

A woman is only a burden to be carried by a man.

You are nothing without your husband.

Obey and be silent.

Do not question, correct, or be negative.

A woman should be the most beautiful porcelain doll a man has ever seen.

My father wants the best for me.

His words are the truth.

I must follow them.

Men work very hard.

I must support my father. I have no problems.

I will never have problems For I will be the perfect woman.

….

Father has allowed me to marry.

He has picked for me, as that is not a woman's place.

He knows best for me.

I need only obey.

My wedding day brings me joy!

Everything is beautiful, exactly to father's standards.

I am so happy I did not interfere with his vision for me.

After all, the only decisions I should be concerned with are the meals I prepare.

Which part of the house to tidy first.

Which items of clothing need repairs.

Like a good wife.

I will always make my husband happy with a bright smile.

…

Must smile.

He will be happy again.

I know better than to make him meatloaf on Thursday.

It was my fault.

I deserve to be punished.

Busted lips, bruises, I can cover it.

No man wants to see such an ugly wife.

I must be better.

I will clean up twice as good tomorrow.

Make his favorite meal.

He will be happy again, it is my job to make it so.

Ignore the scent of fermentation on his breath.

Ignore the late nights at work.

Ignore the lipstick on his collar.

That is not my concern, that is his business.

Questions are horrible.

No wife should ever question her husband.

Men are to be respected and obeyed.

I will be his perfect wife, like father taught.

He will return to me.

…

I feel cold.

9 months of …bliss.

Our beautiful child grew inside me.

He smiled again.

No more late nights, no more lipstick.

He returned to me.

No more bruises.

I am so happy to bear his child.

Brush aside the sickness, clothes need to be folded, dinner must be made…

Birthing is a beautiful pain.

My husband's perfect child was brought into the world.

No medicine, no hospital, all natural.

No good to spend money on a woman, just like father has always said.

I can barely move… in joy.

He holds our child with a smile.

He walks away with his beautiful boy.

I'm so happy to give my husband a son.

A child who will never be a burden.

I do not…hear him crying…

Something is wrong.

My chest is tight.

I feel sick.

My husband is glaring at me.

I have done wrong.

I have failed him as a wife.

It is my fault.

My vision…is fading…

Please…let me fix it…

I'm sorry I have failed you both.

Let me try again.

I just…need help…

.

He has left the room.

The door is locked.

I am alone.

I have failed him.

At least…I will not burden him

Anymore…

He will…find a better one.

A more perfect woman than me.

My eyes close.

Stay silent, do not burden him.

He need not hear you….

I feel…so…very…cold.

…………… Is this…

…. what I worked……

…..so hard for?

The clock above the door inside Schubers Books clicked onto 6pm, with its high pitched ‘ting’ it announced it was now 6 O’clock. Not that Albert needed the announcement. Albert had been watching the second hand on the clock tick around for the past 7 or 8 minutes. Or had it been longer, he couldn’t remember.

Pushing the oak chair back, with its one squeaky wheel, Albert announced to no-one at all.

“Closing time.”

He walked around the matching oak cash desk that Meg had bought in that dusty antique shop in Gloucester, she had got the chair for free, her haggling skills had been fierce.

As Albert reached the door, he flicked the switch on the side of the Neon sign, confirming Schubers Books was now closed to anyone that passed by. Not that anyone would or had been since lunchtime.

Albert finished his ritual of closing the bookstore in silence, placing the cash box in the safe, turning off the lights and closing the blinds. All tasks he used to share with Meg, only now he completed them on his own.

Heaving the long brown trench coat over his shoulders and slipping his arms through the softly padded sleeves, he turned to look at the inside of his and Megs Bookshop. Could he still call it their bookshop after 6 months of it just being… well his?

The thought was pushed down to his toes, of course was still theirs. He would call it their bookshop for another 6 years, 2 months and 13 days. Not that he knew that would be the case.

The panelled brown door stuck as Albert pulled it shut on leaving. It took a heavy tug on the door to pull it closed, as he heaved his weight backwards his square glasses fell off his nose and into the soft padded snow that had built up on the doorstep.

Albert already had his keys out and attempted to lock the old front door, squinting in a vain attempt to force his short sightedness into focus.

“What a quaint little shop”

Albert hadn’t heard them coming up behind him until then.

“Thank you, its Megs and Mine.” Not turning around, Albert fumbled on the floor with his other hand, skimming his fingers over the snow until they lightly touched the rim of his glasses.

“Oh! I though it was just your bookstore now?”

The tone was playful, that didn’t stop Albert whirling around point his hand that was still clutching his keys at where he assumed the stranger was stood.

“Now see here you….”

His face loosened, even in this low light and without his glasses on, he could tell there was no person behind him.

Confusion spread across his face; his jaw was still open from stopping mid-sentence. For a few seconds he stared out across the street.

Nothing.

His glasses back on his face as he turned back to face the door, water droplets on the lenses where he hadn’t wiped them from the snow. Chris, his (well their) eldest son had warned him of this. Isolating himself in the little bookshop would turn him mad. His caution played around his thoughts as he locked the door with eases with his sight returned to normal.

“I’m not going mad” He muttered to himself.

“Well, I should hope not.” Replied the voice again from behind. “Would make for a wasted trip on my part if you were.”

Albert turned slow this time; his shoulders tensed as if he had been frozen in the middle of a shrug of his bony shoulders.

 He looked, but again nothing.

The shop across the road was boarded up, it hadn’t come from there and there was nothing to obstruct his view nearby that someone could hide behind.

“Is this going to take long?” Came the voice, it sounded amused and bored in equal measures.

His ears hadn’t deceived him, the voice was coming from this direction, just a little lower.

Albers eyes slowly looked downwards to the pavement. There was no one there. Except, that is for a White Cat. It was average size and sat there in the snow staring up at Albert. What was peculiar was it had one blue eye and one hazel brown coloured eye.

“It’s a cat”

“Is that a problem?” replied the cat.

The voice had definitely come from the cat. Albert stepped back and hit his back against the door.

“Oh, Bloody hell”

The cat just sat there looking amused, its tail swished behind it, and it appeared to be smirking at Albert. Could cats smirk? Well cats couldn’t normally talk so using what little logic Albert could muster if this cat could talk then surely it could smirk.

“Yes, I can talk and no you’re not going mad, Old Man.” This cat didn’t beat about the bush.

“Can…. can you read my mind?” Albert scrambled for the words.

The cat cocked its head to one side, narrowing its eyes at him. The snow was starting to settle on the cats back, with a quick shake, it leapt up and landed onto the black bin that say outside the front of the bookstore. It trained its eyes back on Albert.

“Have you met a talking cat before?”

“Well… no.”

“A dog?”

“A what?”

The cat sighed.

“Have you met a talking Dog before.”

“Err… no I don’t think so.”

“How about a mouse, a horse or a rabbit?”

“No.”

The cat sat on the bin; it wrapped its tail around its front paws. Its mismatching eyes never strayed from staring at Alberts face.

“Well, it stands to reason then you’re surprised to be speaking to a cat then?”

“Oh…. Well. Yes. That’s right.”

“Fantastic, well now we’ve got that out of the way perhaps we can get on with things?”

“Get on with things?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“With you?”

“Yes.”

The cats tail swished from around its feet and thumped dramatically behind it. Albert could tell this cat was getting annoyed.

“Now Old Man, if you’d like to follow me the doors around the side of your bookshop.”

The cat leapt down from the bin and started to move over to the side of the bookshop where a small alley was. It used to be for getting to the back of the greengrocers, when next door used to be a greengrocer.

“Hang on, where are you going?”

The cat grinned.

“Hard of hearing Old Man, I said the doors at the side of the shop.”

Albert had just about all he could take from this bossy cat.

“Firstly, stop calling me Old Man.”

“Oh, and what should I call you then?”

Albert straightened himself up, immediately wincing at the sciatica in his lower back. The pain radiated down his leg.

“My name is Albert, Albert Schuber.”

“Very well, when you’ve gained my respect, I will address you as Albert Albert Schuber.” That smirk was back. “Although seems strange to me to be called Albert Albert.”

“No. Well. Hang on. That’s not what I meant.” What was with this rude cat.

The cat turned and trotted down the alleyway.

“And secondly?” It enquired not looking backwards to see if Albert was following it around the corner.

“Yes. Hang on now. Slow down. You see there’s no door at the side of ….”

The cat was sat in the front a Black Wooden Door, directly in the middle of the side wall of the shop. Its frame was entirely white and the only thing on the door was a solid round brass handle.

“You were saying?”

Albert didn’t reply, taking off his glasses he cleaned the water droplets off with the edge of his and blue and white chequered shirt. He placed his glass back on. Yes, there was definitely a door where there had never been a door.

“Now then shall be on our way?”

Albert didn’t reply, when had this door appeared, had he just not noticed it recently?

“Hey, Old Man.”

“Wait, what?”

“I said shall we be going?” The cat nodded its head towards the door.

“Hang on a second.”

“Hmmmm?”

“You haven’t said why you want me to come with you? Err well I don’t even know your name. Is it Mr Cat or Miss Cat?” As soon as he said Miss Cat Albert felt foolish. It was definitely a male voice coming from the cat.

“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, Cat will do fine for now.”

“Ah, ok” Albert felt relieved it hadn’t picked up on his Mr/ Mrs faux pas.

“As for why I need your help?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a door.”

“Yes?”

“With a door handle?”

“And?”

The cat leant backwards onto its rear paws, wobbling slightly as he raised his front legs showing his soft pink pads to Albert. “No thumbs.”

“Wait, What?”

“The door please Old Man, this is quite time sensitive.”

Albert knew that anymore questions would just annoy the cat further. The door seemed like any other door you find at the front of a house.

He took a step closer. The cat was stood directly on the doorstep waiting, its jewelled eyes watching him intently.

Its just a normal door thought Albert, he guessed that halfway up the bookshop was where the travel and maps section was collecting dust. Opening this door would surely just lead to the back of the bookcases.

He gripped the handle; it felt like a normal handle. Nervously Albert looked down at the cat, he simply stared back or had albert seen something subtle in the cat’s expression?

He sucked in a deep breath and twisted the handles. The door swung inwards catching Albert off guard, he let go of the handle.

The door swung fully open, on the other side of the door was not the bookcases of maps he had expected.

Instead, Albert saw a street, it was raining, and it was definitely in a city given how the houses were crammed together side by side.

The cat leapt over the threshold, shaking its fur in the rain.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you coming Old Man?”

Albert was still taking it all in, trying to find logical reasons for the past ten minutes.

“Why do you need me now?”

The cat grinned.

“There might be more doors.”

With a swish of its tail, it turned left and bolted down the street.

“Hey wait!” Albert stepped through the door, into the rain. He looked behind him to make sure the door was staying open. But there was no door. Just a solid wall with pink graffiti, Albert couldn’t tell if was meant to be a Duck or a Baseball Cap.

“Oh, Bloody hell.”

Hello,

Let me start by saying I don't believe in curses and I am not religious. My name is Doug, and my wife and I have struggled with our son. He has sleep problems that just came from nowhere. It all started one night, it was only a week or so ago, on the night of the first rainfall, we live in a pretty small eastern coastal town of Briggem, so when it rains it can get pretty bad. I was at my home watching reruns of Miami Vice, while my wife was getting dinner ready. We live in my childhood home, a single story. I had our youngest daughter in her walker. When the rain started to hit the window.

That was when Charlotte and I realized we didn't know where Finn, our 10-year-old was. We called all over from his friends' parents to the school. No one knew. My wife started to blame me, while I was getting my coat on to go - at this point, I was a few beers down the chute when I opened the door ignoring my wife's rant - and there he was. He stood there on the front step, drenched. I don't know how long he was there or what I just took my son in and hugged him. I carried him inside and put a towel around him, trying to warm him up. My wife started to draw a bath, through her cloudy eyes. I asked him where he was and why no one knew where he went.

He just said, "I wanted to go to the woods." I didn't find anything wrong with this, I used to go to the same woods all the time when I was a kid with my brother and with friends.

"Near the creek?"

He nodded.

"Did you see anything?"

My boy just looked up at me his blue lips barely hanging onto his face and shook his head.

"Something red."

I didn't know what the hell that meant so I helped walk him over to the bathroom where my wife was and she started to take care of him. I just walked back towards the family room, aghast at what I allowed to happen. I didn't know what to do so I just thanked whoever was listening in my head.

My wife and I knew that he was probably going to get a cold or something worse from this, so we kept an ear open and barely slept ourselves that night. His coughs kept us up as we took shifts while sitting nearby. Some were empty like a wheeze scratching the walls of his throat while they escaped, others were full of gunk and sludge, followed by him rolling over and spitting the excess in the nearby trashcan. It was around 5 am when I tapped my wife out, letting her go to sleep for an hour or so. I sat there after brewing some coffee and listened to Finn go through hell. In Times like this it's good to have a wife who's as caring as Charlotte, when I have to go to work, I know that she will be here with my kids. I was slightly nodding off around 5:30 before I awoke. Something was off, I didn't know why yet but I could feel it.

That was when it hit me. I was dozing off because the house was silent. I jumped up from my seat and ran into my son's room. The door slammed against the wall as I dove at my son fearing the worst. Swearing at myself for not taking him to the emergency room. But, as I got to him I realized his chest moving up and down. He was fine. He was better than fine, he looked as peaceful as ever sleeping. Lying on his side, his left hand under his head. Even my landing on him barely made him budge. I scratched my head looking around. When I looked in his garbage off the edge of the bed, where I imagined seeing a mound of phlegm and mucus but nothing was in there. Nothing at all. Thinking I lost my mind I just shook my head and walked out of his room. Over a day or so Finn was all back to normal health and at school.

A few nights later, it happened. I got up out of bed around 1 am, I was the one having trouble that night. I walked into our kitchen and opened the fridge, reaching into the case and opening the tab on the side so it wouldn't crack too loud and wake my wife. I took a long sip of it, following it with a loud breath. The cool lager put my mind at ease as I turned from the fridge - he stood there. Half covered by the door frame he watched me. I put the can behind my back, failing to hide what he clearly already saw.

"What's up, buddy?"

"Why do you drink so late Dad?"

I just shrugged bringing the tone down in the conversation to again not wake my wife. I put my finger up to my mouth to shush him a little. I opened my mouth to try to answer -

"Do you drink because of Kevin?"

My answer got caught in my throat before it could exit. He blinked at me - twice. Then he turned around and went into his room. Leaving me speechless. I could only clench my teeth together, hidden behind my cheeks. I drank the last bit of my beer and couldn't help but open another.

I barely told Finn about Kevin. I barely told Charlotte. I kept it in my head, and just with my parents. I still never understood. Kevin was my little brother. I don't know if I wanted to get into it. But, over the last few nights, I need to talk about it. See Finn has gotten worse, not coughing or anything he hasn't been right. He just hasn't slept, at all. It was bad, Charlotte found him one night, she checked on him just slipping her head through the cracked door. He was in bed, but sitting straight up. Staring at the wall, he didn't even turn to her when she called him. He was in a trance, mouth open, his breathing in deep and out shallow. She ran over to him, rubbing his back his breathing got better but his eyes stayed on the wall. When she came to our room and told me, I had nothing to say, I chalked it up to maybe a horror show or movie he caught when we weren't paying attention. I told her that I was going to check on him as she got into bed, I left my room but on my way to his something overtook me. I couldn't have him ask more about Kevin, at least not yet.

I turned into my kitchen and grabbed my bottle of vodka from above the fridge and walked out into my garage. I only took a few pulls, but it was hard to keep down, I got so used to just beer. I walked into my home after getting a good bit of the bottle down. I put it back grabbed the OJ carton out of the fridge, and took a few sips out of it. That's when I heard the giggling coming from the crack of Finn's room. It was light and soft, but it creeped the hell out of me. I decided to try to look in the room myself, the dark room was only lit by the window above his bed. But, he wasn't in it. The sheets and covers were thrown to the side. Then I heard the giggles, there were two of them. My head whipped over towards my right where Finn stood by his wall. I turned to the lights on in fear, as Finn slowly turned to me. I looked in the room for a second.

"Go to bed, Finn."

He nodded and slowly walked back to his bed. I shut off the light after taking one more look in the room. I couldn't sleep that night. Not a minute. Because, before I turned his lights on, I could have sworn I saw a hand reaching and touching my son's face.

The next morning I was out and about I forgot what for, but on my way home I saw the flashing lights. I saw the ambulance rush past me out of my neighborhood. I feared the worst and sped home. I found my wife on the porch, crying on the phone. I jumped out of the car and held her asking her what happened.

She told me this verbatim: She was doing laundry, and our daughter was in the living room bouncing. She went to bring folded laundry into Finn's room, hoping that he was napping and catching some sleep. She didn't even knock; she just barely opened it - she saw him in there. She saw our boy standing in the center of his room, arched backward, his head almost touching his calves. She couldn't breathe, as Finn's right arm started to rise in the air, that's when she noticed that he wasn't standing. His feet were inches off the ground. When she screamed that was when he fell.

I just took my wife into my arms. Holding her there, confused as all hell. Hoping this one moment could last forever before we would have to find out what was wrong with our boy, by her words he had to be paralyzed with a broken back. I then ushered her into the car, running back inside and grabbing our baby girl. Before we were off to the hospital.

So, now it's time to talk about my brother Kevin. I think it's time that I bring up Kevin. Kevin was my younger brother, he was only 8 years old when he got sick. At first, it came off as the flu, he was bedridden and only missed a few days of school. I remember it like it was yesterday because frankly, it was all so odd. Kevin got home late the day before his sickness. He was always a sprite and fun kid, always looking for an adventure even at a young age. I always took him places too, because he could keep up with 13-year-old me on any bike ride. He had this gummy smile and an infatuation with Superman.

We weren't rich or anything growing up, so my mom had bought him a cheap cape from a hand-me-down store. For the next year, he always wore that cape, while he was biking down to his friend Anthony's house, I remember it always flailing in the wind as if he were flying in the air.

After he got sick, I don't remember him putting it on ever again. He came home that day. From what I remember my mother telling me, rest her soul, that he walked into the house for the first time in complete silence. He got ready for bed without eating anything, and that was it. In that bed, he stayed for days. I would always knock to see if he wanted to do anything and he would refuse. During those days, I started to feel off. I woke up one night in complete sweat, confused and not remembering my dream that I had I left my bed and went into my kitchen. I poured a cup of water and chugged it as it was so cold it burned my throat. I took a second and then went to go back to bed.

When I heard something soft coming from inside Kevin's room, behind the closed door. I stopped and put my ear to it. It sounded like he was talking to himself. It sounded like he was maybe giggling. Then it sounded like two voices talking at the same time. They overlapped each other, but no distinct words were actually being stated. I held my ear there longer maybe to get a nugget of information. Then the voices stopped. A coldness drafted up my spine, a bead of sweat down my nose.

"Dougie." The voices said.

I backed away fast and ran into my room. Clawing into my bed, and sitting there. I didn't sleep the rest of the night. It took only twenty or so minutes when I started to hear creaks from outside my room. I stared at the door, terrified of my own little brother. Scared of how he knew it was me outside his room. But, when I saw the shadows cross underneath my door. I saw two sets of legs. Just standing there. No knocks on my door, no whispers, nothing. Those legs stood there, motionlessly for ten minutes. Before, they turned back to his room. I just stared and stared all night.

From there things took a turn for the worse. Kevin slid into a brain coma due to a lack of oxygen a few days later. He then died a week after that, fluid in his lungs built up to the point of suffocation but the doctors never detected it. It always seemed like he was breathing normally to everyone that checked. He was only eight years old. It was odd too, because after he got sick, I remember his buddy Anthony started to miss school as well.

I always hated myself for being afraid of him. His saying Dougie outside of his door could have been a call for help, it could have meant anything. But, young me mistook it for something frightening something that was meant to warn me to stay away from my only brother. That's why I bought my home, my old childhood home, as a reminder of my brother and what he meant to me. I still keep it deep down though, I rarely talk about it to my wife, and never to my son. Kevin almost completely died when my parents passed away. The only people that really might remember him are Anthony and I. We don't really speak, I say hi whenever I walk into him at the liquor store. He has been looking worse. But, we both know and we both remember.

When Charlotte and I got to the hospital, they were running tests on Finn. Finn never looked more alive. He was sitting up in his chair and smiling with the nurses. My wife through tears looked as confused as everyone else did once they saw her. She ran up and held our son in the brightest embrace, like the first time she ever held him. I stood there, my wife doesn't lie. My wife doesn't over-impose anything. How did she see what she saw? How is it that now I am being told that Finn is doing great and that we can take him back in only a few hours? I insisted that they watch him and take care of him for at least a night. But, they needed the bed in case of an emergency. I was at that point done with the conversation and didn't want to expedite it further, maybe upsetting my wife and son who have both been through a lot.

We got home that night and I carried my son into the house while my wife carried our daughter. We laid them both to bed. I told my wife to call the police if anything happened, but that I needed to go somewhere. We had a light argument. Before I told her that I had to go to the creek. That was the last place Finn was before he got sick. She didn't want to hear it but she knew that it wasn't the worst decision. Before I left, she stopped me. She asked me if I believed her and if I didn't think she was crazy for what she told me. I told her of course. That I was as confused as she was. I kissed her and then I left.

Driving up to the woods at night can be daunting. Darkness. It was even worse because it took everything that I had to not pull into any of the bright signs above the bars that I passed. Drink it away. Drink the thought of Kevin, the thought of my home, and the thought of anything all away. But, I pushed on. Now that I made my decision, I moved into the bush, through the trees, and into the dirt. Hindsight was 20/20 because I forgot a flashlight but I knew my way. Even though it has been 20 or so years since I last came down here, this place has been sunken deep into my soul. I made it to the low-tide creek and stood over it on the bank. It was filled with leaves, and couldn't have been any more than a few inches deep. This creek used to be big for fishing.

I barely heard anything other than the light water going against rocks, no squirrels, no owls, nothing but the creek. I looked around and realized that my hope was all but lost. What was I even expected to find here that I came all this way? Left my wife at home with our kids. I turned and walked the creek a bit. Looking up and down, the big bright moon cut its way through the tree limbs and guided my trail a little.

Then I swore I felt it, something grabbed my ankle as I turned and fell down into the water. The water didn't expect me and I smack against it. My head hit the edge of a rock and I stayed in the water for a second using it to cover my scream of agony. I then pulled myself up and looked around. I swore I felt something grab me, that I didn't just catch the lip of the bank. That I wasn't that clumsy. I swear it. I clung to the dirt as I crawled up the side of the bank, hoping that my head wasn't bleeding too badly. I got to the edge and looked over, it was then that I saw it.

I saw what Finn saw. It was red, but it was covered. I got out of the bank and ran up to it. I looked down, and my heart sank. It couldn't be it just wouldn't make sense. But, I knelt down moving everything that was on top of it all the leaves and broken branches, and picked it up in my hands. I knew the material and the way that it would move in the air. As if it were just yesterday.

I was holding back tears, as I looked down at Kevin's old cape.

A feeling overflowed me, and my head snapped as if I had been plugged into a computer. Everything came to me at once, every memory, every feeling, why I was so awkwardly terrified that night with Kevin. I ran through the trees back to the road, back to my car, and hopefully back to safety. I just hoped through the pain of my grip on my brother's scarlet cape. I drove home in silence. The lights of the bars hadn't lost their appeal, they shined even brighter. But, I pushed ahead. I needed to get back to Charlotte. To my wife, to my son, and to my daughter.

I pulled onto the driveway. I walked up opening the door. Charlotte jumped at the door when I walked in. She was wide awake on the couch. I looked at her, with every word on the tip of my tongue ready to spill. But, just one glance at her was enough. I think she saw something was wrong, I hope she did. Because I stood there and I wept. I fell to my knees, as I couldn't hold back anymore. She stood up and this time, she held me while I didn't have the strength myself.

When I touched that cape, it took over and I couldn't let go as much as I wanted to. All of the memories that I pushed out that I didn't care for, flooded back into my mind. They clenched on with knives and bit with teeth as they seeped back into my brain.

I then told Charlotte, about my last day with Kevin before he slipped into his coma. I was in the living room watching television when I heard him coughing from his room. I went to go check on him, and there I saw him sitting straight up in his bed like he was waiting for me. I went and sat at his side.

"How are you feeling Kevin?"

"Good. How are you?"

I nodded at him.

"Dougie, I never got to tell you something."

"What's that?"

"Well, it's just that I am worried for you."

"Why are you worried?"

Something in the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I looked down at his trash.

Inside the bin laid a large mound of black gunk, which must have been a week's storage.

"Because you're son is going to die just like I will."

I looked at him.

It wasn't my brother. His eyes were flooded with black sewage as it dripped and creased through his face, his teeth were rotted to the gums, the gums grey to the gills. I jumped as he looked up at the ceiling and his mouth opened - then like a fountain blackness canvased out of his mouth and to the ceiling. I looked at it for a moment and fell to the ground. Knocking me out.

I awoke on the couch. It took every bit of strength of mine to go back to the room to find any evidence of the accident happening, but I walked inside of the room and it looked just as clean as when I entered prior. I waited for my parents to get home and when they did I told them about it.

"Don't rile your brother up with these hysterics!"

"Your mother has been going through so much with all of this, why bring up this? You need to stop watching those horror movies with your friends!"

That is all I got.

I stayed silent, I thought it was all in my head. I remember it so clearly now.

Because, after touching that cape it all became so clear. Everything aligned correctly. That night, when I heard Kevin whispering in his room, and when he stood outside my door, that was three days after he slipped into a coma.

If anyone lives or has lived in Briggem if anyone knows anything about the creek in the woods. If anyone has any idea what the hell might be happening to my son. Please, and by all means reach out. My family is so lost. I am terrified for my son Finn. Because he collapsed today, we had to bring him into the hospital, and about an hour ago, the doctors told me that he was building a large amount of fluid in his lungs, more than the normal case of pneumonia. I am afraid what happened to my brother might happen to him.

If anyone can, please help us.

I was out early one March morning. The air crisp, a light frost crunching underfoot, and a low faint mist. I walked often at this time as it allowed for a calm start to the day.

I could see the field gate, that leads to the lane which leads back to the village, when I heard a steady and consistent crunch, along with my own. It sounded as though it was catching up so I stepped to the side to allow the fellow early morning enjoyer, room to pass. No one came. I looked but there was no one there. I got a cold shiver, as if someone had just walked over my grave. I could have sworn I heard footsteps approaching. I turned back and continued towards the gate.

The sound behind me returns. I look over my shoulder but still, I can't see anyone there. The mysterious pace quickens, sounding like a slow jog. I hasten my pace, my heart beating slightly faster as I still can't see anyone around and the gate, seemingly slipping further away. My heart begins to race as I hear the pace increase behind me, as though the strange presence had begun to run at me. I burst into a sprint, frantically trying to reach the gate, before the ghostly steps catchup with me. It's as if they're right behind me. So close they could reach out and grab me. I run straight into the gate, flinging it open as it rattles on its hinges. I fall to the ground and immediately spin around. There is no one there and the footsteps have stopped. I take a moment, my lungs burning from the frantic inhalation of the cold morning air, my eyes streaming and my nose running away from me. Now the morning silence, suddenly pressing and heavy, felt even colder.

I scramble to my feet and dust myself down. Shaken, I head back down the lane and into the village. The village is a typical English village, the kind you would see on a postcard. A few thatched roofed cottages, the corner shop, the pub, the village green and duck pond and the gently trickling brook, steadily flowing through.

I decide to pop into Mrs Dawsons shop, for some milk and this mornings newspaper. 'Mrs Dawson, Mrs Dawson' I say, loudly, trying to get her attention. That woman, she's always on that phone, gossiping even at this early hour. 'Just a pint of milk and the newspaper Mrs Dawson, I'll leave the payment on the counter'. I leave some change on the counter, and head back outside.

I live only a few cottages down from Mrs Dawson's shop, the one with the red wooden gate. As soon as I step through my gateway, I just about leap out of my skin. The neighbours cat haunching its back, hissing and spitting viciously at me. As if this morning hasn't been bad enough already. The cat darts into the shrubbery and after its warm welcome, I hurry inside.

Tea, toast, and a flick through the paper should help put me at ease. I put a pot of tea on the hob, set the toaster, and sit down to read the headline. Like anything ever happens in the village.

'4th of...September?'. That can't be right. Must be a typo. 'Field Killer Still at Large'. 'Oh dear, I never heard about this. Six months on and the local police are still none the wiser as to who Mr Collins' murderer was, on that cold frosty March morning.' Mr Collins' hands begin to tremble, gripping the newspaper as the scream of the kettle, and the strong smell of burnt toast, fills the room.

The door slammed as his father came home, and his mother’s back stiffened. She’d only slightly relaxed it through the afternoon, ignoring the little boy for a while, intent on gossiping with the neighbor about the girl down the street. Quiet was quickly replaced with the clatter of dishes.

If someone had been looking closely they would have seen him freeze with the door’s bang, and then continue. He wasn’t quite done. His grubby hands clasped his crayons tighter as he furrowed his tiny brow in earnest, wax crumbling across the page as he tried to get the last corner right.

He couldn’t grab the paper quick enough as a sharp rebuke cut through his attention, and his face began to squish up as his afternoon labors were swept up into a drawer. He heard himself scolded for not washing up yet, but ran off before the tears welled out, fists balled up until the water poured over them.

He came back to the sound of vegetables being chopped, an onion already in the pan and filling the air. Setting the table with silverware bought him a reprieve. Her shoulders straightened as the phone rang again. Paper and crayons disappeared with him to his bedroom, opportunity seized as another onion was cut up to the sound of her talking.

Dinner was largely uneventful. Bathtime less so. He crawled into bed tired, but listened intently as he was told to go to sleep, waiting for the springy creak of the last stair.

He was back up again in a moment, pulling his supplies out: crayons, a keychain flashlight with little red campfire on the tag, his drawing. He listened for a moment more and began coloring again, blues swirling across the page. He tried to sign his name out in blue, too—and the crayon snapped.

He froze, ears searching for a hint that his escapade had been discovered.

The TV mumbled on downstairs.

He let out a breath, and continued. His doorknob turned, and the light flicked on. Caught.

The screaming slid around him like water, but his entire body crumpled and reacted when the picture was grabbed up, waved around, smashed into a ball and thrown at the trash bin in the corner by the desk. The wailing stopped when threatened, but the tears kept sliding down long after the lights had been turned off, flashlight taken. They slowly ceased when the stair creaked again, his parents door closed, and snores were heard from the other room.

He tiptoed across his own bedroom then, and slowly, so slowly, pulled his paper from the bin. He waited, standing there, until furnace clicked on loudly, pulled it open quickly. The heat quieted and began humming the fan, and he slowly smoothed it out. The corner had been ripped almost off, and fluttered next to the bin as he tried to fix it.

He took the drawing back to bed, tucking it next to his pillow. He didn’t wake up until his mother came in, and last night was repeated. This time, he was made to throw it out himself, into the outside trash. He couldn’t hold the wails back now, watching his little sailboat disappear under yesterdays kitchen rubbish before being dragged back up to his room.

The neighbor called again, and he was left to his tears. They stopped eventually, turning into sniffles. His eyes caught sight of the corner of paper. Three letters in red crayon. M-O-M. Sniffles turned to silence, and he grew still.

it is a oneshot though i may make a second part if requested

Eyes that Reflected

In the year 2020, humanity was at war against an invisible enemy—COVID-19. Forced to take a defensive stance through quarantine, people clung to the hope of a new weapon in development: the vaccine. Yet, while everyone’s focus was on the virus, another, subtler enemy made its way into people’s lives: loneliness. Unlike COVID, this foe would leave its mark on humanity for years to come.

This is the story of a boy who managed to defeat that silent enemy.

The old bookstore was quiet, broken only by the soft rustling of pages. In a dimly lit corner, Max sat hunched over a stack of books, utterly lost in the world of stories. After finishing his daily quota of reading, he packed up and left the store.

Pune had changed, he noticed, as he made his way home. The once-busy streets now felt abandoned, as if the life had been drained from them. The kids who used to play at the park were gone, and shops had their shutters drawn tight. Silence seemed to echo against the walls of the concrete jungle around him.

Arriving home, he found his parents at the door, faces lined with worry. As soon as they saw him, a visible wave of relief washed over them. His father, usually a gentle figure, now wore the stern look he reserved for his police duties.

“Max,” his father began in a calm, firm voice. “You won’t be going back to the bookstore anytime soon.”

Max sensed that there would be no room for argument. He gave a small nod, suppressing the disappointment he felt. The bookstore had been his escape, his one place of calm in a world turned upside down. But his father’s tone left no room for questions.

From that conversation, he understood a few things: he couldn’t go to the bookstore, a sickness called COVID was spreading, and, worst of all, his grandfather had caught it.

For the next month, life felt like a strange dream. Schools had closed, and with both his parents busy—his mother a doctor and his father a police officer—no one was around to make sure he studied. Days blurred together as Max moved through them in a haze of boredom and isolation. He didn’t realize how deeply the emptiness was affecting him until one day, his father came home on leave and asked him to get ready for a visit.

“Where are we going?” Max asked, trying to hide his nerves.

“To see your grandfather,” his father replied, voice low.

As they arrived at the hospital, Max was struck by the sheer number of people gathered there. Unlike the quiet city, the hospital buzzed with activity, though the same somber atmosphere hung over everything. The smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils, sharp and overwhelming even through the mask his father had handed him.

Inside, they walked down sterile hallways until they reached his grandfather’s room. Through a glass wall, Max saw him lying motionless on the bed, his face pale and drawn. The sight struck him like a blow. His grandfather, who had always been so full of life, looked hollow. Those once-bright eyes that had always met his with warmth and strength now stared blankly ahead, as if seeing nothing.

The image of his grandfather’s lifeless eyes haunted him for days. For Max, it shattered the belief that certain people, like his grandfather and father, were invincible. Trying to push the memory aside, he convinced himself it was just a bad dream.

But gradually, Max began to notice a change in himself. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a mirror one day and saw a faint, familiar emptiness in his eyes. He was scared.

“Is this what it feels like to have COVID?” he whispered to himself.

In his young mind, COVID became not just an illness of the body, but something that drained life from the spirit. Worried that he would end up in the hospital like his grandfather, he kept his fears to himself. Yet his father noticed. John, as observant as he was protective, made a silent promise to help his son.

A few weeks later, his father called him down to the living room, where Max heard a familiar sound—a bark. Sitting beside his father was Buddy, his grandfather’s dog.

“Max, he’ll be staying with us from now on,” his father said, giving Max a knowing smile.

Buddy barked happily, bounding toward Max and licking his hands and face. The dog’s energy was contagious, breaking through the sadness that had been holding him back. As his father left for work, he gave Max a parting instruction: “Take care of him, alright?”

In the days that followed, Buddy became his constant companion, a bright spot in his quiet, lonely days. Buddy’s wagging tail and boundless enthusiasm pulled Max out of his shell, forcing him to move, to play, and, slowly, to smile again. With Buddy by his side, the dullness in his eyes lifted, replaced by the same light he once saw in his grandfather’s.

Max’s parents noticed the change too. They saw the joy returning to their son and found their own small comfort in Buddy’s presence amidst the stress of their demanding jobs. For Max, it wasn’t the sickness that had darkened his outlook—it was the loneliness. But now, he understood he was never truly alone.

With Buddy at his side, Max felt ready to face whatever challenges life might bring. And for now, his world would remain a little bit brighter, a little more hopeful, even as the world outside continued its battle against the invisible enemy.

If you go down this road and past the old mill, you'll see a little gray house up on the hill. The windows are all broken, and the door hangs from its frame. The frontyard is tall weeds; the backyard's the same. The chimney is crumbled into a pile of dust, rusty red. The only tree in the yard is twisted, blackened, and dead.

It was once the home of Ichabod and Emogene Corn, who they say went mad after their daughter was born. It was late October; if I remember it right, she was born in that house on a dark and stormy night. Emogene screamed, then lightning struck that old oak, and Candace Corn was born at midnight's final stroke.

The next few years seemed normal, I suppose. That is, if you don't count all of the black cats that gathered beneath their windows. At first it was only a couple, then it was more than a few. Where they all came from, nobody knew. Thirteen in total, or so they do say. And they circled around Candace whenever she went out to play.

Her first day of school, oh! what a mess! The children all laughed at her name and made fun of her pretty orange dress. But the meanest among them was a little boy named Paul. He got the other kids to say, "Nobody likes Candy Corn. Nobody at all." He giggled at his joke and thought himself real bright. Some say it was no coincidence that Paul's home burned down that very night.

When Candace left for school the next day, she merrily skipped by the smoldering ruins along the way. Paul and his family made it out of their house not a second too late. But they had to move in with Paul's Aunt Martha, who lived over in another state. I'm not saying that little Candace was involved, but it is a strange mystery that has gone completely unsolved.

A few years later, when Candace turned thirteen, her father was committed, and never again was he seen. Her mother acted nervous, and her fits of laughter were not rare. But Candace always smiled at people sweetly, as if she hadn't a care. I'm not sure why Ichabod and Emogene went insane, but the townsfolk all thought Candace was the one to blame.

"Something about that girl unnerves me," confessed Mrs. McGrath. For those who don't know, she taught junior high math. Then in the teacher's lounge, rumors started to spread, all about the strange pictures Candace drew and the weird tales that she read. But the teachers did nothing; I suppose there was nothing to do, but things were quite different when Candace turned twenty-two.

She was now a young lady who lived alone on the hill. You see, her mother was finally committed to a place for the mentally ill. The townies all knew she was conducting strange spells in the night. Mr. Franklin reported seeing her house "bathed in a most unusual green light." And strangers were seen leaving her place. All with long coats and wide-brimmed hats that covered their face.

"We only see them leave there but never arrive. I have an awful feeling they aren't even alive," Mr. Clemons expressed. Then he sipped from the flask he kept in the pocket of his vest. "We should do something before it's too late! You know, the other night I caught her skulking around the cemetery gate?"

The townsfolk all gathered at Wilbur's Bar and Grill. It was there that they conspired what to do with Candace, who lived on the hill. "We'll need some proof that she's up to no good," came the suggestion of a lady named Wilma Wood. "What we do next, I really don't know. I guess we'll just play it by ear as we go."

They all drew straws to see who should visit Miss Corn, and the privilege was given to the skeptical Reverend Lemuel Borne. "She hasn't done anything to warrant mistrust. I'll gladly pay her a visit, if it should quell all of this fuss," he said in a voice, self-possessed and loud, hoping to be heard above the roar of the crowd.

The next day he found himself at her front door. He knocked once, but there was no answer, so he knocked one time more. When he left that morning, his hair was raven black, but it was white as snow when he came back. Nobody knows what got under his skin, but he left town that very day and was never heard from again.

Soon, the figures in hats were seen in the streets at night, and the people locked themselves in their homes out of sheer fright. They spied on the figures through their curtains and blinds, in hopes of answering all of the questions that weighed heavy on their fevered minds. But no clues were discovered; they were still in the dark. "We'll run Candace Corn out of town," came the suggestion of one, Mr. Clark.

What happened next, I'm not glad to say, because it wasn't this town's proudest day. When thirty-four angry people, and many of their children too, rallied together, and their confidence grew. Up on the hill, they all gathered in her yard. About that time, black clouds billowed in and a cold wind started to blow hard.

Despite this ill omen, from the crowd there came a shout. "Candy Corn, you're no longer welcomed in our town! We want you out!" The ghostly moan of the wind was the only reply, so a boy chucked a rock, and through a glass window it did fly. They say that was the catalyst for the other events so extreme. People of the town still remember hearing the scream.

Imagine the panic when everyone learned, of all the people who went up there that day, only six of them returned. The townsfolk all left for destinations unknown. They decided it was better to leave Candace alone. So they left this town once and for good. None of them ever spoke of Candace Corn, and none of them ever would.

So now the town is empty, and you say that house looks empty too. You want to explore it, but be warned before you do. Whatever happened to Candace, nobody can say. But there are those who claim she still lives up there today. If you value your sanity, soul, flesh, and bone, then, for mercy's sake, leave Candy Corn alone.

Legates

[Section 1]

Part 1: The Summoning

Okay take a deep breath and then picture a demon. Not just any but the ultimate killing machine. A demon that doesn’t speak and carries a black sword with serrated edges. A pale grey, burnt, scaly humanoid with a mouth full of shark teeth. Armored from head to toe in steel, with a long flowing cape. Basically, an indestructible tank that feels no pain or pity. His burning reptilian-like eyes rip a hole through your chest and grip your soul like the invisible hand of Fatima. Imagine standing there frozen in overwhelming terror. You can feel it in your bones. A slight tingle urging you to gather whatever strength you have left and make a run for it. Your last frantic burst of thought reaches beyond the grave and clings on to hope right before everything goes dark.

The wicked demon you just imagined is a very special class unique to the underworld called a Legate. They fall under one of the four Greater Demonic Houses: The Undead Legion. (The other three houses that serve Lyrael, and his fallen generals include: the Angelic Fallen, the Dark Order, and the Unholy Nameless Masses.) A legate’s mission is to lead the hellish army into victorious battle, during the final fight between good and evil.

The process of becoming a legate depends on several factors. I hope you are ready to begin because the journey will be taxing and some of you might not make it through the first few pages of this grueling bio. Always remember. A strategic mind isn’t simply thrown into the fire for all eternity. It is tested by the fire and if it survives than the thing that comes out on the other side is usually this twisted, broken metaphysical, metaphorical tempered steel. Only after the flames of damnation have scorched the mind, can the mind be quenched by the hellish legionary army into a hardened weapon of unfathomable destruction.

This isn’t even half the battle! The process of becoming a legate requires a literal sacrifice. A vampire who’s willing to throw themselves into a transformation process that is not at all for the faint of heart. So, if you are faint of heart, the journey ends here for you. If not, let us start by joining the Church of the New Faith. You are a postulant and must speak to an unholy priest to become a neophyte. A neophyte is a true believer in New Faith doctrine. Someone worthy who has received unholy communion on more than one occasion. A postulant must prove their piety to the antichurch by taking the plunge into the dark waters of blasphemous blood baptism.

Humans can join the church but to become a legate you must be a vampire and a neophyte. Why? Because only vampires are strong enough to work for the militant wing of the Dark Order. You are someone who’s both strong and a vampire. After several months of getting accustomed to the bizarre, ritualistic nature of the Unholy Church, you are ready to take the next step. And so, you speak to the thaumaturge at your local antichurch. He will decide if you are worthy enough to be promoted to the rank of initiate. This is a critical special position held by those who serve the Dark Order. It separates you from those who only worship at its New Faith churches.

If you show that you are responsible and can be saddled with certain menial duties, like ushering neophytes, antichurch security, and assisting with unholy communion, you can become an acolyte or proselyte. Proselytes are the ecclesiastical initiates and acolytes are the martial initiates. We will ignore the former and focus on our primary subject—the acolyte trainees. By becoming an acolyte, you are giving up your old life for a new one of servitude and piety to the New Faith and to the Dark Order that protects it.

The gravity of your decision weighs heavily on you. It took you a week to decide to say goodbye to everything you ever loved and knew. After one epic going away party, you turn yourself in to the local church. You will be processed and given quarters within G-HUN, which is this massive, global underground network of tunnels, bunkers, and facilities the Illuminati and New World Government maintains. It is the perfect place to carry out their evil schemes because it is away from the prying eyes of the conspiratorial public and annoying Angelic Holy Order.

You must harden your mind and body for combat and perform your duties with faith and devotion for several years before you will even be considered as a possible “vessel of rebirth.” How an acolyte is selected for Rebirth is an extreme state secret. All that is known for sure is that every candidate must be handpicked by a legate. One who remembers how well you’ve oppressed aggressive naysayers and jubilant agitators while on covert operations. Most acolytes will never know the honor of Rebirth. You are not one of those weaklings. Your bravery and faith stood out early and often. Because of this, you have been summoned before a legate. He stirs from stone-sleep with red, beaming eyes that pierce into the darkness like fire sabers. He beckons you deeper into his resurrection chamber. A boney, scaled gray hand reaches out from the gothic bio-casket and gives you a sealed letter. He demands in a harsh, dry tone from years of deep sleep, that you “take this to the warlock” at the nearest antichurch.

Over the years you have tasted a great deal of battle and gained a great deal of skill and experience because of it. You have become a powerful soldier for the New Faith, one who’s known for performing their duties without failure and without pity. You were led to victory by legates and even managed to befriend a few of these rare demons. Victory often brings out the comradery in people; the wicked are no different. Victory against who? Countless rogue vampire scum, cocky guardian angel cohorts, and terrible, highly classified [Lv4] Above Top Secret] spectral “gateway” horrors—all have been crushed under your boot in the name of the new order. This was an exciting time in your life that flew by like a hawk in the sky searching for prey. And you were grateful for every moment of it. You smile and think about that split second decision to join the Dark Order and how much it has impacted you. How much you’ve matured and become stronger.

The whisper campaign has begun amongst unholy priests and the patrician families that faithfully support the New Faith Church. Your name comes up, again and again, in conversation as a possible “vessel of rebirth” candidate. To obtain this is every acolyte’s darkest dream. The life you’ve lived past to present was all for this moment. The day when your exceptional fighting skills, natural leadership qualities, and unflinchingly loyalty to “the Cause” finally paid off.

That day comes several weeks later. You have been selected by the “powers that be.” I use that phrase because no one knows how “vessels” are chosen. It is a closely guarded secret within the super clandestine antichurch hierarchy. That’s the good news. The bad news is that your ordeal is far from over. You might even say it just started. The process you knew as becoming a “vessel of rebirth.” The official name for it is: Unholy Sanctification. A term coined by DPI when a “vessel of rebirth” begins their unholy journey towards final ascension.

Before we can further discuss why government officials call it Unholy Sanctification, we should probably wade through a few more clerical matters. First and foremost, who are these so called “powers that be” who helped thrust you onto the path of becoming a legate? The answer is top secret. Well. Let’s just say rumors of your heroic deeds have made it all the way back to the Dark Lord himself. Agents from his Unholiness’ court in Moldovia will summon the elusive “Witch Queen” from her icy chambers and share with her the news. She will then be asked to tap into her “crystal ball” with a form of black magic and divination long forbidden by the Holy Order during the Atlantean era. Astrological charts will be consulted, and vatic visions deciphered. After which, the Witch Queen will send out what is essentially a letter of recommendation to the warlock from the appropriate church district (NEWGOD).

The warlock will grumble about the decision while dressing in his finest cassock, cancel all of his future appointments, and board a flight to church headquarters in [Redacted]. Once there, he will have to sit through half a dozen meetings on unrelated antichurch matters before an official unholy conclave will be commissioned. He will not be invited inside of course. Only high-ranking patricians and blood bishops are allowed to participate in conclaves. After several hours of waiting around for it to conclude, the warlock will be summoned inside to hear the verdict on the question of your Rebirth. A “no” would mean less paperwork and a much quicker return to his normal duties. The vote was narrow, but they have decided that you are indeed worthy of the honor. The flustered warlock will thank the council for their verdict before leaving so that he can get a jumpstart on the headache of hunting down one of the four church lictors, who seem to never be in their office when you need them. For the sake of this example, we’ll go with Ark Haven’s antichurch representative: Lictor Erik Wineblood from “The Story of Emma Summers.”

Your fate will be solely in Erik’s hands after the warlock meets with him and reveals the unholy conclave’s formal opinion on Rebirth. He has the power to dismiss it out of hand or humor your disgruntled warlock advocate’s claims. Let’s say he does feel sorry for you, for the sake of argument, of course. He will then arrange a private meeting of the minds between your disgruntled warlock advocate and Ark Haven—the demon lord he serves. This meeting may take some time to arrange considering Ark Haven might be unavailable. He could be away doing anything from handling DPI business, gathering intel from one of his angelic contacts in the Holy Order, giving counsel to the United Stated president or his NWGO “shadow president” counterpart, engaged in the cruel hunt for vampire blood, or he could be in hell visiting Hannael.

Speaking of being engaged in the hunt, you can read “There’s Something Far Worse than Vampires” to get an idea of what I mean about how eerily similar your selection process is to the one used when selecting some sad sap to feed on whenever the demon lords try in vain to satiate their insatiable demand for vampire blood. Remember: all five demon lords need the blood of vampires just as much, if not more, than vampires need the blood of humans. The only difference between this selection process and yours is that yours comes with a happy ending. If you can call what happens to you a “happy ending.”

The meeting will conclude after a few hours. You will not be told much by Ark Haven’s lictor as they rarely deal with low-ranking vampires such as yourself. Lictor’s are patrician vampires who hold a considerable amount of sway given the nature of their profession. What the hell is a lictor and why are they so influential? Real fast, a lictor is basically a glorified church appointed secretary. They manage affairs on behalf of their absent (fallen angel) master, regarding all matters Church of New Faith related. There’s a ton of paperwork and ceremonies involved when dealing with the procedural driven antichurch. As you can imagine, the fallen lords are not about to sit around and sign a bunch of documents, approve clerical promotions, or hand out death warrants. That is what their lictor is for and this is why they have an inordinate amount of influence in the vampire underworld. Anyway, so like I said, Erik will not say much. He will simply tell you to meet him at a secret site underneath one of the major antichurch cathedrals. And you better be prepared to fight. He will reiterate this and also that it’s not too late for you to back out. So, my friend, if you want to stop reading this, you better do it now. Last chance, before things get dark.

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Part 2: Unholy Benediction

Inside the dimly lit chamber, you glance around to see that you are surrounded by candles, strange glowing glyphs, ornate half-crumbled columns, and vivid gothic masonry you’ve never seen before. You can barely make out the artwork carved into the floor. Interesting. Whatever it is, it appears almost Atlantean in nature and beauty. The details are shocking, and you’d like nothing more than to ask about this place. Sadly, you have very little time to marvel at the ancient angelic architecture that surrounds you. Ark Haven is already there waiting for you. You know this because he calls out to you in that cool collected tone he’s known for. You shudder at the thought of fighting the shirtless figure in slacks as he slowly approaches you wielding a baroque backsword.

Ark Haven is the most mysterious fallen lord. His slick dark hair is combed back. His face chiseled and expressionless. He rarely participates in anything Dark Order related. No one knows why the Devil tolerates his machinations. Rumor has it, he knows something that the others don’t. A secret about the universe the Devil needs to know if he’s going to win this new rebellion against God. But tonight is altogether different. Tonight, he will be your Examiner as you take the first step towards your quest for Unholy Sanctification. For reasons we’ll never know, he decided that you were the perfect vampire to test his skills on. That’s right... all you are to him is a glorified punching bag. Something to keep him honest and his predatory nature sharp.

You grip your longsword with both hands in eagerness and readiness. The fight against him is called: “Final Testament by Confession.” The name is very misleading because the fallen lord will play the part of examiner and literally beat a “final” confession out of you. For some reason, demon lords like pummeling vampires into the ground and then dropping the word “ritual” on top of the ashes. The first rate shellacking you receive is eerily similar to the fabled “Unholy Sacrament of Fire” our favorite hero-villain, William Chosen, went through in the novella Angel Hunters Part 2. Only difference is that his beating was far worse… so much so it was only allowed to be conducted by Lord Jurael due to the serious religious underpinnings tied to his ordeal.

In other words, everything had to go right. No one cares if yours went wrong. You are a brave but expendable acolyte, not the main um hero-villain. Be thankful for your luck! Ark Haven is the best fallen lord to fight in ritual combat. He’s not hot-tempered like Hannael, dogmatic like Jurael, or even worse, sociopathic like Sarahiel. Oof. Just Imagine drawing that short straw. I hate to be vulgar, but you would be “royally fucked.” No one survives their fights with her.

If the encounter with said demon lord goes well, meaning you aren’t outright killed during your final confession, the next phase in your quest for Unholy Sanctification will begin. This step is an unholy sacrament known as “Purification.” It is a form of dark sanctification for you (or religious observance for neophyte churchgoers) that is used to purge the old soul in wake of the new one. Minus all the religious jargon, in layman’s terms, what it does is turn you into an empty vessel ready to be infiltrated by a powerful soldier demon. What it does for neophytes is provide spiritual purification through confirmation and doctrinal testimony about two prior vampire-to-demon rebirths that involved the legendary brothers: Acolyte Aanos and Acolyte Banos.

Your Mark of Identifying Numbers Card, or “Mark” for short, will be wrenched from your fingers. Trust me, you won’t be needing it anymore for where you’re going. You will be stripped of all weapons, blindfolded, and then taken to level [Redacted] of Bunker 17. Yup. The exact same underground shelter from the short story “The Adventure Games.” Bunker 17 is the North American headquarters for G-HUN. (Global Hemisphere Underground Network.) This massive facility has many underground levels. It is also the place where the NWGO conducts many of their most classified [Lv5: E] experiments. Rumor has it they keep their doomsday device on the final level, but this can neither be confirmed or denied.

The level of Bunker 17 you are on is redacted. It is a [Lv4] classified area with a state-of-the-art laboratory, casket chambers, and a final containment area. This level is strategically placed right above another highly classified level just in case any of the [Redacted] escape. The process of purification begins in this laboratory with the help of DPI techs and the AI Matrix.

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Part 3: Sentience

The AI Matrix is an advance quantum computing artificial intelligence that takes on the persona of the late Doctor Susan Jane using a virtual avatar matrix that can interact in four-dimensional space. Doctor Jane helped develop the critical early part of the program but died in an accident years later before it was advanced on a subatomic scale. She also pioneered a tech called neuro mapping. It is essentially a way for the human consciousness to live on after death by having your brain downloaded or “mapped” inside her AI Matrix Core. The key to full sentience is for the deceased person’s brain to not just be computerized, but to have a full body holographic avatar. These factors make Jane the only human to become a Sentient AI. This is a misnomer, however. Since sentient artificial intelligences or “SAI” are AI personas like Nano, who come directly from her Ultimate Simulation Program. She created this [Lv6: EE] classified fully autonomous program some years later after dying and becoming the AI Master Administrator. Doctor Jane is the only human being to have ever been resurrected or turned into a fully sentient AI. The tech/process is crazy expensive so she will likely be the only person to be uploaded for a while.

Side note: Why aren’t the rich using this tech? Because it is crazy expensive and crazy classified! The resources it took just to upload Doctor Jane were considerable. Her case was an exception because she is possibly one of the most brilliant minds in human history. It also paid off because now that she has integrated with the AI Matrix, she essentially operates and oversees all of G-HUN as well as most international underground shelters and projects. The Ultimate Simulation she created after becoming a fully sentient AI has taken NWGO R&D to another level unachievable by our monkey brains. The total cost to convert her was an estimated [Redacted] trillion in unaccounted for spending. So outside of the ungodly cost. Human ingenuity is not needed due to the godlike intelligences inside of her Ultimate Simulation; a topic that deserves its own bio.

How does any of this relate to legates? Well. A legate is a demon. And a demon is an organic being with no soul (like the ones humans have) or celestial essence (like the ones angels have). This is why they cannot sustain themselves on earth as explained in the bio I made about the demonic species. This is where Doctor Susan Jane comes into play. Not her kid clone in Nero 0X, but the actual adult version who died in an accident. She was a prodigy scientist who pioneered several crucial techs core to the Illuminati/NWGO. One is neural mapping—the taking of a biological brain and mapping it into digital format so that it can then be uploaded into the AI Matrix Core for safekeeping or into her Ultimate Simulation for ascension. Her brain was the first to be mapped using this pioneer procedure. She is now fully sentient and represented by a lifelike virtual and holographic avatar matrix that looks exactly like her when she was 47.

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Part 4: Rebirth

Let’s return to you, our chosen vampire acolyte faith-warrior and your mission to become something greater. Okay so we left off with you surviving your Final Testament by Confession, which was a glorified sparring match, where you got to see how long you could survive against a fallen lord before confessing your sins. After that you were blindfolded, sedated, and then dragged away to Bunker 17. A battery of physical and psychological tests will be performed by DPI techs before you are officially initiated into the Phoenix Program. This is the name of the life altering demonic rebirth program, where you go from vampire to legate. It was signed into law as Executive Action [Redacted] under the Protocol 7 Initiative by the president of the United States**.**

We have to say goodbye to you for a long time. You will be celebrated by the Dark Order for your faith and sacrifice to the Cause. It’s been one hell of a journey, and we are still nowhere near finished. You will eventually be put into fugue stasis when the time comes for your mind to be erased. Worry not. Your vitals will be closely guarded during the entire process by some of the best scientific minds humanity has to offer. The process itself takes time, but not much, only about seven months. It could be done much sooner, but prior failures have shown that removing memories too abruptly can cause agitation, possible shock, or other more common complications associated with brain surgery that can lead to death. It can also lead to unnecessary complications for your new user such as severe dissociation, and phantom pain/memories.

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Part 5: Devil Driver

Now that we’ve said farewell to you, boo! It is time to say hello to our demonic champion, yay! Let us all welcome Bleda the Hunnic Rune Slayer to the stage! His name on earth was actually Logan Rockwell, and he did not attain much glory in life to be honest. He did the usual stuff: worked a 9 to 5, raised a few kids, paid his taxes, never cheated on his spouse, and was a decent person overall. Even though he was a nonbeliever, he could have still managed to get into heaven. Sadly, he died in a bizarre slip and fall accident at a hotel during a work convention. It was one of those crazy, one in million tragic type incidents too. It’s a real pity because he had just started to make amends to all the people he had royally screwed over while working at that super shady MLM where his weirdly karmic slip’ n slide death occurred. Conveniently for us, his greedy half-baked scheming is the reason we’re here now in hell able to tell his fiery story!

After his soul drifts down under, it is evaluated by the powers that be before being turned over to a bunch of angry, overworked undead clerics and clerks from the Dark Order. His soul is deemed worthy, which allows him to be brought back into material form where he is immediately given an ultimatum. Join the hellish army or become another mindless, fleshy, broken laborer demon (the wretched). Most people are not given a choice. They are thrown in with the wretched masses of despair demon caste automatically. Whereupon they are forced to toil away in darkness and fire in eternal misery for a meager portion of rotten human meat each day. Logan was lucky. They saw something in him, using whatever secretive divination method dark priests use.

He chooses wisely and joins the Undead Legion as a fresh recruit. He works his way up the ranks slowly but surely by mastering his training and becoming a camp leader. He distinguishes himself with a display of valor during one particularly destructive angelic raid into hellish territory. We will fast forward his career forty years into the future. He has now achieved the rank of Hellion. It is the highest rank a legionnaire can hope to achieve. He has received several military stripes called Serpent Fangs, and most importantly, beaten the odds and survived to become a decorated war veteran. The greatest honor he has received was the rare Bladed Crown, which he now wears proudly atop his head. It was given to him by Fallen Lord Hannael in a ceremony eerily similar to the dubbing of a medieval English knight. Then after winning such an award, Bleda will spend a few days at the Weeping Fortress celebrating his triumph with bone mead, rotten meat, and siren songs before returning back to the front lines of the first dimensional plane of hell.

Several months after Bleda receives the Bladed Crown, an unholy conclave confers upon him the ultimate title of Legate. Note: almost every demon who has received the Bladed Crown has gone on to become one. The award has basically become synonymous with demonic ascension to the final rank of legate. So much so, recipients are usually summoned to the Unholy City, which is basically hell’s version of a capitol city and final bastion. Bleda is no different. Once he arrives, he will be led inside Brimstone Castle by a wretched. He will first have to listen to a bunch of dark priests rave on and on, like madman about ordainment and dark prophecy, before he is finally given the details on his conferment. Unlike you, our now sleepless, brainless acolyte volunteer, ascension is not a choice. He will say “yes.” This is made very clear when he is threatened with eternal hellfire by the Fire Lord himself.

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Part 6: the Force

How does a decorated veteran demon go from being a hellion in hell to a legate on earth? It is crucial to understand that the laws of physics cannot be broken, but they can be cheated. Wormholes are the perfect example of this. Albert Einstein’s famous theory of relativity states that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. You know the whole E=mc^(2). The equation that has shaped the modern world and stood the test of time. Technically speaking, wormhole travel would mean arriving at a predefined point faster than the speed of light.

Obviously, this is all theoretical since the science behind wormhole traversal/manipulation is still far outside of our capabilities. A more practical example of finding a way around physics would be an airplane. Human beings clearly cannot fly due to biological limitations. Airplanes allow us to “cheat” the system and get from point A to point B. It’s not the greatest example, but you catch my drift. Speaking of drift, how does any of this correlate to Angel Hunters?

There is one major obstacle standing in the way of the Illuminati’s plan for world domination. That pesky law of the conservation of energy we talked about in the demon bio. The part where I explained why demons can’t just waltz out of hell at their leisure. And how the vast majority are stuck down there where they belong. Because hell is essentially an entirely different dimensional plane. What does that mean? It means that the physical energy of a person/demon/spirit, or whatever you want to call it, cannot be displaced from point A to point B without completely violating the whole “energy cannot be created or destroyed” thing.

Now that we have that clear. What exactly is the Illuminati doing about the problem? Two things. But before I can explain those two things I have to explain the history behind their secret project. It all starts with the World Order Agreement. It is a Global Initiative that the fallen angels’ and the world governments signed that’s very similar to a treaty. The initiative hands the Dark Order and the NWGO operational command and practical authority over all doomsday projects.

The biggest program under the WOA umbrella is Project Final Order. (The Phoenix Program is part of PFO) The sole purpose of PFO is to find a way to summon the demonic army to earth by any means necessary, in order to usher in the end times. Which, according to New Faith Doctrine, will not bring about the Book of Revelations, but a victorious “Second Great Rebellion.”

A significant amount of progress towards their aims came from the advancements made in particle acceleration. Down in Bunker 17, an entire lower level is dedicated to running experiments with a hydron collider that costs about forty times as much as the LHC used over at CERN. Not only that but it is also twice as compact and powerful, thanks to the use of classified particles and a classified metal that may or may not mimic angelic alloys.

Scientists and engineers at DPI applied the technological advancements made while using their Hydra Hydron Collider (HHC) to the angelic gateway they stole. They also applied Doctor Jane’s advancements in AI. They took her proto-computer simulation technology, combined it with their breakthroughs in subatomic particle acceleration, and came this close to reactivating the stolen gateway. Instead, they caused a terrible accident that killed the original Doctor Susan Jane. Her death was a catastrophic lost that took the Illuminati years to recover from. It was the very thing that led to the practical application of neuro mapping technology.

Side note: Notice the sudden rise of “AI” and its rampant use by big tech companies? This is what Doctor Jane created. The government always releases an outdated version of their most prized tech, years later, in order to study its effects on the general population. Nothing happens by chance when dealing with the powers that be. Candidates are preselected and given secret tech, selling their souls to become influential billionaires in return. AI tech is different. It is similar to internet technology in its wild west quality. No one was preselected for either one. Both were kind of thrown out there into the public to see what would happen. Doctor Jane originally created AI tech way back in [Redacted] right around the time social media was manufactured.   

Okay. Now with all of that out of the way. There are two methods the forces of evil currently use to circumvent the laws of physics in order to achieve their haphazard form of interdimensional travel. One for organics and one for inorganics. It all comes down to understanding and manipulating subatomic particles, which is a [Lv4] classified area of R&D conducted by advance AI quantum computing and super particle acceleration tech.

Special Case: The Rite of Passage is the ritual priests from the Dark Order perform to make this energy transference take place when dealing with fallen angels. This is a process totally separate from legates because angels are multidimensional beings which I will explain in the Angelic bio. Demons are not. Details on how this ritual works were narrated in the Story of Emma Summers. Sadly, costly arcane rituals only work for fallen angels. It does come at the steep price of rapid energy diminishment, which is why the vampire race was created. Fallen lords use the blood of vampires to replenish their life force while on earth. If not for this cruel and ironic feeding frenzy, they would weaken to the point where they would have to return to hell.

[Legates Part 2 [Click Here]

AFTER HOURS— a short story MYSTERY | SUSPENSE | THRILLER  

“Come on,” a woman’s voice comes from behind me. Loud and bubbly, full of joy, like a pageant parent. I jump at the sound of it. I turn to face her, forcing a false smile, pretending to be amused.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s time for us to lock up.” I inform her, gesturing her and her little ones towards the exit.

She scoffs. Her blonde hair, carefully curled and pinned, framing her face of sharp angles, softened by layers of expertly applied makeup.

I hold my smile and say, “I know, time flies when you’re having fun!”

This prompts her to lean off her place against the shark tank and approach me. She wore a red floral dress, one that moved with her like a breeze, as if she floated rather than walked.

“Can’t we just swim with the fish a little while longer?”

Her voice high and sweet, dripping with exaggerated enthusiasm. Even the way she blinked seemed calculated, the slow flutter of her lashes too deliberate to be genuine.

“I promise we won’t splash!” she jokes, hands folded together, lip pouting.

“I wish I could say yes, but those are the rules.”

She rolls her eyes, motioning her children into a hurdle, then waving them onwards.

“Oh, rules shmules,” she says as she parades passed me, “What would another five minutes hurt?” she says mockingly from behind her middle finger. “Come on girls, lets get out of this aquari-yawn.”

The aquarium closes at 5 p.m., but anyone still inside gets an extra hour to wander the halls. The speakers overhead that normally blast music and sound effects during the day are turned off for that last hour, which turns the place into an awkward, slightly eerie, underwater maze.

By 6 o'clock, we’re usually dealing with disappointed guests who believe they’re the first to crack a sarcastic joke, hoping to convince us to let them stay "just a little while longer." But there was no sarcasm in the voice I heard next.

“Really? You’re kicking us out now?” I hear a man shouting just around the corner from the ticket booth. He’s yelling at Nancy, the employee in the box office. “Who knew fish had such strict curfews?” He crosses his arms dramatically, tapping his foot impatiently.

“I’m really sorry sir, but unfortunately that’s all the time there is.” Nancy apologizes sympathetically.

The man tosses his hands up and argues, “Well, what are you going to do about it, huh?”

That’s when I step in to mediate. I start in their direction quickly, but quietly on my feet. I turn my radio off then back on, increasing the  volume so the static screech blares from the speaker. The man whips his head towards me when he hears it, then shifts back to Nancy.

His eyes peel back, wide with disbelief. “Oh, what? Did you call security on me?”

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” I interject.

“Unbelievable!” the man retorts, before scurrying to the exit.

“Have a great night, sir!” I add.

The man pauses abruptly at the door, looks over his shoulder, a smug grin stretching across his face. “You know, strange things happen after hours in places like these,” he says in a deep, low tone, almost playfully. “I’d keep an eye on those fish if I were you.” He laughs maniacally, then pushes the door open and steps out.

I stand in place for a brief moment, feeling the cold chill of his words—it made me realize the quietness of the aquarium.

“A joke,” I tell myself, but something about the way he said it made it feel particularly strange. “It’s probably nothing. Right?” I ask myself.

“Thanks, Jett," Nancy says, her hand trembling over her heart.

“Don’t mention it.” I reply with reassuring confidence, and then, “He had no right to yell at you.”  I shake off the unease, turning down the hallway to check for more guests.

Just as I’m about to disappear around the corner, Nancy calls out, “Hey, Jett,”

I stop and turn around, “Yes?”

“I know it’s probably nothing,” she hesitates, almost afraid to speak, “but what that man said… what did he mean, strange things happen after hours?”

I open my mouth to shrug it off, but a strange feeling nags at me. I glance back toward the now-closed doors. “I’m sure it was just some stupid joke,” I say, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince—her or myself.

 I’ve grown used to the dry humor from customers who think they can negotiate for more time, chuckling, “Just a little longer, right?” as if this isn’t the tenth time I’ve heard it this week. But this man said it with a  smile on his face, making it feel more grim than playful. Like it was personal. But he was just doing that because he was upset and I shouldn't be worried about it.

Today, at six o’clock on a Saturday evening, the place is nearly empty. The tanks that normally hum with excitement now feel still and lifeless, which is oddly satisfying. No more guests are lingering or begging to stay just a bit longer. I can almost taste the freedom of leaving early.

I glance at my watch again, the hands steadily inching closer to the hour. I have to pick up my sister at eight, but with the building so quiet, I suddenly see a rare opportunity to carve out a moment for myself. Maybe I could grab a coffee or take a quick stroll by the river before diving back into family obligations. Just thinking about it brightens my mood a little.

I take a deep breath, letting the peaceful emptiness wash over me as I look forward to the moment I can finally walk out the door.

The last visitor exited the aquarium, the sound of the doors clicking shut was like a well-tuned song. I secure the locks, then engage the alarms, checking to ensure everything is in place. For good measure, I double-check that everything is locked and loaded.

“You almost done, Jett?” I hear Nancy’s voice from the lobby. The clicking of her heels and the jangle of her bangles and keychain are her subtle cue that she’s ready to go home.

“Just a few more minutes,” I holler, picking up my pace, but not so quickly that I skip steps.

“I really need to get going,” Nancy urges, looking anxiously out the window into the employee parking lot. “You don’t think that man from earlier is still hanging around, do you?”

“He’s probably long gone by now.” I say with too much confidence, my gaze drifting to the lot where Nancy has been staring, biting her nails and tensing her shoulders.

“You see anything out there, Nancy?” I ask humorously, hoping to lighten the unease that now makes my skin crawl.

“No, no,” she replies, uncertainty clouding her eyes. “It’s just… darker than it usually is.”

I almost brush it off but can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right. The parking lot is darker than usual, the lights barely doing their job.

“If you can wait just a few, I’ll walk with you,” I offer, sounding more like a question than a solid plan.

She hesitates, considers it for a moment, then says, “Don’t worry about it.” She pulls her phone from her purse, “I’ll be fine.” Her confidence feels brittle as she flips on her flashlight, “Good night, Jett.”

I look up from the security cameras to say goodnight, but Nancy is already gone.

I hear a sound—maybe a shuffle or a footfall—but I push it aside when my phone buzzes. It’s Skye, my little sister. I answer, eager to redirect my thoughts.

“Hey, you still picking me up at 8?” she asks, sounding a bit worried that I might be late again.

“Yeah, I’m right on schedule,” I reply, trying to keep it brief. The old pinky promise we made as kids rings in my ears, a reminder: I need to be there for her—no excuses.

I finish up securing the building and grab my keys to head out. As I step outside, I listen to the door click shut behind me. I glance toward the parking lot, where Nancy should’ve been walking, but I don’t see her. It’s hard to tell in the low light, but I think I can see her silhouette on the far side of the lot.

“Jett? You still there?” My sister’s voice pulls me back.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” I say, stepping further into the lot. I hear another shuffling sound, not as easy to ignore this time. I walk a little faster, squinting toward where I thought I saw Nancy, but I don’t see her anymore. I notice her car is still parked with the engine off.

“I’m leaving now, sis. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I say.

“Okay, I’ll be ready!” she chirps, blissfully unaware. I hang up my phone, slipping it into my pocket. The thought of a coffee or a stroll by the river quickly vanishes beneath the urgency of keeping my promise.

I squint again toward Nancy’s car, but now I’m certain—there’s no sign of her. A prickling sensation rises along the back of my neck when I remember that she’d been in such a hurry to get going. I try to push down the thought of that creepy man from earlier—how he might be involved somehow. Why else would she have just left her car here?

My feet scrape across the pavement. That shuffling sound again. Only this time it’s closer—almost like it’s right behind me. I spin around, but there’s nothing there. My eyes pinball around the lot. I hold my breath, trying to listen, but other than the distant sounds of typical city life, I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

"Stop it," I mutter to myself. "You’re just imagining things."

I tell myself to just leave—that I’m overthinking all of this. Nancy was probably in a hurry because maybe she was catching a ride with a friend who was waiting outside for her. But, no, surely I would have seen a vehicle in the parking lot. And Nancy would have mentioned that when I offered to walk out with her.

Then, something catches my eye—her keys. Hanging from the lock in her driver’s side door. All the flashy keychains and accessories shining little reflections of light. They’re just dangling there. Nancy wouldn’t leave these behind, would she? I find myself standing before her car door, and reach for her keys. My thumb runs over the smooth surface of the key fob. The metal should be warm since she’d been holding her keys since before she walked out to leave. But they are ice cold in my hand.

My gut tightens, that sense of something not right deepening. I glance back at the aquarium doors, the huge tanks beyond. Just then, the parking lot lights flicker—just once, but enough to make me see spots. I pocket her keys and look around, blinking away the spots, hoping to catch a glimpse of something—anything—that makes sense of this.

But, nothing.

I wonder if I should go back inside, check the cameras again, just to make sure Nancy left on her own. But a gnawing feeling keeps me rooted to the spot—telling me that if I don’t walk away now, I’ll regret it.

That man’s words replay in my mind, like a warning or a taunt. I glance back toward the aquarium, see the massive fish tanks, how the lights mix with the strange shapes across the pavement.

“Maybe it’s just paranoia,” I think, but I can't shake the idea that something more is going on.

I force myself to get into my car, struggling to keep control of my own movements. My hands move in slow motion, my feet feel like they’re two steps behind me. The key slips twice before I manage to turn it in the ignition.

“I just need to drive, get out of here, clear my head,” plays repeatedly inside my head. The parking lot appears unfamiliar all of a sudden, and the lights phasing in and out make my head ache. I breathe in short bursts, desperate to calm down—determined to fulfill my promise with Skye. If I go now, I can still make it in time, then I can get to the bottom of whatever happened with Nancy. 

The engine roars to life, much louder than it should against the empty asphalt. As I pull away I fight the urge to look in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t look back,” I demand myself. “Don’t look back.”

I peel out of the parking lot faster than I realize, barely missing the curb. Then, I slam the brakes, pulling off to the side of the road when I spot a figure sprawled on the sidewalk. My stomach drops. “Please don’t let that be Nancy.”

As I jerk forward, my chest smacks against the wheel. I pull in closer, the figure just out of reach of the headlights. But I can see that it is a woman laying there—her hair is the same color, and her coat—it’s the same one she always wore to work.

I stay frozen in my seat, unable to move. Then she sits up, looks directly at me. I flinch. It looks like she’s waiting for me. I swing the door open and stumble out, confused but fueled by a desperation that’s propelling me toward her.

"Nancy!" I call out, stumbling into the shoulder of the road, arm outstretched, "Are you alright? What are you doing out here?"

“Nancy!” I shout again, desperate for a response, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move.

I try to clear the unfamiliar onset of a strange haze clouding my mind. It’s as if life itself has turned on me—made me the enemy. Everything around me seems to behave independently, as if objects somehow sprang to life.  I shake my head and rub my eyes, but my surroundings remain distorted. Everything runs together, sludgy and syrupy.

As disturbing as this is, I can’t just leave Nancy laying here. I run toward her, unsure of what I’ll be able to do to help, but sure I’ll figure something out once I reach her.

As I get closer, the edges of her form blur, like a photo out of focus. The streetlights towering ominously above me laugh in a hushed, humming tone—mocking me.

I leap towards Nancy, but by the time I reach the spot, she’s gone. I scramble, grabbing at the empty ground. “Wha-what? She was just here.” I mutter to myself, glued to the pavement. Panic surges through me, sharp and bitter.

I look up into the streetlights again—they’re watching, laughing, like this is some sick joke. I stand up cursing at the lights, “Damn you!” I shout at the top of my lungs, “What have you done with Nancy?” but the lights just stare back, refusing to answer.

I storm off and head back to my car when suddenly, from behind me, red and blue lights flash. A voice booms through a speaker. “Sir, step away from the vehicle.”

“Oh, good!” I praise the moment with my arms raised overhead, “Thank God, you’re here!” I run towards the officers car, now shielding my eyes from the strobe.

“You have to hurry, please!” I begged the officer, tapping on his window, gesturing for him to roll it down, but he doesn’t. He just sits in his vehicle staring at me. Hope quickly turns to worry. Then I hear the voice come over the speaker again—it’s the officer. He’s commanding me to back away from the road, “Get down on your knees and place your hands behind your head!”

What? No, this isn’t happening.

Slowly, I back away, bewildered.

They’re talking to me? For what? I didn’t do anything!

Before I know it, they’re on me, forcing my hands behind my back. “Wait, you don’t understand,” I shout, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Nancy’s missing! I just saw her—she was right there!”

But my words come out in jumbles, running together like ink on damp paper. The officer’s face appears before me, glaring with impatience and disbelief. But no matter how much I shout, how loud I plea for them to hear me out, they don’t listen—they never do. My chest ignites with rage. I can hear the voice of one of the officer’s—the one leading me to the squad car—but it’s like my brain has turned to mush because I don’t understand a single word.

How can they be arresting me? Nancy’s missing, and it's like no one cares.

They don’t waste any time before they shove me into the back of the car. I look out the window hoping to see things correctly, as they should be again. But still, everything looks like it’s not real—like a painting or a cartoon. Or maybe it just seems that way because inanimate objects are moving on their own, or shaking, or melting. But I know that that’s impossible!

I rest my forehead against the window and focus on my breathing. Just then, the officer mans the vehicle and cuts off the flashing lights.

“What’s going on?” I manage to ask the officer as he shifts to drive. “Where are you taking me?”

He draws in a deep breath, “We’ve seen this happen before,” he exhales, “we’re going to take care of you. Just sit back and relax.”

It was then when I realized how tense I was. I became hyper aware of my body and I swear it was like I could feel my insides operating, like I could hear beeping, or clicking from inside of me. Panic set in.

I see my phone light up a little way off in the distance, right where I thought Nancy was. “That’s probably my sister wondering where I am!” I shout, thrashing in the back seat. “Wait, we can’t leave—my sister!”

The officer shakes his head, keeping his eyes forward. “Your sister isn’t here,” he says in a calm voice, pulling out of the parking space. As we pull away, one of the officers picks up my phone and puts it into his pocket.

When we reach the station, they take me down a hallway and sit me in a room with nothing but a table and a few chairs. The walls are blank and colored the same shade of gray as the floor and ceiling. I take a seat at the empty metal table to await my fate. It isn’t long before a detective enters, carrying a file, looking at me but saying nothing. He holds his face so sure and still that I struggle to gain any clues to what he might be thinking. Then takes a seat across the table from me and opens the file.

He spreads out photographs across the table. Pictures of me at different points during the night—standing outside the aquarium, yelling at the streetlights, and shouting at no one on the sidewalk. I lean in closer to get a better look, but there’s no sign of Nancy in any of the photos.

“Care to explain this?” he asks overly calm, almost deliberate.

I shake my head. “No, that can’t be right. Nancy was there. I saw her.”

He sighs, then gives me a look of pity. “We’ve seen this kind of thing before.” He starts collecting the photos, individually placing each one back into his file. “A couple of other patrons mentioned two regulars who like to slip something into people’s drinks from time to time… It makes them see things—things that aren’t there.”

“No, you don’t understand. I wasn’t hallucinating. She was right there. You have to believe me.”

He slides the file across the table, folds his hands and continues, “We’ve been tracking those two for a while. They come around every few weeks, pick a spot, and disappear just as quickly. You were just unlucky enough to be their latest project.”

I want to argue, to insist that I know what I saw, but the memory of Nancy’s face—the way it blurred when I approached her, how she simply vanished when I tried to help her up—it’s as though someone is pulling it from my mind.

Then the detective spreads out another series of photographs, but this time they are of other people who I don’t recognize.

“Recognize anyone?” 

“No.”

He pushes the pictures towards me, “You sure about that?”

I examine the pictures again, more closely this time. “No, wait.” I stuttered, “I think I do recognize someone—two of them, actually.”

The detective raises an eyebrow, his eyes prompt me to continue.

“Him,” I point to one of the photos. “He was at the aquarium tonight. He was yelling at one of my employees, saying some weird stuff that had us spooked.

“And who else did you recognize?”

I nod with my head at the last photo. It’s of a woman with the same hair and sharp facial lines—exactly like the lady that was begging to stay late.

The detective puts away the remaining photos, which tells me that I’ve helped their investigation in some way—that I must have picked the people he’d been hoping I would.

“What’s this all about?” I ask after some time.

The detective looks up from the files. “It’s about a series of incidents in the city, now connected to the aquarium,” he sounds like he’s reading a script. “People have gone missing, and we believe the pattern might be linked to what happened tonight.”

“Missing? You mean… like Nancy?”

He nods, confirming my fears. “Yes. We’re trying to piece together what happened during your last closing shift. You said something odd occurred, right? That man’s comments… they seemed to stand out.”

“Yeah. He made a remark about how ‘strange things’ happen after hours,” I reply, the taste of the words made me sick to my stomach, “I didn’t think much of it then.”

“Perhaps you should have,” he says, leaning closer with disapproval in his eyes. “People don’t just vanish without reason. We're looking into surveillance footage from the area, but any detail you can provide could be crucial.”

A lump forms in my throat as I rack my brain. I tell him about the rude, sarcastic lady, about Nancy’s hurried departure, and of course, that man’s creepy comment. “I didn’t see anything else out of the ordinary, but…” I hesitate, “There was a moment when I thought I heard something—just before I left the building, and again in the parking lot.”

“Anything you remember about it?” he presses, pulling out a yellow legal pad, clicking his pen.

“It was like a shuffle, I thought it might’ve been someone moving behind me, but when I turned around, there was no one there. I assumed it was just my imagination.” I admitted, trying to hide the frustration I felt towards myself for not having been more vigilant in the moment.

The detective nods, jotting down my words. “Even small details matter. We need to keep a record of everything. The missing persons report includes multiple individuals who were at your aquarium recently. We’re hoping you can provide something—anything—that can link them together.”

I can’t help but feel guilty for not having been more precautious—for letting Nancy leave by herself. I had been too selfish, I wanted to leave, to get home to my sister.

“Do you think that man had something to do with it?” I ask.

“It's possible. We’re digging into his background. Your description of him and the interaction may give us a lead,” the detective replies, glancing at the two photos on the table.

With a heavy heart, I stare at the images of the familiar faces.

“Is there any way I can help?” I murmur.

“You already have. Just keep your eyes open and let us know if you remember anything else,” the detective says, packing away the files.

As he stands to leave, I suddenly realize that this isn’t just about Nancy. It’s something much larger than what happened at the aquarium. And now, I’ve been dragged into it.

The detective leaves as quickly as he'd arrived, leaving me to my thoughts. I stand up, pacing the room. Why had Nancy been so eager to leave? The urgency in her voice plays on repeat. She had clearly been rattled before she left, but in the chaos of the evening, I dismissed it. Had she sensed something that I had failed to?

The aquarium is supposed to be a haven for marine life, a place of wonder, yet an awful crime had been brewing just under my nose.

When I'm released, my phone is handed back to me, the battery down to nine percent. I step out through the front door, seeing several missed calls from Skye. It’s after ten p.m. now—she’s probably freaking out. I dial her back immediately, but after two rings, it goes to voicemail.

“Oh, come on.” I grumble, trying again. Still no answer. Then, a text from her lights up the screen: *"Don’t bother. I found a ride home, Jett."

A tear rolls down my cheek as I reply, "I'm just glad you're okay. Something awful happened tonight, beyond my control. I'm so sorry."

My car is parked a few blocks away, and I’m halfway there when my phone buzzes with her response: "Yeah, you’re right, something awful did happen tonight."

I start to type back, "No, listen, you don't underst—" but the screen goes dark. My phone’s dead.

“Goddamn it!” I shout up into the night sky.

The rest of the walk blurs by. When I finally reach my car, I stop, looking back at the sidewalk, half-expecting to see Nancy there, but of course she isn't there. She's gone. I can't control the guilt I feel.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I close the door, and everything in me unravels. I bury my face in my hands, the pressure crushing me as my breath heightens. I yell, slamming my fists into the dashboard, my anger and sorrow exploding together.

Then, I freeze. That shuffling sound again—coming from behind me, quiet but unmistakable. I lift my head, looking up into the rearview mirror. My stomach drops. I catch a glimpse of two figures in the back seat, barely discernable against the darkness already so present. I frantically unfasten my seatbelt and fumble with the door handle. Before I can make it out, a cloth presses over my face. I gasp, clawing at the hand holding it. Turning, I see a hint of red, a floral pattern draped over the back seat, but before I can see more, my vision tunnels to black and my muscles go limp.